Chapter 2

Hotel InterContinental
Miami

13:30 Hours

Dealing with catastrophic events was an integral part of the training for any intelligence operative. It usually prepared them to separate how they felt from what they needed to do in those moments. But, maintaining that separation became impossible if and when those circumstances turned out to be so extreme and personal. Then, even a seasoned operative would have the same response as everyone else: horror, disbelief, shock.

Michael stared at the two dead bodies at his feet, transfixed.

Gray was dead; with a bullet that had pierced his heart, and a gun that had been fired nestled in his hand. His lifeless body told the story exactly as Card had planned: The unstable asset had reacted violently just as Card predicted, and Card had been forced to defend himself.

Then there was Card, dead with a bullet lodged in his forehead, with his own gun safely back inside his holster, telling a story he had not planned: The burned operative who was not as dead as they thought, killed Card, not in self-defence, but in cold blood.

You wiped out the last batch, he had said, It's just you and me now.

Well, now it was just Michael. And it was done now, for good this time.

"Jesus! What happened?"

Sam's shocked yelling registered abstractedly, just another sensory layer adding meaning - a touch of cold, hard reality - to the sight of still bodies, pooling blood, and the sharp, coppery scent in the air.

"Mike, what'd you do?"

He sounded closer, right next to Michael's shoulder in fact, taking in the scene with a sharp intake of breath.

"I did what I had to, Sam." A stranger answered in a strained voice as Michael watched from somewhere cold and disconnected.

"Had to? How do you figure that?" A hand clamped around his shoulder and shook him roughly. "Card's gun is in the damn holster."

"He killed my brother, Sam." Michael answered mechanically, his gaze still fixed on the dead, his mouth spitting out words he thought Sam wanted to hear. "He was going to get away with it. I had no choice."

His back hit the wall then, hard, and Sam was suddenly in his face, glaring at him with a stormy look of accusation in his eyes. Michael blinked, wishing he could return to that dissociative state where he could feel nothing. It was difficult with his best friend pinning him to the wall with his considerable bulk, forcing him to acknowledge the reality.

"I was right outside that door, Mike," Sam bit out, shaking him. "Why didn't you come and get me before you made that call, huh? Because you knew damn well I would have had something to say about it!"

The ding of the elevator bell reached them then, announcing the impending arrival of the CIA teams. The indistinct chatter of the men soon followed. They were about to be trapped.

"Card's team is coming." Michael reminded him calmly. For the first time since he had knocked that damned door down, he knew what to do. His brain was finally back online and was already mapping out an exit strategy…for Sam.

"This isn't finished–" Sam let go of him with a warning.

"You got to go."

"What do you mean, I gotta go?" The ex-SEAL frowned. "We gotta go."

Michael knew that stubborn look very well. It said that he would definitely get an earful from Sam later, but only after they had escaped and regrouped somewhere where they could sit down, take a breath and figure things out.

Only Michael had other plans, plans he knew Sam would never go along with if he knew. He was too goddamn loyal for his own good. Fiona and Jesse were no better. There was no reason for Michael to drag them into his own mess, not now, not anymore. He had to get them away from the building before the CIA teams arrested them all for aiding and abetting in his crimes.

"Well then," he said, deciding to play along for the time being, "We need to go out through the balcony."

Sam stepped away from his personal space then, accepting that they had to move quickly. Working together, they managed to move the heavy table to barricade the closed door. It wouldn't hold anyone back for long, but it would buy them enough time to get to the next level without being seen.

"We're gonna need help getting out of here, Mike." Sam said as he followed him out through the balcony.

"I'll call Fi," Michael said, dialling the phone, "Let's get up to the next floor, first."

The call connected just as they climbed over to the room above from the balcony of the adjoining room.

"Michael."

Michael opened the door quietly and took a look. The hallway was clear for the moment. He could hear the CIA team tearing the door down to Card's room already from the floor below. "Fi, you outside?"

"Yeah, we're here," He could hear Fiona's voice through his Bluetooth earpiece. She sounded worried. "You want to tell me what's going on? Hotel security's buzzing around like bees. And there is a CIA caravan rolling in… two SUVs and a command van. Michael, what happened?"

That was not good. They needed to move quickly unless they wanted to get trapped inside the rapidly closing net.

"Card's dead," he told her, feeling nothing but relief at the memory. He didn't know if that was a good or bad thing. "They're coming for me."

"What? Michael, why?"

Because I'm fucking tired of running and I needed to finish this.

"I can't explain right now," was all he said as he led Sam through the empty corridor towards the stairs. "Sam and I need a way out of here. We made it up to the ninth floor, but we don't have much time."

To her credit, she understood now was not the time to argue. Like Sam, he knew she would have a lot to say to him later. She just didn't know he wasn't going to give her the chance.

"Got it. I'll call you back."

The plan to take the stairs to the next floor had to be discarded. Michael saw two agents already there as he took a quick peek around the corner. One of them was updating the team through the comms while the other spoke to someone who looked like a guest.

They quietly ducked back inside the closest room to wait just as Fiona called back, "Fi, how are we looking?"

"Not good. There's a full tactical support team on-site and some heavy hitter seems to be running the show."

"Fi, I need a door. Give me one exit they haven't covered."

"There isn't one. They got the whole place locked down. Michael, you're trapped."

Michael took a moment to go through his mental tradecraft guidebook on escaping a building that was being rapidly locked down. He knew in their situation, speed was key. There was a small amount of time when the different authorities present in the scene merged together to coordinate their efforts. Intelligence operatives were trained to take advantage of that window.

The only snag to that strategy, in their case, came in the shape of another trained intelligence operative, the one who was in charge of locking down the building and taking over the scene. The shared training and insight made sure that supposed window of opportunity would disappear before they could use it.

Michael heard the sound of sirens in the background, announcing the arrival of the local police into the mix. At best, he had minutes to get the rest of them out before all the roads leading out were closed with roadblocks, cutting off their escape routes entirely.

"What kind of control do they have on the east side, Fi?" Michael asked, watching the two agents outside through the mostly closed door, waiting for them to move.

"Complete." She answered. It sounded like she was on the move by the way the surrounding sounds fluctuated around her. "Anyone who tries to leave isn't getting past the lobby. There's no way out."

"Where's the lead agent?"

"I saw her walking inside the lobby earlier," Fiona said, "They're probably setting up a command centre–"

Full access to all the security systems, elevators and the PA system, Michael thought, running a hand through his hair, the noose is getting tighter.

He moved back inside the room to look out through the balcony window. "They're not guarding the second-floor access to the garage," he reported. "If Sam and I can make our way down there, we should be able to get inside and find a way to the street."

"It won't work, Michael," said Fiona, and Michael could hear the frustration in her voice. "They're stopping every car that comes out. That woman works too damned fast."

That much was obvious, Michael sighed. He just needed the CIA team lead and her teams distracted enough until he could get Sam, Fi and Jesse out. He also needed the three of them distracted enough that they wouldn't realise what he was planning until it was too late for them to do anything about it.

He had to do all that before the minuscule possibility of an exit he had just observed closed for good.

"Okay," he said, "I need you and Jesse to meet us on the north side alley."

"But there's no access–"

"Just get there," Michael said before cutting the call. If all went according to plan, there would be a brand new exit by the time they were done.

"Well, I thought we were screwed seven ways from Sunday," Sam announced from where he was keeping watch on the hallway just outside the room. "But you can go ahead and make it eight and nine. They got a guard on every floor and they're recruiting hotel employees to help lock it down. It's not just the guards. They got cameras outside the elevators on every floor."

Michael joined him and peered through the opening. Sure enough, there was a hotel security guard talking to everyone he saw on the hallway, recruiting the other hotel staff on the spot to join the manhunt.

Michael needed to get Sam to the garage and through the second floor access before the agents saw Sam tagging along with him. "If I can take out the guard–"

"Okay, whoa. Whoa!" Sam interrupted before Michael could finish, pinning him with a look he usually reserved to stare down scumbags…the same glare he had already used on Michael back at the room downstairs when he had first seen Card's dead body.

It hurt to be on the receiving end of it, again. "I'm not gonna kill him, Sam." Michael said calmly, doing his best not to show it.

"You sure about that, Mike?" Sam glowered, pulling no punches, "Because last time I let you out of my sight–"

They didn't have time to get into it. "I can get us out of here," he said bluntly, cutting Sam off, "You can either kick my ass or you can hear my plan. But you can't do both."

Sam gave in with a frustrated sigh. "All right. Let's hear it."

At that exact moment, an announcement over the Public Address system started to repeat itself in a loop.

"Attention, valued guests. We are experiencing an emergency. Please go back to your rooms immediately and await further instructions."

"Here's what we're going to do," Michael said as the hotel guests started to respond to the instructions. The moving foot traffic was going to give them both enough cover to do what needed to be done. "I'm going to knock the guard out. I'll make sure to do it in front of the camera so it'll draw the attention of the agents. While I do that, you set up shop above the elevator car. They'll have to use it to take the guard down to get him to the lobby. When they do that, you'll be in the position to get out on the floor above and make it to the garage."

"Yeah, okay," said Sam, frowning doubtfully, "So while I'm pulling my Mission Impossible stunt, what will you be doing?"

"I'm going to take the stairs." Michael lied with a straight face.

"It's guarded–"

"I know," said Michael, not wanting to let Sam come to the conclusion he shouldn't. At least, not yet. "They are checking all the cars that are coming out of the parking lot. So when you make it there, find an older model with a large body and create your own, preferably loud exit on the north. Fi and Jesse will be waiting for you there with her car. That should be enough of a distraction for me to slip out through the exit and find my own way out."

Michael knew that Sam understood exactly what he was saying. He was going to have to drive through a wall to get out, creating enough of a commotion that would draw the attention of almost everyone down around the garage.

Still, it didn't guarantee a clean escape for Michael, not by a long shot. Michael knew that, and wasn't really worried about it since he had no intention of running this time. He just didn't want Sam to realise that just yet.

"Mike, I don't–"

"We don't have time to argue finer points of the plan, Sam," he said forcibly, letting the urgency of the situation seep into his tone. "You have to get moving."

Sam nodded once, accepting his reasoning. "We're going to talk about this," he said, narrowing his eyes.

"I know, I know," Michael said, giving him a little push towards the elevator. Sam had a little time before he could get into position before he was sighted. "I'm looking forward to it, believe me. Now go."

Once a location got completely locked down, the only thing hiding delayed was capture. While capture, or surrender, was the ultimate conclusion of the plan, Michael still needed to generate enough action to keep the security off-balance and on the move, so Sam could make his getaway. The only way to create that kind of response was to come right out in the open.

Michael slowly, and carefully advanced on the older man wearing the red hotel uniform jacket. The carpeted floor muted his footsteps enough so that the guard never heard his approach.

"Norm," a voice came through the guard's radio after a short burst of static, "What's taking so long? I need you down on the mezzanine level."

"I got six floors to cover," Norm said, "I'm moving as fast as I can."

"Where's the ice machine?" Michael called out, lifting the empty bucket he had in his hand up with a smile, finally letting his presence in the otherwise isolated corridor be known.

Norm whirled around, surprised by Michael's sudden appearance."Sir, you need to go back to your room–"

Michael threw the bucket at him, distracting Norm with the flying projectile that flew towards his face. It was more than enough for him to get under Norm's guard and haul him in against his chest in a solid chokehold. Norm grunted and struggled.

"Relax, just relax," Michael murmured to the old man as he kept hauling him back through the hallway towards the stairs, making it look like he was about to make a run for it. He knew by now the CIA team lead had seen his face through the camera from where he had grabbed Norm.

Ten seconds later, Norm went limp in his arms. Micahel slowly lowered the guard to the floor next to the stairwell and moved quickly to the supply closet two doors down. He had scouted the location earlier to serve as his hiding spot. He only needed to be there until the agents found Norm and took him down to the lobby to get him to medical, which was the opening Sam, who should be camping above the elevator car by now, needed.

Soon enough, he heard the sounds of running footsteps, followed by urgent voices.

"Hey, I got something," the gruff voice said, "A hotel guard. Name tag says he's Norman."

"Westen must have gone down the stairs," another deeper voice piped up, coming to the conclusion Michael had hoped. "You, with me," the same voice said, presumably dividing his team to go separate ways. "You, take him down to the ground floor."

Before long, Michael heard the telltale sound of the elevator moving, taking Sam with it towards his escape route. He inhaled the crisp scent of the freshly laundered linen surrounding him in neatly folded stacks, willing his racing heart to calm down a little. He just had to hold on for a few more minutes, until Sam cleared the building.

Then would come the hard part. Or maybe, it would be the easy part.

He heard the unmistakable sounds of the screeching tires not long after, letting him know that his best friend was making his move. If Michael timed it right, Fiona, Jesse and Sam would be long gone by the time he introduced himself to the CIA team lead.

"Good luck, Sam." He murmured, waiting for Fiona's call.

The call came through almost as soon as the loud, reverberating sound of a collapsing wall reached him.

"Michael, we got Sam," she said, and he heard the sounds of car doors slamming in the background. "He came through the wall just now."

Michael smiled. His risky plan seemed to have worked. "Is he okay?"

"Well, he's bitching about it, so yeah, he is," Fiona snapped, and sure enough, Michael could hear Sam's voice through the earpiece, words unintelligible but the massively irritated tone unmistakable. "Where are you?"

"Get moving before the team catches up to you." Michael said instead of answering her question.

"We're moving," she said as the sounds around her blended with the rushing wind, which told him that her car was gaining speed. "Where are we picking you up? Or are you going to make your own way to the emergency spot?"

Maybe, this was the hardest part. Saying goodbye.

Michael took in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. "I'm not coming, Fi."

There was a long pause before her incredulous tone broke through the ambient noise. "Wait, I'm sorry. I thought you said you're not coming!"

"I did," he murmured, trying to picture her expression in his mind's eye. "I'm handing myself in."

"What!?"

"Fi, I killed Card," he continued, keeping his voice soft. He still had a hard time summoning up any sort of guilt or self-recrimination over the fact. All he felt was bone-weary exhaustion, and a slowly impending sense of… peace? "I murdered him in cold blood. Pure and simple." Except it really wasn't, was it? But he didn't have time to explain all of it to her, not right then. "I'm not running. There's no point."

"What's happening, Fi?" That was Sam, who had definitely heard what was happening.

"Can someone talk some sense into Michael, please?" Fi yelled angrily, putting the call on speaker. "He's lost his goddamn mind. He's planning to hand himself in."

That went down about as expected.

"Brother, what?"

"Michael, listen man," Jesse's voice cut in through Fiona's furious snarls and Sam's loud protests, "They're gonna haul you in, drop you in some dark hole and forget about you. And that's the scenario if you're lucky. If not, well… fucking hell man, you know what I'm getting at–"

"I know," said Michael.

He was an asset, or used to be one. After turning himself in, he would be labelled a disgrace, a liability, and a criminal. Yet, all of that wouldn't change the fact that they could still use him as a different sort of an asset. The CIA never threw away their trained operatives to the wind, not even when they were damaged and out of control. Michael was certain some enterprising soul would find some use for him in ways that would never make it into the records… uses that never ended well for the deniable, disposable assets.

As Jesse pointed out, getting a trial and a lifelong sentence in a high security prison somewhere would be the best case scenario for him after he turned himself in.

"Jesus! Can we talk about this?" Sam yelled. "Get the hell out, Mike!"

"I can't," Michael snapped, getting tired. "I won't. I just wanted to get you out of the building before I made my move so that you wouldn't get hauled in with me as an accomplice. Once they have me, they'll take the roadblocks out and you all should be in the clear."

"Mike, there's got to be another way-"

"To do what, Sam? Live the rest of my life on the run? There's no other choice, not this time." He had done the crime, and all that was left now was doing the time.

"Michael, where is this going to take you, huh? What does this solve?" It was Fiona again, and she still sounded very much angry.

"Nothing," Michael sighed. "There's nothing to solve, Fi, it's done. I'm done."

"Michael, you made a promise to me back in Panama. After the business of Gray and Card was over, you were going to get out of the CIA for good. You said you meant it."

"I did, Fi, I wanted that more than anything…"

That had been the pure, unvarnished truth, spoken quietly in some junk yard in a forgotten corner in Panama. For the first time in a long while, Michael had started feeling as if he could finally leave it all behind and just be with the woman he loved. It had been a strange feeling, to actually look forward to leaving the one thing he had thought defined him, behind. The realisation had been liberating.

But, now… Now, all of those plans were gone.

"That was before I murdered Card–"

"Why the hell did you do that?" Her words had a watery quality to them and Michael hated himself for making her sound so broken.

Yet, it was for the best.

"Because we never could have prosecuted him," he said, willing all of them to understand. "Card had it all covered. All I had waiting for me in there was another goddamn leash around my neck for him to haul me around and make me do his goddamn bidding." He had seen it in the calculating look behind those false tears. Tom Card had been Anson's partner, and Michael knew if he had taken the deal, he would have ended up in Card's clutches till the bitter end, or as dead as Gray then and there. "This was never going to end, Fi, never. I couldn't let that happen, not again. I'm done losing my friends and my family to something that had already lost all its meaning."

Michael had no idea how many others were in there infecting the institution he had once believed stood for something good, something worthwhile. It operated in the dark, shadowy corners of the world where no one else wanted to dwell, doing things no one else wanted to do or could do. The CIA he thought he knew stood for what was right, to protect and safeguard what needed to be saved and protected. Now, everywhere he looked, it seemed as if the agency was full of traitors who did what they wanted, what they thought was right and said to hell with the consequences.

Good people got killed or transferred out of the picture when they tried to do something about it.

Honestly, Michael was just too damned tired to care anymore about any of it.

"Mike–"

"I'm going to make sure none of this blows back on any of you," he said, cutting off whatever Sam was trying to say. "Just make sure my Mom gets to aunt Jill's safely. She lives in Louisiana by the way, and Ma's going to settle there permanently."

Which was for the best, he thought. At least, she could have her new beginning without having to constantly worry about his life. She had asked him to start over. Ending it all once and for all was the best he could offer. Maybe, she would take some comfort in the fact that Nate's killer had gotten what he deserved.

There were no more monsters.

"Michael–"

"I've gotta go now," Michael interrupted, since there was no point arguing further. "Take care, all of you. Fi, I love you. Goodbye."

"Michael, you basta–"

He cut the call before the rest of her cursing reached him.

Walking to the lobby crowded with armed agents, security guards and the loud, opinionated tourists who thought they knew better was a surreal experience. Michael spotted the tall, dark woman in a purple shirt and a sharp grey suit right away. She was standing inside the hotel security office by the reception which she had turned into her temporary command centre. She had her back to him, so Michael couldn't see her face, but it was obvious to him that she was well in control of the situation, despite being surrounded by a bunch of disgruntled guests, hotel staff, and the newly joined police unit leaders.

Judging by the speed of the preparations of her team, Michael could easily guess that she was organising a complete city-wide shut down, followed by a swift manhunt. Her posture and the tightly-wound energy about her suggested that she was planning to enjoy the thrill of the chase.

Too bad all of that work was going to be a waste of time and effort, Michael sighed as he took the main stairs down one at a time at a slow, measured pace.

For the first time in a long time, he was walking into a volatile situation of his own making, with no script to stick to or no last desperate act to sell. It took effort to quiet the 'trained-spy manual' of his brain that always actively searched for a weakness to exploit in order to get the hell out.

There were no more acts left, or lies or deals. There was just him and the facts. There was no plan other than to lay them in front of the agent and let her decide his fate. It made him feel more like a human - a guilty, fragile one - rather than a spy.

They noticed him the moment he climbed down the last step.

"Hey! That's him!" The closest agent was about ten feet away from Michael to his left. The man brought up his assault rifle to bear on Michael with a surprised shout, drawing everyone's excited attention. "Michael Westen!"

A chorus of screams erupted, ordering him to drop his weapon, get down on his knees and put his hands behind his head. Michael complied with all the shouted commands placidly, not wanting to make a scene, or get an over-eager, trigger-happy agent to let loose a round with all the civilians still surrounding them.

Two of them descended on him the moment his knees hit the carpeted floor in the middle of the lobby. One carefully picked up the pistol he placed on the floor and kept a CA-415 aimed at his torso while the other pushed him flat on the ground face first. He was then roughly, and efficiently patted down for more hidden weapons he may have forgotten to declare. A few flashes went off, coupled with the sounds of the cameras clicking, before another pair of agents herded the rubbernecking crowd out of the way. As the first agent did a thorough job of zip tying his hands behind his back, Michael wondered idly how many of the aspiring photographers would go viral in their social media pages that night for having caught the best angles of a real-life take down of an armed and dangerous criminal.

When he was hauled back to his knees, he was greeted by the CIA team lead with her hands planted on her hips like an irritated mother about to scold an unruly child. It was then Michael realised that he actually knew her.

"I'll be damned." They both muttered at the same time.

"Olivia Riley, if I'm not mistaken." Michael said first with his best charming smile.

He had heard a lot about her, especially in the counterintelligence circles where she had a legendary reputation. She was rumoured to have written about half the case-studies used in training, and was famous as someone who knew how to 'hit where it hurt.'

"You're not mistaken," Riley let out an unfriendly chuckle. "You know, I've heard a lot about you, Westen."

Michael blinked innocently at her just for the hell of it. "Blatant lies, I'm sure."

"This is not how I envisioned finally meeting the burned legend of the CIA."

"The 'Burned Legend,' that's me."

"So, how do you want to do this, Westen?" She narrowed her eyes. "Now that you've robbed me of the pleasure of hunting you down like a dog."

No nonsense and straight to business. Michael could work with that. "I'm sure you have discovered the bodies already," he said calmly. "Tom Card killed Tyler Gray and I shot Card. This is me handing myself over to you after the fact."

"Tyler Gray died because he was trying to kill Card,' Riley pointed out, letting Michael know that she had already seen the lounge floor littered with the bodies, possibly in the security feeds, "but Card's death–"

"I know what the crime scene looks like Riley," he interjected, "I was there when he arranged it."

"How about your friends?" She glared at him again, completely ignoring his insinuation, "Especially the one who just made a spectacular exit out of the garage?"

"My friends have nothing to do with any of this," Michael said levelly, "Now, if your people are done searching and restraining me, you can have my full confession at the detention centre–" he looked around pointedly at everyone who were still watching the drama unfolding before them, "Preferably without the peanut gallery."

"Listen, Westen, this is my show," Riley bared her teeth at him. "You'll answer my damned questions and keep your opinions to yourself, got it?"

Michael flashed her another smile, one that he knew would get under her skin. "I'll answer all your questions during my formal interview, with a panel of representatives there to conduct the proceedings. Until such time, I have nothing else to say to you."

They glared at each other for a full minute, neither willing to back down. Finally, Riley realised that she really had no other play left. She already had her perpetrator, confessed and surrendered. All that was left for her to do was hand over the crime scene to the local police and get him to the nearest CIA field office for further questioning.

With a scoff, she turned away from him and started barking orders. The frustrated police units were finally free to go upstairs to secure the area and start processing the crime scene. The tall, bald, muscular man in the red jacket, whom Michael thought was the head of hotel security, heaved a sigh of relief when the CIA tech unplugged his equipment and gave him back control of the feeds. After allocating an investigative team to stay behind and follow the police investigation, the senior CIA agent finally turned to the agent who still had a heavy hand on Michael's shoulder to keep him from moving anywhere.

"Get him in the van," she said, nodding disgustedly at Michael. "We're done here."