Emily stared through the car window, her eyes searching the fog that obscured the Irish countryside. She followed the gentle curve of the dirt road for about 30 feet before it disappeared in the pea soup-like air. On either side of the road was wild grass and weeds, and the poorly maintained fields rolled off into distant hills that were now hidden from view. Closer to them, not fifteen feet from where they'd parked was an old barn with peeling paint and sagging doors.

The area hadn't been a working farm in years, decades probably. The grass and weeds were kept short only by the nearby sheep farmers grazing their livestock. But these were the areas that served their needs best. Abandoned, isolated, and far away from prying eyes. Emily flicked her tongue over her upper lip, and shifted in her seat impatiently. Or maybe anxiously.

Things had begun to grow stagnant with Ian, and she needed to push him, to prove herself invaluable to him. She was pretty sure he cared for her already, in fact, she could tell that his feelings were stronger than he was comfortable with. But now he had to feel that strong about her prowess and integrity as a weapons dealer. Emily had discussed the meeting with Clyde and Sean, and they agreed with her. This was her chance to make Ian see her as more than a lover, to see her as a partner.

"There." Liam's voice startled her from the front of the SUV.

Almost simultaneously, they opened the doors, the first SUV in their entourage doing the same. The air was damp, giving it a slight chill, but it was pure Ireland. Emily tugged the zipper of her sweater up a bit. They waited for the truck and sedan to park, and walked inside the old barn without waiting for the new arrivals. Their boots clacked on the stone floor, Emily's drowned out by those of the heavier males with whom she'd traveled. The light inside was made even dimmer by waning sun as evening crept up on the day, and a faint odor of manure and hay lingered in the air.

Ardan McNiall strode into the barn with all the confidence of a strutting peacock, and Emily exchanged a look with Ian. He was equally dubious. McNiall was a new seller for them, and had no cause to be so cocky yet. Either his merchandise was really very good, or he wanted to offer that impression. Four men followed him in two sets dragging a two foot by four foot wooden crate each between them.

No one moved until they brought in two more crates the same size and width, and formed a stack. Then McNiall extended a hand toward Ian, and introductions were made all around. Emily was still the only female in the room, a circumstance that was becoming more and more common in her life.

McNiall's men cracked open the top crate, and he gestured Ian toward the crate. Ian smiled. "Lauren will be examining the merchandise for me."

Emily took a step forward, toward the crates, but froze when McNiall snorted a laugh. She turned to him. "Is there a problem?"

He shrugged, crossing his arms over his chest and smirking. "Just that I've never known a woman with even a halfway decent eye for weapons."

She smirked back. "Well that doesn't surprise me, I can't imagine that you spend time with many women at all."

His smile fell.

Emily made her way to the crate, feeling his eyes shooting daggers at her back, and picked up one of the FN P90 submachine guns. It was a small weapon, barely 20 inches long and not even six pounds, but it shot 900 rounds a minute and could shoot up to 5,900 feet, though accuracy decreased with distance. The little Belgian-made weapon also had an impressive 50-round magazine capacity. But what Emily really liked about the odd-looking P90 was that it was reliable and it carried that reliability over its lifetime, so long as it was cared for properly.

The P90 in her hands was old, which meant that it was likely decommissioned from some military force. Not Irish, they hadn't been using P90s that long. She estimated it to be about ten years old, but with a P90 that didn't hurt the value too much. Emily began to carefully disassemble the weapon, so she could examine the parts. She pulled out the unique magazine, which actually sat on top of the barrel, and then disconnected the bolt carrier and recoil assembly. Just those pieces told her that the weapon wasn't as well cared for as it could have been.

She removed the barrel and sight assembly, glanced through the sight and stuck a finger in the barrel. Emily examined the firing mechanism and studied the recoil assembly, keeping her face neutral through the process. With the same slow, deliberate care, she put the weapon back together. Then she picked up a second weapon and repeated the same steps. She did it all again with the other three crates, examining a couple weapons from each, getting faster with each weapon as she got quicker at spotting the same flaws among the weapons.

Finally, when all the weapons were reassembled and the boxes stacked again, she turned to Ian. She opened her mouth, but was cut-off by McNiall. "You don't want to fire one, Darling?"

Her body tensed as his use of the endearment, but she was calm as she turned to him. "Those weapons haven't been cleaned in at least a year. There's rust in the barrel and gunk on the inner workings. I won't risk firing any of these, and I won't stand here all damned day cleaning and firing each one."

And if she was going to test fire a gun in such poor condition, she would test fire them all. Just because one poorly cared for weapon fired, didn't mean the others would. Emily shook her head, and brought her attention back to Ian. "I wouldn't pay more than $500 per weapon."

"$500?" McNiall snapped. "That's less than half of what a P90 is worth!"

Emily glared. "And these are filthy. If they fire after a cleaning, we'll be lucky. We'll probably have to replace parts on most of them."

Ian was silent for several seconds, his eyes glued to hers. Then he turned to McNiall and nodded. "You heard the lady, McNiall. $500 each."

McNiall swung away from her, and moved closer to Ian. "That's robbery, Doyle. I paid more for the damn things myself!"

"Then you should find yourself a better eye for weapons before you make any more purchases."

"Come on, Doyle. Forget the broad, she doesn't know what she's talking about. The guns are in decent condition, and they'll fire. I tested some of them myself. Have Liam examine them, his eye you can trust." McNiall was beginning to become jittery, anxious, and Emily was growing concerned.

"I do trust his eye, and I trust Lauren's. I don't need a second opinion."

"What about $7000 a box? That's still a better deal on P90s than you'll ever find anywhere else."

"$500 a weapon, McNiall."

"Fine. $6000 then." Emily focused on his body language and the growing desperation in his voice as he dropped the price further, and began to get the feeling that something wasn't right.

Ian shook his head. "$500 a gun or we walk."

McNiall's eyes began to dart and his men began to fidget. Emily swallowed. "You owe someone money, don't you?"

His gaze turned toward the ground and he didn't answer.

"That changes nothing," Ian said. "$20,000 for the lot McNiall. You take it or leave it."

"That would ruin me."

Ian's expression didn't change at all. "That's not my problem, is it?"

McNiall turned his back, so Ian did the same, heading for the door of the barn. Emily made to follow, but was stopped by McNiall's hand on her shoulder. She glared at him. "Something I can do for you?"

"You tell him the guns are worth more."

"My assessment is what it is."

Suddenly, she felt something cold against her stomach, and McNiall leaned in so his hot breath hit her face. "You bitch, you tell him the truth, tell him the weapons are worth more."

She glanced at the blade being pressed against her stomach, and then turned her head sideways in the direction that Ian went and called to him. When he turned, she looked McNiall in the eye, and spoke with venom. "Mr. McNiall can't be trusted to be one of your sellers."

McNiall hollered into her face then as he drove the knife into her belly. Emily cried out with the pain, and spots danced in front of her eyes. Ian screamed her name, and McNiall withdrew the knife, bringing a new wave of pain and a river of blood. Then all hell broke loose.

Emily fell to the ground and Ian was on top of McNiall. The hollow bangs of a dozen different weapons began to chase each other around the room, and thuds followed bodies hitting the ground. Emily just tried to breathe around the pain and blood loss. Then it all went quiet and Ian was by her side, his eyes darting around in worry, his hands pressing into her belly. Emily groaned with the searing pain that followed.

"Ian," she said, his name barely making it across her lips.

"Shh, shh, Love. You'll be alright." He ran a hand over her head, and Emily felt something wet smear her cheek.

She whimpered and felt her body beginning to fight to remain conscious.

Something soft was pressed tight to her bleeding wound, and she pressed her lips together to keep from whimpering again. Then Ian lifted her briefly, sliding something under her. When he suddenly tightened it around the fabric pressed to her wound, Emily lurched up and cried out. Ian caught her and held her, whispering softly to her as fastened the tightened belt around her wound.

"I know it hurts, Love, but we've got to stop the bleeding, alright?" He kissed her forehead, and Emily realized that he was shirtless underneath his coat.

Ian scooped her up into his arms and carried her bridal style back to the SUV. He passed her to another set of arms, before taking her again, though now he was sitting in the backseat. "Thollivyn, Liam. Quickly!"

Liam didn't respond, but Emily felt the SUV lurch under them. Ian held her upper body against his chest with one arm while he dialed a number on his cell phone with another. Emily heard him speaking rapid fire at the person on the other end.

"We've stopped the bleeding, but she'll need surgery." He paused. "Yes, that's what we have the room for, bring whatever you need." Another pause. "That's what I bloody pay you for! Cancel whatever you have!"

As Emily began to lose consciousness, she had one final thought: she was going to die on the makeshift operating table of a corrupt doctor, because Ian Doyle was in love with her.

I know I've been gone a while, and I owe you all the last Fallen story, but that one's been giving me some trouble. I think I go through my block though, so writing it should go smoothly from here on out. Until then, here's a new chaptered story. Thanks for reading!