A/N: Containing vastly expanded content, "The Irish Assignment" has grown out of several chapters from one of my early writing efforts entitled "The First Time."

The original story was written a long time before S7 ep2 where in canon Michael met Fiona in 2001. So I had based the setting for this story on the information gained from the storyline in the Season Two episode Sins of Omission, wherein Samantha Keyes hints that she has a nine year old son who Michael fathered and from where Michael tells Fiona "You don't marry someone when you're in love with someone else," which would mean Michael last saw Samantha sometime in 1999 and by then he was already in love with that someone else. This is now a stand-alone story with lots of added content and also BETAed by the lovely Jedi Skysinger.

On a separate note, this story DOES NOT follow the backstory of any of the other stories written by myself, Jedi Skysinger or Jedi's Pal which use a common Glenanne family history and a shared storyline of Fiona and Michael's lives prior to the start of the series, although some elements remain.

THE IRISH ASSIGNMENT

ooOoo

Prologue

2009

Michael Westen knew he should be celebrating. He was on his way back in, back into a what had been a highly successful and very satisfying career that had spanned nearly two decades, a career he felt he had been born to do.

He had been skeptical at first about Tom Strickler's claims that he alone had the necessary connections to reach out to the men with the power to get him his old job back, but the so-called "agent to the spies" had pulled it off. or at least that was what he was expecting to hear when he met with his CIA contact Diego Garcia later on in the morning.

Only instead of celebrating his return to the CIA fold, he was sitting upstairs in his loft, brooding over his girlfriend's... Ex-girlfriend's... Fiona's, H and K compact 45 with the silver slide.

The burnt, though hopefully soon to be reinstated, spy ran his hand over the checkered grip of the weapon. It was her favorite hand gun and he had made a promise to clean it for her after the fiery Irishwoman had claimed the inner mechanisms had been ruined by swamp water because she'd had to spend an afternoon out in the Everglades with only Sam Axe for company in order to rescue his butt from Czech terrorists.

Only he had gotten so wrapped up in his desire to get his job back, he had put the gun in a drawer and forgotten all about it. Forgotten about it until Fiona had refused to help him on a job and told him she couldn't be with him anymore.

Michael sighed heavily and carefully placed the now immaculate weapon on his work top next to his cleaning kit. He had been taking advantage of her loyalty for so long, he didn't give it a second thought anymore. But now she was saying she was through with him and this time he wasn't sure she didn't mean it.

With his hands free, he opened and reached into the drawer under the work top and brought out his desperately small selection of photographs, the only mementos he had of their long and at times highly dysfunctional relationship.

They were precious to him and, against all the rules of trade craft, he had kept them with him carefully hidden wherever he had been sent by the company. They had helped in some small way to relieve the pain when he had been ordered to cease all contact, when he was no longer with her and later on in the times between their intermittent secret rendezvous. He had always had these photos and now because of what he had done, he was going to be left with just the memories again.

He had regretted it as soon as he did it. He really had. The slap… his hand had been open but he'd hit her with all his strength for the sake of the job, to keep up their cover intact. He had seen the shock and anger register on her face, followed by fear... Now he had not only lost her, he had lost her trust and respect too.

Staring down at the photograph in his hand, he idly traced a finger around her face, touching the tip to her lips then running it along the outline of her long flowing hair. He could clearly remember how he felt when he cupped her face between his hands and how he would gently run his fingers through her hair, moving the long tresses back off her face so he could plant kisses on her soft tender yielding lips.

He continued to stare at the photo as he leant back in the old office chair, in his mind's eye, he remembered the first time he had seen her. Not the photo clipped inside the cover of her British Intelligence file. But the first time he actually saw her in person…. The first time they kissed, the first time they had fallen onto each other in the heat of lust… and then the first time they had truly made love.

He remembered her expression when she realized for the first time he had betrayed her. He could only imagine how she must have looked when she had woken up the first time he had left her, sneaking away like a coward in the middle of the night.

There were so many first times he had experienced with Fiona at his side and now he was frightened he may have ruined it all. The first time he had truly hit her, all to protect their cover while trying to retrieve Barry Burkowski's client list, was possibly going to be the last time he would ever have a chance to lay a hand on her again.

A Brief History

1995 – 1998

It had been three years since his disastrous last assignment with Larry Sizemore. An assignment which had been cut short due to his own bad judgement in releasing the monster which dwelt deep inside his soul.

Vedeno… desperation had led to the brutal field interrogations of several village elders, men who had known nothing but had been made to suffer regardless. And then – and then because at the time he had seen no other way to neutralize their target, because he had believed there was no time to come up with another plan, or maybe in reality because he just wanted the mission to be over with regardless of the cost…

What happened next in that village joined the memories of all the other horrors he kept in locked away deep in his sub-conscious... The inquiry into their actions during those final six months working together in the depths of the Slovenian mountains had almost ended both their careers.

He had stood before the panel of congressmen and military intelligence officers and in the cold light of day tried to explain why he had thought it necessary to block the doors of a factory which was full of people before setting off the explosive charges he had positioned to cause maximum carnage, all to ensure the death of one man.

Oh, Larry had fought for him, explaining in great detail why the neutralization of the target had been so essential. But the senior field operative's condescending rantings had only made things worse as they had been ordered to sit down and were forced to listen to the damning evidence levelled against them. Hearing about the damage they had done to American interests in the international community and the American lives that their actions had put in danger… by the end of it all he had felt physically sick.

Because of that inquiry, he had considered himself very lucky to have just been censured and consigned to a desk job by at Langley for the foreseeable future and blessed to only have a note attached to his file stating that he and Agent Sizemore were never to be teamed up again.

He had spent a year stuck behind a desk in the Middle East department shuffling papers and sifting through field agents reports before those higher up the food chain finally deemed he had learned his lesson and sent him back into the field on a heavily supervised minor assignment. He had expected to be sent out to some North African hellhole or maybe to the mountains of Afghanistan, but instead he found himself back in Russia, St Petersburg to be precise.

After that first job, he was given a second in the same city but with a little more responsibility. This time he had been given the task of recruiting an asset: Samantha Keyes, an American of Russian heritage residing in St. Petersburg, a thief, a con woman and a safe cracker extraordinaire. Just the woman he needed on his side to break into the offices of Lukoil in order to make copies of the Russian/Chinese plans for a joint partnership in a gas pipeline between the two countries.

The spy and the thief had hit it off from the start and after the success of their first mission, they moved onto Moscow, Berlin, Zurich and Volvograd… sometimes stealing secrets, other times planting false evidence and on one occasion blackmailing a Swiss businessman into making some very bad choices to uphold the interests of the government of the United States.

Their working relationship wasn't the only thing that was blossoming. Because during their down time, Michael thought he had found the ideal woman in Ms. Keyes. She didn't care about the fact he wouldn't tell her anything about his life or the other jobs he did without her help. They had fun. She never pushed him or challenged him. In the whole year they were together, she only surprised him once and that was the night she suggested they made their partnership official and tie the knot.

At the time he had seen no reason to refuse. Everything about Samantha was easy and uncomplicated and he had seen no reason to believe that marriage would be any different. Besides she had said as much... "You do your thing, I'll do mine. The only difference being we get to share all our ill-gotten gains."

She had even supplied the diamonds for the ring she wanted, emptying a small silk pouch full of the tiny gems and one very large uncut diamond onto the sheet covering their bodies. "I am leaving the design to you, but I would dearly love something inspired by the rings in the Romanov collection."

The Irish Assignment

Early 1998

And then, just as the thought of domestic bliss was beginning to wear thin, the call came that he had been secretly waiting for.

"Michael, good news, your probation is over, they want you back in the big leagues. How do you feel about a deep cover mission?"

Hearing Dan Siegel's warm baritone had been like music to his ears.

It was unfortunate that his Russian asset's talents were not required, but he hadn't let that dissuade him from taking the job. So he had promised the woman he had thought he loved that he would contact her whenever he could, but also warned her she might have a long wait for that call.

Samantha had reacted exactly as he had expected her to. With a smile and a shrug of her slender shoulders, the Russian born thief had tossed back her long curly brunette locks and suggested that they spend whatever time they had left in bed making memories for him to take with him.

To pass the time on the four hour flight between St. Petersburg to London Heathrow Airport, he had read through the documents which had been forwarded to him by his handler back in DC. At the time, he had thought the mission seemed straight forward: get a bunch of terrorists to trust him and then, when the time was right, pull the rug out from under them. A job he could do in his sleep…

Unfortunately the United Kingdom intelligence services hadn't felt the same.

First of all, the British insisted he spent two months working with their own spies and SAS operatives who had recently returned from Belfast to bring him up to speed on the Irish situation.

He had arrived at the base full of confidence. After all, he was an experienced operative who had run missions in some of the hottest spots on three continents, none of which had required the level of preparation the British were determined to put him through.

It didn't take his instructors long to show him how wrong he had been.

The first week had been frustrating in the extreme. They told him his freshly acquired Irish accent was terrible. "Ya sound like a character off the Lucky Charms advert, ya muppet."

He neither looked the part nor moved correctly… or at least not to the satisfaction of the SAS Sergeant in charge of his training.

"These people will shoot you dead just for looking at them the wrong way, mate. So drop the fucking attitude and I swear the next time you make eye contact when we run the pub scenario, I'll knock your fucking block off."

The roads were narrow and rarely followed straight lines. The traffic was either moving too fast or nearly stationary. There were buses, taxi, cars, vans, trucks or rather lorries, motorcycles and pushbikes all vying for space and all traveling on for what most of Europe, the old Soviet Union, and the US considered the wrong side of the road.

"Jesus fecking Christ, look right, look left, look right again! Tis like teaching me bleeding kids the green cross code all over again."

He had fumbled with the currency: Northern Irish pound notes, British pound notes and then the Southern Irish punts. It was no wonder there was a thriving counterfeiting and money laundering industry on the Island.

But in the end his perseverance paid off and as the second month of preparation drew to an end, his instructors on all things Irish had deemed him ready to enter the lion's den, as long as he took things slow and allow himself plenty of time to assimilate himself into the community.

The information they wanted him to gather was important to the US and the UK, both governments wanting to know the identities of the men providing the money which helped to supply the IRA with weapons and gave their political wing, Sinn Fien, the funds to operate.

The first step, he was informed, was to get close to a minor member of the IRA, a woman called Fiona Glenanne, who was going to be his way in. If he could catch her attention, then through her he was to gain access to her brothers and the inner circle of the Belfast charter.

But he had one last lesson to learn before he took that first step. On the journey from the SAS training facilities in the far southwest of England to the Ferry port of Holyhead in the furthest reaches of North Wales, he was taken on one last detour. He had no idea where he was taken that day, as he had been ordered to wear a blindfold for the whole journey. Sergeant Andy Bishop had explained to him that it was a precaution to protect the man he was going to meet.

It was an IRA informer who had escaped Belfast just ahead of an IRA snatch squad intent on torturing him before an execution and leaving his body in an unmarked grave. A small wiry, incredibly nervous individual had been waiting to meet the American spy in a top secret facility, a man who had spent the last five years on the run with a half million pound bounty on his head and the knowledge that the men hunting him would never give up the chase until he was dead and in the ground.

He came away from the meeting quiet and subdued, the informer having explained to him in graphic detail the risks he faced in such a closed community and the unpleasant end he would meet if he was even suspected of being other than who he was claiming to be. He got the message: don't do anything to stand out, be average and above all else, take things slow.

At first he stayed near the docks, the people living in the area were well used to foreigners passing through. If he mixed up the money, or nearly got hit stepping out into the road because he had looked the wrong way, it went without comment. Finally, he was told by his handler a bedsit which had become available over a Fish and Chip shop, close to a pub frequently used by Miss Fiona Glenanne.

Under the watchful gaze of a gang of teenagers, he moved in a few days later with his few possessions stuffed into one medium sized ruck sack. The bedsit consisted of two rooms, one of which was a small shower room and toilet and the other making up both his kitchen, which was nothing more than a work top with an electric two ring hot plate, an ageing microwave and a cracked and stained enamel sink, and a living space which provided just enough room for an old sofa bed.

That evening he made his first foray into what his SAS advisers had described as bandit country. He bought a steak pie and chip supper from the shop below and ate it straight out of the paper it had been wrapped in as he wandered down to a nearby park to sit on a bench to take stock of the locals and to dispose of the leftovers of his meal to the ducks and geese inhabiting the decorative pond in the center of the municipal park.

After dark and a wash and a shave, he changed into a clean pair of jeans and a brush cotton shirt before slipping into a well-worn black leather jacket and heading out of the door to make his way across the street to the pub, which he had been assured was where he was most likely to make contact with his target.

Sitting on a high wooden stool at the bar, he spent the night nursing a pint of Guinness and chatting with the bar man when he wasn't busy serving customers. He learned that they didn't get many strangers coming inside and he explained he had just moved in across the road, hinting that he was a little down on his luck. When a group of men came round shaking a bucket asking for "Money for the Boys," he dropped in a five pound note into the container and wished them a goodnight and good luck.

By closing time, he left feeling that, though he had only spoken to the bartender, he had made a good start on building his cover as one of the many unemployed young men who made a living out of petty crime.

First Impressions

Over the coming weeks, Michael McBride, the Kilkenny born Irishman, settled into the Belfast community, spending his days mostly between the pub and the local betting shop, earning his keep through gambling and committing the occasional crime. But in all that time he failed to even catch a glimpse of the elusive Miss Glenanne.

He was becoming bored of the whole thing and, while his MI6 handler based in the government offices in Stormont counselled patience, a little voice inside his head, which sounded a lot like Larry Sizemore, urged him to stop playing the boy scout and get out there and shake things up. He fought down the inclination to go out and commit a little mayhem. He was beginning to like these people and besides the last time he had listened to Larry, half a Slovenian village had been blown up while the other part had gone up in flames.

Finally though, his patience was rewarded, when late one night towards the end of that first month, four young women breezed into the pub, all loud voices and reeking of confidence which came from being completely at home in the most dangerous neighborhood in the whole of the British Isle.

He had watched with interest as the bar owner left his usual place at a table in the corner of the dimly lit room to rush across to be the first to greet the quartet as if they were visiting royalty.

And there, the center of attention, was the woman he had been waiting to meet, her long reddish brown hair hanging in soft ringlets about her face, large dangling ear rings not quite reaching her shoulders and wearing a dress which barely covered her behind.

She was unmistakably dressed for a night out on the town, her style similar to the others in her group. All four were wearing short slinky dresses made of very flimsy looking material and high heeled strappy shoes.

He watched the excitement the quartet of women caused from his place at the bar, sipping his pint of black while he surreptitiously took in every detail of the woman he had been sent to charm and, once he had her confidence, use to gain access to her older brothers and their IRA contacts.

He noted how her sharp angular features softened when she laughed, how her eyes widened and sparkled as she flirted outrageously with the bar owner and his cronies. He also noticed the way her silver and black shift dress clung to her slender body and the line of her calf muscles as she balanced on her silver high heeled shoes.

"You should really watch yourself, mate. Don't be fooled by her party girl appearance. Fiona Glenanne is a certifiable head case who blows up banks for fun. She has a liking for guns, explosives, knives... Basically anything that can kill. The last bloke who pissed her off – – they're still finding bits of him all over Belfast."

That had been the last piece of advice he received before SM Andy Bishop waved him off at Holyhead ferry port.

An hour after their arrival the quartet were on their way out of the door and shortly afterwards Michael McBride finished his stout, yawned and wished his favorite barman goodnight before setting off after them. He trailed the four drunken women as they made their way on foot from the pub to a dingy looking nightclub, its entrance hidden away down a dimly lit alley way between an estate agency and a hardware store.

He scowled when saw the doormen make a gap and wave them past the line to get inside and after quickly checking his wallet to make sure he had the cash to pay the entry fee and buy a couple of drinks, he joined the rest of the mere mortals to waited his turn to get inside.

He passed through the metal detector and remained passive when he was pulled aside for a pat down, thanking his lucky stars he had left his gun back in his bedsit, hidden away in a slick he had made in the floorboards, and finally he was into the dark smoky club, filled with heaving bodies moving to the loud pounding beat of dance music. Fighting his way through the crowd to the bar he paid for a beer in a plastic pint cup and then started circling the place looking for his target.

Finally standing on the balcony looking down on the dance floor below, he spotted her. It wasn't until much later on he realized this was the precise moment he fell for Fiona Glenanne. Neither the photographs or the intelligence reports had prepared him for what he saw as he watched the petite bank robbing, gun running terrorist on that crowded dance floor.

He was used to watching women use their bodies to attract the attention of a man or in some cases another woman. Some did it just to get a drink or maybe a bit of company for the night, others did it just to prove they could and a very few did it for the flag. Samantha had done that for him in order for him to gain access to the financial records of a man suspected of being involved selling military secrets. In truth, she had done same herself on other jobs as well before they had ever met.

But thanks to a womanizing Swiss banker's preference for leggy brunettes, after one drunken night out, a seedy hotel room, a supply of Rohypnol and some extremely risqué photographs, which would guarantee the banker's wife a large divorce settlement if they ever came to light, Michael had gotten all the intel he needed to plug the hole in US military security thanks to Samantha.

Through the fog and haze caused by the mixture of the smoke from the dry ice machine and the flashing strobe lighting which flickered to the pulsing beat of the music, he watched Fiona and found himself losing his objectivity. Because while every other woman on the floor was to his expert eyes dancing to make an impression, the petite redhead with her eyes half closed danced as if there was nobody else in the room. Lost in music was a phrase meant for this woman. He finished his luke warm lager in one swallow and crushed the plastic cup in his hand before dropping it on the floor.

He couldn't take his eyes off her as her hair flowed wildly about her face and neck, her earrings spinning and turning the gold glinting and flashing under the rapidly flashing lights, drawing his attention to her lovely very kissable slender neck. He noticed the bangles on her wrists and for a moment he stared at the graceful movements of her arms and imagined what they might feel like wrapped round his body, and those hands, instead of caressing the air what they might do caressing him. He followed the line of her dress, a dress which clung to her in all the right places before his gaze moved upwards to her parted lips as she sang along with words of the song filling the room.

He hadn't realized how long he had been staring until the music changed from the thumping beat of a dance track to the soft, languid melody suitable for slow dances. Straightening up, he pushed himself away from the balcony edge and rushed towards the staircase which would take him down to the dance floor. What was more natural than a man asking a woman for a dance? He just had to get there before some other man took her hand and led her back on to the dance floor.

He held his breath when he realized he was too late as a tall heavily built lout pulled her into a slobbering embrace. Then a second later he let out that breath when said lout fell back as the four inch heel of her right shoe came down on her would-be suitor's foot.

With no time to waste, Michael approached boldly, coming to a stop before her as she sipped calmly on a drink at the high table beside her. He waited until her eyes returned to his face after she finished checking him out.

"Would ya care ta dance?"

He didn't actually see where the gun came from but in less time than it took to blink, the spy felt the prod of the muzzle of a snub nose revolver digging into his belly. He looked down at the gun and then into her cool unfriendly eyes, the words of his SAS adviser coming to mind.

"Her last two boyfriends were dark haired with athletic builds, so we think she has a type. Both were dangerous men in their own rights, one an international arms dealer the other an out and out hooligan. You won't get anywhere by playing nice with this girl."

"I take it thot means yes." He smiled at her, challenging the insane woman to shoot him in the middle of the crowded club.

She cocked her head to the side and returned his smile, the gun disappearing into the small bag which was laying open on the table. "Ya have a lotta nerve – ?"

"Michael, Michael McBride," he finished the introduction as he helped her down from the stool she had been sitting on. "An' ya are?"

"Fiona… Pleased ta meet ya, Michael."

Out on the floor, he rested his hands on her hips, while hers lay lightly upon his shoulders as they moved slowly in time with the music. At the end of two dances, she took his hand to lead him off the floor.

"Thank ya, Michael…" Reaching up, her lips brushed against his cheek. "But I have a two song limit wit' men I don't know an' me friends are waitin' fer me."

And then she was gone, swept up in the milling crowd.

Swallowing thickly, he took off for the doors in the hope he would be able see where she went next.

After all the alcohol he had witnessed her consume, he had expected her next move to be to take a taxi home. Still, if he could overhear her giving directions to the driver, it would be something he could pass on to his handler.

He made it into the foyer just in time to catch sight of the back of the woman he was trailing as she disappeared to into the women's restroom along with one of the women who had accompanied her to the club. Unable to follow any further, he headed outside and positioned himself near the already crowded taxi rank. Glancing up at the dark sky and feeling the light patter of rain hitting his face, the spy zipped up his jacket and hoped the two women weren't going to be too long.

First Contact

Inside the club, Fiona Glenanne's blue-green eyes flashed dangerously as she followed her best friend Eileen O'Connell into the ladies toilets. They slammed through the door and joined the long queue of women waiting to use one of the ten cubicles.

"I'm not going with ya. Ya can feck right off if ya think am gonna shag Jamesy Cooke jus' so ya can cop off with his stupid asshole of a brother," Fiona shouted over the top of the thumping bass from the music outside as she knocked back the last of her Southern Comfort lemonade and lime before tossing the empty cup into a nearby bin.

"Aw, Fi, he ain't thot bad. Ya cannae deny he has a great body. Could ya not close yar eyes? Jus' fer me? It's been three looong weeks now since Reggie left me. C'mon, girl, be a friend," Eileen wheedled.

Three weeks earlier, Ms. O'Connell's steady boyfriend Reggie had thrown her out of their rented house because he had discovered that while he had been hard at work on the nightshift, she had had a string of one night stands.

"I told ya, Am nae going home with Jamesy jus' so you can get yar leg over with his big brother. I don't care how desperate you are or how big his biceps are. I have standards," Fiona snapped. They moved forward in the line. If there was one thing about her friend that Fiona truly disliked, it was her far too free and easy attitude as far as men were concerned.

"Ya're too picky, Fi. That's why yar as good as on the shelf," Eileen replied nastily, risking a bloody nose when her whining failed to get the response she had been hoping for.

"Shut yer face, Ellie." It was true that her list of former beaus was pitifully short, but at least when she did choose to be with a man, it was on her terms.

A stall had become empty and the two young women entered together. When they came out, they were no further along in their discussion. Eileen refused to give up on unloading her chosen man for the night's brother on her friend and Fiona was steadfastly refusing to be used. After washing their hands, they headed back to the club's foyer, Eileen instantly flinging herself into the arms of Tony Cooke, planting a long slobbering kiss on his lips.

Jamesy Cooke, seeing the attention his sibling was getting, grabbed hold of Fiona, his tongue forcing its way down her throat while his hands made their way up and under her dress. Almost gagging, Fiona fought him off. Grabbing a hold of the bulge in the front of his jeans in one hand, she squeezed tightly until he yelped and fell back, doubled over in pain.

"Yer fucking bitch!" He righted himself and brought his hand up to strike her, only stopping as he saw two of the club's bouncers moving forward.

"Am going," Fiona ground the words out from behind clenched teeth, but she needn't have bothered because Eileen was too busy with Tony to pay her any attention.

Cursing under her breath, the redhead dug into her purse for her cloakroom ticket. Collecting her jacket she walked outside, the cool damp air hitting her like a blow and causing her to stagger a little. Pausing, she stared at the line of people waiting for transport to their homes.

Biting down on her bottom lip, she decided she had no wish to still be standing around when Eileen and the Cooke brothers came outside. She was totally at ease with the idea of kneecapping both men, but she'd already had one warning this week from Sean about her overreacting to any perceived slight. Blowing up a car belonging to a thieving gun smuggler who had tried to short change her was not in her opinion an overreaction.

The dark haired spy standing in the shadows watched as his target stepped out of the club and with a face like thunder walked purposefully away from the line for a taxi cab. He had obviously missed something, but it didn't matter. If he could trail her and remain unseen, he might actually get a look at where the elusive Ms. Glenanne was calling home. Pulling up the collar of his jacket, he set off in pursuit of the tiny auburn haired terrorist.

Staying far enough back so he hopefully wouldn't be noticed, yet close enough not to lose sight of her completely, Michael found himself becoming almost hypnotized by the sway of the Fiona's narrow hips and the way the hem of her dress was riding higher and higher up her shapely legs.

They had been walking for just over ten minutes when all of a sudden the petite redhead was almost jerked off her feet and dragged down the slope of an underground car park.

"Ya think ya can get away with treating me like thot, ya uptight bitch!"

The silver compact bag which the young woman had been carrying flew out onto the edge of the road as the sounds of a scuffle reached the spy's ear.

"Fuck!" Michael sprinted forward, his speed increasing as a muffled scream was followed by the unmistakable sound of a fist hitting flesh echoed out of the dark.

"Just cuz yer Sean Glenanne's sister ya think thot gives ya tha right? Whore!"

Stepping into the dark, the spy could just make out the sight of his target and her attacker as the larger man wrestled the smaller woman to the hard concrete floor. Even as he closed the distance, he could see and could not help but admire the fight the petite paramilitary was putting up as her teeth latched onto the side of her would be rapist's face.

"Whatcha doin?" Michael slurred his words as if thick with drink.

"Feck off, man. This bitch is mine," Jamesy shouted back, putting his hand over Fiona's mouth stopping her calling out.

"Hey, hey, I don't wanta fight…" He staggered forward a few more steps, keeping his arms out stretched. "I jus' heard a commotion, thot wa' all... Whot are ya doin'?"

He stared down into a pair of tear-filled eyes rimmed with badly smeared make-up and could see her mouth trying to scream out a warning even with the large masculine hand pressed tightly over it.

"You can't do that, ya mad fucker!" the British serviceman who was in charge of unarmed combat had shouted, rubbing at the spot where the toe of a boot at the end of a well-executed roundhouse kick had just contacted the side of his jaw. "How many times do you have to be bloody told? No... Fancy... Moves... One sniff that you ain't the Culchie boy you're pretending to be and you'll end up at the wrong end of a noose."

"No fancy moves," he whispered under his breath and stepped forward with a kick which would have gotten him a spot on any of the multitude of amateur football teams that played up and down the country every weekend, but was nothing like a spy with two black belts would use to win a fight.

"Get off har!"

"Whot tha feck?!" The younger Cooke brother rolled away, his head still ringing from the blow but he was far from out of the fight.

Rolling onto her front, Fiona pushed herself onto her knees and then up to her feet. Staggering on her high heels, she used one hand to help balance her on one of the car parks concrete pillars while she watched the fight taking place before her.

Even by her high standards, it was brutal. While neither man had any particular skill, punches, kicks, bear hugs and head butts were all being used with maximum force. When Jamesy finally went down to what she counted to be the fourth heavy blow to the side of his head, Fiona pushed herself away from the pillar and reluctantly pulled her rescuer away from where he was landing kick after kick into the fallen man's side.

"Enough now, he's learnt his lesson, come away now," she urged as she tugged on his sleeve, dragging him back out on to the street. "Don't take this wrong. I'd love nothing more than ta kick thot swine's thick head all tha way inta tha sea, but I wa' seen arguing with him earlier, so it wouldn't look good fer me if he turns up dead."

He allowed her to lead him back onto the main road, where under a street light she insisted on checking him over for injuries. He stood passively as she poked and prodded at his ribs and the bridge of his nose where he'd taken several blows; however, he couldn't help but flinch when she dabbed roughly at his split lip.

"Jaysus, where'd ya get yar medical degree?"

His complaint earned him a dig in his already sore abdominal muscles.

"Quit yar whining, ya big baby," she replied and then narrowed her eyes, staring back at him intently. "I know ya, don't I?... Mi-cah-ael McBride," she over pronounced his first name. "My dance partner from the Black Sand and didn't I see ya earlier in tha Cockleshell?" she continued, naming the pub where he had been drinking for the last month. "Whot are ya doin' in this part o' town? Were ya following me, Mister McBride?"

"In a manner o' speakin', I saw ya walk off alone an' thought-" His words trailed off as they both watched the shadowy figure who was slinking away, hunched over and limping.

"Ya thought ya would make sure I got home safe. Thot was very sweet o' ya Michael but unnecessary. I am perfectly capable o' looking after me self." The look of suspicion fell away and one hand stroked down the front of his shirt.

But before he had a chance to make the most of the moment, she turned away from him, her eyes scanning the pavement. "Oh shite, thot was a new bag."

The slender redhead went back the way they had just came to retrieve the small handbag from the gutter, her features twisting into a scowl as she tried to clean off the dirt and diesel stains covering the once shimmering cloth.

Realizing a lost cause when she spotted one, Fiona gave up on saving her latest accessory and turned her attention back to the man patiently waiting for her. Michael McBride was a name she had heard several times over the last few weeks, a newcomer to the neighborhood. Her brother's crew had checked him out and he had come back as harmless and as such forgotten about.

Until now…

"I think ya're gonna have ta accept tis a lost cause luv." He followed her to the edge of the pavement, his hand closing about her arm partially to help keep her upright as she had begun to sway.

"Ya're right," she sighed and then in an instant brightened up, her eyes narrowing as she stared off in the direction of the man who had attacked her had taken off. "Maybe we should kill him now after all. It'll save me doing tha job in a coupla months time… or sooner if me brothers find out whot happened."

"Whoa!" He tightened his hold on her arm as she went to go in search of her attacker. "Ya want ta kill him over a bag?"

"It cost me an arm an' a leg, Michael, and I have nothin' else thot goes with this dress," she pouted.

The petite paramilitary was definitely crazy, but the Irishwoman also suddenly seemed very sweet and vulnerable as she looked up at him all doe-eyed with dishevelled hair which had looked so stylish earlier in the evening now hanging limp and straggly about her face.

"Ya can buy another, Am sure," he pointed out in a soothing tone before letting go of her arm just long enough to slip out of his jacket and drape it over her shoulders. "I think we should get ya home... D'ya live far?"

The pout was replaced instantly by a sultry smile. "My, such a gentleman, where have ya been hiding yarself?" One arm snaked around his waist, she snuggled into his side. "Come along, I'll show ya tha way."

They walked along, leaning into each other, her arm around his waist, his arm draped over her shoulders. She snuggled in closer when she felt him taking in the scent of her hair.

And all the while Michael Westen the spy smiled up at the cloud filled sky. This was going better than he could have hoped for. He had made contact and was about to discover where the elusive Fiona Glenanne was calling home.

It wasn't long before she led them off the main road and onto a maze of side streets, each one lined with very similar two-storey terrace houses whose front doors opened straight onto the pavement.

The only warning he got of what was going to come next was a slight tensing in her arms before his back was slammed into one of those matching doors.

"Wa're here," her breathy announcement at odds with the violence of her actions as her arms wrapped about his neck, her slender hands forming claws which scraped across his skull while her lips ravished his throat.

They were all right… This woman was definitely a handful, almost a force of nature.

He returned the kiss, his hands now in her hair, his fingers tangling in her long auburn locks, his lips pressing hard against hers as their tongues fought a duel in his mouth and then in hers as they battled for dominance.

Her body writhed against his, her hands no longer torturing his skull. Instead she was pulling and tugging roughly at his shirt in an attempt to get to the skin underneath. He could see this night ending with them not making it as far as her bedroom, but instead lying naked on the floor of her living room with her lithe body spread out underneath him.

Several shirt buttons flew off onto the ground and the cold night air hit his torso as the wild woman pinning him to the door, scraping her nails down over his bruised ribs and causing him to gasp, surrender the battle for a moment as pain mixed with pleasure when she kissed and licked over where her nails had gone.

This woman was used to getting what she wanted. She was a Glenanne… her brothers ruled the streets of West Belfast. She was also highly unstable and had a reputation of her own almost as bloody as that of her siblings.

"No! Not now." The words were torn from his throat. He needed to be more than a one night stand to this woman... He needed her to chase him, she had to want him. He took hold of her wrists and pushed her away. "Not nar, luv."

"You don't like me?" Fiona was hurt. Here she was offering herself to him and he was rejecting her.

"Oh, god no, please…" He pulled her close again, kissing her on the forehead. "It's just-"

He struggled for the right words. He shut his eyes, his hands now running up and down her arms as he searched for the words which would soothed her feelings. "Fiona, ya're a very beautiful woman, but ya have also hadda skin full when we, ya know... I want – I want you ta remember it."

He put her at arms distance again so he could look her in the eyes. "You were jus' attacked, luv. I don't think this is the right time, I'd be takin' advantage o' ya an' thot's not what I want... Will ya meet me tomorrow at tha pub at around eight? We can go on a proper date an' let's see where things go from there. Whot d'ya say?"

Fiona looked him over, biting her bottom lip. It was obvious she wasn't used to being turned down. But then the pensive look fell away and she reached out to take hold of the waistband of his jeans and pulled him close up against her.

The smile gracing her lips matched the predatory look in her eyes as she slowly brought her left knee up between his legs, rubbing her thigh against his balls. Her lips parted as she felt the front of his jeans bulge and tighten.

"Fine," the tiny terrorist agreed, letting her leg drop. "Eight o' clock, but not at the pub... I er, I have sommit ta do in town that I can't put off. Let's say underneath the Albert Memorial Clock. Is that alright with you?" She trailed a hand over his face as she unlocked her door.

"That will be grand, Fiona." He swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the effect this wild Irishwoman was having on his body.

"Good, until tomorrow night then... Sweet dreams, Mr. McBride." She almost purred as she turned her back and then shut the door gently behind her.

For several seconds, the spy stood staring at the dark brown door as he resisted the urge to smash down the barrier separating them and take the petite auburn haired firecracker there and then.

Shaking off the feelings of lust filling his head, Michael tucked in his ruined shirt and it was only then he realized she still had his jacket.

"Great, just great," he muttered and hunching his shoulders against the cold and rain, he turned away and began the long walk home... All in all the night had been a success. He just had to hope that getting to know Fiona Glenanne didn't kill him.

When you want to turn someone into an asset, get them to betray the cause they love, you have to get to know them. You need to know their frustrations, you need to know how they spend their time and money and you need to know their hopes and dreams... But first you need to get them to trust you.

The dark haired spy thought about those words as he stood in the middle of his tiny bedsit stripping off his soaking wet clothes.

How do you get a wild Irishwoman who shrugs off an attempted to rape and considers violence as foreplay to trust you? That was the big question and one he had yet to come up with a satisfactory answer for.

Holding up his ruined shirt, he frowned and tossed the buttonless garment in the trashcan beside the kitchen sink. He could have repaired the damaged item. Stitching on a few buttons was well within the skill set of Michael Westen, but not something Michael McBride would even think of attempting.

With his clothes off, he stepped into the bathroom and turned on the flow of water in the cramped shower cubicle and while waiting for the aged boiler to heat the water, he took the time to survey the damage done during the fight.

Tilting his head to the left and then to the right, the spy touched a finger to his split and swollen lip and then gingerly probed at the bruise forming on his left cheek. He could have finished off the thug and would be rapist with a few well executed moves but instead he'd had to drag out the fight and as a result, his body was now a checkerboard of bruising and minor scrapes: a blackened left eye, a split lip and a slight swelling to the left side of his jaw. While a little painful these were by no means serious. He had taken harder beatings off his dear old dad.

Stepping into the shower cubicle, he let the water rush over his head before reaching for the body wash hanging on the rail, taking a big handful he began to clean himself off as he reviewed the mission so far and planned his strategy for the future.

He had a date with one of the most dangerous women in Ireland. He needed to prepare for and the thought of that made him smile.

If he had planned it, their first meeting couldn't have gone any better. He supposed he should feel some gratitude to his target's attacker. It had made a great opening for him to play the white knight riding to her rescue. Turning down the offer of a night of passion had been hard, it was nearly three months now since he had had any action, but it had been worth it in the end.

Michael hadn't considered his plan to sleep with his asset in order to gain her trust as cheating on his fiancée. After all, he knew for a fact Samantha wasn't above using her body to do the same thing when she wanted to discover the position of a safe or learn more about a mark's life before she used that knowledge to rob them later on. It was one of the many things that made them such a great team. He didn't have to feel any guilt about who he was or what he did when he was around her and likewise she neither wanted or expected him to question what she got up to when he wasn't around.

He barred his teeth in a smile as one of his soaped-up hands made circles down his chest, over his abs and closed around his semi erect length while in his mind he pictured that last glorious morning in a five star St. Petersburg hotel room before he left for London.

Samantha's lipstick smeared lips brushing lightly over him, the soft warmth of her breath tickling his skin and the sensation of her tongue licking him from his balls to tip and back again…. the feel of her soft chocolate-colored curls crushed and tangled in his fists as he held her hair away from her face as he watched her mouth open and engulf him…. The waves of pleasure flowing over him, making him weak at the knees…

Sighing, the spy let his shoulders rest against the tiles of cubicle and closed his eyes as the memory took him over completely. He remembered the touch of her long supple fingers on his hips, stroking down his thighs and back up again. His breathing began to deepen as his hand gripped tighter and moved faster. He could feel himself pressing on the back of her throat, her fingernails digging into the flesh of his buttocks, at the same time his hands pulling on her hair, urging her on.

How at this intimate moment they would stare into each other's eyes just before his own vision blacked out. How he would gaze into her blue-green orbs, her long auburn locks tangled in his fingers as he rode the wave of pleasure…

Panting heavily, Michael slumped back, his legs shaking as he watched the water cascading down from above wash away the evidence of what he had just done. Straightening up, he turned off the flow of water and reached out for a towel.

Why had he mixed up Samantha with Fiona Glenanne?

He looked into the small mirror above the sink and frowned. Glenanne was certainly a beautiful woman, but nothing at all like Sam… for a start the brunette thief wasn't insane. Mixing up two women was dangerous enough for a civilian, but for a spy it could be enough to get him killed, especially when one of them was known to settle her scores with a well-placed block of C4.

Wrapping the towel in his hand about his waist, Michael took a smaller one of the hook on the bathroom door and gently rubbed it across his tender head. Maybe it was the fight, maybe he had taken one too many blows to his skull…. Dropping the towel into the sink, he combed his fingers through his still damp dark hair and tried to dismiss his slip as nothing more than a momentary lapse, albeit a potentially dangerous one which he would have to guard more carefully against.

It might have been the first time he'd thought of Fiona Glenanne as something more than an asset, but despite his determination to do otherwise, it certainly would not be the last.