SAVIOR.

A/N: So here it is the final chapter of this story. I'd like to say a massive thanks to Jedi Skysinger for all the help she has given me. Savior would not have been the same without her being there to bounce ideas off and help with research. Also of course for her OC Rayna Kopec, who played such a major part in Saving Michael Westen and of course the super BETAing of every chapter.

I'd also like to thank everybody who has reviewed, put on alerts or favorited Savior and those of you who have sent me Pms regarding this whole tale.

Lastly and by no means least a big shout out to Amanda Hawthorn, and Daisyday for making me laugh and smile everyday.

Part Fourteen,

Larry Sizemore laid back on his bed with his eyes closed, letting the rhythmic thud of his heartbeat soothe away his anger. All his carefully laid out plans were in ruins.

Oh, he had all the necessary skills to gain access to the hospital pharmacy, but he needed time to build up his strength. Time that an over eager politician had stolen from him. But he was a professional. When one door closed, another invariably opened. He just had to find the right door.

The anger slowly slipped away and the corners of his lips curved into a smile at the sudden thought of all the sharp implements he could get his hands on. With the pharmacy out of bounds for now maybe he could take advantage of another form of attack.

Gosh, he loved hospitals, so many wonderful opportunities. But while thinking about either method of assassination should have lightened his mood, he knew that a cleansing rash of heart attacks or a series of slit throats would bring too much unwanted attention his way.

Damn Jamieson for trying to think for himself, and damn that bitch Kopec for -

His eyes snapped open and a curse ripped from between his tightly clenched lips. Idiot! He sat upright, cursing again when he pulled at his stitches. Amateur! When he had entered his room, he had been so furious at Jamieson for messing up his carefully laid out plans that in his rage he had missed a few very interesting changes to his room.

Hanging up on the outside of his closet was a cheap black suit jacket and a white cotton shirt. Underneath folded neatly on a chair was the matching suit pants and a set of underwear. The clothes alerted him to the fact that somebody from the Company had been in his room and he had a very good idea who it had been.

Kopec, the BITCH had been in his room!

From his position sitting up on the bed, he scanned the room with a professional eye. The positioning of his belongings at first glance looked exactly as he had left them, but searching rooms was part of his job description and he knew when somebody had done it to him. Now that he was alert, he could see there were tiny clues all about the room that only somebody with training would notice.

His eyes fell to where his slippers lay on the floor, the toes just peeking out from under the bed. Grunting from the effort, he reached down and picked them up. Examining the stitching and feeling around with his sensitive fingers, he allowed himself a small smile of relief. Maybe Kopec wasn't as smart as she thought she was.

That feeling didn't last long. He had survived so long in a business with a higher than average mortality rate because of his highly developed sense of self preservation and paranoia. He let the slippers drop back to the floor and turned his attention to his phone and the electrical outlet beside the bed. He ran through his meeting with his boss, picking through her little speech looking for clues to her real meaning.

"I came to inform you the commendations arrived from Langley and I've set the ceremony for tomorrow mid-day."

"You should thank Senator Jamieson. He was very eager to reward your good work."

With a growl, he lifted up the handset and unscrewed the mouthpiece. Moving the microphone to the side, he found a second tiny microphone hidden inside amongst the other wires. Screwing the bits of plastic back together, he put it back on the base.

She had expected him to call Jamieson, so she must know or at least be suspicious of their relationship. He bit on his lower lip. This was even more reason to send the little woman to an early grave, but first he was going to have to find out how much she knew and who she had told.

Picking up his slippers for a second time, he unpicked the lining and dug out the pills. With a sigh, he got up and hobbled to the bathroom attached to his room. Inside he took one last lingering look at the pills before flushing them down the toilet. If he was going to spend some quiet time questioning Kopec, it was going to have to wait until he was fit enough to grab her.

He picked up his walking frame and used it to aid himself back to the bed. Slumping back down on the covers, another thought struck him. He could use the time to come up with some suitable accident for Sammy the seal, too.

()()

"Here we go, Mikey." Sam breezed into the young spy's hospital room.

"Hey - Sam. That for me?" The younger man eyed the collection of clothing in Sam's arms.

"Yep," He held up a hanger holding a black single breasted jacket over the top of a white shirt. "Your boss asked me to bring your clothes over to you for tomorrow. The ceremony is set for mid-day and our flight out leaves at thirteen hundred, so you won't have to hang around Sizemore for too long."

Sam paused as he carefully hung the jacket and shirt on the out of use I.V stand and then lay the freshly pressed matching black pants over the back of a nearby chair, leaving the rest of Michael's clothing on the seat. "This time tomorrow we'll on our way back to the U.S."

Michael eyed the clothing unhappily. It was all happening too fast for his liking and left him feeling completely out of control of his own life. Angrily he jerked at the bed rails which were still fixed in place, adding to his feeling of being trapped.

"You okay, Mike? I mean, we've talked about this and you said you were fine with Ms. Kopec's orders."

"No - I mean - yeah, I'm fine." He sent Sam a half-hearted glance, but couldn't build up any enthusiasm for any more talking.

Instead he went back to staring over at the suit. Even from across the room it was possible to pick out it was a cheap off the rack item. Nothing like the made-to-measure designer labels he had become accustomed to since working with Larry.

Designer suits, expensive haircuts, manicured nails. International men of mystery, Larry's favorite cover.

He realized he was zoning out when Sam Axe slapped his hands down on the raised bed rail, making the steel bar rattle loudly. "Look I'm gonna leave you to get some sleep. I just wanted to keep you up to date with Ms. Kopec's plans. She's set the time of the ceremony for mid-day. She's gonna give a little speech and hand over the medals. You smile for the photographs and then I'll come and get you. We'll be wheels up by thirteen hundred hours. It'll be easy peasy, Mike, and, if you don't want to talk to Larry, just keep your mouth shut and look like you're in a lotta pain."

Sam Axe made it sound all so easy, but to him it felt like he was breaking a trust. He had worked with Larry for three years and it hadn't all been bad. He had learned a lot from the older far more experienced spy and not just how to kill.

"Okay, Mike," Sam spoke up again when Michael failed to respond. "Get some sleep, buddy, and try not to think too much about it, huh?"

"Sure." Michael managed a slight smile. "I'll try not to think about it..." His eyes strayed back to the cheap suit. "Thanks for the clothes."

"Not a problem. It was all bought on the CIAs dime." He headed for the door, glancing down at his wristwatch on the way out. "I'll see ya tomorrow, Kid."

Michael waited until Sam left the room and then fell back with a sigh. "See ya tomorrow, Kid." He wondered if he was ever going to stop being thought of as a kid.

Shifting in the bed he tried to find a comfortable position. 'Get some sleep' sounded like a simple piece of advice, but his head was filled with so many random thoughts and emotions, he couldn't relax. Did he really want to end his partnership with Larry? He couldn't get it out of his head, they were a good team; everybody said so. Was he just being soft? Saint Michael.

He gasped as, out of nowhere, he was flooded with the images, smells and even the sounds from that Chechen farmhouse. He was back there again, hiding the evidence of Larry's crime. His hands were covered in the blood of a whole family, most of them innocent women and children. He gulped and swallowed, trying to remove the bitter taste of gunpowder and death that had pervaded his mouth and nose. He had helped destroy all the evidence of their crime and, in just over twelve hours, he was going to have to accept an award for his actions.

He lay back trembling. He wasn't sure he could go ahead with the ceremony, at least not without shooting Larry. Scrubbing at his face, he forced the image of dead children and elderly women from his head. Sure, this was the worse thing he had ever covered up, but it was by no means the first.

He had been six years old sitting in the back seat of his dad's brand new Dodge Charger with tears running down his face, mixing with the snot pouring out of his nose. In the front seat with one hand on the steering wheel while the other held a cigarette, his mother weaved the large muscle car through the heavy afternoon traffic going as fast as she dared towards the nearest emergency room. Every time the car jerked to a stop or was swung across the street to avoid another vehicle or obstacle in the road, he had cried out and cuddled his dislocated elbow even closer to his body.

As he cried out, Madeline had worriedly glanced back at him. "Mikey, honey, try an' keep still. You don't want to make your Dad mad again, do you? It's gonna be a nightmare keeping them seats clean. Why did he have to get white leather? I don't know what goes through that man's head sometimes."

She had continued on in that light until she found a parking space half a block from the hospital entrance. Then holding on to his good arm, she had hurried him along the street towards the doors to the ER.

"Not long now, honey, an' you'll be feeling all better. Can you remember what to say to the doctors if they ask?"

"Daddy hurt my arm," he sobbed.

"NO! No, you can't say that. You'll get Daddy in trouble and that will make me cry. You don't want to make your Mommy cry now do you?"

"No, but -"

"No buts, Mikey. You fell and hurt your arm and banged your head on the floor."

"But-"

"Do as I say, Mikey. Your Daddy's very sorry about what happened. You be a good boy now and don't make him angry by telling tales." She had stopped and faced him, her watery blue eyes locked on him. "Michael," she spoke slowly, her voice flat and cold. "If you tell them your Dad did this, they'll take you and the baby growing in Mommy's tummy away an' put you both in a bad place. You want that? You want to be taken away?"

He remembered his fear and how he had gulped. All the while his eyes fixed on Madeline's expanding belly and he promised in a low whisper that he would tell the doctors and anybody else who asked that he had fallen.

They sat in the emergency room for over four hours amongst the drunks and drug addicts and victims of crimes and fights before they were called through to a small cubicle separated from the next by a thin curtain. He sat miserably on the bed while a doctor looked at his arm and asked him lots of questions. He remembered how he hadn't liked the way the doctor had kept looking at his Mom.

From the doctor he was sent for an x ray and then to another room, where they sat in yet another line. He noticed the looks they were receiving from some of the nurses. He heard one of the women mutter something about "It's the third time that kid's been in here in six months and it's looks like she's got another on the way."

They had been on their way out of the door when they were stopped by a tired looking middle aged woman with a careworn expression.

"Mrs Westen? I need to ask Michael some questions about what happened to his arm today. Can you come this way?"

His Mom had looked around as if she was about to bolt, but they were already being directed towards a side room by a large unfriendly looking orderly.

They were left in the small stuffy room for what felt hours. His left arm, covered by an elastic bandage and held tightly against his body in a sling, had stopped hurting but the large bruise on his cheek was making his head thump with a blinding headache. A headache which was made worse by his Mom kneeling in front of him with tears running down her cheeks. He remembered he thought she looked like a clown as her heavy make up streaked her face. But what she had said to him had been anything but funny.

She had stared up at him her bottom lip quivering and her eyes rapidly blinking away the tears that still trickled from her eyes. "Mikey, it's real important you listen to me. In a little while somebody is going to come in and want to talk to you. They're gonna to ask you about what happened to your arm. Do you remember what Mommy told you an' the doctors?"

He had nodded solemnly and sniffed away a threaten sob.

"Tell me, Mikey. Tell Mommy what you're going to tell that old busybody when she comes back in."

He had thought briefly of telling the truth, telling the lady from DCF that his Dad had grabbed him by the arm and twisted it so hard behind his back that his elbow had popped out and then when he had yelled and cried out, his Daddy had slapped him round the head and told him to 'shut the hell up'.

But, even at the age of six, he knew it would do no good. People coming around asking questions only made his Dad madder than usual. It was better to do as his Mom wanted, better for both of them.

"I fell over the step. I fell over the step and landed on my arm and banged my head," he had answered, the tired looking woman's questions.

The realization hit like a bolt of lightning. If he could lie at six years old before an inquisition of social workers, he could do what he had to now. Back then, that first lie had meant he was stuck living with a monster for another eleven years.

This time he had lied to cover up for an altogether different kind of monster but he had been offered a reprieve, a single chance to redeem himself and he knew he had to take it or the consequences were going to be far worse than living under the same roof as Frank Westen.

Remembering that incident cleared away his doubts. He would do whatever was necessary to get out from under Larry Sizemore's influence. He would accept the medal and he would smile. After all, they were getting the commendations for discovering Josef Broshev was a traitor to his government and in doing so had aided the Chechen cause and saved a lot of lives.

With a sigh, he finally let his eyes slid shut. They had done a good thing, they had saved lives, Broshev had been a traitor.

()()

Out in the hallway, Sam glanced at his watch yet again. Running his tongue over his lips, he gauged how long it would take him to drive the short distance to Adana; it was already close to midnight. Why had she left it so late before handing him Mike's suit for the ceremony? Had she done it deliberately?

He knew all about her concerns, her latest promotion had given her a high profile position in an area primed for a civil war and now Larry Sizemore was threatening everything she had worked so hard for.

He remembered the previous nights dinner, it had mostly been a working meal to discuss Michael Westen's progress as a human being and Larry Sizemore's direct threat to the Station chief's life. Until she had turned it on to more personal matters.

"You know how important my career is to me and this promotion... Well, it's the best thing that's happened to me." She had started the conversation and he had instantly known where it was going and he understood completely. But that didn't stop him wanting to wring Larry Sizemore's neck.

Instead he had raised an eyebrow and given her a crooked grin before asking. "Better than our first meeting?"

"I believe I threw your drunken ass out onto the pavement and you -"

"I asked you for a date," he had finished the tale. "You could have had more than a career if that's what you'd wanted, Sandy," he'd added gently.

It had been her turn then to cock an eyebrow. "Really, Sam? I didn't think you would ever be ready to scrub that budweiser off your arm."

He remembered how he had paled at the thought of settling down. But before he could come up with a reply, she had laughed at him and shook her head.

"It's o-kay Sam, calm down, we're both professionals here. You gave me the push I needed to turn my life around and do something good, and what I'm doing now is all I want to do. I mean, I know it can be a pain in the ass sometimes, especially when I'm stuck dealing with guys like Sizemore and Jamieson. But this job gives me the satisfaction of knowing I'm saving lives and helping my country every day." She had shrugged then and just for the briefest second, her fingers had brushed over his hand. "I'm sorry, Sam, but while I'm on Larry's radar we have to cool things down. I can't take any risks."

Was that the reason for the late night request to take Westen his suit for the following day? Giving her the chance to cut and run? He reached the hospital entrance with his head bowed. This was their last night in Incirlik and he had hoped that they would spend it together.

Exiting the hospital he found his way barred by a young Airman. "Lieutenant Commander Axe, Sir?"

He straightened up and answered the young Airman's salute with one of his own and then stared at the keys he was being offered.

"Your keys, Sir."

It was then he spotted a black sedan car with military plates parked nearby. Sam's face broke into a small smile and within seconds he was driving along the winding roads into Adana.

Arriving outside Rayna Kopec's hotel room, Sam paused to straighten up his crumpled fatigues. He scrubbed his hands over his cheeks feeling the thick stubble. He should have shaved and showered before rushing over like some teenager on a first date. Still, it was too late now. Raising his hand, he knocked lightly on the wooden door.

He moved back a step as he heard the lock being released and then she was stood before him, her hair still damp from the shower and only a towel wrapped around her body for modesty.

"Come on in," she invited, backing slowly away from him a taunting smile gracing her features.

She wasn't a classic beauty, her features lacked the necessary delicacy for that. But whenever she smiled at him in that way, he knew he was lost. It wouldn't have mattered if Miss World had come into the room at that moment. The dirty blonde with cool blue eyes and the killer smile had his whole undivided attention.

He wasn't aware of locking the door. The only thing that mattered was that he kept Rayna Kopec in view as she was now in his sight. There was really no words needed between them. This was their ritual and he felt guilty that he had doubted her earlier.

He entered the bedroom to find her sitting in front of the dressing table, staring at her image in the mirror. He stood behind her, his hands dropping lightly onto her bare shoulders. Leaning over he kissed her damp skin, letting his lips trail from behind her ear down to her clavicle.

"I thought you had forgotten me." She had tilted her head to the side to give him better access to her throat.

"Not a chance, baby." he growled into her ear. "How could I forget our Office Candidate School graduation night?"

His hands slid lower loosening the towel while his soft breath caressed her neck. "Or after that nasty business in Italy?"

The towel fell away. pooling on the floor in front of his feet. Her head rested back against his hips as he leaned over her, his fingertips lightly ghosting over her flesh.

"Don't forget, Venice. I liked Venice - it was our - first joint assignment." Her breath hitched in her throat as his touch increased in pressure.

But it was not enough for her. She had had enough of his slow gentle teasing exploration of her body. Twisting around she got to her feet. The chair was in their way now, so she backed him away all the while her hands worked on his clothing. "Of course, Afghanistan was unusual. You showed a great deal of inventiveness that night."

His belt slid through the loops of his pants landing on the floor with a soft thud. "But for pure, unadulterated cunning," his pants were now undone and hanging low on his hips. "I would have to say," her supple fingers made quick work of his shirt buttons and it too joined the belt on the floor. "The Honeymoon Suite at the Ritz Carlton in DC."

One light push and his legs hit the edge of the bed and he was flat on his back. She looked down at him, her eyes drinking in the outline of his muscled chest, the defined ridges of his abs and the slimness of his hips. This was their ritual. They knew they could never be together as a traditional couple, but they could have this; whatever it was. A final night together until the next time.

()()

Rayna was awoken by the early morning sun entering her bedroom window. With a soft groan she rolled over, her hand reaching out across the bed but finding only cold sheets. With a sigh, she opened her eyes. She had known he would be gone. He was always the first to leave. He would have watched her fall asleep and then stolen away.

He hadn't stayed because there were no words left to be said. She was due at a conference in two days time and he, well he was off babysitting a young CIA agent who was suffering a crisis of conscience. The thought brought a smile to her lips. This was the first time in a very long time that she knew exactly where he was going when he left her.

Glancing over at her alarm clock she saw it was five fifteen. She had managed only a couple of hours sleep. She considered wrapping herself back up in the bed covers and sleeping in until seven, but instead she swung her legs out of bed and reached for the phone. She would order room service and, while she waited for her breakfast, to arrive she would take another shower.

An hour and a half later, Rayna Kopec, CIA Station Chief for the South-Western region of Russia, stood in front of the full length mirror attached to the door of her hotel closet. The suit she wore was immaculate, a dark grey fitted jacket over a crisp white blouse and a matching dark grey skirt that ended at her knees. Light brown tights and two inch high black court shoes finished her outfit.

Pursing her lips, she checked out her appearance with a critical eye. Even though the ceremony to 'honor' Larry Sizemore and Michael Westen was nothing but a sham as far as she was concerned, it was still an official CIA function and she would treat it as such.

Satisfied that her skirt suit was crinkle free, she began to brush out her shoulder length hair. As she worked the brush through her thick hair and then pinned it all into a smart up do, she ran through her carefully worded speech in her head.

She winced as she accidentally stabbed herself in the scalp at the thought of the honor that was being bestowed on two men who she thought should be rotting away in the deepest hole she could find. With the hairpin repositioned, Rayna checked out her reflection and smoothed down the front of her clothes.

Turning away from the mirror, she slipped the hairbrush into her purse and then pulled her small flight case off the bed. For a moment, she let her CIA persona slip as her eyes lingered on the rumpled sheets and pillows, but it was only for a moment and then she was back into CIA mode.

Turning away from the bed, she did a final visual sweep of the room before walking out of the door and heading for the elevators. Once inside the metal box she pressed the button that would take her down to the reception. As the door's slid shut and the elevator began to move, she let out a long sigh.

It was going to be a very long day.

()()

Michael Westen gritted his teeth and tried for the fourth time to button up his shirt, but each time his fingers refused to cooperate. Several were broken and taped together which he could understand made things difficult. But it didn't explain why he was having problems with the rest of his digits.

"The blow to your head, the infection or even the medication we've given you could all be the cause for the lack of fine motor control, Agent Westen. When you get back home and have completed a course of physio therapy I'm confident you'll see some improvement," The duty doctor had tried to explain to the impatient young agent.

But he wanted to be independent. He was sick of being trapped and ordered around and he was definitely sick of having no say in his future. He was a grown man he could dress himself.

It was only when Agent Benson had turned up to escort him to the ceremony and he still wasn't dressed, he had finally conceded defeat and allowed one of the nurses to help him get ready. As soon as he was dressed, he was aided into the waiting wheelchair and rushed out of the hospital and over to the main building.

"It's five minutes after twelve," Agent Benson scowled as they entered the conference room.

"Don't worry about it, kid," Michael had smiled. "The - Ms. Kopec won't start without me."

It was nearly over. In an hour, he would be on a flight out of Turkey and on his way to the East coast of the U.S.A. He just had to get through this ceremony.

His eyes flickered over to where Larry sat looking totally at ease, the older man actually raised a hand in greeting and smirked. Luckily as soon as the Station Chief spotted him, she rapped on the nearby table.

"Gentlemen, I'd like to get this over with as quickly as possible," she announced in a clear voice.

Instantly, the small gathering of intelligence officers moved into place. Michael found himself positioned at the head table along with the Station Chief and Larry Sizemore.

"Listen up, Kid," Larry smirked. "This should be good."

Michael had no intention of listening to Rayna Kopec ruin his tentative grip on his sanity. He didn't want the medal. They hadn't done anything medal-worthy, they had just been doing their job. They stopped Josef Broshev who had been a traitor to his own people. Their intelligence gathering skills may not have made the area any safer, but he was convinced they had saved some lives. But that was all.

"It's called wet work for a reason."

Michael blinked and glanced over to Larry, who looked to be enjoying himself immensely. Rayna Kopec was now talking about the noble purpose that all covert agents served.

"If you think about it, you would have killed them all yourself. I just saved you the trouble."

He swallowed and pushed back the feeling of nausea that was rising from his gut. He had done nothing. Josef Broshev had been a traitor.

"Agent Westen?"

Michael flinched and looked up. Rayna Kopec faced him holding the blue case which contained the medal. "Yes, Ma'am." He tried to keep the tremor out of his voice.

"You are awarded the Intelligence Medal of Merit for your hard work and actions which have been judged to far surpass what would be considered your normal duties."

She thrust the case into his hand and placed a hand on his shoulder. "Smile at the camera, Westen," she ordered through her own toothy grin.

Trying not to squint, Michael obeyed the command as a flash went off several times. As soon as the photographer moved away, he risked making eye contact with his boss and then speaking in a low voice. "I want to say thank you for -"

She fixed him with a steely stare which made him feel like a five year old. "You've nothing to thank me for, Westen. Just see you do something to warrant that award in the future."

Then she was gone, leaving him sitting alone, or rather with Larry Sizemore.

He remained hunched forward in his wheelchair as the few members of CIA staff who had been present filed out of the conference room and he kept his head down as Rayna Kopec walked past and out through the door. He wasn't going to forget her stony expression boring into him as she spoke those final words to him.

"Ha! Did ya see the Ice Queen's face when she had to hand out the commendations?" Larry's loud mocking tone made him look up. The older man was on his feet rocking back on his heels, while his hands firmly gripped the steel walking frame. "I thought the bitch was going to be sick," he continued to crow, his blue eyes sparkling with glee. "And what about that whole damn speech? I was waiting for her to start choking on the words."

Michael dropped his gaze and sucked in a deep breath. Where the hell was Sam Axe?

"Hey, Kid! Stop sulking," Larry was still on a high. "I worked my ass off to get you that goddamn medal so cheer up, huh?" But if there was one thing Larry couldn't stand, it was ungratefulness, Michael saw the first signs that his ex-mentor's good mood was fading.

In an effort to keep Larry from digging to deeply into why he was being so quiet, Michael offered up a wide toothy smile of his own.

"Sorry," he replied. "I guess I didn't really think you'd pull it off, Lare."

"Yeah, well, you should know by now if I say I'm gonna do something, it gets done." He hobbled closer. "So are you going to tell me what's up with you? We're in the clear, I gotta promotion and pretty soon we'll be set up in the Middle East. I'll be able to use this Yemen assignment to make some fresh contacts and you can barely crack a smile."

The click of the door being opened made both men turn their heads. They watched in silence as a blank faced Sam Axe marched stiffly into the room. "Okay, Westen, the jet is waiting on the tarmac, so it's time to get going."

Before Sam could reach the wheel chair, Larry's mocking tones broke the silence.

"Well, hey there, Sam. I didn't think you'd be up and around. The Station Chief was looking a bit bow-legged earlier on, so I thought you must be taking a - "

"Shut the hell up, Lare," Sam snapped, turning to face Larry whose smirk had become a knowing leer.

Michael opened his mouth as if to speak but he couldn't think of anything to say. He knew exactly what was going through Larry's mind and knew anything he added would only fan the flames of the confrontation.

"Shut up, wow! Is that the best you can come up with? I'd be more careful with my words if I wuz you, Sammy. There's no little woman around to protect you this time."

"Sorry, Mikey," Sam growled before taking two swift steps in Larry's direction.

"Ohhh," Larry laughed. "So the boy scout's balls haven't been frozen off."

Michael winced knowing he had no hope of stopping the bloodbath about to take place. All he could do was watch helplessly as Sam knocked the walking frame to one side and grabbed Larry by the collar of his white shirt before throwing him back against the wall.

"I've had enough of your smart assed comments, you blood sucking ghoul." Sam closed in until they were nose to nose.

"So you want to try an' - " Larry didn't finish his speech because while he distracted Sam by talking, he brought his good arm up and delivered a roundhouse blow to Sam's jaw, knocking the younger man backwards.

Larry stood up and straightened his tie, all the while his eyes fixed on his opponent. "Hah, what have I always said, Kid? Navy SEALs are nothin' but a bunch of …..Ooooffff." The air left his lungs as Sam moved far faster then either of the spies thought he could planting a fist deep into Larry's gut.

"You open your mouth one more time and I swear I'll break your jaw." Sam drew himself up and started to turn away.

Michael's lips parted to give a warning, but no words came out. Surely Sam couldn't be so naïve that he thought he could turn his back on somebody like Larry Sizemore. Larry's hand came out of his jacket pocket and Michael caught sight of a flash of steel. The older spy had managed to get hold of a scalpel.

"S -" Michael got no further in his warning. Instead his mouth fell open as Sam suddenly spun and his foot lashed out connecting with Larry's hand and sending the scalpel flying across the room. The young man remained mute as he witnessed Sam Axe drag Larry upright by his tie.

For a second the two men were eye to eye. Michael watched spellbound as Sam leaned in and spoke into Larry's ear. He watched as his old mentor's eyes widened and then, with a final shove against the wall, Sam let Larry go and stepped back.

"You think you can threaten me? You're a damn wet nurse, Axe. A stinking boy scout who - "

The punch was a work of artistry, an uppercut which slammed under Larry's chin and effectively closed his mouth. From the crunching sound, he was going to need some dental work once he came back around. Both Sam and Michael watched as Larry crumpled slowly to the floor knocked out cold.

"I told you, you sick sonuvabitch, the next time I saw you I'd put you on your ass."

Sam calmly turned to where the scalpel lay and picked it up, turning it over in his hand. He then turned to face Michael who had watched the whole fight barely uttering a word and was now staring in shock at his fallen partner.

"You ready to go, Mikey?" Sam spoke jovially as if nothing had happened.

Michael looked from Larry to Sam, then back to Larry, before finally settling back in the chair.

"Yeah, let's go," he answered flatly, turning his head away from Larry and he didn't look back as they left the room.

()()

They were crossing the tarmac to where a large passenger aircraft sat awaiting their arrival.

"You know when Larry wakes up, he's gonna come after you looking for payback."

Michael tried to turn his head to get a look at the man who had just laid Larry Sizemore out flat on the floor.

"Better me than somebody else," Sam answered without breaking stride.

Michael bit down on his bottom lip as he wondered if Sam really knew how dangerous a situation he had put himself in. "You don't understand, you'll have to - "

"Mike," Sam sighed. "Whatever Larry gets up to is no longer your concern. You made a deal, remember? He's outta your life now for good. Besides, with a bit of luck, the bastard will end up as target practice for some Yemeni tribesman."

He really didn't think Sam was taking the matter seriously. He had seen Larry in a rage before and it was not pretty. The spy already had some sort of grudge against the SEAL and getting knocked out cold was only going to make that hatred grow.

"Hey, buddy," Sam's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Stop worrying about your past and start thinking about your future. You're gonna have to figure out a whole new way of doing things if you ever want to get out of Rayna Kopec's doghouse and back to work."

They had reached the aircraft and, before Michael could reply, he was being wheeled up a ramp and taken inside. A whole new way of doing things. He hadn't given much thought to anything other than becoming Lucy Chen's training officer.

He was still lost in his thoughts as Sam aided him out of the wheelchair and into his seat for the flight back home. He needed a whole new way of doing things not just to get out of Rayna Kopec's doghouse but to get free of always being known as Larry Sizemore's Kid.

"Hey, you o-kay, Mikey? You need any help with that seatbelt?"

"Huh? No, thanks, I'm fine," Michael mumbled, his mind filled with turmoil.

He sat in silence as the plane taxied down the runway before beginning to gain speed for take off.

"You need me, Michael. You're not ready to be out there on your own. You think anybody else understands you the way I do? You need my experience, my contacts. You think you can fool them all into thinking you're some sort of Boy Scout? I see straight through you. You're a predator, just like me."

As the plane gained altitude and headed out over the Ocean, Michael closed his eyes hoping to block out the voice filling his head. His hand, which was resting on his lap, strayed to his jacket pocket and he pulled out the blue case containing the medal. Snapping open the case, he stared down at the medal and the one word: "Valor." His fingers traced the raised letters, soothing him, settling his doubts.

I'm nothing like you, Larry, and you don't know me at all.

The End...