AN: I want to apologize for taking so long to get this current chapter finished and posted. A close personal friend had a horrible and unexpected death occur in his family. I was busy trying to help him cope with the tragedy.

I want to thank all of you who are still reading my story; I appreciate you taking the time out of your busy schedules. And for those of you who have reviewed and private messaged me, your kind words have made my day! Again, I hope the delay in posting hasn't scared any of you off from reading my story. This current chapter is extra long, hopefully, making up for my tardiness.

Finally, I realized in the previous chapter I referred to a medication called midazolam (i.e. Versed in the U.S.) without explaining its medical properties and uses. Versed is a powerful sedative, often used for medical procedures, or whenever you need a patient heavily sedated. It also has amnesiac properties, thus a patient doesn't remember events occurring around the time of administration. It does NOT have any pain control features. Thus, as I always remind my medical residents, the patient will experience pain, but not remember it. Actually, what I usually say rather bluntly is, "So, you want the patient to forget you just hurt them?" Versed is almost always used in conjunction with a pain medication, such as morphine or fentanyl, in a hospital setting.

'**********'

Part 5

I don't like these cold, precise, perfect people, who, in order not to speak wrong, never speak at all, and in order not to do wrong, never do anything. – Henry Ward Beecher

Negligence is the rust of the soul that corrodes through all her best resolves. – Owen Feltham

'***'

…Padraiq held her hands within the strength of both of his own, as he laid his heart bare in the sharing of the secret of his remedy. "Tonight on this night of great harvest feast, the Samhain…"

"…the Great Queen Morrigan and her minion of fairies will ride across the land. I, Padriaq O'Kelly, as their champion Elfin Knight must ride beside them as they wage war against ye mere mortals.

"Oh Padriaq," Sarnait cried out, "…what shalt become of thee, if thou shouldest fail at war?"

"Queen Morrigan shalt extract a great price," Padriaq sorrowfully explained, whilst still grasping Sarnait's hands. "I shall spend the rest of my days imprisoned within the confines of Queen Morrigan's forest, never to roam free again."

"But Padriaq," Sarnait wept, "…how can thee wage war against thy true brethren. Doth thou not slay thy own soul more in war, than in the punishment brought upon thee by the Queen?"

"If I doth not follow her command to fight, then I have not so much as a single chance to become mortal again and roam among my true brethren." Padraiq bowed his head in shame, "But, if I followeth her into war, there is one chance, slight as it be, that I mayest return to the mortal realm and live amongst my family."

Sarnait looked up with determined eyes, "I beseech thee, Padraiq, with all my heart. Pray tell, what shall I do to help thee?"

Padraig stole a deep breath, while clasping the fair maiden's hands even tighter. "When midnight cometh, wait by the crossroad and ye shall spy three separate companies of elves pass by. Let the first two gatherings pass unimpeded. When the third group doth appear, ye shalt recognize me by the golden crown upon my brow and the snow-white charger beneath me. When thou doth distinguish me, run forth and wrench me from my steed.

'Sarnait's beautiful eyes grew wide with fear, "But my dear Padraiq, what if I shalt injure thee in my pursuit?"

"Ye shalt not," Padraiq smiled at her concern, bringing to bare all the love dwelling in his eyes. "Physical wounds shalt quickly pass, but failure in this one small chance, shalt imprison my life forever and ever."

Sarnait nodded her head, as tears dropped from her eyes, "I promise thee I shalt succeed, or die in the pursuit to free thee from thy burdens.

Reaching up to caress her cheek, Padraiq continued on with his tale, "Remember this one thing, holdest me tight to thy breast and never let go. No matter what evil or cruel spell Morrigan and her minions may cast, thou canst never let go."

"I promise thee on mine life and life of my father, I shalt free thee from thy bonds. By this time on the morrow thou shalt be a mortal again and free to live amongst thy brethren.

"I swear thee an oath, my dear Sarnait. If we succeed in this, our endeavor, I shalt love thee forever. I wilt take thee as mine wife, and bequeath myself as thine husband, to provide and care for thee for the remainder of our days." He leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss upon her cheek. "Now, hasten home my love, and sleep well, so thou mayst be prepared to do battle this night against the Great Queen Morrigan, for my life, nay my very soul, dependeth on thee."

Sarnait rose to her feet, whilst Padraig remained on bended knee. Leaning forward, she returned the chaste kiss and whispered back, "I shalt return soon, my love!" She then hastened back to Ua Conchobhair in the Kingdom of Connacht, while Sir Padraig O'Kelly watched on, counting the moments to his freedom.

'***'

Tuesday Morning
October 24, 2017
The Glenanne-Westen Home
Miami, Florida

Michael stood absolutely still, staring at the phone. Seconds turned to minutes and he didn't utter a single word. Sam kept calling his name in the background, but the words didn't penetrate Michael's desperate world of overwhelming fear and loss.

Finally, Sam yelled into the phone, "MICHAEL!"

"Whaaat?"

"I'm on my way there right now. I just wanted to make sure you were okay." Sam tried to get Michael to respond, but the phone just echoed back silence. "Hang on, I'm just a block over," and with that Sam hung up the phone.

Two minutes later, Sam came running through the door. He found Michael still clasping the phone in his right hand, while he stared aimlessly at his left. Reaching for the phone, Sam punched the end button and set the cell phone aside.

"Michael?" Sam peered down at his friend.

"Fi," Michael softly muttered, while staring at his hand.

"I know, buddy," Sam pulled up an adjacent chair to the table, sitting beside him. "Look, don't worry…we're gonna get her back."

Michael just continued to stare at his hand. Sam's eyes followed Michael's line of sight, until he noticed the open tube of lipstick. Michael had it grasped between his fingers, eyes studying it intently, as if he could somehow will Fiona to appear from its waxy depths.

"Hey Mikey," Sam reached for the lipstick trying to pull it from his friend's hand. Michael's grip tightened, as he held on for dear life, fear etched in deep furrows across his face.

"Mike!" Sam yelled, finally wrenching the tube away from the ghostly white hand.

"Whaaat?" Michael's eyes darted aimlessly around the room, wild and unseeing, until they finally landed on the concerned gaze of his friend. He quickly diverted them away, embarrassed at being caught in the demons of his own private world. He scrubbed a hand harshly up and down his face, trying to wipe away his exhaustion. He needed to focus and formulate a plan, but everything felt fuzzy.

He glanced back at Sam, a self-conscious smile dancing on his lips, "Sorry Sam, I guess I'm more exhausted than I thought."

Sam continued to scrutinize him with more than a little worry, "You get any sleep last night?"

"Mmm little," Michael shrugged noncommittally, all the while trying to maneuver to a stand. He immediately sunk back into his chair, when his legs trembled and gave out.

"Hey," Sam jumped up from the table, "…why don't I make us both some coffee?" Sam hastily assessed the situation, noting the other man's pallor, sunken eyes and tremulous hands.

"Alreeeady coffeeee in pottt," Michael's words slurred slightly.

Sam flushed the remainder of the old brew down the sink and started a fresh batch, all the while keeping a concerned eye on his friend. Michael's nails repetitively scratched at his forehead raising a series of angry red welts, while the fingers of his other hand were twitching and jumping erratically across the tabletop like popcorn kernels in a sizzling hot pan.

"Ah Mike, by any chance did you eat that sandwich last night?" Sam pulled open the refrigerator door peering inside.

"Nooo," Michael mumbled shaking his head in jerky movements, "…was-in hungrrry."

Finding a cartoon of eggs, some grated cheese and a menagerie of fresh vegetables, Sam loaded up the counter next to the cook top, then went looking for the right pan. Finding the necessary cooking utensils, he began cracking eggs in a mixing bowl and whisked them lightly with a fork. He glanced at his buddy and noticed the fine glistening of sweat droplets beading across his upper lip and brow.

"Hey, when was the last time you ate anything," Sam circled back to the fridge, retrieving a carton of fresh orange juice.

"Don't memmberrr," Michael stared off glassy-eyed into space. He furrowed his brow in thought, "Brefiss bar," he shook his head, "…ah, no…fore therapy yeserdaaay…no waait…." His tongue flicked out licking at the tingling sensation spreading across his lips.

Sam placed a glass before him on the table, "Here drink that…."

"Nooo," Michael wrinkled his nose, pushing the glass away with a shaky hand.

"Drink it!" Sam bellowed in a loud drill sergeant voice.

Michael's eyes widened, as he reached for the glass. Sipping it gingerly, he watched Sam's every move. "What doooing?"

"Making you an omelet, mister," he pointed the business end of a chef's knife in Michael's direction, "…which you are going to eat, if I have to feed it to you myself!"

"Not hungry," Michael's words were articulated with better clarity, as he continued to sip the juice, his blood sugar noticeably on the rise.

Sam pierced him with a withering glare, daring Michael to cross him. "Look here, buddy! You'll be no good to Fiona incoherent and seizing from hypoglycemia in some God forsaken corner of the world."

"But..."

"Hey, if you have a death wish, save it for Fiona to tan your hide," Sam flipped the omelet in the pan, "…you are not dying on my watch!"

"Yogurt," Michael pointed toward the fridge, but Sam cut him off.

"You need some serious protein, brother," Sam slid the omelet onto a plate and slammed it down in front of Michael with a loud thud. "And you and I both know a little carton of yogurt isn't gonna cut it!"

Sam loomed over Michael daring him to test his resolve. Michael cut off a small piece of the eggs, lifting the fork to his mouth. The smell of the food made his stomach roil in protest. Sam quirked his head glaring at Michael out of the corner of his eye, dangerous storm clouds gathering in its depths.

"I mean it," Sam settled his hands akimbo on his hip, voice menacing in its threats, "…I'll have that puppy down your throat so fast, you won't have time to blink! You think Fiona is quick, she's got nothing on a Navy Seal with a crucial mission!"

Michael dropped the bite of omelet into his mouth and quickly scooped up another. He forced the first bite down his throat, swallowing repeatedly. Downing the second bite close behind, he suddenly realized the cheese and veggies were extra hot. He reached for the juice glass finding it empty.

"Water," he gasped around his burning tongue. Sam quickly offered a glass of cool water, figuring the extra fluids would ward against dehydration.

Halfway through his breakfast, when his stomach had finally settled, Michael realized the omelet actually tasted quite good. He flashed Sam a sheepish grin, "Not bad for a Navy Seal who was a confirmed bachelor for years and years."

"Hey, you should know by now that Sammy knows how to treat a lady the morning after," Sam puffed out his chest in pride. "Maybe I could teach you a thing or two…give you a few pointers on how to treat your wife."

Michael's whole demeanor deflated, "Yeah, well…clearly I need pointers on more than a few things, if I'm ever going to convince Fiona to take me back."

"Let's just concentrate on GETTING her back first," Sam slid a second omelet onto a plate for himself. Gathering up his cup of coffee, along with the plate, he wondered over to the table.

"Can I get some of that," Michael pointed at the coffee, "…I think I could use the caffeine."

"You know, I was thinking," Sam pushed his own cup of coffee out of Michael's reach, "…maybe you should skip the caffeine and get some sleep."

"Plenty of time to sleep in the grave," Michael instinctively quipped, as he stood up to retrieve his own cup of coffee.

"Could we both agree not to use that particular form of imagery considering…" Sam left the remainder of the thought unvoiced.

Michael dropped back into his chair with his own coffee, downing half the mug in a single gulp. "What?" He countered at Sam's incredulous scowl, "…I'm going to need the caffeine to keep me going," he polished off the last bite of his omelet, "…besides, I can always sleep on the plane."

"Plane?" Sam's voice raised an octave; his mug paused halfway to his lips. "You going somewhere?"

"Yeah," Michael was the one with the challenging gaze this time, "…I have to go book a flight to Ireland."

"But we don't even know…."

"Come on Sam," Michael taunted, "…O'Neil tried it last time, his accomplice is already in Cork and…."

"But don't you want to be sure first, before you go flying off halfway around the world," Sam gulped down his coffee, "…besides, I can't head off to Ireland with you. I have Elsa…."

Michael gathered up his dishes, rinsing them in the sink, then topped off his coffee, "Sam, I appreciate all you've done already to help me locate Fiona. I know you have responsibilities here with Elsa. I don't expect you to drop everything and fly to Ireland with me."

"But you can't go off by yourself…."

Michael stepped up beside Sam, a sparkle of life back in his eyes. "But I won't be alone, Sam," Michael lips twitched in a wry half-smile, "…don't forget, Fi has five brothers. I doubt I'll have trouble finding help. In fact, they'll probably be fighting to be the one to take O'Neill out with their bare hands." His voice suddenly dropped to a thoughtful, if not slightly apprehensive whisper, "That's if they don't kill me first."

"Why would they…."

"I, ah…I talked to Sean yesterday," Michael downed another gulp of coffee and grimaced, "…he's not to happy with me right now." At Sam's questioning stare, he continued on, "It didn't take him long to figure out that not only were Fi and I on different continents, but we hadn't spoken in almost a month. He pretty much blames this whole fiasco on me."

"Wheww," Sam whistled, "…nothing like starting out your mission with a little Irish ire…I can't even fathom Sean times five!"

Michael shrugged, "Can't say that I blame him." He started to walk away, but turned back, clapping a hand down on his friend's shoulder. "Thanks for the breakfast, Sam…and the stern lecture telling me what I needed to hear."

"You got it, brother!"

"I, ah," Michael pointed over his shoulder, "…I'm going to go call Sean back. See if he's heard anything." And with that, Michael was gone from the room.

As she began to stir, the first thing she noticed was the loud noise of engines. They vibrated the entire surface on which she lay. She cautiously pried open an eye, but immediately shut it again when her head began to throb. Any attempt to move her arms was impeded by the straps wrapped around her wrists behind her back. She struggled to loosen the strapping, but only succeeded in embedding it further into her skin. Her right arm was numb from baring the weight of her body, as she laid on her side. She kicked her legs, but found them bound too. Exhausted from that little exertion of energy, she dropped her head back down on the firm, hard surface of the floor. Her lips were dry and cracked; her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth. As she pried her tongue loose, she tasted the metallic tang of blood. Quirking open her eye again, she peered through the slit of her lids. Her vision was partially obscured by errant strands of her hair. As she fought to ignore the ongoing discomfort of the nagging headache, she glanced at her surroundings. There were wooden crates everywhere around her. She tried to inch her way forward to see around a crate, but her muscles refused to follow the commands of her brain. She wiggled her fingers and toes instead, thus assuring herself they would move. Closing her eye again, she tried to remember where she was and how she got there, but her memory was a blank. Michael! She needed to find Michael was her fleeting thought as darkness closed in upon her again.

Michael dropped into is office chair and began searching his computer for flights to Ireland. He cursed his previous impetuous decision to fly from London to Miami, reasoning he'd be just a short hop from his wife now, if he'd remained in London. Of course, his recent arrival in Miami had allowed him to search their home, thus locating the information about the garage door company and the subsequent abduction of Fiona. He knew the latter was the missing link to their current intel, insufficient as it was at the moment to document Fiona's present locale. As the two sides of his brain warred with one another over his dumbest move to date, the ringing of his cell phone forced an unsettled truce.

"Westen here," Michael quickly took the call.

"Okay, I might have found…."

"Sean?"

"Aye, who else ya expecting to call with an Irish accent at this time of the morning, Westen?" Sean bit back, clearly still peeved at Michael's earlier revelations.

Michael sighed, realizing nothing about the current manhunt was going to be easy. "So have you heard anything about O'Neill, Sean?"

"Aye, there's rumblings around the network, but no definite intel to date," Sean's voice started to mellow a bit. "How about you, find out anything in the last few hours?"

Michael dreaded sharing the news with Fiona's family, "Ah yeah, I was able to track down the owner of a company doing some work on the house. Seems, Fi made an appointment for Saturday, but the work was never done. When I finally contacted the owner of the business, he hadn't seen his employee since that Saturday morning. Long story short, the police found the employee dead in his truck a few blocks from the house."

"So ya think this employee was somehow involved with taking my sister?"

"No," Michael sighed again, "…I think he just had the misfortune of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think O'Neill most likely killed him then used the employee's cover to gain entrance to our home."

"That's crazy talk, Westen," Sean's voice was agitated and gaining in volume by the second. "Why would my sister open the door for that bastard?"

Michael tried to remain calm under Sean's verbal assault, "You forget, he still has a prison guard with him. I don't think O'Neill would be stupid enough to approach the house on his own…at least, not until Fi was subdued."

Sean paused in thought for a moment, before continuing on, "That's all ya got…a dead guy?"

"No," Michael began rubbing his temple in tight concentric circles, as his previous headache threatened to rebound. "I ah…I found a toolbox for the repair company in the garage behind my car…and a, ah…."

"Spit it out Westen," Sean bellowed, "…time's a wasting and my sister ain't no closer to being found!"

"There was a used syringe and a bottle of a powerful sedative with the toolbox," Michael reluctantly offered.

"So the bastards drugged her then stole her from the house!"

"Looks that way…and ah, Sean?"

"Aye?"

Michael closed his eyes trying to imagine the Irishman's face. "Sam was out scouting with the cops this morning," he paused to inhale deeply, "…they found Fiona's car near a boat dock leading to open water."

"Damn," Sean muttered, before letting loose with a few other choice words. "So, ya think they're headed this way?"

"That's my guess," Michael swallowed back the lump forming in his throat, "…he planned to auction her off last time for a big reward, and I doubt he has much money at his disposal after being locked up the last 7-8 years."

Sean's irritation peeked through again, "So, are ya headed this way to help find your wife…or are ya just leaving her kin folk to tend to her this time?"

Michael could imagine the snarl on Sean's face, as clearly as if he were standing before him. "I was just booking my flight when you called, but it's going to take time. I wish I were still in London, then I'd be…"

"Don't mention another word about London, if ya know what's good for ya, Michael!" Sean bellowed into the phone, between huffing breaths and growls. "If me brothers hear ya left her for London, they'll never let ya within a mile of ya wife. As far as the rest of me family knows, Fiona got captured unaware. After all these years of being married to an American spy, they figure her skills have gone soft over there, but if I tell them…."

"I appreciate the advice, Sean," Michael's voice began to tremble, "…all I want is Fioonna back safe and sound. You all can do whateveeer you want with meee, once we have her back, but pleeease…."

Sean cut him off, before he could break down completely, "What time's your flight getting in?"

"Tomorrow morning, 5:20 a.m. …"

"Tomorrow? That's the best ya can do?"

"It's the earliest flight, Sean," Michael tired to explain, "…I leave out of here at 1:35 this afternoon. All the other flights have multiple layovers."

"Okay," Sean grumbled, "…just get here as soon as ya can. In the meantime, I'll keep checking me networks for news."

"Sean?"

"Aye?"

"I can't bring any weapons…."

"Damn Westen, ya been away far too long, if ya think a Glenanne can't get their hands on some serious fireworks!" Sean let loose an indignant cackle, as he hung up the phone.

Michael clicked off his cell phone and tossed it on his desk. Glancing at his watch, he realized it was already after 9 a.m. He needed to get moving, if he was going to arrive at the airport by noon. Retrieving his phone, he dropped it into the pocket of his jeans and set off in search of Sam.

The rustling of plastic woke her this time. Her head was still pounding, and every muscle in her body ached. She tried to swallow against the dryness in her throat, but only succeeded in evoking a soft, strangled cough. The rustling sound immediately ceased, and all she heard around her was silence. She had no idea where she was, except bound and secured to a firm surface. She squinted against a bright light flooding in from a doorway off to her right side. The brightness caused her head to throb more intensely, and she swallowed back a soft sob before the sound could be forced from her tongue. As she listened for any noise around her, she heard the shuffling of footsteps in the distance, then the scrapping of wood against the ground. She could detect the passing of dark shadows before her closed eyes, as they broke the intense light streaming in from the open door. The footsteps grew closer, followed by whispers. She caught bits and pieces of words here and there.

"Ya need to get her into a crate…transfer to boat…."

"Authorities all around…."

"Get her covered…needs sedative…."

"Almost out, stupid infirmary tech…."

"Wait until…sailing…Ireland…."

Ireland? The word sent shivers down her spine. Wherever she was now, she was clearly headed back home, but why? The voices moved closer still, leaning over her; she could smell the sweat from their bodies and the coffee on their breaths.

"Come on, pick her up!"

"What crate ya planning to use?"

"The little one over there."

"Ya think she'll fit…it's awfully small!"

"We'll just scrunch her up in a ball…make her fit. I don't want no port authorities getting suspicious about a big crate being loaded on a fishing trawler." A large hand grabbed her shoulder, fingers biting into her sensitive skin.

"Hey! Speak of the devil, port inspector headed this way!"

"Here, throw this over her and push the crates closer together."

The light from the doorway disappeared, as a heavy plastic tarp dropped down all around her. The sound of wood scrapping against metal echoed close to her head, and then there was relative silence again, as the footsteps thudded away. A port, did they say she was at a port? If only she could yell for help, or get some attention. She opened her mouth to cry out, but words wouldn't come. Her mouth and lips were as dry as the Sahara, her oversized tongue cemented to her palate. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't make a noise. She tried to kick out with her feet, but her ankles were tightly lashed. Her right hip ached with even the gentlest movement. The voices came back, this time with a third.

"Look, you promised to have her crated and ready to go when we landed. I don't want to get caught up in whatever illegal trade you got going on. I only agreed to this deal as a favor to a friend, and that was before I knew you were trafficking in human lives. Now get her in that blasted crate and off my plane, before that inspector gets any more curious!"

"Damn yanks!"

She knew that voice! Where had she heard it before? It was definitely Irish, but she couldn't quite place it.

"Come on, don't just stand there, ya fool!"

"Hey, who ya calling a fool? If my da were alive…."

"Well, he's not, now is he? No! He's down below sucking the flames with the devil! And unless ya want to join him sometime soon, ya better shut up and help me wrap her in the tarp."

"I thought she was going in the crate?"

"She is, ya fool! But if we wrap her first, the inspector won't get suspicious if he checks out the crate. We'll just throw some more tarps on top and tell him they're cover from the rain."

She was tossed from side to side as the tarp was wrapped around her. She had a momentary sense of panic when the plastic covered her face, before she heard a knife cutting slits in the material. A large pair of hands grabbed onto her shoulders and another her feet, as she was lifted from the ground. She briefly felt herself suspended mid air, before being unceremoniously dropped into a hard wooden crate on her backside. She felt a bruise forming on her hip, as bone met solid surface with a thud. Her upper torso was torqued around, until her head impacted her knees. Her lower legs bent back at a sharp angle. She attempted to strike her foot against the box, but she was so tightly wedged, there was no room to move. She felt the weight of more tarps falling in upon her and was thankful when rough hands reached in to create an air tunnel for her to breath. A lid was knocked firmly into place atop the crate, the pounding of fists making her head throb even more. She felt the crate being lifted and carried away. It swayed as they walked across the metal floor of the cargo plane. She was jostled from side-to-side, as they descended the stairs and then dropped her onto the tarmac below. She groaned, as she made impact with the ground, pain searing through her lower shoulder and hip. Unable to move or call for help, she closed her eyes and drifted back into a drug-induced oblivion, determined to save her strength until needed for an escape.

Arriving in the kitchen, Michael found Sam cleaning up the last of the dishes from breakfast. "Hey, you didn't need to do that, Sam. I would've cleaned everything up when I was done with Sean."

"No big deal," Sam shrugged, "…so how's Fiona's brother taking the news?"

"I've been forewarned to mind my p's and q's," Michael reached for a towel to dry the dishes draining in the sink.

Sam rinsed the soapy water down the drain then reached out to dry his hands on the towel. "You gonna need a ride to the airport?"

"No," Michael shook his head, "…I can always leave my car in long term parking. Besides, don't you need to get back to Elsa?"

"Oh jeez," Sam checked his watch, "…the hospice nurse was supposed to leave 20 minutes ago." He looked Michael over from head to toe, sizing him up to decide if he should really leave him alone.

"I'll be fine, Sam…." Michael's cell rang, cutting short his comment. He pulled the phone from his pocket, not recognizing the number. "Hello?" Michael listened to the voice on the other end, as his eyes grew wide with worry.

Sam stood his ground beside Michael, unsure of what had shaken his friend's calm demeanor. Michael nodded his head, but remained silent. Finally he pulled the phone from his ear and covered the receiver.

"Hey Sam, I gotta take this…it's Deputy Director Woodrow's office."

"Jeez," Sam whistled, "…when it rains it pours. Listen buddy, I'll get out of your hair. If you need anything, and I mean anything, give me a call. I'll keep an eye on Maddie while you're gone. By the way, did you mention Fi's disappearance…."

"No!" Michael quickly replied, while he held for the director. "I'll call from Ireland once I have more information. Thanks Sam! I'll keep you in the loop. Hopefully, I'm back in a couple of days with Fi."

"Sure thing, Mikey," Sam clasped a palm to his friend's shoulder. "Be safe…and remember to duck, if a Glenanne gets too close with a gun!" Sam chuckled to himself trying to lighten the mood.

Michael smiled back, "Thanks…ah, Deputy Director Morrow, how are you, sir?"

Sam waved goodbye and headed out the door, hoping Michael found better news in Ireland than the Baker family received that morning. His own cell began to ring, as he opened the front door. Taking note of his home number, Sam hustled out the door.

Michael listened as the Deputy Director spoke for five minutes straight without allowing Michael the chance to offer a single word, other than, "Yes sir." Glancing at his watch, as he continued to listen, he wandered back to the master bedroom to gather his toiletries and things for the trip to Ireland. Laying his tote on the bed, he realized he was hardly packed for a rescue mission in Ireland. Shrugging, he placed the few casual garments he brought into the tote, figuring he could pick up something more once he got to Ireland. He then went in search of a small suitcase for some of Fiona's things. Finding what he needed in their closet, he selected a random assortment of jeans, sweaters, shirts and shoes from her closet. He continued to gather her bath products from the shower and then proceeded to their dresser.

As the Deputy Director began to ask more probing questions, Michael dropped his task to give his full attention to the conversation. He walked back to kitchen, pouring the remaining coffee into his mug and dropped into a chair at the kitchen table. Twenty minutes later, the conversation was done and Michael felt more at ease than he had in a long time. Director Woodrow had been a field agent in the prime of his career, when Michael was first recruited for the agency. Michael had always found the man to be fair and honest in his dealings. As the Director moved up the infrastructure of the agency, he had taken a liking to Michael, as an agent with a reputation for achieving success. During the five years he was burned and completely out, Director Woodrow was one of the few to keep an eye on the situation, and was eventually integral in helping Michael to find his way back in. His ongoing relationship and good standing with Director Woodrow was one of the reasons Michael had dismissed the orders from his current boss in London.

Noticing the time on the oven clock, he jumped from his seat to finish up his preparations for travel. Fiona's purse caught his eye, and he rummaged through the assortment of objects on the table. He collected her wallet and the miscellaneous paperwork, setting them aside. He didn't want to be found in possession of anything labeling her by the name Fiona Glenanne. Should…no when, he corrected himself, he found Fi, he didn't want them to have any difficulty getting back out of the country. The name Glenanne was sure to raise red flags throughout Ireland. They'd already had her official passport authorized as Fiona Westen through the CIA, which for the most part, prevented any questions related to her lengthy Interpol file. However, travel to and from Ireland would most likely prove to be a more dangerous task. They could survive on his credit cards alone. He placed her driver's license with the name Westen in his own wallet, then collected a few other of her personal items into her purse. He caught site of the lipstick tube at the far end of the table, shoving it into the purse on a whim.

Running back to the bedroom, he worked quickly to finish packing their clothes. He hesitated a moment at her drawers in their bureau, feeling as if he was invading her privacy. Under different circumstances, he wouldn't have felt comfortable infringing on her space. Tossing the thought aside, he pulled open her lingerie drawer and began to leaf through her undergarments. He slowed in his task, as the soft, feminine silken garments brushed against his skin. He lifted a matching set from the drawer, staring at the ivory silk adorned with delicate lace and a bow. He hadn't remembered seeing the set before, although he wasn't sure if it was because it was new, or if he just hadn't paid attention. He caressed the soft material imagining it on his wife. The mental image sent him reeling, and he backed up quickly to the bed, before his legs could collapse. Staring at the lingerie, he wondered if he'd ever have the chance to see it modeled on his wife. Tears immediately sprang to his eyes at the thought he could lose her forever due to his own inattention and negligence. Blinking back the moisture, he chided himself for focusing on failure rather than on success. He stuffed the lingerie into her suitcase, before haphazardly tossing in a few extra undergarments and sleepwear. Just as he was ready to close the luggage, his eye caught sight of her silver bracelet on the nightstand. He retrieved the jewelry and added it to her growing pile of personal belongings.

'*'

05:30
Wednesday Morning
October 25, 2017
Dublin Airport

Michael de-boarded the plane at the Dublin Airport. He'd used his mileage credits to upgrade to first class, thus having a much more enjoyable flight than his last one from London to Miami. His seatmate was a businessman this time, who was just as intent on catching a few hours of sleep as Michael. Feeling more rested than he had in the last few days, he was happy to be on solid ground in the same country as his wife. At least, he hoped Fiona was in Ireland by now. He exited the security gate of the terminal in search of baggage claim, but was intercepted on his way by Sean and Cullen. They hollered out his name, as he walked past them in a daze.

"Michael!" Sean called a third time, before Michael glanced his way.

Michael smiled at the two brothers, extending a warm hand of greeting. "I didn't expect to see you here, Cullen."

"Ya think I wouldn't come to rescue me sister?" Cullen accepted the handshake then pulled Michael in for a manly hug, slapping him on the back.

"Sean," Michael extended his hand. Sean grabbed hold with more force than was necessary, making Michael wince under the pain.

"Glad to see ya finally showed up, Westen," Sean released his grip, pointing the way to the car.

"I, ah," Michael paused in place rather than follow Sean, "…I need to go by baggage claim."

"What are ya, some kind of fashion model now," Sean flashed him an indignant grin, "…ya have ta travel with extra luggage. I thought you were just sneaking in and sneaking out."

Michael shifted his tote onto his shoulder to free up a hand, then started toward baggage claim, "Talk to your sister about that one, the suitcase is for her. I travel light," Michael pointed to his tote and leather satchel. "Speaking of which, I may have traveled a little too light from…."

Sean cut him off with a glare, "Why'd ya bring Fiona a suitcase? Ya planning on smuggling her back home?"

"Because I doubt O'Neill gave her time to pack, when he abducted her," Michael let his own sarcasm drip through.

"Knock it off, Sean," Cullen smacked his older brother on the back, "…give the guy a break. He's just worried about his wife."

"If he was so worried," Sean began grumbling under his breath, before Michael silenced him with a glare.

"Which bag's Fiona's?" Cullen asked, as he headed to the conveyor belt.

"Brown one, small with a black label," Michael offered, before pulling Sean aside. "So, what does Cullen know about Fiona and me?"

"Nothing…you should thank your lucky stars," Sean scowled at Michael, "…I decided to keep it friendly, until me sister is found, then all bets are off."

"Look Sean," Michael tried to ease the strain, "…I told you we were having some problems, but that doesn't mean I don't love…." Cullen's arrival with bag cut off the remainder of Michael's comment.

"Come on then," Sean waved at the pair, "…time's a wasting, and we got work ta do." He headed out the terminal doors, in search of the car.

As the trio arrived at Sean's car, Cullen opened the door, jumping into the back seat. Michael followed Sean around to the back to put the luggage in the trunk. Once the luggage was secured, Michael turned back to Sean to ask about further intel, when Sean flattened him with a right hook. The punch sent Michael sprawling to the gravel. Michael gingerly touched the growing bruise on his left cheek and glowered at Sean through incensed eyes.

"What the hell was that for?" Michael growled, as he smacked away Sean's offer of a hand up.

"Just making me opinion heard," Sean flashed him an impious grin, before offering his hand again. "I'll refrain from further opinions and damage, until we have me sister back safe and sound." His grin became more menacing, "But once I talk to her, if she confirms ya hurt her…well then…."

"I'd never hurt her," Michael stood up, brushing the dirt from his jeans, "…how dare you think I would lay a hand on her!"

"I wasn't thinking of your hands, 'cuz I know me sister would lay ya flat if you so much as tried," Sean leaned in closer, so only Michael could hear, "…but if I find out ya cheated on her. So help me…."

"Sean," Michael pinned him in all seriousness, "…I swear to you, there has never been anyone else, since I first laid eyes on your sister. Even when we were apart after Ireland, there was never anyone…."

"Just make sure it stays that way," Sean jabbed his index finger into Michael's chest. "And remember," Sean smiled sweetly, "…I'm the nice one! Quinn and Grady won't be so forgiving."

Michael rolled his eyes, wishing he had the assistance of the old Westen team on this particular mission. He'd forgotten how loud and rowdy the Glenanne crew could be. Remembering back to the "old days," he thought Fiona's antics were hard to control, but they were nothing compared to the four Glenanne boys. Egan was the only sane one of the lot! Of course, the fact that Father Egan was also a priest might have had something to do with his gentler demeanor. And he didn't even want to think about Fiona's mother, she was more of a spitfire than her daughter could ever pretend to be. There was never any doubt who ruled the roost in the Glenanne house, and rule she did, with an iron fist. Even the boys knew not to push Ma Glenanne too far, when her Irish ire was stoked and heated. Fi's father had learned early on to hold his peace and allow Eireen Glenanne the final say with the seven children. Although, Michael had quickly surmised Da held the final sway in more private matters. He was the strong silent type, a noble trait, which the remainder of the Glenanne tribe somehow never seemed to acquire.

"So, where are Quinn and Grady this fine day," Michael asked, his interest now piqued.

Sean clamped an arm around his brother-in-law's shoulder, pulling him tight to his side. When Michael peered into Sean's face, a chill ran down his spine at Sean's taunting expression. "Funny ya should ask, Westen. Grady's off running down a couple of tips down near Cork, and Quinn stayed back to acquire the necessary, ah…'fireworks'." Sean's eyes sparkled with mischief, "Plus, he's helping Ma get your breakfast on the table. Did I mention Ma is expecting ya promptly?"

Michael swallowed hard; Ma Glenanne was not the way he'd planned on starting his day, especially sans Fiona. She could be a fierce enemy of anyone who dared allow harm to come to one of her brood. He was none too thrilled to be partaking in a meal hosted by the Glenanne matriarch without Fiona to run interference. Especially, since he was the responsible party who'd allowed the bastard O'Neill to abduct her only surviving daughter. He hoped Sean hadn't mentioned their marital difficulties; otherwise the likelihood of him surviving breakfast was remote at best, never mind living long enough to rescue his beloved wife. It had taken a couple of years after their marriage for Eireen Glenanne to accept an American into the family, especially one who dared to marry her precious daughter in a civil ceremony down at city hall. He still wasn't sure Ma accepted their nuptials as legit, since they hadn't occurred in the Catholic Church under the auspices of a properly ordained priest, then throw in the fact that he was an American spy; although, to date Fiona hadn't had the gall to mention that little tidbit to her mother. No, that little surprise was safely guarded between Sean and Pa Glenanne, at least he prayed they'd maintained his secrecy, otherwise breakfast was going to be a painful affair.

"Hey Michael, ya coming or what?" Sean called out. "Standing around the airport parking lot with ya head in the clouds isn't gonna do much to rescue ya wife!"

"Sorry," Michael muttered back, opening the car door and sliding inside.

She roused to a gentle rocking sensation. As her sensorium began to clear, she shivered in the cool surroundings. A light breeze blew softly across her face making her chapped cheeks burn at its gentle touch. She lulled her head to the side, trying to escape the prickling sensation on her skin. Her eyes fluttered open, squinting into the dark sky. She had no idea where she was or how she'd gotten there. She strained to sit up and survey the larger landscape, but ropes constrained her every movement. The breeze quickly escalated to cold gusts, jarring her body to and fro along the hard floor. Her teeth chattered in the frigid air, the repetitive drumming sending shards of pain to her skull. She longed for the comfort of her bed and the warmth of the goose down duvet. A cold misty rain began to fall, enveloping her body in dampness, adding to her overall distress. Where was she? Why couldn't she remember? Her brain screamed over and over in fear. She tried to remain quiet, stilling her chattering teeth. Waves lapped all around her, and her panic began to build. Why was she on a boat? Who had restrained her? Voices? She could hear someone talking in the distance.

"How much longer 'til we're on shore?"

"Couple hours, I reckon…long as the sea remains calm."

"Ya expecting a storm? Those clouds look mighty ominous," the voice coughed in the cold, damp air.

She thought the voice sounded familiar, but couldn't place it with a face. She curled upon herself, trying to minimize her exposure to the elements. Her muscles continued to shake and shiver in the cold, sending pain signals all the way to her core.

"Lucky for us the girl stayed out. I was afraid we'd run out of the sedative," a menacing laugh followed the words.

It was the same voice, as before. The laughter nearly caused her to pass out with fear. Who was he? Why couldn't she remember? Her brain taunted her over the loss. Michael! She needed to find Michael! Where was he? She fought for any recent memory, as an anchor from her fear. Elsa, she remembered caring for Elsa. But why would she be on a boat?

"What about my payment? I told ya it was due, when the boat set sail?

"You'll get it soon enough!"

"I'm not going any further, until ya pay up! If you've no funds, then the whole lot of ya can go overboard and swim to shore," the first voice once calm and gentle, now became more demanding and shrill. An evil chuckle followed, "And good luck surviving the swim ta shore in these frigid waters, that's if the fishes don't get ya first!"

"I told ya you'd get ya money! I don't have it on me just now, but after the sale…."

"We're not going any further without some form of payment!"

"Hold ya horses, mate…I might just have something better than money!"

"What's better than money, ya idiot? We agreed upon a fair sum, and I'm not taken some damaged goods as payment, even if she's nice to look at!"

Fiona's body went numb at his words. Was he talking about her? Was she the damaged goods? What were they planning on selling anyway? She swallowed hard, but her empty stomach revolted under the stress. She quickly rolled to her side, as she retched over and over again with dry heaves. Her throat was so dry it hurt to swallow.

The noise alerted her capturers, and the hefty thud of footsteps forewarned of their arrival. Heavy breathing sounded all around her, as three men loomed over her in a menacing pose. She blinked to clear her vision, adjusting her eyes to the darkness of the early dawn. Jumping from one face to another, her eyes locked on her final capturer and her blood ran cold.

"Well, hello sweetheart…looks like you're finally awake! I was hoping you'd sleep through the entire journey after our last fateful encounter, but this might be even more fun. Aye, I can see the fear in your eyes! Where's your man folk now?" O'Neill peered all around him, then released a sinister laugh, "Looks like ya on your own this time. No Michael Westen to ruin my plans!"

Fiona tried to speak, but she couldn't push the words past her parched throat. Her eyes glowed with anger. Her muscles tensed.

"Ah, Miss Glenanne, or is it Mrs. Westen? You're not so fierce and mouthy, when left standing on your own!" He laughed in merriment, until the cold weather made him cough. Once he'd calmed down, he derided her, "Got nothing ta say, sweetheart? I thought you'd put up more of a fight!"

"Bas-sard!" She crooked out the words with force, sapping all of her energy.

"Now, there's me Fiona! By the way," he knelt down beside her, "…ya got something I need." He wrenched her bound arms toward him and tightly gripped her left hand. "I saw this little beauty right away and knew it'd come in handy."

He gripped her engagement and wedding rings, twisting them up her finger. She clasped her fingers tightly, digging her nails into her palm.

"Now, don't be fighting me, Fiona…or I'll break ya hand," he motioned for one of the other men to help. Between the two of them, they pried open her ring finger, pulling the rings free along with a patch of skin from her knuckle. She glared at O'Neill, trying to form words. "What's da matter, sweetheart…cat got ya tongue?" He laughed at her bondage, her helplessness and her pain.

"Hey, Reggie, get her some water! I 'spect she's more than a wee bit dehydrated after the last four days. "Ya thirsty, missy?"

The man named Reggie, knelt beside her with a cup offering her a drink, but she turned away. Despite repeated attempts, she refused to ingest the cool liquid. "She won't take it," he shrugged.

"Give it ta me, ya fool!" O'Neill grabbed the cup sending half it's content sloshing over Fiona's body. O'Neill bent down again, holding the cup to her mouth. "Ya going ta drink one way or another. I'll not have ya dying on me, before I can auction ya off!"

Fiona's eyes momentarily widened in fear, before she clamped down on her emotional response. She cinched her lips together tightly, refusing to drink.

"Now see there," O'Neill growled, "…here I was trying ta be nice and ya get all uncooperative and spiteful."

"Reggie," O'Neill bellowed over his shoulder, "…get over here and pinch her nose. That'll get her mouth open!"

The other man complied with the brute's orders. Just as Fiona opened her mouth for a quick breath, O'Neill poured the water down her throat. Fiona seized up, as fits of coughing and sputtering rose from the depths of her lungs. The movement made her gag, and she retched even harder, as the ingested water flew from her mouth, dripping down her chin and neck. She fought to catch her breath, each gasp drawn from somewhere deep in her toes, before rattling in the back of her throat. Tears sprung to her eyes, but still she refused to give in. O'Neill demanded another cup of water, this time Fiona allowed him to pour a small amount into her mouth. As he preened with haughty victory, she spit the mouthful back in his face. He dropped the cup, launching to his feet then veered back and backhanded her across the cheek. Fiona stared back impassively, before breaking into a sneering grin. Anger boiling over, O'Neill kicked the toe of his boot into her side, eliciting a strangled grunt.

Poking a finger into her chest, the bastard roared, "Don't test me, sweetheart…I'm in control here, and I've got plenty more where that came from! I don't care one wit if you're battered and bruised, when I hand ya over to ya fate!"

Fiona lie curled on her side gasping for air, her right arm splinting her bruised ribs. Her head was pounding, acid burned the back of her throat and her ribs ached with each strangled breath. She closed her eyes and tried desperately to block out her surroundings. Michael's face flashed before her eyes, dancing at the edges of her consciousness. "Hold on," he called out to her, "…whatever happens, don't give up!"

"Michael," she silently mouthed his name, imagined his fingers stroking her bruised skin. In the background, she caught bits and pieces of conversation.

"Take these damn things as temporary payment and get me to the shore already!"

"What do I want with some rings? Ya promised me cold hard cash!"

"You'll get ya cash after the auction! In the meantime, that diamond is worth three times what I promised to pay ya! I don't care what ya do with the bloody thing…give it ta your wife on ya anniversary, or sell it for the money, I don't really care! Just quit hounding me about ya bloody cash!"

"There'd better be money in the end of this journey, that's all I gotta say!"

Fiona willed her mind to block out their voices. She concentrated on Michael's face, his deep blue eyes, the smell of his skin, the tender softness of his touch, and everything around her went blank.

Michael watched as Quinn loaded artillery into the trunk of both his and Sean's cars, marveling at how quickly a Glenanne could amass enough firearms to equip a small army. Fiona's parents waited in the wings to wish everyone Godspeed in their quest. Cullen reached for the basket of food his mother had prepared for the trip. She glanced Michael's way gracing him with a forced smile. Breakfast had been an uncomfortable affair. Eireen Glenanne wanted to know why she hadn't heard from her daughter and son-in-law in months, somehow intuitively sensing the hidden strain in their marriage. She quizzed Michael repeatedly on how O'Neill had managed to get past him to abduct her daughter, making it abundantly clear she expected him to bring Fiona home unmarred by a single bruise or mark. Michael returned the matriarch's smile with a more pleasant version of his own, when all he really wanted to do was get on his way. The quicker they learned of Fiona's whereabouts, the quicker she would be back in his arms.

Da Glenanne wondered over to the car, reaching out to grasp Michael's shoulder. "Hang in there, son. I have faith in ya, just bring our girl home safe and sound." He pulled Michael into his arms, offering a hug of encouragement. Michael felt himself willingly return the hug. It had been a long time, since he'd honestly respected and loved an older man like a father. Patrick Glenanne proved to be more of a dad to him than his own father had ever been.

"Thank you, sir," Michael pulled back to look him in the eye, "…I promise to bring her home, or die trying."

"Now, none of that, my boy," Da Glenanne smiled with tears shining in his eyes, "…I want both of ya back. Neither one of ya are any good without the other. Fiona was miserable in the years ye was gone, and I know for a fact, ya didn't do so well yourself."

Michael studied the ground, before his eyes flickered back toward Fiona's Da, "You're speaking the truth there. Despite my best efforts to the contrary, I'm nothing without your daughter. I really love her, sir." Michael glanced away, still finding it hard to say those words around others.

"I know ya do, son," Patrick Glenanne reached up to gently pat his son-in-law's cheek. "Now be gone with ya!"

The three Glenanne boys loaded into the cars with Michael on their heels. Michael was told to ride shotgun with Sean, while Cullen rode along with Quinn. Michael wasn't too happy about the travel arrangements. He wasn't relishing spending the next several hours arguing with Sean about his marriage. After all, he reckoned, some things between a husband and wife should remain private. He doubted Sean understood how badly Fiona had taken the loss of their child, and he wasn't any prouder of his own behavior in the last two years. With the trip now underway, Michael reached for the map of Ireland trying to estimate the distance and time required to reach Cork.

They had heard from Grady just as the family finished up breakfast. Word on the street was O'Neill planned to offer Fi on the auction block for a hefty sum. Even after a 10-year absence from Ireland, Fiona Glenanne still had a long list of enemies willing to watch her suffer hideous pain. O'Neill always had been and still was the worst of the lot. He shuddered when he thought of all Fiona probably endured in the last four days of the bastard's captivity. Michael swore to himself, if so much as a single strand of hair were injured on her beautiful head, he would extract the ultimate price from O'Neill's hide. He didn't care if O'Neill survived to be apprehended and transported back to Whitemoor Prison in England. Death was too good for that SOB!

Michael tried to quell his vengeful thoughts and focus on the mission. He needed to be in control of all his faculties, if he was going to bring Fi home alive. Home, he liked the sound of that word. HOME. Just he and Fiona back in their private abode in Miami. Looking down at the map in his hand, Michael studied the terrain around the port city of Cork. In his previous kidnapping attempt, O'Neill had planned to take Fiona to Northern Ireland. Having destroyed most of his contacts in Belfast after his arrest, O'Neill had shifted his current operation to the southern border of Ireland. Michael and the Glenanne boys had no idea where or when they planned to arrive, but Grady had learned the O'Neill party was travelling by ship somewhere in the general vicinity of Cork or one of its outer borders. The auction was set for Friday, which meant they had only a day, or so, to rescue Fi before she met an untimely fate. Michael estimated they had a 3-4 hour drive to Cork, which would put them into the city by mid afternoon, if traffic remained light; from there they would rendezvous with Grady for more specific information.

They'd driven along in silence for the first 45 minutes of the trip. Michael watched the scenery fly by and allowed himself to drift off in a trance. The Irish countryside took him back to his first assignment in the country, where he met his wife. He couldn't believe it had been over eighteen years, since their introduction. It seemed like just yesterday, when he'd been tasked with bringing down an Irish arms dealer. He'd been watching her from a distance for a while, when the time came to cultivate her as his asset. He never intended for them to get so involved, their relationship had been frowned upon by the Agency. But the first time he took her in his arms for an introductory dance, he knew he was gone. He'd never met another woman like his Fiona, not before that first fateful dance in a Belfast pub, and certainly not after. He was engaged to Samantha at the time. He figured a relationship with Sam would be straightforward and easy. Samantha and he were created from the same mold, they liked the same things and worked the same way; it made life uncomplicated and simple. So when she had proposed, he accepted without much thought. Samantha would be there at the end of a mission, someone to fulfill his physical needs without all the emotional complexities and entanglements of love. After his terrible childhood, he hadn't really planned on getting married, but with Sam it just seemed natural.

Then he'd met Fi!

He remembered telling her once, that their relationship was far from easy. That revelation had been true from the start. They disagreed about everything, fought constantly, but somehow managed to love even more. They seemed to thrive on the conflict, as if it were their life's blood. Uncomplicated and simple didn't seem so important after Fi. He'd been absolutely distraught when he was forced to leave her in Ireland. He told Fi his cover was blown, and he had to get out for both their safety. Of course, that wasn't exactly true. His cover had been blown, and he had been ordered out, but he was determined not to leave her behind. His mind had conjured up all manner of plans for their escape. He'd even cooked her a final dinner hoping to discuss and hash out a decision for their future, when Card had arrived, dragging him from her door. His trainer bit into him with the force of a bulldog, beating away every excuse Michael offered, tossing aside his every plan. He'd been dragged away kicking and screaming just in the knick of time to save both their lives. Card finally convinced him to make a clean break. Left behind keepsakes, names and notes, while sentimental, only increased the danger for covert operatives and assets. The one thing he'd never been able to give up was her number. Card had no idea he kept it. He'd stashed it in a hidden compartment of his wallet. Over the years, he'd studied it, caressed it, and wondered about the 'what ifs.' It had been that small connection, which brought them full circle and landed them both in Miami. He fought her every attempt to reconnect, countered her every advance for a relationship, until that first time in the loft. He knew as soon as his lips had touched hers, there was no way to leave her behind again. He had tried in the intervening years between Ireland and Miami, valiantly in fact, but it had all been a lie. And when he'd almost lost her to O'Neill the first time, he knew there was no going back. His heart belonged to her, and hers had long since taken up permanent residence within him. The last couple of years of married life had been far from easy. They both made mistakes, though by his calculation, he bore the greater lot. Despite all their mishaps and misdirects, he wouldn't give up their life for anything. He remembered telling her after Samantha's visit that "you don't marry someone, when you're in love with somebody else." Well, the corollary was just as true. You don't abandon or divorce someone, when you're still in love with her. Now he just needed to find her and convince her to stay.

He withdrew the photo of them from his pocket. Starting at the picture, he tried to imagine his world without Fi. It was impossible to fathom. He rubbed his thumb over the surface of her face. He swore he could feel the softness of her skin. Smell the fragrance that was so uniquely her. And if he listened close enough, he could hear her calling his name. "Michael!"

"So what really happened between the two of you?" Sean's voice broke the spell, and Michael was abruptly forced back into the present.

"Told you…things. I don't really want to talk about it."

"Despite my earlier antics," Sean flashed him a bemused smile, "…I know it's not all your fault. I lived with me sister for years…remember?"

Michael stared at the photograph in his hand, speaking in a haunting tone. "Things kind of fell apart about two years ago."

"The baby?" Sean asked intuitively.

Michael nodded, a deep sadness settling into his eyes, "Yeah, we hadn't planned the pregnancy, but we both wanted her. Fi took the loss really hard. She kind of closed off from the rest of the world. From me, from my mom, Sam and all our friends."

"Yeah, I imagine it hit her pretty hard…especially since she's been through it before with Claire," Sean stared straight ahead, a pensive expression on his face.

"Yeah, it took me a while to remember about the loss of your sister. I think Claire's death compounded her grief for the baby." Michael turned to Sean, a shadow of overwhelming sadness enveloping his handsome face. "It wasn't until the day I found her caressing Claire's baby blanket that I tied Fiona's devastating grief to the loss of your sister."

Sean's eyes flicked toward Michael, before scurrying away in retreat, "My sister…aye, Claire's death was hard on all of us, but most especially Fiona."

When Michael remained silent, Sean probed a little deeper, "How about you? How did you handle the loss?"

"Not much better," Michael's voice broke, as he swallowed down the lump in his throat. "I didn't want her to feel responsible, so I tried to hide my pain."

"Typical male response," Sean chuckled with a shake of his head, "…doesn't matter if you're a Westen or a Glenanne. I know when me wife and I lost our first young'un; I tried to hide my grief. Ya know, be the macho stoic and strong type. It didn't help her to heal and nearly drove a wedge between us. We worked hard to get our marriage back on track, and now three kids later, life is pretty good."

"I didn't know you had lost a child?" Michael stared at his brother-in-law appreciating his honest confession.

Sean shrugged, "We mostly kept it quiet. She wasn't that far along. I don't know if Fiona even knew about the pregnancy. It was me Da that helped me cope. We spent a lot of time talking about Claire, and how that loss affected him. He's a good listener, if ya need to talk."

"Thanks, I'll keep that in mind," Michael's eyes drifted back to photo of Fiona and him.

"So, that's what this is all about? The loss of the baby?"

"No, it goes deeper than that. As I said, I didn't handle the loss well either, but Fiona really shut down. She scared me. She wouldn't talk to anyone, least of all me. When I was gone on assignments, she wouldn't take my calls. I finally had Sam keep an eye on her. His wife, Elsa, has terminal breast cancer. Sam was able to convince Fiona to help with her care. He was my eyes and ears when I wasn't at home." Michael stared out the window, speaking in a haunting voice. "As things got worse, I started screwing up at work. I couldn't concentrate. It got so bad; I even blew a mission. Almost got my entire team killed, luckily, I was the only one injured. Problem is, I took it out on Fi. To this day, she doesn't know how bad things are at work. I got shipped off to the desk job in London to finish up my rehab, although I was pretty sure at the time my field days were done. I thought maybe the distance would give us a much-needed break. Give us a chance to work things out, ya know?"

"So, did it?" Sean chanced a quick glance Michael's direction, before diverting his eyes back to the road.

"Not exactly," Michael sighed heavily, before continuing on. "Fi served me with divorce papers this past Monday. The same day all this whole O'Neill mess hit the fan. He'd already escaped from prison by then and had Fiona in his custody. Maybe if I'd been home, or we'd been talking everyday, I would have known something was amiss sooner."

Sean clucked his tongue to gain Michael's attention, "Sounds like you got some decisions ta make. It's either your marriage or the job. Doesn't seem like living apart is the answer ta your problems."

"I already made my decision," Michael paused for a moment, realizing he hadn't told anyone of his plans, except Director Woodrow. "I'm getting out."

"Of the marriage or the job?" Sean's head whipped around at the unsettling question.

Michael stared at Sean, mouth agape; eyes wide that he would even dare to ask the question, "The job, of course! My marriage is more important than my career. I love her, Sean! I can't imagine living without her!" Tears flashed in his eyes, welling just above his lower lid and giving his eyes a soft sheen.

"Good ta hear," Sean clapped a hand to Michael's shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "I guess we best get her back then and teach that bastard O'Neill what it's like ta mess with the Glenannes and the Westens!"

Michael smiled at Sean, exhaustion written on his face. Between the emotional and physical hurdles of the last few days, he felt like he could sleep for a week. Unfortunately, sleep wouldn't come until Fiona was back in his arms.

Sean pointed to a small shopping area up the road, "What do ya say ta a strong cup of coffee?"

"Sounds good," Michael slipped the photo back into his pocket.

Sean maneuvered the car into the shopping complex, with Quinn and Cullen following behind. As they exited the car, Michael shivered in the cool fall air. He was truly underdressed for real autumn temperatures, his attire more appropriate for October in Miami, than autumn in Ireland. He looked around at the quaint shops in the complex, spying a clothing store at the far end. He asked Sean to pick him up a large black coffee then headed down for a quick trip through the store.

As he passed through the door, he was hit by the soft lilt of Gaelic music. The tune took him back to another time. He and Fiona had spent the evening at The Black Sands Pub. After a hearty dinner of thick Irish stew and soda bread, they'd taken to the dance floor. A group of local musicians were providing the entertainment for the night. Instead of the usual "top 20" hit parade, the local group had regaled the crowd with traditional Irish folk tunes. The patrons joined in the fun, stumbling over lyrics while singing along with the band. Fiona and he spent the entire evening dancing, everything from a traditional jig to the waltz. They danced the night away with the rest of the patrons, refusing to leave the pub even after the last notes of the final Irish ballad had grown soft. The owner had to physically toss them out. He leisurely walked her back to her Belfast apartment, stopping at every window front along the way just to buy a little more together time. Neither of them wanted the evening to end. Loitering near her door, they exchanged small talk and reminisced about their evening. Under the ethereal glow of a full moon, he'd kissed her lightly on the lips then pulled back only to get lost in her eyes. Thinking back now on that perfect night so long ago, he realized it was the first time he admitted to loving her, even if it was a secret pact between himself and the man in the moon. Reaching up to caress her soft cheek, he leaned in to kiss her again. It was as if she felt that same connection to him. The touch of their lips smoldered and ignited, as their pent up passion slowly grew in intensity and boiled over. They fell into each other's arms, neither able to break their bond. She quickly unlocked the door, tugging him over the threshold. They stumbled and tripped through the living room on the way to the back hall. Laughter became their new dancing music, until the utterance of hushed words and soft touches intervened. It was the very first time he'd stayed the night with her. And the next morning, he left without his heart having bequeathed it permanently to her care.

A soft smile played on his lips, as he relived the memory of their first night together. He could feel the light touch of her fingers, as they grazed over his skin in a quest to know his body. His lips discovered that perfect place on her neck that made her hum, and the delicate patch of skin on her lower back, which if touched just right, elicited the most endearing wide-eyed gasp. The scent of her jasmine-fragranced hair filled his nose, overwhelming his senses. It was almost as if he were back in that small worn-out apartment in Belfast with Fiona at his side, when the faint clearing of a voice roused him from his treasured memories.

"May I help ya?" A kindly gray-haired matron asked.

Michael blushed at being caught in a romantic daydream, "I was just looking for some warmer clothing. I'm afraid I arrived from Florida ill-prepared for the autumn weather."

"Aye," the older woman graced him with a pleasant smile, "…I believe we can help ya. Were ya looking for shirts, sweaters or a coat?"

"All of the above, I guess…I'm not sure how long I'll be staying," Michael ran his fingers over the soft weave of a merino wool sweater, then picked up a traditional Aran crewneck, thinking Fi might get a kick out of him dressed as Michael McBride. "I'll take this one and maybe," he reached for a half-zip brown sweater of a more basic design."

"Ah yes," the shopkeeper smiled, "…this one was knitted by one of my locals out of the finest Donegal wool. Will that be all?"

"Umm," Michael looked around the store catching sight of a long-sleeved canvas work shirt. The shirt was a button-up design of soft-washed denim. He added it to his pile, along with two canvas, outdoor-travel vests, one for both him and Fi. As he followed the shopkeeper to the cash register, he took note of a beautiful Aran sweater displayed at the checkout counter. It was a soft cream with zipper closure and a hood. The delicate pattern of cables and diamonds was exquisitely done. He ran his fingers along the cabled border of the sleeve and was amazed at the softness of the fine wool.

"Aye, I see you've found another of my fine treasures," the kindly gray-haired woman beamed. "This one was knitted by a local, as well. Ya have a good-eye for custom-made quality garments. We sell a lot of mass-produced Aran sweaters to tourists who happen along in their travels. They want to take home a memento of Ireland, but don't want to pay the price. They end up buying an 'Irish' sweater that isn't even produced in Ireland," she chuckled at the locals' private joke. "Few customers are willing to pay for true quality, handcrafted knits. This one is a real beauty! The woman who does this knitting is a good friend of mine. She's been knitting for going on 70 years. All of her yarns are handspun from local flocks. None of that cheap imitation wool! And patterns like this one are her own custom design."

Michael took less than five seconds to ponder the purchase, adding it to his collection of clothes. He imagined Fiona was well near frigid in the current autumn temperatures. What better way to warm her up, than a soft wool sweater and the tight embrace of his arms. A bemused smile danced on his lips, as he imagined a leisurely walk through the Irish countryside. Just the two of them, a wool blanket and a picnic basket was all they'd need. It had worked to win her heart 18 years ago, so maybe if he was lucky, it would succeed a second time.

As the shopkeeper rang up his purchases and wrapped them in tissue, she watched the array of emotions spread across the handsome stranger's face. "Looks like you have someone special in mind for that sweater."

"I hope so," Michael's mood dimmed a bit, as he worried about Fiona's survival. "If luck holds out, she'll be wearing it by tonight." He handed over his credit card to pay for the purchases, worry suddenly burning at the edges of his mind. At that exact moment, Sean ventured into the store.

"What's taking ya so long, Michael? We got places to be and I don't want ta run out of daylight."

"Coming," Michael quickly signed the receipt and scooped up his packages. Following Sean out to the car, he glanced at his watch, realizing it was already after noon. "Sorry, I didn't realize I'd been shopping so long!"

"Hope ya found something to wear while we're hunting around the country landscape tonight," Sean handed off a large cup of coffee.

"I, ah…found a couple of things for, um…both Fiona and me. We've both been living in Miami too long; neither of us has a fit wardrobe for cold weather. I packed some jeans and light weight sweater for her, but they won't begin to keep her warm."

Sean started the ignition, before winking at Michael in jest, "Isn't that your job, man? If ya taking proper care of me sister, she shouldn't have much need for sweaters, blankets or such!"

Michael's cheeks burned red with embarrassment. "I don't think this is an appropriate line of conversation to be having with my brother-in-law," he huffed. "Now why don't you get this car in gear!"

The peal of Sean's laughter could be heard over the squealing tires, as the car accelerated on the road. "Ya mean to tell me that Mr. James Bond is embarrassed over a little randy conversation? I thought all you super spies were suave, debonair, romantic types!"

"Drop it, Sean!" Michael growled over the continued din of laughter.

Sean's mirth died out over the next few miles, as silence engulfed the car again. Michael tapped his watch trying to calculate the time. "How much longer?"

"Hour and a half, two," Sean stared straight ahead.

"Have you heard anymore from Grady?"

"No, unfortunately, he hasn't called since breakfast. He was trying to stay under the radar just in case he came across any of O'Neill's cronies. We have a network of sources, but that bastard is less well known around the southern parts. I suspect most of his 'clients'," Sean spit out the distasteful word, "…will be coming down from Belfast and Dublin."

Michael nodded in understanding, "I was really hoping to locate her today, so we could go in before dark for the rescue. I hate to think of her spending anymore time than necessary in that evil sociopath's hands."

"I know," Sean softened his voice, empathy obvious in his tone.

Michael gingerly sipped his coffee, as he went back to studying the landscape of his surroundings. He noticed an exit sign for the route to Kilkeeny and more memories came sputtering back.

They had spent the weekend with her family in Dublin. It had been her first chance to introduce him to her folks. The family had been gracious and welcoming, especially Eireen Glenanne. She seemed to take an immediate liking to Michael, as a serious suitor for her impetuous, headstrong daughter. As the weekend progressed, he'd had to make-up more and more stories about his fictitious family from Kilkeeny, which hadn't been all that difficult, since he'd spent his entire childhood dreaming up the perfect family he so desperately desired. His fictional family was imbued with only the most noble and loving traits, thus being diametrically opposed to the reality of the childhood he'd endured. Fiona had the grand idea to visit his old stomping grounds, before heading back to Belfast. He'd related the story of the death of his only sister at their first meeting, and he'd always maintained his parents had been lost to an automobile accident when he was an older teen. Still, Fiona wanted to see the house where he grew up, the neighborhood he played in and the associates who taught him his advanced knowledge of weaponry. He'd tried unsuccessfully to dissuade her. So come Sunday afternoon, they'd set off in a trek to visit his old haunts. The Agency had created a full profile of his roots, but there was still one significant problem. He'd never actually visited Kilkenny! As they rolled into town, his mind scurried to devise a plan. They happened upon an older section of town with modest abodes. He spotted one not all that different from the house in which he grew up and laid claim to it as his childhood home. Since his fictional family was all deceased, he couldn't envision any difficulties with that simple lie. That was until Fiona wanted to knock on the door and ask for a private tour. He panicked, as she dragged him up the path to the door. The only thing saving his cover had been the absence of the current owners. Fiona had to be contented with a peek through the windows here and there. He'd regaled her with tales of his exploits as a child borrowing heavily from his own adventures with Nate.

Finally, just as they had decided to abandon their excursion into the past, a group of school-aged boys came dashing down the road with BB guns in tow. Fiona asked where they were headed with their trusty weapons in hand. Their jovial reply included details of an old abandoned house routinely used for target practice. She challenged them to a shoot out, which they heartily accepted figuring there was no way a girl could win. The boys lead the way to an enormous wooded property where a two-story abandoned house sat nearly concealed by thick underbrush and shrubbery. Huge trees surrounded the old treasure, arching branches and leaves hanging over its multi-leveled roof. As Michael surveyed the property, he imagined the house was a rare gem in its time. His imagination conjured up a well to do Irish family connected to a thriving business in a bygone era. While now in disrepute with shattered stained glass windows, crumbling brick and a tattered roof, he could envision its beauty in decades past, when children played in the expansive yard and a gardener maintained its elegant hedges and rose garden.

Before he could venture further down the path of his "perfect family" dreams, the first crack of a BB gun rang out shattering yet another window. Several more blasts followed in quick pursuit with nearly equivalent results. Fiona challenged them to hit more and more tricky targets. The boys quickly failed, as their shots fell wide. Fiona borrowed one of the guns, easily hitting the most difficult target. Not to be outdone in the wide-eyed adoration of their small companions, Michael pirated his own gun and hit the exact same targets with practiced ease. The boys boisterously offered their own critique of both Fiona and Michael's skills. It soon devolved into a grudge match, between the two "adult" kids. The boys in general took Michael's side, not yet enamored with the feminine wiles of the fairer sex. When he missed his first target, his fans jeered, especially when Fiona nailed it with a slick over-the-shoulder shot. As the difficulty of each successive target became more extreme, Michael missed every third or fourth shot, but Fiona nary a one. Determined not to be embarrassed by the likes of a "girl," before his male cheering squad, Michael deployed his own personal version of military countermeasures: a stroke of her hair, a caress of her cheek, a nuzzle to the side of her neck, and when all else failed, a covert hand dispatched to the soft skin of her stomach on a reconnaissance mission to regions higher. She made all her shots, except for the last, as an overpowering shudder racked her whole body. Blissfully dazed, it took her a moment to recover, but the subsequent battle that ensued made their first escapade in Miami look like child's play. Thankfully, they'd lost their cheering squad and relocated into the old house, before the final fireworks erupted. They'd spent the next hour cuddling in a vacant room of the old house, discussing their future dreams. It was that event in an old Kilkeeny house, which first introduced Michael to Fiona's panache of violence as foreplay. Of course, several months later, when Fiona had been confronted with the reality of his cover ID, a whole nuther round of violent foreplay had ensued.

"That must be some memory!" Sean interrupted Michael's thoughts.

"Wha…what?"

"Whatever you're thinking about," Sean motioned with his head, "…it must be some AMAZING memory."

"Why do you say that?" Michael feigned ignorance at Sean's inquiry.

Sean shook his head with a face-splitting grin, "Your face is all flushed and ya eyes glazed over. I'd say whatever it is ya conjuring up in that covert mind of yours…best keep it ta yourself. Some things a big brother just shouldn't know!"

Michael diverted his face toward the window, embarrassment flaming bright on his cheeks. Gazing out the window, he replied, "Wasn't anything really, just memories from my first time in Ireland." He glanced back at Sean thoughtfully, "Sometimes I think Fi was happier then…with Michael McBride at her side." His voice effortlessly slipped into his former Irish brogue, "Michael McBride found the time to be carefree and fun…Michael Westen not so much."

Just as Sean was about to respond his cell phone rang. Reaching for the device, he answered it on the second ring, "Sean here."

Michael caught only one-side of the conversation, but it was still enough to identify the caller. He waited impatiently for Sean to hang up, pouncing immediately as the call ended.

"What did Grady say?"

"He's got more details about where O'Neill plans ta dock. Unfortunately, it's not in Cork, but a tiny costal peninsula further southeast. Apparently, O'Neill bribed a local fisherman, Maurice O'Sullivan, ta ferry them across the sea in his fishing trawler to Ballymackean. Grady thinks they'll be docking at the wharf near O'Sullivan's Fish Market."

"How much further than Cork," Michael checked his watch for the umpteenth time that day.

Sean paused to calculate the distance in his head, "Probably a good half hour, 45 minutes beyond Cork, but the area is remote and quite private. It'll be much harder to stage a surprise rescue attack from that venue."

"Damn," Michael cursed his never-ending string of bad luck. "Any idea when they'll make landfall?"

"Not really," Sean shook his head, "…they're expected sometime late afternoon, early evening. I doubt they'll attempt to dock after nightfall…really rough coastal terrain around Ballymackean."

"So, we've a chance to make the wharf before they dock?"

"Slight maybe, if traffic is light and the weather holds out. It'll be close, especially if they make landfall late afternoon." Sean stared out the front windshield, the gears in his mind working feverishly. "I think our best chance for a rescue is at dusk. The fading light will give us some cover, and if we make it before they dock, we can take 'em by surprise. If Grady's source is correct, O'Sullivan went out on his own. That means besides the ship's captain, they'll only be O'Neill, the prison guard and Fiona. If they make landfall before our arrival, who knows how many recruits O'Neill has lined up."

"So are we still meeting up with Grady in Cork?" Michael's nerves were getting the better of him, "I don't want to waste any more time than necessary."

"Hey, who was the one dillydallying around in a clothing store back there?" Sean's anger flared, as both men felt the panicked edge of defeat, if their rescue plan went south.

Michael remained silent for a moment, before answering back, the soft hint of contriteness in his voice. "Yeah, I'll take the blame, right along with everything else. This whole mess is pretty much my fault anyway."

Sean released his pent up frustration on a heavy gust of breath, "Hey, O'Neill's not your fault. Fiona stoked that fire long ago. The only grievance the bastard has with you is stopping this kidnapping seven years ago...oh, and your placing him in prison for life."

The pair rode in silence for the next half hour, before Michael ventured the subject of Grady again. "You didn't mention our rendezvous with Grady…are we still meeting him in Cork?"

"No," Sean answered in a thoughtful voice, "…a little farm north of Watergrasshill outside Cork. The owner is an elderly gentleman once involved in the cause. Knew him from years back. He's an old codger, but still slick as a whistle. He's an integral link in our information network, even at the ripe age of 85 years young. Folks like O'Neill tend ta underestimate him, but they do so at their own peril. We'll met Grady there, so ya can scout the place out."

Michael frowned at Sean's reply, "Why do I need to scout out the farm?"

"'Cuz we figured you and Fiona could escape back ta the farm after the rescue. She'll likely be in no shape ta fight back after four days spent in the captivity of that animal. She's gonna need some rest and recuperation. O'Neill will be hot on your trail, especially if he's had time ta recruit a gang of men. Me and the brothers can hold 'em off for a while, but ya need ta get Fiona out of Ballymackean. Ya can take Quinn's ride, and the four of us will come back in my car. Once ya bunked at the farm overnight, there'll be a motorcycle ta take ya the rest of the way ta Aunt Colleen's. O'Neill and his lookouts will be watching for our cars, but he won't recognize a married couple off vacationing on a motorbike, especially if they're wearing protective helmets. I figure it's your best disguise."

Michael and the Glenanne boys caught up with Grady as planned. The group made it past Cork just before dinner and arrived Ballymackean at dusk. They got directions to O'Sullivan's wharf before crossing the bridge on Cork Street. Leaving their cars a few blocks away, they crossed the grassy terrain on foot as the sun just touched the horizon. As they took cover behind the fish market, Grady's cell began to ring.

"Shut that thing off, before you blow our cover, damn it!" Michael cursed under his breath.

Grady answered before the second ring, quietly listening to the voice on the other end. As he disconnected the call, he motioned out toward the water. "That was one of my sources…the trawler's on it's way in. Should be here in the next 5-10 minutes."

Michael squinted in the waning light, trying to catch a glimpse of the boat. Just as he was about to give up, he caught sight of the rigging in the distance. "Over there guys, 12 o'clock, dead ahead."

Five pair of eyes watched as the fishing boat drew closer in the faint light of the evening sky. The sun had nearly ducked below the horizon, and in the distance porch lights began to burn. Each tick of the clock was against them, as darkness hastened its pursuit. Finally the boat came into dock, a large shadowy figure looming in the night sky.

Sean whispered to Michael from the cover of the building, "All right, this is our best chance. The minute ya see O'Neill disembark with Fiona, we all need ta storm the ship. Michael, Fiona's your responsibility. The rest of us will keep firing on O'Neill and the prison guard hoping ta hold them off long enough for the two of ya to escape ta the safety of the car. Don't wait around for us, take off for the farm as fast as ya can and we'll plan ta rendezvous tomorrow at Aunt Colleen's pub."

Just as the four stepped out from behind the market, a lone figure scurried off the boat. They watched in horror as the person turned around to push a detonator switch causing the ship to explode and erupt into a giant fireball. The figure turned to flee the scene, as Michael rushed forward toward the boat. Sean chased after him tackling him from behind. As Michael fought him off, the other three brothers grabbed hold of the pair from behind.

"Let me go," Michael shrieked, as he thrashed and fought against their restraints.

Sean dove at him a second time, catching him by the shoulders before he could escape. "MICHAEL…STOP! There's nothing ya can do!"

"But Fi," his voice broke on the sound of her name.

"I know, man…I'm upset too!" Sean bellowed back trying to pierce the emotional devastation so obvious on his brother-in-law's face.

"Get off me!" Michael screamed, as he tried to shove the brothers aside.

"THERE'S NOTHING YA CAN DO!" Sean hollered into Michael's ear. "There's nothing…ya…can…do," Sean gentled his voice, as Michael fell to the ground completely defeated.

The Glenanne boys watched, as Michael collapsed in a heap mumbling over and over again in a sobbing voice. "Fi…Fi…Fi…."

'***'

To be continued…