A/N: Happy Labor Day to everyone in the US and Happy Monday if there is such a thing to everyone everywhere else! Here is our penultimate chapter of the latest installation of our AU for 2.01, which will be moved the Puppies Redux story when this storyline is complete.

We're still planning on posting a new chapter of True Believer in time for the fourth anniversary of the end of our beloved Burn Notice. We also hear there's another story on the horizon from one of our favorite authors about what happens after Season Seven. Plus there's a new one from Marvelous Marg on the M-page and we are still working on an update of "Be Brave Little Angel."

RECONNECTING

AU 2.01 - FREE TO BE YOU AND ME

A Mother's Day Story - Part 4

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The afternoon sun was shining brightly across the glistening, crystal clear waters of Harmony Hall's small harbor, where tourists either fresh back from sightseeing or waiting to get on board one of the night cruises to dance their evening away under a star-filled sky passed by each other as they filed along the narrow wooden jetties.

And on the bustling quayside beyond, it was a vibrant scene as those holiday-makers who had chosen to stay on dry land mingled with the locals of the small Antiguan community, strolling along the wide paved square filled with a variety of shops, market stalls, cafes, bars and restaurants.

And from the deck of the 33ft Aquabell cruiser New Start tied up at its berth along one of the two wooden jetties, Captain Chuck Finlay lounged back on one of the long-padded bench seats with his back resting against the staircase that led up to the craft's fly bridge, holding a chilled brown bottle in one hand while watching the whole diversity of island life play out before him.

But for Chuck there was one particular part of island life which held his attention far more than any other. With an almost laser like precision, Captain Finlay's deep brown eyes focused solely upon the skimpily dressed females strolling mere feet away from where he supped on his expensive imported beer.

"Oh mama," he mouthed as a blonde caught his attention, walking with two friends who he barely registered. Four-inch wedge sandals accentuated the length of her already long shapely legs and her denim shorts left nothing at all to the imagination. As his eyes moved upwards, he noted with approval her nipped-in waist and flat stomach, only to continue on to an olive-colored bikini bra which barely contained her main assets.

"Please, don't go," he said, grinning broadly, while flashing his pearly white teeth and winking as the statuesque blonde looked his way. However, with the toss of those long honey blonde locks, she was gone, lost in the crowd and rather than mourn her passing, the one-time military man turned his attention to the other beautiful people enjoying an afternoon in the sun.

For Chuck, as he was known throughout the island, had been happily surprised to find he didn't have a single regret about following his best friend away from Miami to live in this paradise. There were the same pretty young girls, wealthy older women, beers, cocktails, sun and sea as in the Florida city they had fled from with the added bonus of no FBI, CIA or secret covert organizations lurking around every corner waiting to take a shot at them.

Yes, for Chuck Finlay this new life, a new start, was just what he had needed. He had even lost weight and toned up thanks to all the hard work, which when you're doing what you love wasn't work at all, and getting back to his fighting weight had certainly helped with the ladies too.

He sat up as his sharp eyes alighted on a leggy brunette who was sauntering straight towards him. With her own eyes hidden behind a pair of expensive designer shades, her ensemble of white shorts, blue and white striped T-shirt along with blue Dubarry deck shoes in a matching shade spoke of money and class.

"Hey Chuck." She came to a stop on the jetty right beside where he sat and smiled. "I thought I saw you pull in. You've had a good day?"

"Hey there, Angela." Chuck was on his feet, his beer left forgotten on the deck as he straightened up and ran both hands through his short dark hair, a ploy he had shamelessly used countless times to give whichever of his many lady loves that were visiting a chance to check out his newly trim figure. "Yeah, a good day. You wanta come aboard, have a beer?" He gave her a boyish wink, unleashing another of the weapons in the Chuck Finlay arsenal.

"Sorry, I'm on my way to meet a friend, but I was wondering if you were going to the club tonight?" The club she was alluding to was the local yacht club. Not as fancy as the one over in St. John's; however, still a great place to meet beautiful, well off and mostly unattached women.

"Are you going to be there?" he asked deploying his best flirty smile and sideways stare.

"Well, I was thinking…" She leaned forward, her hands braced on the rail running the length of the boat, her upper body moving easily with the sway of the New Start, giving him a discrete view down the front of her low cut top. "You might like to come over to my beach house instead... I have a double hammock, on a very secluded, very private white sand beach– and Chuck, unlike the club, clothing is optional."

The island's number one Lothario swallowed thickly. Angela Wainwright had made millions as a distributor of beer along the U.S Eastern seaboard. She was beautiful, smart and had made it abundantly clear from their very first conversation she was not looking for a new husband. All of this made her a perfect match for the captain of the New Start.

"So I said to myself, no more stress, no more work, no more getting married… Life is too short, don't you agree?" It had been the smoky voice and great legs as much as the millions in her bank account which had drawn him to her side two nights ago at the Harmony Hall Yacht club. "I mean, how many beach houses do I even need?"

"How many have you got?"

"Six... seven?" She had pulled a face and then smiled again. "Oh, it doesn't matter. I'm always on vacation… To me, true relaxation is a state of mind."

"If you wanta relax, you should come out on my yacht... I know all the best spots for a little quiet R and R..." He had made the offer with a devilish grin and a deep chuckle filled with innuendo and he had been rewarded with a slender hand stroking the length of his arm, testing the hardness of the muscles underneath.

"I am sure you do, Captain," she had laughed lightly and then after pressing a soft kiss to his cheek had turned away to flirt with another of the men loosely circling the newly arrived millionairess.

Mr. Finlay had seen it as the opening for what he had hoped would turn into a long term casual acquaintance. But what he hadn't expected was that the beautiful Angela Wainwright would be quite so aggressive in her quest for guilt free relaxation.

"Charles?"

He realized he was taking too long to answer her request for a little private Chucky time and responded quickly. "You know I can't think of anything I'd rather be doing…" From the depths of his swim shorts pocket, his phone began to ring. "Me, you, a double hammock, some…"

"Do you need to answer that?" the present woman of his dreams asked as he pulled the small annoying device from his pocket. The vibrations from the damn thing were interfering with his ability to concentrate.

"No, no, it's fine." He read the name on the caller display… Mike. His friend had only left the boat a little over an hour ago. Whatever Mike wanted could wait a few more minutes. This wasn't like the old days when his buddy's calls might life or death stuff. The former SEAL dismissed the call and turned his attention back to the beautiful brunette, who was risking a fall into the harbor leaning over the side of the boat the way she was.

"What was I saying?"

"You were about to tell me how much you were–" The shrill ringing of his phone was back again, somehow managing to sound more persistent than before.

"Chuck, I really think you should answer that."

He was torn… Michael Watkins nee Westen was his best-friend, a buddy for over fifteen years who had saved his life countless times over that time… But Angela Wainwright had a fancy beach house, a body worth dying for and was rumored to own a portable quad kegerator, capable ofholding four kegs of the best beer money could buy with four taps standard at a temperature of 33 degrees…

"Sure, but, er, don't go anywhere, baby. This will just take a minute." He raised a hand and sent the woman of his dreams a reassuring grin, as the leggy brunette straightened up and took a step away from the side of his boat.

Angling his body so he could talk in private to his friend but still keeping an eye on his soon to be latest conquest, Chuck answered his call.

"Hey, Mikey, now is –"

"Sam, I need your help." And there it was, the five words he had gotten used to not hearing. "Fiona might be in trouble."

"Fi?" He glanced over to his impatiently waiting lady friend and sent her another hopefully reassuring smile. "Tell me what you need, brother."

"I need you to get everything you can on a guy named George Marriot. He's the sales coordinator for that big plantation in St. Philips district, La Casa, and he's going through a messy divorce at the moment."

"Sure thing, Mike…" He didn't need to know what trouble the petite redhead had got herself into because the edge in his younger friend's voice told him it was bad and as such, asking questions would only slow down the rescue.

However, there was somebody else who, if not placated, could cause a whole heap of problems.

"Say have you spoken to your mom yet? You've only just gotten back from your last little escapade and you know how Maddy gets when you and Fi go off on your little side jobs."

"I'm heading there now. Apparently, she's already watching over Saoirse."

"Good luck with that, brother… I'll call you when I find something."

"Thanks, Sam."

With the call over, he turned back to the beautiful brunette who was waiting for him and prepared to do some damage control of his own. How much trouble could Fiona really get into with a coffee exporter? But even as he thought about that, a frown began forming... Unless that coffee exporter was somehow involved with the drugs trade.

One of the biggest problems for any drug smuggler is the drug detection dog. Their noses can be up to ten thousand times more sensitive than a human, which makes it necessary to mask the smell with something else. In many parts of South America, that means coffee beans or fish...

The skipper of the New Start ran the tip of his tongue over his suddenly dry lips. It was going to be a long afternoon and probably the whole evening too, so with that in mind he needed to clear the deck without insulting the leggy brunette awaiting his attention.

"Ah, Angela, baby, something has come up," He barred his teeth in a dazzling smile that had gotten him out of trouble more times than he could count. "How about I take you for a drink tomorrow. I know a quiet little place where they make the best Mojitos-"

His words faded as the woman of dreams lost that soft sultry look and her arms crossed protectively over her chest. Chuck didn't need to be body language expert to see things weren't going well.

"I am visiting a friend tomorrow." Her lips formed a perfect pout.

"How about the next day?" He could feel he was losing her and it hurt.

"Oh, I don't like to make plans too far in advance." Ms Wainwright uncrossed her arms and took a step back. "Maybe I'll call you another day."

And with that she was gone.

After one long heart felt sigh, Sam Axe put all thoughts of a cozy night lying naked with a beautiful woman on a private beach out of his mind and rushed up the stairs and onto the fly bridge where he kept a laptop and a satellite phone. Fi, you can forget about five measly days. Cuz, sister, I'm gonna want a whole month of free time with Big Momma for this.

()()()()()()()

The little red truck, or as it was better known, the little red rust wagon, had started life in Miami and then at some point in its twenty five year life, it had been imported to Antigua where the years had hardly been kind to the F-series 150 workhorse. The sea air had rotted the bodywork and lack of mechanical attention had left it a sorry sight until Michael Watkins, looking for something that he and his wife could work on together bought it for a mere three hundred Eastern Caribbean dollars.

Now, still only half repaired and barely drivable, the former American agent who had rescued it from ending its days rusting away in an Antiguan junk yard was risking his own life by driving the antiquated relic as if he had a crack FSB team hard on his tail.

"Thanks, Sam." Michael dropped his cell down onto his lap and returned his right hand to the steering wheel only to wince as if in pain when the dilapidated heap of metal backfired for the third time in less than a mile.

Then almost immediately afterwards, the passenger side front wheel hit a pot hole and the whole vehicle bounced and twisted, causing several expletives to fly from the ex-spy's mouth. They had the new shock absorbers sitting still in their wrappings inside the shed along with another half dozen parts which needed replacing. But somehow between Saoirse, work and Jesse Porter all demanding his time and attention, he'd had no time to do the work.

Michael wouldn't have even been attempting to drive the death trap at all; however, he had too much equipment thrown into the back to carry. With no clear intel on what he would be facing, the dark haired man had taken a leaf out of his wife's handbook when traveling or going on a mission blind and had chosen to pack heavily for every eventuality.

How could Fiona have been so stupid, so reckless…? Michael's frown deepened and his hands flexed around the hard plastic of the steering wheel. Stupid question… of course she wasn't thinking, she was running on hormones...

After filling up his spouse's voicemail and sending her numerous text messages, all of which had gone unanswered, Michael had done what he should have done as soon as he had seen the note left for him on the kitchen counter and had gone straight to the source.

This time he gave Abi his full attention as the district midwife had explained her sister's predicament: a younger sibling, an overbearing and bullying husband and added to that mix, two young children in danger of being snatched away.

"I asked her to speak to Mr. Virgil and Mr. Chuck on my behalf. That was all... Do you think Fifi would really take it upon herself...? Oh Lord, I should have never have had said anything! It was just she had asked about our conversation and I – I well, I told her all about George, or as much as I knew. Where he lived, the codes to his home – this is all my fault."

"No – no, it was nobody's fault, honestly," he had placated the older woman while at the same time loading supplies into the back of the little red rust wagon. "Little sisters in trouble is kind of a trigger for Fi... Just tell me everything you told her about your brother in law."

By the time she had finished filling him in with all the details, Michael knew without a doubt that he had every reason to be worried. A man working as a sales coordinator in a small place like Antigua, even if he was employed by a company the size of La Casa, wouldn't earn enough to keep a place like a top floor apartment with front line sea views in the select Nonsuch Bay resort, not if he was honest. That meant George was involved at some level in drug smuggling or money laundering, neither of which were professions they should be getting mixed up in.

Which had led to him jumping into the truck as soon as he had finished loading their gear up and driving as fast as he could towards Harmony Hall whilst making a call to his best friend.

He risked a glance down to where his phone was balanced on his lap silently begging for it to ring... If George Marriott had done anything to harm the woman he loved, or the child she was carrying inside her, he would personally make sure that the man paid his debt in full.

As if sensing his desperation, the mobile began to ring loudly and 'FIFI' flashed up on the display. Snatching up the device, he pulled the vehicle off the road and came to an abrupt stop. With the way it was handling, the one-time Army Ranger thought it too risky being on the road while he spoke to his wife.

"Michael, we've got a problem."

"Damned right we've got a problem," he agreed in a cold flat voice. "What the hell were–"

"Not now, Michael. I'm in the middle of something and this is important... Virgil and I took a case, and it's gotten a little out of hand." He could hear the distress in her voice and in the way her breath was catching on each sentence. "We went to this bastard's George Marriot's home... He has been beating his wife, Michael, and I – I went inside and found some letters, letters saying how he's planning on taking his kids out of the country in the next couple of days..."

He could see the whole thing in his head clearly: Fiona's good intentions evaporating as her hormone-fuelled rage paved the way straight to the hell they currently found themselves in.

"Virgil was outside keeping watch. I told him to put a bug in George's car. But the idiot got himself stuck in the trunk. Don't ask me how, it is too complicated…" she continued in a rush. "I think he's safe enough for now, but I don't know how safe he's going to be if this George fellow finds him."

"What?" He had intended on yelling at her about putting herself in danger, but the news that his mom's new husband was now taking a ride in the trunk of what he suspected to be a criminal's car took precedent over all other thoughts. It wasn't bad enough his mom was going to blame Fiona's flying off the handle on him, now she was going to be all over him about endangering Virgil too.

"Keep up, Michael!" Her stressed out voice brought him back into focus. "I think George is heading back to La Casa headquarters in the hills and he has the children in a guest house either in the compound or close by. Virgil should be safe until he gets there. I need you to meet me there as soon as possible. I'll do my best to come up with a way to keep Virgil in one piece until you arrive."

"I'm on my way over to my mom's right now. Fiona—"

"Don't tell her about Virgil, just – look, I have to go or I'm going to lose them on these roads."

"Fi? – Fiona? Dammit, Fi!" He slammed his empty hand down on the steering wheel and then tossed his cell down onto the passenger seat.

Flinging his head back against the head rest, Michael stared up at the ripped, faded fabric of the ceiling of the cab. There wasn't a single cuss word in his excessively wide vocabulary that was up to the task of expressing his emotions at that moment.

This... this is exactly what he had been afraid of. It was no longer going to be just a case of reaching his beloved and convincing her George Marriot was a man they needed to stay well away from. Not even a simple surveillance mission and getting Sam to report Mr. Marriott to the right people was going to work now thanks to his wife's recklessness and Virgil's diminished tactical sense. He was stuck trying to come up with a way of getting them all out of the fire they had merrily walked into.

In the field, circumstances can change as fast as the weather. Salvaging a mission depends on your ability to change tactics and come up with a plan "B" at a moment's notice.

With a heavy sigh, the ex-operative released the handbrake and put his foot down on the gas pedal, wincing as the old Ford truck coughed, whirred and then with a series of backfires set off. Now he needed to come up with a plan to get his father in law out of a probably highly dangerous reprobate's trunk and do it without drawing attention to the former spy and his family hiding out nearby…

And do it all without letting his mom know how bad things were.

As he neared the town center, Michael found himself stuck traveling at a snail's pace. The only small piece of satisfaction he got was the fumes coming from his ride's exhaust mixed with the rattle and pops coming from the engine aided in clearing the street of the crowds of pedestrians blocking his way as they strolled slowly along the rows of store fronts until at last he brought the truck to a stop outside the Watkin's Water Adventure's booking office.

With a bit of luck, she would be too busy with customers to be–

"Michael! What are you doing driving that death trap?... Are Fiona and Virgil back...? I hope you're not planning on putting my granddaughter in that thing! Where's Virgil? Why isn't he with you?"

The man, who had previously faced down Spetnaz teams and hordes of angry Afghani warriors without breaking a sweat, dropped his chin to his chest in defeat as the bottle blonde came rushing out of the booking office, firing off questions like bullets before his feet had barely had a chance to land on the pavement.

"Mom, we should go inside. Where's Saoirse?" He gathered his strength for the upcoming battle and retaliated with questions of his own, draping an arm over her shoulder in an effort to guide her back into the relative privacy of the WWA office and away from examining the contents of the bed.

"Michael, get your arm –" the older woman shrugged and dipped her shoulder, twisting around to face her oldest son as soon as they were sheltered inside. "What's going on? Fiona turned up late this morning looking like she was ready to kill someone and now you're here –"

"Nothing is going on– nothing for you to be worried about." In an effort to avoid eye contact with his highly astute mother, he concentrated his gaze over her shoulder searching for his daughter.

"What have you done with Saoirse?" With his baby girl was nowhere in sight, neither in the small penned off area where the ten month old could play while her mother or grandmother worked or in the cot in a darkened corner at the back of the office, Michael felt his already over stretched sense of paranoia go up another notch.

"She's upstairs having a nap. I got Lucy from next door to watch the shop so we could spend the afternoon down on the beach. Sassy was all tuckered out and grouchy when we got back so I put her upstairs where it's quieter than down here."

It wasn't his mom getting the owner of the Driftwood Cafe's daughter to look after the business that had Michael narrowing his eyes and biting down on his bottom lip as he listened to his mother's tale of her day's activities. It was something else entirely.

"Mom, you know Fiona doesn't like you calling her that. Her name is Seer- sha."

"If I ever met anyone who was a Sassy, it's your daughter, Michael," Madeline declared, oblivious to the irony of her comments. "Besides, it'll be easier for that little girl to say while she's learning to talk. It's no different to you calling Fiona Fi, or Sam calling you Mikey." The older woman dismissed his argument with an airy wave of her hand.

"It's not the same and her name is Fifi now, remember?" He shook his head. He didn't need to be dealing with this right now. Besides the older woman frequently forgetting to use on their cover ID's once they had been cleared by the US intelligence, they had been arguing over his mom's determination to change their little girls name for weeks. Saoirse meant freedom in Irish and had strong Republican connotations for his wife and as such was non-negotiable with Josephine Watkins.

"So, Sassy gets her own undercover nickname too then. See, it's settled." Madeline smiled.

"Yeah – no – look let's not talk about this now, I'm in kind of a hurry."

The discussion regarding the pronunciation of his daughter's name had been a welcome diversion, but with Fiona on the rampage and Virgil stuck in the trunk of a car belonging to a potential drug dealer, he really didn't have time to spend what remained of the afternoon sparring with his mother.

"Mom, I need to join Fi and Virgil on that job they took and I need you to go down the street and get me a car, something big and flashy that can handle on these roads. Can you do that for me?"

Asking my mom for anything is a lot like getting a favor from a Russian mob boss. He'll give you what you want with a smile, but believe me, you'll pay for it.

He waited for her response as she looked him up and down. It was almost as if he could see the cogs turning behind her bright blue eyes. "First, tell me what is going on. Has something gone wrong? I've been calling both of them all afternoon but neither one of them could be bothered to answer... I told them to wait for you to get back, but Fiona was insistent they had to leave right there and then."

"Nothing has gone wrong," he lied with a smile on his face, which faltered as the blonde continued to stare back at him with that look which said he wasn't fooling her one bit. "Well, nothing serious, anyway," he qualified and then resigned himself to the fact that his mother was not about to help until she had dragged the truth out of him.

"The guy who Fi is going after may be more than a coffee exporter – annnd..." His speech quickened as he knew with Madeline, it was best to get all the bad news over in one go... Like ripping off a band aid. "Virgil somehow has got himself stuck in the trunk of the guy's car... Mom, it'll be alright, Fiona is tailing them and you know she would never let him get hurt."

"Not let him get hurt?!" Mrs Watkins voice went up several octaves. "What was she thinking letting him climb into a trunk in the first place?"

"I don't know... I know as much as you do... Please, mom, just go get me the car." he pleaded, hoping that just this once she wouldn't feel the need to keep questioning him. "Virgil is counting on me and I can't help him until I get there."

There's a reason family's always a good source of leverage. Whether it's a son that always owes people money or a husband stuck in the trunk of a car, you can't really turn your back on them.

With an angry huff, Madeline picked up her purse, her eyes narrowed in fury and just for a second Michael thought she intended to use that heavy black leather bag to hit him upside the head.

Instead she pointed at him with her free hand, her forefinger shaking in barely suppressed anger. "I am going to get you your car and then you're going to bring Virgil back here, unharmed... Not one hair out of place, Michael. If I take up smoking again over this, I will be putting the first one out in your eye. Understand?"

He nodded mutely as the bottle blonde blind fury swept out of the room.

"Thank you, mom," he mouthed as the door slammed shut behind her.

Alone at last, the dark-haired man took a deep breath and then followed her outside, but only as far as the door next to the office which led to the stairs and the apartment above. It was where Fiona and his mother had lived while he had worked on the house and later had become his mother and step-dad's home when they stayed in Antigua.

Climbing the steps two at a time, it was only a matter of seconds before he was standing at the side of the wooden cot where his daughter lay on her back, her arms above her head as if she didn't have a care in the world.

Staring down at his red-haired daughter, the troubled man felt a small amount of peace return to his soul. Was another child really going to be the catastrophe he had first thought? Sure, his little angel could be a little difficult... really difficult actually... She was demanding and had a temper which out stripped her mother's own volatile nature, which was a frightening thought. But from the moment she had entered their lives, he couldn't imagine a day without her being there.

Besides, this wouldn't be like it was the first time. At least this time they would know what they were doing... maybe... they had protection from CIFA... sort of… and even better this time they would have access to proper health care. Of course, working with Jesse Porter was off the table for Fiona, at least for a while… That was going to be a painful discussion… But there was no reason the rest of their plans couldn't happen, Michael tried to tell himself as he gazed at his sleeping child.

He sucked in his bottom lip. His mom might once have been the expert at lying to herself, but who was he trying to kid now? Sleepless nights, colic, teething, smelly diapers… Then again, compared to what he was trying to head off, strangely enough that seemed easier. Once upon a time, he would have eminently preferred the task of catching up to the mother of his children, freeing Virgil and then dealing with George Marriot to the domestic drama of a new-born. Now he wasn't so sure.

He reached down and tenderly stroked his fingers over his daughter's chubby cheek, gently removing a stray curl from the edge of her cupid bow lips as he struggled with the strange new feelings he didn't understand. He didn't want to have to do anything to the coffee exporter…

But he knew deep down that Fiona would accept nothing less than his wholehearted support in returning the Marriot children to their mother and she had already forced his hand. That train was already roaring down the tracks. He needed to figure out how to keep it from derailing ASAP.

Leaning over as far as he could, Michael laid a soft kiss to his daughter's forehead before straightening up. It was time to go. His mother would be back with his new ride and he had to go solve the situation his wife's lack of control had gotten all of them into. Maybe this time Fiona wouldn't be so unreasonable, maybe the mess she had gotten her father in law into would make her think twice about her future actions. He shook his head and tried not to laugh out loud at his own naivety.

Fiona Glenanne would never admit she was wrong and the fiery Irishwoman had never once backed down from a fight in her entire life. The woman now known as Josephine Watkins was no different.

With one last look at his sleeping baby girl, Michael quietly left the room, closing the door behind him. He would do this job with Fiona, rescue Virgil and then they would do what he had wanted to do begin with. Sitting together next to a roaring fire under the stars at home, where they would talk about their future and the resulting explosion of tempers couldn't cause any collateral damage.

Feeling better than he had in the last hour, ever since he had looked across the bathroom and discovered that pregnancy test strip sitting in the trash, Michael made his way down the stairs and out into the open just in time to see his mother climbing out of the driver's seat of a brand new black Volvo XC90 luxury SUV with tinted windows and Corinthian leather seats.

Whistling through his teeth in appreciation of Madeline's skills to get him Fuente Rent-a-Car's best vehicle at such short notice, he rushed over to help her down onto terra firma.

"You were lucky. Hector just had this returned. It needs a cleaning inside; the last renters had it for a week. But he said he would let me take it as a favor."

"Thank you." His hands landed lightly on his mother's shoulders as he barred his teeth in a smile that lit up his whole face. Part one of Plan B was now in place, Plan A being where he rescued Virgil without alerting George Marriot to their presence and managed to talk Fiona out of going after the coffee sales coordinator with C4 and a sniper rifle.

"Don't thank me yet. You go get your step-father now." And then before he could stop her, the older woman pulled him into an embrace and buried her head against his chest. "Please, Michael, I can't lose Virgil or Fiona. Bring them both back."

Part of him wanted to tell her that was precisely what he was trying to do, if she would just stop making a scene by hugging him in public, go inside and let him get on with it. But that was the part of him that was becoming smaller everyday he spent on the island paradise surrounded by his family. So instead of pushing her away, her son wrapped his arms about his mother and for a brief second or two, he returned her affection before slowly drawing away.

"I'll bring them both back tonight," he promised, looking her in the eye. "Now I need you to watch over Saoirse until we get back."

He waited as the blonde solemnly nodded and then with a final sad little sniff and a swipe at the tear in her eye, Madeline turned to walk back inside the booking office.

With his mother gone, it was as if a switch went off inside Michael Watkin's head, changing him from family man and boat mechanic back to one of the CIA's top covert operatives.

It was Michael Westen who made swift work of transferring all his supplies from the back of the little red truck to the back seat of the pride of the Fuente's rental fleet and who then got behind the wheel of the large SUV and set off towards the treacherous, pot holed, goat infested coastal road and then up into the foothills beyond.

He had just avoided a head on collision with a small compact driven on the wrong side of the road by what had looked like a retired couple when his phone began to ring.

"Hey Sam, what have you got for me?" he spoke as soon as his finger hit the accept key.

"Hey... So, er, Mikey are you absolutely sure we wanta be getting involved in domestic disputes now? I mean, isn't this more of a counsellor type thing or maybe we could take up a collection for a legal defense fund? I know some very wealthy ladies who are always ready to donate to a good cause. We could get this Daphne woman a lawyer to fight this whole thing out in court."

Michael felt his heart sink as he listened to his best friend's voice coming through the loud speaker on his phone. He had been counting on Sam coming up with something good he could hold over Marriott's head… And he hadn't even told him about Virgil yet.

"That would have been my call, but we're way past getting Daphne a lawyer now, Sam. So what have you found? I'm guessing it's not good."

"Okay, okay I get it, little kids, an abusive dad. Fiona isn't going to let this go, even if we came up with the money. But you tell little Miss Temper Tantrum that when the time comes to rescue a bunch of rich women trapped in a brewery, you two better step up."

"I'll be sure to pass that on. Now, what about George has you so worried you want to drop the job?"

"Well, I made a few calls, asked around about George Marriot and I gotta tell you the guy is gonna be hard to take down. Apart from his job at La Casa, he's on every local political board that has an extra chair. He's also a pretty big deal down at the docks too. You remember that bunny boiler that had Jesse Porter running for the hills?" He heard the laughter in his friend's voice at the CIFA agent's past problems despite their current situation. Sam always could find humor in anything.

"Well, George went to school with two of little Miss Susie's big brothers, who in case you've forgotten are Jacob Moria, our chief of police and his little bro, Leroy, is the assistant harbour master over at St John's deep water port.. Marriot is a grade A sleazebag, but with all his connections, I'm sorry to say the guy is damn near untouchable."

If he wasn't driving as fast as he dared on the winding coastal road, Michael would have shut his eyes or at least thrown his head back in frustration. But as he could do neither, he settled on pleading with the man who had managed in one short year to build up a network of buddies which rivaled the one he had had in Miami.

"Please tell me that there is a but coming."

"Yeah, well…. There is a but… but I don't think you're going to like it."

"It doesn't matter if I like it or not, Sam. Fiona called me a little while ago. Virgil somehow managed to lock himself in the trunk of Marriot's car. Fiona is tailing them, but– "

He left the sentence open hoping that his best friend was going to jump in and save him from having to voice his step-dad's possible fate and the tactical nightmare he'd gotten them into.

"Jeez, how the-? No, no… don't bother explaining. It's gonna be the result of some crazy assed scheme of Fiona's. So okay, like I was saying, your boy is untouchable locally. But I got to thinking about the bigger picture, you know? I mean, if someone like a sales coordinator is pulling in big money it's almost guaranteed there'll be more than just beans being shipped out in the boxes."

Michael nodded, although Sam couldn't see it. It was a foregone conclusion that George Marriot had other business interests than seeing to it the finest South American beans landed at Starbucks.

"So I spoke to a buddy I know, who has a buddy working with the Panama drug enforcement agency. He's there as a special advisor supplied by Uncle Sam if you catch my drift."

"As in helping track down whoever is sneaking cocaine past the drug dogs at the port of Miami?" he replied, snatching at the crumbs Sam was tossing his way.

"You betcha, our dirtbag wife beater is a person of interest in their investigation. La Casa has him traveling all around the world and, being in charge of shipping, old George is in a perfect position to oversee the smuggling of drugs amongst the coffee shipments. In the last six months he has visited Panama, Columbia and Miami… annnnd they think he is doing all this for the Sinaloa Cartel."

"The Sinaloa Cartel... of course it is," Michael groused, remembering the many reasons they had chosen to keep a low profile on their home turf. Still, the news presented possibilities...

"You're a genius, Sam." The former CIA operative heaped on the praise as his sharp mind was already looking for ways to use the information he had been given. If George was a criminal who answered to a cartel that opened a whole new line attack. It hadn't really been all that long ago he had set up Alvaro Desantos, leaving the man to the mercy of his cartel bosses before he could have potential witness Cara Stagner murdered.

"Well, don't get your hopes up yet. My buddy's buddy made it very clear if we mess up a case being run by the Panamanian government, he will take great pleasure in making me pay for it."

"Oh, believe me, I will make sure our names stay out of it and your friend's too. We just need to get Virgil out of the trunk and stop Fiona from shooting up the whole damn compound first."

"Haha! That's probably going to be the easy part, Mikey. I mean, how are you planning to stop the sleaze bag from taking his kids outta the country?"

"I'm working on it."

"You want me to come and join you?"

"No, you stay by your phone. I think I have an idea on how to get this cleaned up and I am going to need you back in Harmony Hall for it to work."

"Okay dokey then. Take care, brother. I am just a phone call away if you need more backup."

"Sure thing, and ah, Sam, don't stray too far away from that phone."

"Not a chance, go get 'em, pal."

Ending the call just in time to make the sharp turn off the coastal road on to an even narrower track which threaded its way through the pine tree forest and would eventually bring him to the La Casa plantation, Michael began to utilize the information he had been given into a plan which would hopefully satisfy Fiona, free Virgil and get George arrested or at the least on the run from the cartel.

()()()()()()()()()

Josphine Baker Watkins, much like her alter-ego Fiona Glenanne, was not the sort of person who could sit idly by while a friend was in trouble. Nor was she the sort of person who found it easy to wait around until her husband, like some sort of white knight riding to the rescue, arrived on scene. When she saw an opening to do something right there and then to help a comrade in arms in peril, she took it. That was why, even when living quietly under a cover ID, she was still a guerrilla fighter at heart.

With her phone call to Michael over the petite Irishwoman's nimble fingers went straight to work on pressing lightly down on the 'my phone' app and entering the code for her father in law's cell.

A small sigh of relief escaped from behind her slightly parted lips as she had her suspicions confirmed, Marriot was heading back to the La Casa compound high up in the tree covered hills.

Now tha basid had tha children's passports an' a lawyer clearing away tha legal barriers tha wa' nothing ta stop him runnin' off ta Panama... Or thot's whot he thought.

With images of George Marriot coming to various bloody ends swirling in her head, the furious woman placed both hands firmly on the steering of the Watkins Water Adventures owned Jeep and set off at a far faster pace than she had done when she'd had Virgil sitting at her side.

Marriot had a massive lead on her, a lead she intended to close as quickly as possible, because if that Cúl tóna intended on leaving first thing in the morning it was guaranteed he would be opening the trunk of his car sooner rather than later and when that happened…

Fiona's foot pressed down on the gas pedal even harder than before, while clearing her mind of the myriad of ways to kill her target with more precise and happy thoughts of cutting down the sales coordinator with a hail of bullets from the Browning Bar Safari rifle she had in the bag resting on the seat behind her. It wasn't her favorite Hecate II sniper rifle, but it would do the job.

However, bloodthirsty thoughts of violence could only hold her attention for so long and by the time the Jeep left the flat tarmac of the main road and began the climb along the twisting, less cared for tracks leading up into the hills, her mind began to drift on to the phone call with her husband.

Michael had definitely sounded angry when she had finally gotten around to answering his many messages. Though that could be explained away by him reading her note and then making a few inquiries of his own. It was easy for her to imagine his reaction to finding out she had over-ruled every one of his possible objections to helping a woman get her children back from an abusive husband by taking off with Virgil...

In her opinion that the former spy took the whole staying under the radar a little too far, especially when it suited him not to get involved in their friends' lives. Well, this was one time he was going to have to get involved, she thought. Fiona was sure once he had a chance to calm down and she explained the situation properly, he would agree with her. They would just have to be extra careful.

Glancing down at her mobile, all thoughts of Michael and the bodily harm she wished to inflict on George Marriot fled as the red dot on her phone indicated that the car she was following had come to a stop several miles ahead of her position.

Damn it! For all her driving as if she was on the rally circuit, she had still failed to catch up to the bullying businessman. With a silent prayer that Virgil would remain undiscovered for at least a little longer, Fiona wrung the last bit of speed out of the Jeep.

Even as she drove as if the hounds of hell were on her heels, the impetuous red head was making plans. Yes, she was reckless and quick to jump into a fight… But what most people, including her own husband at times, failed to appreciate was that she had grown up in a war zone and spent most of her adult life in a profession that demanded being able to change tactics at a moment's notice.

So, if there was one thing Ms Glenanne excelled at it, it was coming up with a working strategy at short notice. By the time she brought the Jeep to a stop, Fiona was ready to act.

Grabbing the rifle off the back seat plus a box of cartridges, the petite ex-paramilitary headed into the dense forest surrounding the compound until she found a spot where she had a good view of the black BMW parked up to the side of one of the three smaller single storey guest houses set around the central, far larger two storey brick built villa.

From the lack of commotion which could be normally expected if a man had been found to be hiding in the trunk of a car, Fiona relaxed slightly. There was still a chance that she could get Virgil to safety before the arrival of her other half.

Using the scope of her rifle to check out the rest of the compound, the former guerrilla fighter came to the conclusion that most of the workers had already gone home for the day. The large warehouse behind the main house looked to be deserted. The few trucks still on site were parked up close to the rear entrance to the compound which lead to a road which would take the heavy vehicles and their goods over the other side of the hills to the commercial docks at St. John's harbour and from there to either Panama or Miami and places beyond.

Nearer to the vehicle concealing Virgil, a few people wandered about, a man and woman both in business suits stood talking on the villa's wide veranda, before going inside. Off to one side, a gardener was working on the flowerbeds while at the furthest guest house, a woman in a maid's uniform was clearing away dining ware from a table on the terrace.

Turning her attention back to the car hiding her father in law, Fiona took note of the open doors of a three-car garage. It was a risk, a big risk especially as she couldn't see if there was anyone working inside or even if there was anywhere for the retired SEAL commander to conceal himself if anyone came looking... Without taking her eye away from the rifle scope, the slender redhead brought her phone from her pocket and pressed down on the key which would put her through to Virgil.

"Hey, sweetheart, how are things looking?"

He sounded tired and in pain, but Fiona wasted no time with pleasantries. She had already spotted a woman looking out from an upstairs window of the villa. If she moved only one room over, she would have a clear view of George Marriot's BMW.

"That depends on how you feel about getting out of that rolling coffin and making a run to a garage on your right."

"Running? I dunno, Fifi, I gotta cramp something terrible –"

"Virgil, do I have to start throwing lead to make you move? It is a few steps, ten at most." With the knowledge that her husband was on his way and could appear at any moment, 's infamously short temper quickly reached the end of its fuse.

Fiona was grateful when instead of a verbal answer, she saw the lid of the BMW trunk open an inch and then all the way. Instantly a mostly bald, shiny head followed by the rest of Virgil's body tumbled out on to the ground before the former SEAL commander staggered to his feet.

"Come on, Virgil. Move yar damn feet, auld man." Fiona spoke under her breath as she viewed the beaten-up figure, closing the trunk and then hobbling across the short distance to the garage.

"O-kay – sw – sweet-heart. I'm – safe – for now. Now – h-how – the hell are you gonna get me out of here?"

Fifi Watkins tilted her head to the side and a slow smile spread across her face. "Oh, I am sure we will come up with something... Hold on Virgil, I think I hear Michael. I need to go and bring him up to speed. Start shooting if you need to attract our attention and we'll come in guns blazing."

"Oh darlin' I don't think–"

Ending the call before Virgil could finish expressing his feelings about her strategy, Fiona slipped back into the forest undergrowth and made her way back to where she had left the company Jeep.

"Michael." His name slipped from her lips as soon as she stepped out into the open and saw him, exiting from a large, fancy, black SUV. Without conscious thought, she rushed to greet him only to come to a stop when she realised that her husband was scowling back at her, his deep blue eyes almost hidden by the frown he was wearing.

"Dammit, Fiona, what the hell were you thinking?" he demanded hotly.

"Well, I couldn't sit around and let some bastard steal children from their mother when I can do something about it could I?" She shot back, her ire immediately flaring to match his accusations as she started through the thick greenery to confront him.

"That's not what I'm talking about," he countered as he looked over his shoulder down the roadway and then back towards where his infuriated beloved was coming down the hillside. "But if you want to go there, that really is part what I'm talking about. Just because the CIA isn't hunting us doesn't mean we don't have enemies who'd love to rip our lives apart. We take enough risks as it is going on those little side jobs with Jesse. We have to keep a low profile. You can't just go—"

"Well, maybe you learned in spy school how to let other people suffer to save your own hide, but-"

"Save my own hide?" her husband echoed angrily. "Is that what you think is going on here? I'm trying to protect you and our children! This, this right here, is exactly why I keep telling you we—"

"I don't need saving. I know what I'm doing, Michael."

"Really?" he snarked. "Is that why Virgil is hiding out in the trunk of a drug dealer's BMW inside a high security compound?"

"He's not in the trunk anymore, he's hiding in the garage," she defended.

"Well, that's an improvement," Michael said in a tone that made it clear what he thought of this one small silver lining in the midst of a hurricane. "I'll just have to hope Virgil is better at remembering how to play along than picking a lock," the ex-operative declared, his mind already turning to how he needed to manipulate the situation. He had brought the proper clothing with him, now he just-

"Do you have a good view of the entire compound?" he asked as the fiery redhead arrived at last at his side, noting the sniper rifle in her grasp. "Somewhere you can set up surveillance—"

"Oh, no ya donnae!" Fiona's fury and her Irish accent came out full force. "Yer nae gonna cut me outta tha action trying ta keep me safe. This wa' me own job ta begin wit' an' I've been part o' operations since I wa' fifteen years auld."

"Maybe so, but since you seem to have forgotten the most basic rules of engagement, we need to do this my way, so we can get out of this without attracting the attention of every drug cartel and local law enforcement officer on the island, not to mention pissing off the DEA if we screw up their—"

"Who tha hell d'ya think yer talkin' ta?" the former PIRA operative demanded, her face flushing red.

In answer to her look of defiance, he half turned and jabbed a finger in the direction of the Watkins Water Adventure Jeep sitting at the side of the narrow road. "Someone who seems determined to blow our covers?" he queried in that condensing tone he knew damn well she absolutely hated.

Oh! Her eyes went wide as she realized that in her hurry to get Virgil out of the trunk she had left the vehicle emblazoned with the company logo in plain sight of any one approaching the La Casa compound from the Nonsuch Bay side of the island.

"So, do you think we can do this my way now? Or should we just walk in and introduce ourselves to George and explain to him that I'm a killer ex-spy and you're a badass former IRA operative and he needs to leave town or else we'll shoot the place all to hell right now?"

Like good poker players, guerrilla fighters, just like spies, know it's impossible to hide the tells that come with a bloodstream full of adrenaline. If showing remorse or shame for making such a rookie blunder is going to force you to admit you were wrong, you replace it with an emotion that won't.

Michael Westen had known Fiona Glenanne for over a decade. Michael Watkins was bracing for the tightly packed fist to come flying at his face any minute. The Irishwoman was never one gracefully to admit a mistake, particularly such an egregious error in the middle of a sensitive operation. But then Josephine Watkins stunned the hell out of him when she froze in mid-windup and suddenly dropped her arm, angry tears leaking from her narrowed blue green eyes.

His wife had had every intention of hitting him and wiping off that look of smug superiority, regardless of how well it might have been deserved in this moment, right off his face. But the surge from righteous indignation, to horror at her massive oversight to only minimally feigned fury at his audacity to point out her failure crashed together in the center of her chest and left her dizzy and breathless. Nausea came out of nowhere and assaulted her as well, her traitorous stomach rebelling.

Rather than let Michael know the extent of her weakness in that moment, Fiona released the blow she'd intended for his chin and sucked in a great lungful of air, which as it turned out was the opposite of helpful for her. However, it allowed her to cover what she was actually feeling and that was all she cared about at that moment.

"Fine," she ground out from behind her locked jaw, though she was clamping up to keep from throwing up, that information was on a need to basis, and Michael didn't need to know. "We'll finish this argument after we've rescued Virgil and sent George Marriot to a special place in hell."

"I'd prefer it if the cartel he works for took care of that second detail for us." Michael was still not sure what had caused her change of heart, but the ex-operative would take whatever he could get at the moment.

"Alright, what's your plan?"

"Just a little something we've used before, back in Miami. Go move the Jeep and get it off the road while I change clothes and then I'll fill you in."

And much to his continued surprise, his fiery wife, moving slower than normal, did exactly that. It made Michael wonder just how much the pregnancy was affecting her right now and how much she was covering up. But he just had to hope his wife was ready to bring her A game when it counted. Because as much as she would balk at the idea of him saving her, he just might end up needng her to save him on this op while he was saving her from herself.