Sins of the Past

"The past is just a story we tell."

-Krysten Ritter

Prologue Pt. 2

Small Sacrifices

Location: Adare, County Limerick, Ireland

Date: July 7, 2004

Time: 19:36 GMT

Weather: Cloudy, rain expected later in the night

"Cheers to another successful team up!"

"Slainte!"

"Hoo-rah!"

The air was heavy with cigar smoke and the smell of expensive whiskey, seeping into every pore on their bodies. Grown men once at odds with each other hugged it out, while others that have worked with each other for years simply raised a glass to each other and nodded, no words need spoken between them. Paddy Thatcher's Pub was lively tonight, and it was for good reason.

Cillian Riordan was no longer a threat to anyone.

Putting an end to the international arms dealer and human trafficking aficionado was no easy task, especially one doused in such secrecy. A small few had actually seen the man known only as Neit, to the point that no actual photos had ever surfaced. To most, he was a ghost, or even an invention of Irish Nationalists, looking to throw those in Interpol off of their scent. However, to the small group that spent the better part of a decade following him, he was all too real. Too much had been lost for them to ever stop searching the mist for him and now, their journey was over.

"To Declan O'Houlihan!"

"And Marcus Hogarth!"

"John Chisholm!"

"Hugh Sullivan!"

"Here, here!"

"To Charlie McCall!" The room fell silent, losing the once jubilant spirit that had taken over the usually somber pub. A man at the bar shed a few silent tears, while others tipped their hats in respect. "Without her, none of this would be possible!"

More drinks were poured and hours ticked away as the men told stories of the one lady with the stones to infiltrate the inner circle of Riordan, gaining his trust. Some spoke of her bravery; of times she had saved them from a certain death, others spoke of her brilliant mind and kind words, but mostly of her fierce friendship and loyalty to her fellow man. The death of her father in the prime of his life steered her towards this case, as he was an early victim of Riordan's cruelty, and she was more than determined to see it through to the end.

In the end, Charlie McCall got her wish.

It was her murder that finally put him into Interpol's custody, putting an end to the man that likened himself to the Irish God of War. They were even kind enough to drop him into a hole he could never crawl out of, when most wanted a swift bullet in the back of the head and left in a shallow ditch somewhere. From there, his people were each found and tried, with a few even testifying against him for a lighter sentence, although most of them met there end in shady ways while waiting out their time in cushier cells.

Even from hell itself, Neit was able to find them.

He had wanted to be there while they celebrated, although he wasn't much of a drinking man. Even if he had been, he wasn't sure he was ready to let himself become that vulnerable, not just yet. Just the thought of not having her in his life was enough of a reason to lose himself and he didn't need any firewater to push him over the edge. No, he was liable to do just about anything if given the chance to let it all out.

Instead, he suffers in silence.

If any good had come from this mission, it was the fact that it knocked some sense into him and sent him on the path back home to his family. His marriage had been on the rocks before Interpol drug him into their mess and leaving on his daughter's first birthday had sent his wife into a tizzy, throwing words like trial separation and child custody at him like daggers. She told him to move on, to forget them, just as he always did while he was away. What she didn't know was that they were the ones that kept him going every time he went away and without them, he was nothing. They were the light inside the darkness that I-1 forces into their people. He didn't care that the couples therapist they barely had the chance to see together told them to try seeing other people, he just wanted to make things right between them.

Sleep was like a cold mistress, barely there when he needed her the most. His body laid damp and sore in a bed too large and empty, his mind over five thousand or so miles away. The call of their scarcely used apartment beckoned to him, begging him to return to the place his small family once called home. If he could just get a few hours of sleep, he could take a flight back home. He needed to see his daughter's toothy smile, he needed to hug his beloved wife.

He played with the ring hanging from a chain around his neck until his body gave in.

The apartment was mostly empty.

Gone was the stuffed hippo that his daughter refused to relinquish from a small shop in London and the pictures that lined their fireplace. In the spot where his daughter's crib once stood, now sat an apology letter and divorce papers, already signed by her. All that remained was the coffee table they bought when they first got together and his tattered, beat up chair from his old bachelor pad days. That, and the memories. Everything he worked so hard to give them was all gone.

He never should have came back.

His thoughts soon fell to his only child, his little Ponchita. He wondered what exactly she was doing, if she even missed him. She looked so much like her mother and was smart, just as she was. There was little of him in her so far and he was always thankful for that. Little chance of her following in his footsteps and ruining her own family, just as he had. He silently wished Charlie could have met her, after all those hours he talked her ear off about her, but that was just one more thing he would never get to see and he couldn't help but blame himself.

With a sigh, he collapsed on the chair and pulled out a package from his carry on bag. After a few rips, the packaging was no more and he pulled out a large, redheaded doll, handmade, with a beautifully designed green dress. Charlie had helped him pick it out, a peace offering for missing her big day all those months ago. It took everything in him not to tear it apart, to burn it, damage it beyond repair until he didn't have to look at it. But alas, he couldn't...it was all he had left now.

For two days, he only left that chair to go to the bathroom. His calls went unanswered, as did the knocks on the door, begging him to let his friends in. News traveled fast among the wives of his fellow agents and they forced their husbands to check on him, if only for Estella's sake. By the third day, he forced himself to shower and put together a meal fit for the loser he believed he was; expired beans and box stuffing. Estella was never much of a cook, but even her burnt Thanksgiving dinner was a masterpiece compared to what he was forcing himself to eat.

After a week he was able to sign the papers, and after another, send them to her lawyer. Within a month he was infiltrating the next world threat, coldly gunning down anyone that got in his way. A few years later, he was brought up on disciplinary charges stemming from a few bad calls during the Panagua case that ended with Argus Grimm and his family losing their lives in a fiery crash. In between the bad, he tried to make things work again with Estella, for Jessica's sake more than anything, but they knew there was nothing between them any longer. Trips down south became longer, communication devices always seemed to be mysteriously unreliable when younger men joined her dig sites. He was no saint himself, as he found himself in bed with Jade Kenyon of all people, as he seemed to enjoy mixing business with pleasure. It wouldn't be the first time and certainly not the last.

Hurting each other seemed to be what they were good at.

Before long he found himself dumped onto the doorstep of the Quest family, fresh off of the murder of Dr. Rachel Quest at the hands of her husband's rival, the evil Dr. Zin. To his credit, Dr. Quest refused to be of any service to the United States Government until the health and safety of his only son, and he knew that Race was the man for the job. A few months later they found whom they believed to be an orphaned beggar child in Bangalore and became another member of the family. Within the year, Jessie was rounded out the team, as she was in dire need of a more stable environment and, somehow, they were just what the young girl needed.

He almost didn't take that phone call.

There were a lot of people he was more than happy to leave in the past, one of which being Peter Donovan. It was a chapter he closed a long time ago, never to be brought to the surface. It was still a raw nerve and the call was like a slap to the face. All of that changed as he heard the name whispered into the phone, almost as if they would be his last words.

Neit.

No.

"Where do you want to meet?"