Chapter 15

-Dream sequence-
Michael sprinted across rough asphalt peppered with the glitter of broken glass. His palms bled where he had slid and caught himself. His breathing came hard and fast. He launched himself at a section of six foot cyclone fencing. His young fingers curled around the links. The worn soles of his sneakers slipped as he pulled his scrawny weight up. Vaulting to the other side he changed direction, dodging through overgrown brush and chipped bark ground covering to follow the fencing north.
The angry shouts of boys twice his age dogged him. He had started a fight. It was difficult to remember why, something about creating a diversion. He needed to evacuate the town and no one would move while a group of Orozova's men remained seated at the bar.
Wait, that made no sense. Michael wiped the sweat from his eyes. The need to hurry nagged at him. Was it Nate who needed saving? When wasn't it Nate? Michael picked up the pace. The florida sun hung directly overhead. It's incessant heat baking the blue from the sky. He darted from the brush across the street. A car horn protested. The breeze of the vehicle narrowly sailing by felt good on Michael's overheated skin.
He hopped over a line of white picket fencing, zigged through a congregation of ceramic gnomes and pounded down the uneven sidewalk. Almost there he promised himself. He cut across a neighbor's lawn. The over watered grass squelched beneath his feet, darkening the legs of Michael's jeans with mud. Ducking between Mrs. Gennair's rhododendrons Michael burst onto the driveway just as maw of His father's dodge swung forward.
With a sharp report, the bumper caught him across the temple and he collapsed in a heap. The engine sputtered to a stop and the heavy driver side door swung open. Michael recognized the need to move, but his body wouldn't respond. His arms flopped like a beached seal. His head rolled limply, unable to break the pull of gravity. The heavy sound of boots approached. A group of men stood above him speaking words his brain refused to process. A masculine voice laughed. Michael shivered against the cold. Blood dripped from his temple to melt the snow beneath his face. His breath feathered white in the frigid air.
Had his plan worked? He blinked with confusion. He couldn't remember what the plan was. He suddenly recalled an image of large brown eyes staring up at him with an impish glimmer as a young boy filched food from his plate. Nate?
His father's large hand grabbed his collar and jerked him from the ground. Michael did his best to get his feet beneath him as the ground dragged past beneath him. The sharp smell of alcohol clung to his father and his friends. Frank dropped him in a heap just inside the garage. Michael fumbled against the rough wood of the work bench, desperate to pull himself upright. He squinted against the pain in his head. Any sign of weakness would incite the group of men.
"Here kid," his father's friend Marv, handed him a half full bottle of Rolling Rock. Michael forced himself to gulp down the bitter flavor. "That's it," Marv encouraged thumping the boy's back heartily. "Your going to be just fine," he cooed inching closer. Quick as a blink Marv grabbed the boy and shoved him forward over the scarred wooden work surface. His heavy breath huffed against the hair at Michael's nape. Michael thrashed, whipping elbows, kicking. He pounded fiercely at Marv's husky frame eventually connecting a glancing blow to the man's face. Marv cursed and stumbled backward clutching his nose. Scarlet seeped between his stubby fingers. Frank Westen laughed heartily. "That kid's a fighter not a lover. He ain't never gonna take what you're trying to give. You'd have better luck with the little one."
Michael hesitated, vertigo spun details in and out of focus around him. The familiar clutter of boxes and misplaced tools faded. Marv pursued his agenda and dug his elbow in between Michael's shoulder blades. The dim light of the sun filtering through dusty windows became a single bare light bulb suspended from the ceiling. *Bu bir ruhu vardır.* Marv growled. The sweat from running through the muggy afternoon air suddenly chilled Michael's skin. Standing across the table from Michael, dressed in a heavy parka cut to military specifications his father crowed with surprised delight, *This one can fight*. Frank's huge weathered hand swallowed Michael's fist. Missing teeth left gaps in the large man's smile. Michael pulled back in alarm, his head muddling details from different memories. This wasn't his father. With a jerk the man stretched Michael's arm out flat against the stained table. A hush fell, Michael breathed heavily through his nostrils. All eyes stared mesmerized by the movement of a blackened blade stropping the length of Michael's inner arm. The muscle beneath his skin quivered beneath the cold caress. It paused, like a snake, pressing it's weight against the warm fluttering pulse at Michael's wrist.

Michael jerked awake, the movement wrenching broken ribs. He curled to his side against the pain. His body registered pain like any other, the nerves delivering information to his brain. What he chose to do with that information is what set him apart, made him good at being a spy. He had enough experience with the sensation that he could evaluate it for any relevant information then compartmentalize it where he could ignore it. It was sort of like getting into a really hot tub of water. Give your body time to adjust and you could continue with business as usual. But like any complex electrical system, there was always the possibility of overloading the system and blowing a circuit breaker resulting in a loss of consciousness. Michael concentrated on breathing into the pain. The nightmare that had woken him had faded into a fuzzy sense of general unease with the unsettling impression that he had failed to do something. Slowly he eased himself to the edge of the bed to sit.
The room was dark. Moonlight filtered in the window past the shadow of palm fronds. The digital readout of an alarm clock informed him of the early hour of the morning. An empty chair had been left beside the bed. A pair of strappy sandals had been forgotten, tucked between the cushion and the arm rest. None of the specific details of the room were familiar, but Michael didn't feel threatened. He wondered how long he had before Larry turned up. A central air conditioning unit clicked to life. Michael could hear the fan spin up just outside the window seconds before a blast of cool air rattled from the ceiling vent. His best guess was that he wasn't in Kyrgyzstan any longer.
Careful of his injuries, Michael leaned over and opened the drawer on the bedside table looking for anything useful. There were pens, paper, discarded notes, a few amature photos of good looking 50 something women posing suggestively for the camera. Michael paused, the photos didn't quite sync with his impression of Larry. Otherwise, the copywrite on the back of the writing pad and the hand written notes hinted that he was somewhere that used American English. He would have to pay attention that he didn't respond in Kyrgyz while he made the adjustment.
Michael slid the drawer shut and pushed to his feet. Light headed, he quickly grabbed for the wall while his body worked to reestablish blood flow to his brain. Obviously he hadn't been vertical for awhile. He sifted his memory for clues. He remembered the bar fight, started to divert the table of Orozava's men from their "fishing trip". He remembered being shot. Michael touched his head gingerly. From there the time line got a little sketchy. He could recall Orozova's men dragging him somewhere, the conscious moments thereafter. A failed attempt to escape, the beginning impact waves from the first assault of ground to air missiles as they pounded the compound to rubble. There wasn't much after that.
He still felt like he had forgotten something. It reminded him of how poorly he had performed coming back to active duty off of the burn notice. He wondered if Larry was right and the spy game would sideline him for good this time. It was difficult to imagine himself at a desk, handling younger, more hungry operatives as they played the field. Michael wondered if Larry might have finally underestimated him enough to allow him to get word to his mother for her birthday. He had no idea what the date was. But so far, Larry had squelched the two attempts he had made to get her a non-committal thinking of you birthday sentiment. Only one way to find out, Michael went in search of a phone. There was always the chance that he would finally get lucky.

Madeline startled awake to the ring of her phone. Her arm floundered atop the painted wicker of her bed table trying to activate the small device. She tucked the phone into the crook of her neck as she reached to flip on a curio table lamp. "Hello?" She pulled her wrist watch into bed with her and squinted at the time. 3:23am. Her heart faltered at the probability of bad news. A hesitant silence spoke to her from the other side of the phone. "Sam?" Her voice cracked. "No," Maddie pleaded. She couldn't handle Michael dying a second time.
"Mom…" The single word was drawn out with a husky hesitance.

Michael sounded spent. He leaned heavily on both elbows over what he now knew to be Sam's kitchen counter. The moonlight played off the bare skin of his back. Pale gauze delineating his shadowed form. He hunched over the phone with anguished intensity. "I'm sorry." He fought back a tremor of self recrimination. He was over a week late. His mind balked, refusing to examine the time gap. He needed the light of day before trying to assign increments of time to the events he had endured. Actually, it didn't matter how tardy he was for his mother's birthday. This was just another shining example of how deficient he was when it came to relationships. "Happy birthday, Mom."

Maddie's eyes glittered with relief. Michael was alive and awake. Her throat constricted. She choked on the enormity of her relief. She couldn't think of any better belated birthday gift than the opportunity to tear up that awful death certificate. Her son was finally home with his friends and family. "It's ok, Michael. Go back to bed. I'll see you in the morning." Maddie's ordered. She hung up and followed her own orders. She lay back against her pillow and smiled tearfully to herself.

Michael ended the connection and gently set Sam's phone down against the counter. He was spent, he wondered if he could make it to the kitchen table without collapsing. He was vaguely aware that he had gained an audience. He thought he had heard the floor boards creak early into the phone call. Michael decided to play it safe. "Sam?" He called.
Sam stepped from the dark hallway. "Hey Mikey, how ya feeling?" He spoke cheerfully as if it were the middle of the day not 3 something in the morning. Sam flipped on the light and studied Mike's drooping body language. He hooked a chair from the kitchen table, flipped it around, setting it beside his buddy, then continued to the fridge to pull open the door. He watched as Michael eased his weight from the counter to the chair. He was ready to step in if Michael needed him. "How about some eggs? I've got bacon too." He began pulling breakfast ingredients out and setting them on the counter. "Oh, and Fi made me get yogurt. Is that a before or after breakfast food? I can never remember."
Michael gave Sam an honest smile. "I think that's an instead of breakfast food." He leaned back in the chair and watched Sam pull a skillet from a cabinet above the stove.
"Well, not today, Mikey. I'm going to make you a Sam Axe special. I just happen to specialize at breakfast foods." Sam pulled a carton of OJ from the fridge and struck a jaunty pose. "It's one of the many charms that keeps the ladies coming back for more." Giving Michael his best estimation of a smoldering look, Sam pulled two glass tumblers down from a cabinet, set them on the counter.
"Well it had to be something, because those pajamas are ridiculous." Fi interrupted. Sam rolled his eyes and reached for a third glass. Fi yawned and blinked at the kitchen light. She looked incredible in a cotton tank and a pair of boxers. Michael watched her cross the kitchen and jump up to sit on the counter beside him. She tucked one leg beneath her and stuck the other pedicured foot in Michael's lap. He gently rubbed his thumb over her instep. His fingers trailed over the top of her foot to circle her ankle. He looked up to find her examining him. He gave her a small, almost shy smile. She was the only woman he had ever met that made him feel unsure of himself. She reached over to give his hair a tug. "Whoever has been taking care of you has been doing an awful job. You need a haircut!"
Michael chuckled. He leaned against Fi's leg. He was startled at how good it felt to be home. Sam smiled and turned to lay strips of bacon into the heated skillet.

Author's note:
And I think that concludes my little story arc. In the summary I promised to get Michael home and I actually did it.
Kudos go out to all of those that wrote me a review. The feedback helped keep me motivated and actually made me consider fleshing out parts that I hadn't initially considered. (Like that scene between Maddie and Fi at the bridge game, or the scene between Jessie and Fi at the hotel)
I realize there are plenty of issues left to resolve, but it's going to take a new story arc with new characters to get there. So I'm thinking of a sequel. It will probably be a little more Fi and Michael relationship slanted. Maybe something titled Life After Death? But it's going to take me a bit to get going.
Thanks again everyone.