A/N: Much love and thanks as always to Amanda Hawthorne for the BETA and reading thru, to Purdy's Pal for reading thru and helping plot Mikey's holiday. Thanks to Daisy Day, BurnerNoelle and CJ for being the lovely people that they are. Love to all the Burner Girls on FB and Twitter and many thanks to everyone who keeps reading and reviewing while I take forever between updates as always.

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Atlanta, Christmas 1984 – Part 3

Hartsfield Jackson Atlanta International Airport was large, busy and noisy, to the point of being barely more than orchestrated chaos. It was the perfect place to sit back and watch the Christmas crush of harried travelers trying to return to their post holiday destinations. Picking a corner table in the very back of one of the ubiquitous airport eateries that had a good view of the baggage claim, the US Army Recruit had a good vantage point from which to watch for his ride back to Fort Benning as well.

Being the only major commercial airport near the base, there were plenty of military men milling about or heading out in their Class A greens. By alternating between pretending to study a menu and repeatedly reading a two day old edition of the Atlanta Journal Constitution, he kept from having to salute every five seconds since virtually everyone except the civilians in the airport outranked him.

Levi Westen and his grandson Shane were over two hours past the time appointed for picking him up. Michael had made a few trips to the pay phone with no results and was loath to give up his current position to make another call. Obviously, something else had gone wrong, a most fitting end to his first leave, since very little of it had gone as he had planned it would when he'd sat in this place six days ago.

He'd given up on trying to get the pretty brunette server to come to grips with the term, "un-sweet" iced tea and had ordered a hot tea and two glasses of water instead. She had been sympathetic to his "cash poor" plight, or maybe it had been the charming smile and the lingering kiss on the knuckles as he had taken her hand to thank her for her kindness that had landed him the free slice of pecan pie a couple of hours ago. Trouble was, the dessert had been overly sugary for his tastes, although he'd supposed that the nuts contained some sort of nutrition, but it had only made him hungrier once eaten.

Frank's son had chuckled internally as the flustered girl had moved away, remembering all the times his father had called him "Slick" with hints of admiration and pride, as well as just a modicum of jealousy woven into the sarcasm. That particular term was certainly the kindest form of address that the oldest boy could recall his dad directing at him. The Westen charisma, which his sire employed regularly to get his way with his mother and other people, had apparently been passed on to him along with his elder's looks, though hard drinking, chain smoking and rough living had changed the old man not for the better

Of course, Frank Westen had other means of persuasion if his personal magnetism failed to do the job. Though he didn't know it, Michael had been subtly absorbing the way in which the head of the family chose whether charm, intimidation or subterfuge was required to get what he wanted, even if what he wanted was to have it both ways sometimes, frequently to the detriment of those around him.

Thinking about the blushing waitress soon had his mind drifting back towards la chica bonita at the concierge who had been more than willing to help him get into Jennifer's mom's condo and out of his clothes when he attempted to shower off and change before his meeting down at the lawyer's condo.

He'd returned the borrowed car to Harold in a daze after he had left Jennifer's house for what was most assuredly the last time and soon found himself sitting in the chop shop owner's private office, sucking down a couple of cold Colt 45's with a Hennessey chaser until Mr. Higgins had decided his homey was fortified enough to drive away on his stolen bike. The lack of food, the liquor and the shock had totally reinforced the resulting paranoia that all came together at once as Michael had turned off Flagler Street onto US 1 and spotted two of Metro Dade's finest hanging out near the corner on the next block.

His father arguably might not have taught him much of value, but he had taught his son to never run from law enforcement unless they were already giving chase, and then it needed to be as short a run as possible. Since there had been only five city blocks remaining between himself and his destination at that point, the young man had eased down the six lane divided highway, finally releasing the breath he'd been holding when he saw the squad cars were empty and the would-be occupants were elsewhere.

He'd gone just past his intended location, turning left quickly into the parking lot of First Presbyterian Church of Miami and then veering towards the walkway that cut through Brickell Park, which was essentially a half a block wide strip of trees and brushes that ran parallel between the church and the condo where he'd spend his last days in his hometown. With his heart thumping wildly, Michael had tried to weigh the risks of hiding the bike until later or being seen ditching it in broad daylight with a cold detachment, the operative word being "tried." What once was a trophy had become a serious liability.

The presence of the police on the other side of the nearby bridge over the Miami River had not been very reassuring regardless of his course of action. Hoping that someone else would steal it and take it off his hands, the teenager had concealed the bike in some thick brush near the water, doffing the jacket and helmet as well. Jamming the gloves into his back pocket, he had checked twice to ensure no one had seen him and then replaced his ball cap on his head. Pulling the bill down over his eyes, he'd walked off.

The details of the journey from the park to the condo were fuzzy, but the fear of exposure, the frustration of having no way to transport his things now, the anger at himself for getting caught up in his emotions and the sorrow that he had been so desperately trying to push down were crystal clear in his mind as he sat there sipping his makeshift iced tea and thinking that maybe he was being watched.

Michael didn't really remember either what he had said exactly to the young, brown-eyed, black-haired beauty with the mocha-colored skin behind the concierge desk, but whatever the details were of the story he'd given her, it was sufficient, along with the password, to earn him a trip up to the twelfth floor and the reassurance that Ms. Drummond, the realtor, was not expected to be there anytime soon.

And he recalled with great clarity the moment he had opened the bankers' box he'd brought upstairs with the bags containing his clothes and personal belongings. He'd been puzzled by it and thus preferred to open it in the privacy of the condo. It had contained every memento, piece of jewelry or stuffed animal he had ever bought or stolen for Jennifer. The note within was simple: If you're coming back to me, bring this with you. If not, you've already taken my heart. Just take these things with you, too. Jen

Sitting in public in uniform made it easier for the young Army recruit to control himself as the unwelcome memory filtered through his brain. Then Michael focused on the civilians and the soldiers, already drawing an "us" and "them" distinction between the people moving about the airport, and let his mind go blank to everything except analyzing the multitude of directional vectors and subsequent variances at work as the mass of humanity in front of him tried to navigate the teeming space.

He hadn't had the benefit of that same level of distraction available back at the condo. He'd looked up from the paper, but the breathtaking view was completely lost on him as the teenager had gazed blindly out the massive glass window at the river and the bay, crushing the stationary in his trembling fist.

But what Michael did have at that particular moment had been a que linda diversion, a young woman who was not at all his type, but who'd been so thoroughly the antithesis of the girl he was trying to forget, who'd been more than eager to help him ease whatever pain was tearing at his heart that he willingly lost himself in the embrace of another false intimacy, spectacular fellatio up against the marble topped vanity leading to an intense coupling on a very expensive, but fortunately dark, bathroom rug.

That remembrance proved enough of a disruption to his observations that by the time he'd realized it, the man he'd previously thought was watching him had time to sufficiently advance on his position such that Michael had no choice but to stand and salute the tall, solidly built first lieutenant with the knowing smile instead of the perpetual scowl the recruit had come to associate with all the NCO's on the base.

It suddenly struck him that the officer coming towards him was looking at his cover, which Michael preferred to wear whenever it was permissible, and his quick run-down of all the vast and complex rules the Army had for situations that involved hats and greetings must have shown on his face. He hoped the officer's amusement at his fleeting quandary would continue to translate into a favorable interaction between them. Michael knew he had a great deal of abuse to look forward to when he returned to basic training and too much past history that he was still trying to leave behind right at that instant.

Besides, he was already looking at adding returning late from his first leave to his Army record. Pissing off a decorated Lieutenant in the Ranger Corps was decidedly not on his list of things to do this morning.

"Sir, good morning, Lt. Novak, sir," the young man said whilst executing a sharp salutation and thanking his lucky stars that he'd taken the time to learn where the man's name tag, Ranger patch and rank insignia would be located amongst the brass and ribbons on the forest green jacket.

"At ease, recruit," Novak ordered and then grinned broadly. "Good eye, uh… ?" He peered at where his name was sewn above Michael's shirt pocket. "Westen, is it? Mind if I join you?"

The teenager wasn't sure that he entirely had a choice, but there was something in the demeanor of the superior officer that told him he wouldn't be immediately regretting this encounter "Sir, of course not, sir," he replied quickly, somewhat befuddled by the older man asking his permission to do anything.

"Very well then, resume your post, Recruit Westen," the raven haired lieutenant commanded, evidently still in a good humor. "And one 'sir' will do. I'm not your DI."

"Thank you, sir," Michael responded with evident relief, though he continued to wait for the proverbial other shoe to drop as the military man was seemingly carefully taking inventory of one of the US government's latest acquisitions. At the moment, there was no derogatory commentary forthcoming.

"What are you planning on doing for AIT?" he asked conversationally as he set his carry-on down on the other empty chair next to the matching grey metal table.

"I haven't finished Basic yet, sir, Red Phase only before Christmas break, sir."

That drew an almost startled reaction from his superior.

"You from a military family?"

"No, sir," Michael answered as he wondered where this was going.

"Hmmm," Novak seemed to ponder that for a minute. "What are you aiming for?"

Michael held his breath for second, hoping that this was would not be perceived as a suck-up answer.

"I want to be a Ranger, sir."

Before the officer could react, the blushing brunette descended upon her new customer.

Novak ordered a hot breakfast and Michael's stomach had the temerity to rumble in response to merely the thought of a warm morning meal. Cold cereal had been the rule of thumb at his house for as long as he could remember. Platters of properly cooked eggs, bacon, grits and biscuits only materialized when he'd been fortunate enough to be sent to the diner where Ms. Watkins' worked before school.

The fact that he hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon, aside from the intensely sweet slice of southern hospitality the waitress had bestowed upon him. and he didn't have the money to resolve that problem hadn't helped the situation. The teenager did have the good grace to flush and protest appropriately as the Ranger had told the girl to bring Michael the same meal and put it on his check.

"I remember broke at Basic," Lt. Novak informed him. "I'm not that old."

"No, sir, thank you, sir," the young recruit replied, puzzled by his good fortune and its source. He was leery of doing something wrong. As he had learned from a young age, those in charge frequently had volatile tempers and good moods could come and go as quickly as an afternoon thunder storm in Miami.

After a minute of poking around in his gear, Novak turned his attention back to the younger man before him. He thought carefully where to start as the would-be Ranger across from him seemed overwound.

"So, why do you want to be in Special Forces?"

Michael thought what he'd told his mother when he'd handed her the recruitment papers and about what he'd said to the man with the high and tight haircut and the smart uniform sitting behind a shiny oak desk at the USARO near Doral when he turned those papers in. But mostly he remembered what Miz W had said to him that night his Dad had tried to choke him and her words of encouragement.

"Sugar, you need to get on outta this place for you get caught up with the wrong people doin' the wrong things like 'dre or worse, like that little Higgins boy. You're better'n that. You gotta good heart and you always been lookin' out for them what can't take o' themselves. My boy's got too much o' his Daddy in him, too prideful to back down and use his damned head. He's gonna end up dead or in jail, but I don't wanna see that happen to you, baby. You're smarter than that. You don't have to end up like 'dre. I know you're worried over your Mama and Nate, but your Mama done made her choices and you can make somethin' o' yourself, child, and be better than you been brought up to, be whatever you wanna be."

"To be the best of the best and defend my country, sir," Michael hoped that he didn't sound like he was regurgitating a recruiting pamphlet because he really did feel that way. He wanted to so badly to serve a cause higher than being the intermediary punching bag between his father and the rest of his family. If he could put all that misery and pain to some use for the greater good, then it would somehow make everything he'd gone through growing up worth it all. "I've been training for it since I could walk, sir."

The lieutenant caught the wince at what was presumably a slip, sure now that the kid hadn't meant to add that last part, and wondering at the source. He'd already said he wasn't from a military family.

"So your parents encouraged you to pursue the military at a young age?" Novak guessed. There could be a multitude of reasons for the teenager wanting to join up, but this one didn't seem like the typical gung ho hothead trying to prove something or the 'got no place better to go' sad sack he'd seen all too often.

"Not exactly, sir."

Holy shit, look at you, Slick. Damn, ah never thought ah'd see the day ya'd let anybody cut your damned hair and put you in a fooking uniform. Sonuvabitch, how's it feel to be told when you can wipe your ass?

"Well, obviously they supported your decision to enlist. You wouldn't have gotten to go on Christmas leave in the middle of basic if you weren't underage, so they had to have signed the papers."

Recruit Westen wondered again briefly what his mother had done to get his father to sign him up and then decided that, based on the past week, it was because his dad couldn't wait to get clear of him. The fact old man had pawned his possessions pretty much said goodbye and good riddance to Michael.

"Something like that, sir," was the best response he could come up with.

Novak mulled that over for a minute. "So, how was leave? Feel strange to be back home so soon?"

"Yes, sir," Michael answered a little too fervently and again cursed himself silently for another verbal gaffe as he caught the superior officer nodding at him with a look of recognition.

Luckily for the hungry young man, their server returned just then with two large plates of a hearty fried breakfast and two steaming mugs of coffee, which was not his cup of tea at all so to speak, but Mr. Westen decided to smile and be grateful for the food as well as the break in the conversation.

The lieutenant hadn't come up with a subtle way to ask about Michael's firearms proficiency, but he was sufficiently awed with the teenager's targeting skills to assume his abilities with actual weapons would be equally extraordinary. Once they'd established that the youth was from Miami, the question of where he'd acquired his training had become a moot point; it certainly wasn't formal instruction. But however the recruit had managed it, he wouldn't have gotten into the Army with a criminal record intact and he seemed to Novak to be not only resourceful, but genuinely sincere in his desire to excel and be of service. Training at Fort Benning was a good start to what could turn out to be a stellar career.

Michael thanked his benefactor almost a little too profusely for the meal and for the officer's time as he had quickly turned the topic of discussion to the Rangers and what he needed to do to ensure his entrance into the elite corps once they had eaten the majority of their breakfast. Novak complimented recruit's choice of observation post and the concentration level he'd exhibited during the brief time the older man had been able to watch him. Michael was advised that his superior would be monitoring his progress and intended to see to it, provided his performance throughout basic and AIT was exemplary, that the private would be considered for both sharp shooter school and entrance into the Rangers.

"I'll do my part," Lt. Novak assured him. "The rest is up to you. You know what you have to do, son."

It was then Mr. Westen had spotted his relatives at the far end of the terminal and a quick check of his watch let Michael know that he would indeed make it back to Fort Benning in time. Breathing a sigh of relief and smiling, he told the lieutenant why he'd been concerned and again the Ranger was suitably impressed with the younger man's ability to pick out a target down range amongst a substantial crowd.

"I've got my eye on you, Westen," the dark haired man said with a wide grin as they saluted one another and parted company. Michael was so elated by his sudden turn of good fortune that he couldn't have cared less about the wait that his great uncle, Levi, was tersely apologizing for. That blown water pump had been a bitch for his relatives to deal with, but it had provided him with an unparalleled opportunity and he couldn't believe his fortuity. Plus, the ride back to Fort Benning would give him the time to assess his progress towards his objective as well as process or more accurately compartmentalize the collateral damage.

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Michael had listened to his relations' tales of what, how and why they had been delayed in picking him up with expertly feigned interest. He knew now that if he smiled and nodded enough, eventually Shane would fall asleep in the front seat and Levi would tire of the one sided discourse and he would be free.

Part of him was still glowing from the praise and promises that he had received from Lt. Novak. That a decorated war veteran was taking a positive interest in him and planned on rewarding his hard work had the young recruit more determined than ever to succeed. Of course, it remained to be seen if he could take the man at his word, but Michael refused to let doubt cloud his resolve. The officer had been impressed with the skills he'd picked up just by surviving South Florida. With the proper training, he was convinced that as an Army Ranger sharp shooter, he would be one unstoppable sonuvabitch.

So as he sat in the back of old but once again drivable '65 Chevy Impala Wagon not watching the old man negotiate the twists and turn that took them onto I-85 south from the airport, it was his great uncle's remark to his second cousin about the lack of opportunity for female companionship and the various shades of blue that Shane's nether regions would turn before he got another leave to do anything about it except 'run it off by hand' that had Michael remembering that he'd had a very good week in that department despite, or more likely due to, the loss of his high school sweetheart and he found himself tuning out the chatter between the Georgia branch of the family in the forward part of the vehicle and reminiscing.

He hadn't meant to hurt Jennifer, but he had, and the truth that they were destined to separate in no way ameliorated his feelings about the sorry manner in which he had executed the break-up. The emotional anguish that he'd bottled up over the guilt and the loss meant that Michael hadn't wasted any time using his sexual prowess to ease the pain, as well as gain social currency and better sleeping arrangements with certain women during his leave. While he'd had to spend some time with his family, the eldest boy had had no intention of ever sleeping under Frank Westen's roof again, especially not in that shell of the room which was now devoid of his personal belongings thanks to his father. There was no way Michael was going to give his dad the opportunity to either ambush him or rip him off again.

Unfortunately for Madeline, Mr. Westen had been in agreement with his son that Michael was capable of making his own arrangements, despite her protests to the contrary. The fact that his sire was siding with him against his mom was not completely unheard of in his lifetime. But it was unusual, as was his dad's over all good humor, though that could be directly traced to the arrival of Lady Luck at his poker table on a semi-regular basis. The eldest boy could hardly complain. It had gotten him a plane ticket.

Of course, Nate claiming it'd been his presence in the room as the official underage bartender had in no way thrilled their mother, but Michael had seen she wasn't going to get much traction with her arguments against taking an eleven year old to a smoke filled room, full of alcohol, guns and middle aged, middle management level wise guys and various other riff raff, since it was Christmas break and there was no "school night" to help enforce a curfew; not that Frank Westen much respected any sort of limitation if it got in his way of him doing what he wanted to do when he wanted to do it.

Watching Nate's eyes light up as he described the scene to his big brother at dinner the first night he had come by the house, albeit not his first night in town, had both pleased and disturbed Michael. He'd been thrilled his little brother had found a way to relate to their father that didn't involve taking a beating or someone else taking it for him. But it had troubled him greatly that Nathaniel Elias Westen now had an encyclopedic knowledge of mixology and the variations of innumerable card games. It had also proven his point that Nate was bright but apathetic if the subject didn't interest him and no amount of his dad's motivational techniques had ever done much to improve the youngest boy's GPA.

He had shrugged internally at Madeline's attempts of varying degrees of subtly to convince her husband that he should bond with Nate over something less illegal. What she hadn't known was that the older son's bonding time with his father over automobiles had also been in chop shops, junk yards and parking lots, learning the most efficient way to boost and strip cars as well as fix them. But Michael had poured another huge serving of starchy gravy over his thoroughly cooked meatloaf and reminded himself what went on there wasn't his concern any longer, deciding where he was going to sleep that night was.

He had already spent his first two nights back in Miami prior to the family dinner with Kimberly Hardeman, the high profile criminal attorney who had previously had his juvenile records sealed and had convinced both the Army and the Dade County School District to accept Michael's GED certificate as a valid high school diploma. Then, after the three most brutal weeks of Basic Training and Recruit Westen was convinced that he could succeed in his quest, suddenly just sealed wasn't good enough for him. He wanted his records expunged. If gangsters and drug lords could get their pasts wiped clean, there was no reason why he shouldn't have that privilege. She'd promised him one last freebie if he ever got back in town. Once he'd been provided with a plane ticket to Miami, he'd made a point of contacting her and arranging to meet her after work at her condo at the Brickell on the River complex as soon as he'd arrived.

As I-85 rose and fell over the foothills of the central Georgia landscape, a mixture of hibernating grass, leafless deciduous branches hanging from bare trunks and evergreen conifers, Michael found himself remembering in detail what she'd said to him once he'd finally walked over from Ms. Drummond's condo to hers, fresh from a long shower and wearing decent clothes for the first time in seven weeks.

"There you are, just in time for cocktail hour," she'd commented as the petite brunette had opened the door. She was already out of her Giorgio Armani work wear and into a short silk robe with an Asian calligraphy print. "How long have you been in town, Pro Bono?"

"Pro Bono?" he'd echoed as he'd ducked in the doorway, not removing the white Panama hat that he'd borrowed from the concierge at the other condo. It was exactly like the one he'd lost to the Second Chance consignment store thanks to Frank Westen.

"You know, that thing they make lawyers do so many times a year to remind them that they are supposed to have souls?"

"I know what it means," he'd replied to the buff, spray tanned woman who had turned around to face him as soon as she'd thrown the dead bolts into place.

"I suppose I could just call you JL then," she'd shrugged and then smiled as his off duty attorney had walked him backwards towards the breakfast bar, which was covered with snacks, various alcohols and mixers. "You were a serious judgment lapse on my part after all."

"Are we expecting company?" Michael had wondered aloud, looking over the spread on the marble countertop behind him.

Ms. Hardeman had kicked off her three inch high pumps and had immediately found herself eye to chin with him. "No one," she'd purred. "My calendar is cleared for the next two days and you made it right on time." Her smile had become seductive before she'd leaned in and captured his mouth in a hard kiss.

"I assumed I wouldn't be seeing you again once you'd moved out of Michelle's condo," Kimberly had told the breathless young man as she'd released him. "So we have a reason to celebrate, just you and me."

Michael had flinched and she'd laughed knowingly. He hated being reminded that Jennifer's mother was on a first name basis with his legal counsel and she liked to make sure he knew who was in charge.

"You didn't need to dress up." She had pulled loose the pins and let her shoulder length, highlighted hair fall free around her shoulders in waves. "I think we both understand the terms of engagement by now."

He'd been puzzled by her remark and it had showed as she ran her hands over the loose white linen jacket and neon blue muscle shirt underneath it, her manicured, blood red nails scrapping over the planes of his chest and causing him to draw a deep breath, deeper than he'd intended. Kim's hands had drifted lower, skimming the matching white fabric on his hips and settling on his leather belted waist.

"I assumed you were trying to remind me why I was doing pro bono work for you again."

Michael hadn't realized that until the moment she'd mentioned it. It had been his best clubbing outfit, the one that made him look older and was fashion forward enough to interest the power suit crowd. Maybe he had subconsciously donned the clothing he'd worn that night he'd gone out with the intention of making sure that he went home with Ms. Kimberly Hardeman, Esquire, from that nightclub in South Beach where the beautiful people played after hours. It had been his cover for deceiving a normally eagle-eyed attorney into missing the fact that she was taking an under-aged male home after copious amounts of booze, cocaine and dirty dancing. Maybe he'd meant to remind himself what it had meant.

She'd skimmed off his hat and stifled a gasp at his missing hair, running her hands repeatedly over his nearly naked scalp as the white Panama hat had fallen onto the ivory carpet. "Oh… my….God….."

"Yea," Michael had replied. "It takes a lot of getting used to. Disappointed?"

Suddenly her smile had returned, flashing wider than before, and her eyes had sparked with raw lust.

"Come on," she'd urged. "I think it's only right that you get to do your fair share of shaving things."

She'd slipped out of her robe then, letting it float down to the floor and cover his hat.

"I'm in need of some delicate maintenance and I think you're just the man for the job."

Doffing his loafers and dropping his jacket onto one of the tall chairs nearby, he'd found himself being pulled towards the bathroom with murmured promises of all the erotic things that awaited him there…

"Hey, boy, are ya running a fever? Ya look powerful flushed back thar. Ya sure ya ain't takin' sick?"

Michael looked up to find his great uncle eying him suspiciously in the rear view mirror. He coughed and blushed even brighter at having been caught in a series of memories that would be the source of masturbation fantasies for months to come, which only reinforced the impression that he was sick.

"I'm just not used to the cold," he mumbled, breaking eye contact and throwing a glance at the still form of Levi's grandson in the front passenger seat. Shane was doing a terrific imitation of a chain saw in his sleep, the young man's head thrown back and his mouth hanging open. So, his second cousin lowered his head, leaning against the window, and closed his eyes with an exaggerated yawn for some privacy of his own.

Kim Hardeman's legal acumen and viciousness in court was well matched with her sexual appetites and voraciousness in the bedroom. By dawn of the third day, she had gone off to work and then he had slept most of the morning away. The teenager had awoken naked and alone on satin sheets that needed a serious wash. But he'd been confident that his criminal past was disappearing while he was showering off and getting dressed for the first time in three days. He'd known he'd needed to clear out of her place and see his family, which he had surprisingly been okay with. He'd actually been looking forward to sleeping on Miz W's couch, although just the thought of Madeline's cooking had given him heartburn.

Michael's mind then returned to that surreal dinner on the first night back with his entire family. He had in no way been surprised that his mother hadn't mentioned his arrival and subsequent disappearance on his first day back. She had privately mentioned to her eldest so, as she had all but demanded that he help her take out of the trash, that Patrick Carney had been by looking for him. That remembrance raised a momentary smirk, which he quickly concealed lest Levi question him again.

Michael then found himself thinking about the girl he hadn't intended on spending time with. His inability to speak Spanish, and doubtless some of his father's prejudices had rubbed off along the way, meant that while Michael had spent time in Calle Ocho and Little Havana, it had been on the streets and not between the sheets. While he had finally gotten into Ms. Drummond's condo thanks to her, getting out of the clutches of Carmen the concierge and into the shower had taken no small amount of doing.

Fortunately for him, she'd had to clean up and go back downstairs before her absence from the front desk got her fired. When he'd kissed her goodbye before venturing out on his walk up US 1 north towards his primary mission objective for this trip, he'd promised to come back and see her in a few days and she'd promised to keep his stuff safe for him until his return. She'd grinned broadly as she'd handed him that wide brimmed, Panama hat to guard his shiny scalp from the Miami sun.

And Carmen had been as good as her word and better. After spending the afternoon until her shift was over hanging around Brickell Park and trying to figure what to do with the motorcycle which was regrettably still concealed in the brush after three days, Michael had finally mapped out a route which would allow him to gear up the bike, to send it streaking towards the water at a point where it would soar far and sink fast, and provide him with adequate cover when the impending dusk would cloak him the rest of the way. His belongings had already been stowed in her car and, with the deed done, they had sped away, laughing like idiots at his brazenness and her willingness to be his accomplice.

She'd dropped him and his things at Miz W's house with the expectation that she would pick him up there tomorrow after another family dinner with the Westen clan. He'd been truly exhausted and not interested in letting his guard down in a strange bed, to sleep or otherwise. Carmen had pouted, but he knew how to get his way with women. One winning smile and tongue laden kiss later, she'd agreed.

And Fortune had smiled on him as well. Marvella Watkins had been home when he'd arrived and her sons had not. That had allowed him to stow his things somewhere that they would not come to the attention or possession of his former childhood best friend. It had pained Michael to have to think that way about Andre, but if his own mother had felt compelled to have hidden compartments under lock and key in her own home, then who was he to say anything?

The man in question had startled him awake late the next afternoon while he'd been napping on Miz W's couch, trying to rest up for another round of family drama and living la vida loca afterwards, as Andre had sauntered in with his posse in tow. Ridiculously outnumbered, Michael had opted to keep his opinions about the gang to himself at the moment. With Ricky in the house and Miz W gone to work, he'd managed to maneuver the drinking and smoking assembly that now included a group of their mutual neighborhood friends as well as Andre's peeps to the backyard. But he'd soon found himself nursing a beer and toking as the joint passed by to keep up appearances with the Northwest regulars.

While being universally razzed about his lack of hair, "Mad Dog" had tried to inhale and imbibe as little as possible. Nevertheless, his senses suddenly had been simultaneously swamped with paradoxical feelings of pleasant numbness and hypersensitivity. Struggling to keep control as the reminiscing about old times gave way to exaggerating about street racing back in the day, which Michael had no need to embellish his exploits from a couple of months ago, he'd suddenly found himself holding the car keys to a brand new black Mercedes Benz 190E when he'd asked for a ride over to his former residence.

If he'd been in his right mind, it would have dawned on the teenager that the vehicle was hotter than asphalt in August. But even if he hadn't figured that out, the barely suppressed sniggers as he'd walked away should have been his first clue. As it was, he'd put Miz W's house in his rear view in record time.

As he had barreled down NW 9th Court towards its intersection with NW North River Drive, the road had seemed to get longer and longer. It had suddenly occurred to him that the street was not that long and the house was approaching sooner rather than later. At his present speed and trajectory, he would've launched the auto into the river on the other side of said North River Drive if he didn't stop right then.

So he had stamped the brakes with both feet and thrown the steering wheel over hard left, causing the high performance luxury car to spin out, finally coming to a rest in a cloud of smoke. While it still had technically been on the street, it'd narrowly missed connecting with the back of his father's Charger.

As Frank had been standing at the garage entrance, supervising Nate in the rebuild of his mother's car motor, Mr. Westen had arrived at the curb side in an instant, screaming invectives at the gawd damned fookin' assholes who had almost rear ended his car. When Michael had emerged, swaying and sort of staggering from the driver's door towards the pair, he'd grinned broadly at his sire's stunned silence.

Of course, like anything else within the Westen household, the quiet interlude had been only temporary.

"Sonuvabitch, Slick, ya always did have more balls than brains… whud the hell d'ya think you're doin'?" His dad's practiced eye immediately had discerned what his older son had failed to in his adulterated state.

"Wow, Mike, can you do that again?" Nate had asked excitedly as he raced to his big brother's side, swimming in one of his old worn T-shirts and covered in grease from almost head to toe.

"Not if he knows whud's good fer him. Git back to work," Frank had barked the order, shooing the younger boy away by raising the back of his hand, who'd wisely but reluctantly chosen to scurry away.

"What's wrong with mom's car?" Michael had slurred. It had driven him nuts the other day trying to figure what his father had been up to and it had seemed as good a time as any to find out.

"Nutthin'. Just teaching the little shit to rebuild an engine since your ma kept bitchin' 'bout it knockin' but it's jus' the fookin' push rods chatterin' anyway." His dad looked him up one side and down the other, sniffing and not smelling what he expected.

That was the moment Madeline chose to emerge from the back door with a bag of garbage in her hand.

"Michael," she'd been both rejoicing and wary, taking in the scene before her as she walked down from the house to the end of the drive and the dented trash cans thereby. "You're early for dinner."

"Who the hell was that on the phone, Maddie?"

As she looked from her husband to her oldest child, his mom's moment of indecision had betrayed her.

"Madeline…" her spouse had growled a warning with one eye on her and one on his son. This time however Michael had made no move to assume a fighting stance. He'd stayed where he was, leaning against the car with his arms folded over his navy blue polo shirt and his denim-clad legs crossed.

"It was Mrs. Carney again," the blonde had admittedly reluctantly.

"Carney?" they'd echoed together.

"Is that the little punk ass mother fooker that came over heah looking fer Mike earlier, something about stealin' from him and then beatin' up his girlfriend?" Frank had asked his wife, but looked at his offspring.

"That lying prick," his son had actually snorted, strangely finding it funny that Patrick would try to claim the purplish mess of Jennifer's make-up had been actual bruises. "She was never his girlfriend, anyway."

"Where'd the car come from, asshole?" his dad had demanded, not liking what he'd thought was going on or where this whole scenario seemed to be headed.

"It's not his," Michael had cut him off, his inexplicable good humor making the normally taciturn youth suddenly loose in the lips. "I didn't steal his car. I stole the bike he got for his birthday and then ditched it in the Miami River cuz the jackass was telling everyone he was banging Jennifer behind my back."

"You stole his motorcycle because he stole your girlfriend?" his mother had gasped.

Abruptly, the senior Mister Westen had cut loose with an uproarious belly laugh.

"Damn, Slick," he said, as the older man continued to chuckle, "Ah didn't think ya had it in ya, sonuvabitch."

"Frank," she'd started to admonish.

"Git on in there and finish dinner, woman! This ain't none of your business."

Nate, who had edged his way down the driveway, went flying back to hide behind the front end of the Skylark as his mother had gone past. He'd peered warily at the duo standing near the street.

Frank had still been shaking his head and grinning when abruptly the smile had turned hard and he'd grabbed his oldest son by the throat and then slamming him up against the newer black vehicle.

"Git that fookin' thing outta muh driveway and git rid of it now! Ya ever come over to muh house with a hot car again an' Ah'll knock yer ass into the middle o' next week, ya dumb fook." His father had released him and taken a step back. "Hurry up about it, too. Your ma'll never stop whining if ya're late fer supper."

Later, when he'd figured out how messed up he was, it had made sense why he had just shrugged and had calmly driven away to Triple H's chop shop with the purloined vehicle and then came back to eat.

()()

As Interstate 85 gave way to Interstate 185, the movement from the exit ramps to the entrance ramps had taken Michael from his reverie and the teenager realized that he had actually drifted off to sleep at some point. Waking up in a strange place was something young Mr. Westen was used to. In fact, the older he got, the less often he was sure of where he was going to wake up. As he stretched and yawned, he decided it was just another aspect of his upbringing that he would find useful as an Army Ranger.

Finding himself sprawled out on the worn back seat of the old Chevy with only his arm for a pillow was not uncomfortable. He was an expert at sleeping in a car and the cold reminded him that winter, such that it was in South Florida, was the far better time for said activity. He decided his imperviousness to heat and humidity would serve him well in the variety of hot spots around the world to which he was likely to be assigned. One normally put on more gear in the military rather than less and there was a generally a limit to what the Army would allow you take off at any given time.

That thought led him back to how little he had worn on the whole while he'd been in Miami on leave in December. He'd spent three days in Kim Hardeman's condo never dressing once at her insistence, not until it was time to leave. He yawned again and realized that was the longest he had ever gone without clothing in his entire life. Michael Westen did not do undressed for any longer than it took to bath.

As he considered that fact, lying there bundled in his uniform, boots and field jacket, he was reminded that there'd been plenty of times he'd had sex without getting completely unclothed. He'd been tangled up in his garments every time he'd been with Carmen. When he'd woken up in her apartment with a massive headache the morning after he'd made Triple H's day with that appropriated auto, he'd certainly been exposed but not totally undressed.

It had probably been a good thing he'd spent the night with his new latina friend, because once he'd come to his senses and started to piece together what had happened, he'd been hotter than that stolen piece of high quality German engineering. He'd taken the car that he'd gotten off of Mr. Higgins to use while he was still on leave and burned rubber back over to Miz W's to start his search for Andre. His discussion with Andre's little brother, whom he'd found home with his mother for a change, had only added fuel to that fire. Ricky had taken him to the side to let him know that he'd overheard some of Andre's guys talking about lacing the lid with angel dust and making sure that Michael had taken the most hits on that chip.

He'd just finished his conversation with young Mr. Watkins when the older one pulled up, alone this time in a hooptie that might have been taken, but certainly was not for resale. Michael hadn't wasted any time laying out for his former childhood best friend what his issues were with him in no uncertain terms.

"Get outta muh face, Mad Dog," Andre had warned. "Don' be dissin' me in fronta Ricky. I don' give a shit if yo' my mamma's boy, ya don' get ta come here an' start somethin' wif' me in muh own crib, bitch. Ya wanna start somethin' wif me, ya bald headed mutha fucka? I'll snatch the hair right back on yo head!"

In the end, Michael wasn't sure what had made him madder, the fact that Andre completely disregarded the health and safety of his mother and little brother by bringing trouble into their home in the form of various gang members and low life's while he had taken beating after beating to defend Madeline and Nate from the trouble already inside their household, that Andre had broken his promise to get out of that life style or that Andre had called him out for running off to the military instead of standing his ground and letting some skinny, rich honkie take his woman. He wasn't even sure who had thrown the first punch, but it didn't matter. The final result was they were beating the crap out of one another.

He had been so wrapped up in the fight that he hadn't even heard Miz W ordering them to break it up at the top of her lungs, though she'd assured him later that she'd given them both plenty of warning before she'd turned the hose on them full blast. As the ice cold water had poured over the combatants, they had broken apart and started yelling at her instead of whaling on each other. While she'd been dressing them down for fighting in the street like a couple of stray dogs, Patrick Carney had made the mistake of pulling alongside the curb of the Watkins's residence with a group of his friends in tow.

What happened next had been a lesson that the future spy had taken away with him and extrapolated into shifting geopolitical alliances and learning to ally with one's momentary opponents to fight a greater enemy.

Michael sat up and stretched again, a big smile on his face at that particular memory. The privileged jocks might have been athletic, but they had quickly learned that the most important thing in a fight was being able to take a hit rather than deliver one and that people who'd taken beatings often knew how to hand out one with brutal efficiency. The two defensemen had learned there was a vast difference between a high school gridiron confrontation and a street fight within seconds, which had made the remainder of Mr. Carney's compadres more interested in beating a retreat than getting beaten, too.

"Whatcha smiling about, boy?" Levi queried, looking at his distantly related nephew in the rear view again. "You seem powerful happy t'be goin' back t'base."

"Yeah," he agreed and then considered the older man's conclusion once again, remembering Ms. Watkins' words to him as the woman who'd been a surrogate mother to him had dressed his wounds, following his long, hot shower and change of clothes.

"Just remember this, sweet thing, it says in the Good Book that if you intend to do a thing, you sit down and you count the cost and you make sure you gotta enough in you to finish what you start, cuz what'll happen to you if you don't? I know you have it in you to finish this, baby. Nobody's gonna mock you for not finishin' cuz that's not you, Michael. When you put your mind t'something, you don't stop. Like that king made sure he had what he needed to go to war. You got it in you to be somebody and I'm gonna hold you to it, sugar, cuz I know what it's cost you and you know what you have to do to get there. I'm proud of you, baby. I'm sorry 'bout 'dre, but he don' want it, so that's over…I'll do what I can, but I have to look for Ricky now, cuz you, Michael, you and Ricky… Y'all gonna be somebody some day, I just know it."

"Yes," Recruit Westen said louder, realizing that he was indeed happy to be going back to base and away from the madness of his upbringing and towards something positive, however painful and difficult it might be to achieve. But he had counted the cost and found himself eager, regardless of the abuse, the bad food and the bullshit that awaited him. He was ready to move forward towards his goal and make something of himself, to be all that he could be and let his suffering serve a higher purpose. "Yes, I am."

He was going to be a Ranger and nothing was going to get in the way of that.

()()

A/N: For anyone interested, the scripture Miz W quoted is Luke 14:28-33

Coming a week from Monday, a dark new multi-chapter story co-authored with Purdy's Pal, under the pen name Jedi's Pal. Check us out tomorrow night under our joint profile.