It is three in the morning, four days since Michael left. A child predator going by the name of Charles Vizier is loose in Miami, helping vicious smugglers move innocent girls form all over the world into warehouse to be sold and exploited-when he isn’t trying ot idnap little boys. The man is sick, and Fiona was delighted when offered the chance to take him down.
But Michael asks her to wait, just once, while he goes in. He promises her the explosions and the guns blazing part later, but for now, he asks for her little stock of patience. He is Michael. She says yes.
He doesn’t come back, so the first day she goes hunting. When no one talks, she spends the second day scouting. When she sees and hears nothing, she spends the third day back on Vizier’s trail, hoping to find Michael that way. Nothing.
So the fourth day comes and she is waiting. She cannot eat or drink or sleep or think. The image of Michael possibly dead somewhere haunts her. Tomorrow she will find Vizier and take him somewhere quiet and beat the answers out of him, will shoot off his fingers and shove a lovingly crafted handmade bomb up his ass, but for now-
Sam tells her not to worry, and they feed Madeline all the lies she can hold. She has her guns out on the floor; there is yogurt in the fridge and beer on the table and plenty to be done even now if she has the strength for it. She doesn’t- not today. Not now, when the sky is dark and there is no hope left in her. Tomorrow.
Tomorrow she will be able to laugh and snark and call it just another job; this will hurt so much less when she can beat sense into Michael’s alive and relieved and lying face.
But for the next few hours, until the sun begins to rise, Fiona sits in a chair, stone still, phone in her lap, and waits.
Michael will surely come back.