Monday, December 5, 2011
Seamus O’ Brian was the older brother of her teller. In all the research she’d done on the teller, Siobhan O’Brian the fact that her older brother was CIA was never revealed. The information had been buried deep. No one outside of the agency or the town knew she had an older sibling or any sibling for that matter. According to the records the teller was an only child with a large extended family of male cousins who watched out for her.
She now knew Seamus was fifteen years older than Siobhan and already out of the house when their family moved outside of Las Vegas, New Mexico. His identity was carefully recreated with the cooperation of his family and the CIA. Now she knew that Seamus posed as one of her cousins when he was in town. That was not the only information that had been buried deep.
Their father was a retired operative also. He’d gotten suspicious when he’d investigated his daughters new friend at the bank. He’d went beyond the information the Secret Service crafted and found that her identify did not exist beyond a few well placed job references. Suspicious he’d called Seamus who’d roared into town to protect his sister thinking his identity had been compromised.
Seamus came roaring into town at the precise moment she was confronting the bank president with his misdeeds. At the precise moment, Seamus used his CIA training to enter the bank and confront her and the bank president thinking she was involved in whatever was going on.
Sitting behind his desk the bank president pulled out a gun and fired, hitting her in the shoulder. As she fell Seamus put a bullet through the bank president’s head. He’d saved her life that night as her team rushed in not knowing if she was friend or foe he’d stopped the bleeding and made a tourniquet that doctors told her saved her life. He’d even given her blood after finding out the small hospital in Las Vegas did not have her type. He’d even sat at her bedside for days afterwards until she came to weeks later.
She’d never forget coming awake to a man over six feet five with shoulder length hair struggling to find comfort in a too tiny chair. His café ole skin was smooth and when he opened his eyes they were a rich brown.
“Are you?” he’d said moving quickly to the bed as she struggled to pull the tube out of her throat.
Posted by Abigail-Madison Chase at 7:27 PM