Worse than Being Burned

By Skye Silverwing

Disclaimer: You all know how it goes. I don't own it.

My name is Michael Weston. I used to be a Spy until…

"We got a Burn Notice on you. You're blacklisted."

When you're Burned, you've got nothing. No cash, no credit, no job history.

You're stuck in whatever city they decide to dump you in.

You do whatever work comes your way.

You rely on anyone who's still talking to you:

A trigger-happy ex-girlfriend.

An old friend old friend who used to inform on you to the FBI.

Family too, if you're desperate.

Bottom line, as long as you're burned, you're not going anywhere.

.o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o.

Some days you have to wonder if the position you are in is the worst you can be in. Fact is, whether you are a soldier captured by enemy forces, or a Burned Spy in Miami without much of anything, the answer is almost always no: It can always get worse.

In reality, it was one of the better days Michael had had since he got burned. He and his old buddy, Sam Axe, had just captured the assassin who had been going by the name of Kendra. Kendra had killed the previous lead to the identity of a mysterious group that was profiting from wars, assassinations, and criminal action the world over.

As they stuffed her into the trunk, they discussed the best ways to interrogate her and learn what they needed to know. Kendra was a hardened killer, and that meant that breaking through her defenses was going to prove difficult even for a former SEAL and a burned spy.

Sam looked at Michael. "Maybe we should get Fiona in on this." He suggested, "You know how much she loves to interrogate the women you flirt with."

Mike gave Sam a withering look. "That could work, except that we want Kendra talking, not dead." He replied, recalling the look Fiona had given him when he had last spoken with Kendra. "Fi is probably not the person for this kind of situation. She would be a little… overly enthusiastic. "

Sam sighed. "I suppose it is just you, me, and Jesse, then." He said with a sigh, "Anyway, I've gotta get back. My Lady friend is starting to wonder if I'm not out spending time with another woman. Can you handle setting her up alone?"

Michael nodded. "I think I can handle one unconscious and unarmed woman, Sam." He said, "Though tell Jesse and Fi to come help me secure the location. Kendra's employers are not going to be happy about her capture."

.o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o.

On the top of a nearby building, a man looked through the sight of his rifle, watching the charger pull away from the docks. Pulling a cell phone, he dialed the number from memory. A few rings later, there was a click on the other end of the line, the only indication that someone had picked up.

A sinister smile spread across the man's face. "This is Gin." He said, "Vermouth has been captured. It seems that this 'Michael Weston' is more skilled than we had first guessed."

There was a moment of silence. "Get her back." Said the voice on the other end of the line, "And then deal with Mr. Weston."

Gin smiled evilly. "Of course, Boss." He replied.

.o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o.

When you are a spy, you learn to look for the subtle clues that indicate that someone is following you. However, such skills are not necessary when a tail decides to dispense with all subtlety. Fortunately, Spies also learn to drive when Maniacs want to run them off the road.

Michael had just dropped Sam off when he noticed the black Porsche tailing him. The vehicles windows were tinted, and it was coming up on him fast. At first he expected that the other driver was trying to scare him, but then he noticed the Porsche's reinforced bumper.

Michael braced himself as the Porsche impacted the rear of the charger, causing it to accelerate and skid wildly. Pulling his phone, Mike hit the speed dial as he fought to maintain control. The tires squealed as he made a sharp turn in an attempt to lose the Porsche, but whoever was driving it, they were good.

The phone rang twice and then picked up. "Hello?" the female voice on the other end answered.

Michael drifted a corner at breakneck speed and barely missed two parked cars and a group of trashcans. The Porsche misjudged the distance and ruined both cars' sides, but kept following. "Fi!" he shouted, "Looks like the meeting was observed by Kendra's employers. They caught up just after I dropped off Sam, and I need help! I am at-"

He cut off when he heard the tell-tale sound of a cell phone jammer cutting off his signal. "Terrific." He muttered, heading into a residential area. The Porsche was repeatedly impacting his rear bumper, forcing him to go faster. His mind raced. There had to be a way out of this.

Suddenly, a bright red ball bounced out in the road ahead of him, followed by a young girl maybe five or six years old.

No amount of training can prepare you for when you have a split second to choose between yourself and the life of a child. One can hope, though, that you make the right choice.

Michael cranked the wheel hard to the side and slammed on the brakes, sending the car into a skid just as the Porsche impacted it again, tapping the other car's font with just enough force to cause both vehicles to lose control and spin off either side of the road, the Porsche plowed through an empty yard while the Charger struck a utility pole in excess of forty miles per hour.

Michael had his seatbelt on, but his head slammed hard into the steering wheel, causing him to see stars, and likely giving him a concussion. As he blearily and helplessly watched his attacker approach, he vaguely wondered if the man was going to execute him here, or if there was some way out of this.

The man produced a container, and what seemed to be a flask. "You picked a miserable place to die, Mr. Weston," the man said, "too many witnesses to just shoot you, so this poison will have to do." With that, he stuck a pill from the container into Michael's mouth and followed it with water from the flask, forcing him to swallow.

Then, he pulled the trunk release and moved to the back of the car. "Vermouth," he said in Japanese, "I don't know why the boss is so determined that we get you back." Then, he hoisted the unconscious woman out of the trunk and carried her back to the Porsche.

Michael stared blearily after them, cursing his inability to move. A few moments later, his world exploded into pain and then sank into darkness.

.o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o.

Fiona and Jesse blew three red lights as they followed the route Mike was supposed to take trying to locate him. Jesse was trying to raise Michael on his phone while Fiona drove and scoured the area.

When something comes along that causes a fair amount of disruption from the normal way of things, it will always leave traces behind: fresh skid marks, sideswiped parked cars, and the "Dodged the Bullet" look on bystanders' faces. If you know what to look for, it amounts to a trail a mile wide.

Fiona spotted the skid marks on the road, taking the corner slower so that she would not draw too much attention in her stolen car. Then she spotted the scraped up cars, which lead her onto a residential street. Several blocks later, Fiona's heart skipped a beat when she saw the charger smashed on the utility pole.

Most of the bystanders were keeping back, maintaining their distance against the possibility of the car exploding. They were waiting for police and EMTs, but for some reason, none had arrived yet.

Getting out of the car, the pair ran over to the charger. Fiona growled as she noted the open and empty trunk. "Remind me to kill Kendra if I ever see her again." She said as Jesse reached the driver's side of the car and stopped.

Jesse looked into the driver's seat and then looked back at Fi. "Mike isn't here." He said, "But… Who is this kid?"

Fiona stopped beside him, and sure enough a child no older than six was strapped in the front seat.

When you are a Spy, you get used to handling unexpected situations. You prepare for any contingency you can think of and you hope that things don't go bad. When things do go bad, you hope that they get better before they get worse. Sometimes though, things just get worse.

.o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o. .o0o.

A. N. Honestly, I don't really intend to continue this fiction. I might, but I just wrote it because Burn Notice and Detective Conan seem like they would click, and no one had done it yet. In any case, I not the kind of guy to leave people hanging. Anyone who wants to use this story as the springboard for their own fic, I invite you to do so. I simply request that you send me a message letting me know about it, and leave my name on the part I wrote. I deliberately did not put it in any specific point on the Detective Conan Timeline, so that can be up to anyone that wants to take it over.