Burn Notice

Michael stared at the cream envelope on his counter. Actual paper mail was a rarity these days, like phone calls or personal integrity. The wax seal with its embossed "P&T" felt pretentious, almost medieval.

Paul and Tessa. Together. Perfect.

He traced his finger over the calligraphy, feeling the indentations against his skin. Whoever had addressed this had pressed hard, committed to each stroke. Unlike him, who'd spent fifteen years avoiding commitment of any kind.

Michael reached for the bourbon bottle that had become his most consistent relationship. The amber liquid caught the late afternoon light as he poured three fingers. No ice. A Tuesday special reserved for moments when the past came calling.

Fifteen years since college. Fifteen years since he'd stood in that cramped dorm room, heart tearing itself apart as he told Paul to ask Tessa to the formal. Fifteen years of Paul winning while Michael mastered the art of disappearing.

His phone vibrated against the countertop, illuminating Paul's name like an accusation.

"Did you get it?" Paul's voice hadn't lost that earnest golden-retriever enthusiasm that had once made him impossible to hate.

"Just now." Michael swirled the bourbon, watching light refract through it like memories. "Congratulations."

"So you'll be there? Be my best man?"

Michael closed his eyes. Best man. Again. The universe's favorite cosmic joke at his expense.

"When's the big day?"

"Six weeks from Saturday. I know it's short notice, but the venue had a cancellation and Tessa has always wanted a fall wedding."

"Who's the bride? Invitation just says 'P&T'."

A pause, weighted with unspoken history. "You don't know? It's Tessa. Tessa Riley."

The bourbon sloshed over Michael's fingers as his hand jerked involuntarily. "Tessa? Our Tessa?"

"I ran into her at a finance conference last year. We reconnected and..." Paul's voice went soft, reverent. "It just clicked, Mike. Like the universe was giving us another chance."

Michael stared at the wall where he'd never hung any photos. "I thought you were marrying that lawyer. Patricia?"

"That ended two years ago. I told you about the breakup."

Had he? Michael couldn't remember. He'd stopped truly listening to Paul's life updates somewhere around the third promotion, second girlfriend, first house in that gated community. Details blurred after enough bourbon-soaked evenings alone.

"I'll try to make it," Michael said finally.

"Try? Mike, you have to be there. You're the one who pushed me to ask her out in the first place, remember?"

Michael remembered. He remembered forcing the words through a desert-dry throat: "You should ask Tessa to formal. She likes you." He remembered Paul's surprised smile, Tessa's radiant glow when Paul had asked her, the hollow feeling as he'd watched them dance while he nursed a beer in the corner, the first of many.

"Right," Michael said. "I'll be there."

After hanging up, he unsealed the invitation with trembling fingers. Inside was a handwritten note in familiar looping script that once wrote him poetry:

Michael, I hope you'll come. There's so much to say after all these years. —Tessa

Below that, an address and phone number. Her address. Her number.

Michael drained his glass and poured another. Nostalgia and bourbon—both burned going down, but only one promised temporary oblivion.

The diner hadn't changed—same cracked vinyl booths, same flickering neon sign, same greasy scent of perpetually frying onions. The place existed in a pocket dimension where time stood still while life raged on outside.

When Tessa walked in, conversations paused. She'd always had that effect, but now it came with the confidence of someone who knew their worth. Her dark hair framed her face in an expensive cut that screamed successful-whatever-she-did-now.

"Michael." She slid into the booth across from him, her smile cautious but genuine. "You look good."

A kind lie. He knew what she saw—thinning hair, thickening waistline, and a shirt that had clearly slept on his bedroom floor because laundry was a concept he engaged with only when absolutely necessary.

"You look incredible," he said, because it was true and some truths needed saying.

"Still the charmer." She studied him, her eyes cataloging the years written on his face. "I wasn't sure you'd come."

"Fifteen years of silence and suddenly I'm invited to your wedding. Curiosity got the better of me."

"You and Paul," Michael said when they were alone again. "I wouldn't have predicted that."

"Life takes weird turns." She traced a water ring on the table, a perfect circle like the wedding band she'd soon wear. "Running into him felt like... a second chance."

"And now you're getting married."

"And now we're getting married." Her eyes locked on his, searching. "Are you okay with that?"

Michael laughed, the sound brittle even to his own ears. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Because you loved me."

The words hung between them. Simple. Direct. True.

"Ancient history," he said, the lie sour on his tongue.

"Was it? You never said anything, Michael. You pushed me toward Paul and then you just... vanished."

"You were happy with him."

"For a while." She withdrew her hand, leaving condensation fingerprints on the tabletop. "Then life happened."

Michael searched her face for regret or invitation. He found neither—just honesty and something else. Fear?

"Why am I here, Tessa?"

She took a deep breath that seemed to expand the space between them. "I need your help. Paul's in trouble."

The storage facility looked like what would happen if dystopian architecture had a garage sale—row after identical row of corrugated metal doors, cameras that probably didn't work, and chain-link fencing topped with decorative barbed wire.

She parked her sleek BMW in front of unit 257. Michael pulled his Honda beside it, the contrast between their vehicles a too-obvious metaphor for their lives.

"Before we go in," Tessa said, key in hand, "I need to know you're with me. No matter what."

"Depends what 'this' is."

"It's about Paul's work." She glanced around, suddenly tense. "What he found."

"Which is?"

"Evidence." The key turned with a satisfying click. "His investment bank has been laundering money for drug cartels, terrorists, corrupt politicians. The works."

"And he what? Called the cops?"

"He tried." She lifted the metal door, muscles taut beneath designer clothes. "But these people have connections everywhere. The FBI agent he contacted disappeared three days later."

Inside, banker's boxes and a laptop that hummed softly in the silence.

"He copied everything," Tessa said, voice hollow in the metal space. "Transaction records, client lists—enough to bring down an empire."

"Why give it to you?"

"Because I'm not connected to him officially yet. No one's watching me." She turned, eyes intense. "But they're watching you."

Michael froze. "What?"

"You're his best friend. The first person they'd expect him to reach out to. Your apartment, car, phone—all bugged."

"That's insane. I haven't spoken to Paul in months."

"Exactly. Perfect cover to reconnect without raising suspicion." She stepped closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume—different from college but somehow still Tessa. "The wedding isn't real, Michael. It's a smokescreen."

Michael stared. "You're not getting married?"

"Oh, we are. The guests, venue—all real. But it's also cover to hand off evidence."

"And that someone is me?"

"You still have that friend at Justice Department, right? Sarah Winters?"

The name hit like a punch to the solar plexus. "How do you know about Sarah?"

"Paul keeps tabs on people he cares about. Even when they vanish without a word."

The guilt Michael had buried under years of indifference surfaced like a corpse in a flood. He ran a hand through thinning hair. "You're asking me to smuggle evidence during your wedding? Put a target on my back?"

"I'm asking you to help your oldest friend." Her eyes were steady, unwavering. "To do what's right."

"The right thing," Michael echoed, tasting the unfamiliar concept. "And if I say no?"

"Then Paul will probably spend his life looking over his shoulder." She hesitated, head tilted slightly. "And we'll both know exactly who you are."

"They're closing in," Paul said over espresso he wasn't drinking. Dark circles under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights. "Someone's asking questions about files I accessed."

The café buzzed with normal lives around them—people whose biggest worry was whether their lattes had enough foam.

"Call it off," Michael urged. "Disappear. I know people."

Paul shook his head. "Can't live like that. Can't let them keep funding terrorists with grandma's retirement accounts either."

"Always the idealist."

"One of us has to be." Paul's tired smile was genuine, a glimpse of the boy who'd once been Michael's brother in everything but blood. "You're the cynic, I'm the dreamer—our whole dynamic."

Michael felt the old protective instinct stir in his chest, dormant but not dead. Damn it.

"If we do this," he said, "we do it my way."

The wedding venue looked like Pinterest had vomited rustic chic all over a barn. String lights hung from exposed beams like captive stars, and mason jars with tea lights lined the aisle. The perfect backdrop for love or treason, depending on your perspective.

"During the father-daughter dance," Michael rehearsed, adjusting his bow tie in the mirror, "I excuse myself, get the drive from cousin Leo, handoff to Sarah during cake cutting."

"Your Justice contact will be there?" Paul asked for the tenth time, pacing the groom's suite like a caged animal.

"Blonde hair, blue dress, posing as a distant cousin. She'll be there." Sarah had sounded surprised to hear from him after all these years. Some bonds outlasted even the most determined abandonment.

A knock interrupted the tension. Tessa entered in white satin that made Michael's chest ache with parallel universe possibilities. She was stunning—a vision of everything he'd walked away from.

"It's time," she said simply.

The ceremony passed in surreal detachment. Standing beside Paul, watching Tessa walk the aisle on her father's arm, Michael felt like he was watching a film of someone else's life.

When the minister asked if anyone objected, Michael felt unfamiliar words rise in his throat only to die there, unspoken. Paul squeezed his shoulder gently, a touch that said he knew, he'd always known. It was both absolution and accusation.

At the reception, Michael delivered his best man speech, a carefully crafted blend of memories and inside jokes that only the three of them fully understood. The room laughed in all the right places, unaware of the subtext beneath each word.

The father-daughter dance began, and Michael slipped away to the hallway where Paul's cousin waited.

"Leo?"

The young man nodded, palming something as they shook hands. "Good luck."

Michael tucked the USB drive into his inner jacket pocket and returned to the reception where cake cutting was underway. He scanned for Sarah—blonde hair, blue dress. He spotted her near the bar and started toward her.

Three men entered the reception, dark suits and watchful eyes marking them as something other than distant relatives. One looked directly at Michael. Then at Sarah.

"They're here," Michael muttered into his hidden microphone.

"Abort," came Paul's voice through the earpiece. "Get out now."

Michael changed course toward a side exit. Behind him, footsteps closed the distance.

A dark SUV screeched to a halt outside. The door flew open.

"Get in!" Tessa shouted from behind the wheel, still in her wedding dress, veil discarded.

Michael dove in. Tessa floored the accelerator before he closed the door, gravel spraying in their wake.

"Paul?" Michael asked, breathless.

"Creating a distraction. He'll meet us at the rendezvous." Her knuckles were white against the steering wheel. "Did you make the handoff?"

"No. They made Sarah."

Tessa cursed, taking a sharp turn onto dirt road. "Plan B then."

Headlights appeared in the mirror, gaining fast. "We've got company," Michael warned.

"Glove compartment," Tessa said with alarming calm.

Michael found a pistol nestled among insurance papers. "Been a while since I shot anything."

"Like riding a bike," she said. "Just aim for tires."

Michael leaned out the window, wind whipping his face, and fired three times. The third shot connected with a satisfying pop. The pursuing vehicle swerved wildly.

A shot from the other car shattered their back window.

"Down!" Tessa shouted, hunching over the wheel.

Michael returned fire. This time the pursuing vehicle rolled dramatically, vanishing in a crash worthy of a B-action film.

"Nice shot," Tessa said, not slowing down.

"I was aiming for his radio. Wanted to stop him playing that awful country music."

She shot him a look, then burst into laughter—high and wild. After a moment, Michael joined in, tension breaking like a fever.

More headlights appeared—blocking the road ahead.

"Hold on," Tessa yanked the wheel, sending them crashing through brush. They bounced over terrain rough enough to rearrange Michael's dental work before breaking into a clearing with a small cabin.

"The safehouse?"

She nodded. "Federal marshal should be waiting."

The cabin was empty. No marshal. No Paul.

Headlights swept windows. They ducked down as a car door slammed. Footsteps approached. Then Paul's voice: "It's me."

He stumbled in bleeding from his forehead, wedding tuxedo torn at the shoulder. "The marshal's compromised. They know about this place."

"How long?" Michael asked.

"Minutes. They're coming from all sides."

Michael felt the weight of the drive in his pocket. "What now?"

"Give me the drive," Paul said, hand outstretched. "I'll turn myself in. Trade it for your safety."

"That's suicide," Tessa protested, grabbing his arm.

Michael looked at his oldest friend, at the woman they'd both loved, and made his decision.

"No," he backed toward the door. "They want someone to blame. Might as well be me."

"Michael—" Tessa began, eyes widening.

"I've spent fifteen years running from everything that mattered." He smiled sadly. "Time to stop."

"They'll kill you," Paul said, voice breaking.

"Maybe. Or I'll make it to highway patrol first." Michael pulled out his phone. "I'll record everything you've told me. If I don't make it, the truth still does."

"And if you do?" Tessa asked softly.

"Then I'll see you both sometime." He nodded to Paul. "Look after her this time. For real."

Paul embraced him fiercely, the way brothers do before battle. "You're a better man than I ever gave you credit for."

"No. Just finally doing what I should have done years ago."

Tessa stepped forward, tears trailing mascara down her cheeks. She kissed him, gently. "Be careful."

"Fastest runner in Delta Phi, remember?" He winked, summoning confidence he didn't feel. "Now go. I'll distract them."

They disappeared into trees. Michael recorded his testimony, naming names and accounts, then improvised a Molotov cocktail from bourbon—sacrificing good liquor seemed symbolically fitting somehow.

Vehicles surrounded the cabin, flashlight beams cutting through windows. Michael took a deep breath, lit the rag, and threw the bottle through a window. It exploded in a burst of flame, creating beautiful chaos.

In that chaos, he slipped out a side door and ran—away from Paul and Tessa's escape route, drawing attention to himself.

Shouts followed. Then gunfire. He zigzagged through trees, branches whipping his face.

Pain tore through his shoulder, hot and sudden. He stumbled but kept running. Another shot kicked up dirt by his feet.

The trees thinned to reveal an embankment. Through the haze of pain, he glimpsed a road below. If he could reach it—

More shots. His leg exploded in agony. He was falling, tumbling down the slope, the world cartwheeling around him.

He landed hard, tasting copper. Headlights approached on the road. Friend or foe, he couldn't tell.

Above, voices called out, flashlights scanning. They hadn't seen him fall.

With fading strength, Michael pulled out the USB drive and his phone. He needed to hide them, somewhere they'd be found later.

He crawled toward a drainage pipe, pushing both items deep inside, covering them with leaves and dirt. The evidence would survive, even if he didn't.

The headlights grew closer. A vehicle slowed, then stopped. A door opened.

"Hello?" a woman called. "Is someone there?"

Michael tried to respond, but only managed a groan. He dragged himself toward the road, leaving a dark trail behind him.

The woman gasped. "Oh my God! Hold on, I'm calling an ambulance!"

Michael grabbed her wrist, pulling her closer. With his last coherent thought, he whispered the location of the evidence and a name—Sarah Winters, Justice Department.

As consciousness faded, he thought of Paul and Tessa. Safe, he hoped. Together, as they should be.

For fifteen years, Michael Brennan had run from everything that mattered. Tonight, he'd finally stood his ground—not for himself, but for the two people he loved most.

It felt like coming home.

Six months later, Sarah Winters stood in the doorway of a hospital room, watching Michael slowly push himself up in bed. His shoulder and leg were healing, but some wounds went deeper.

"They broke the story this morning," she said, offering a newspaper. "Biggest financial scandal since 2008."

Michael glanced at the headlines without touching the paper. "And Paul and Tessa?"

"Safe in witness protection. Different names, different city." She hesitated. "They've been asking about you."

"Let them think I didn't make it," Michael said, turning to watch snow fall outside the window. "It's cleaner that way."

"The danger's passed. You could—"

"No." His voice was soft but firm. "Some debts can only be paid one way."

After she left, Michael closed his eyes against the winter light. He'd broken every rule, betrayed every oath from his brief government career. But for the first time in fifteen years, he slept without drowning in bourbon first.

In his dreams, he saw Paul and Tessa walking along a distant shore, hand in hand. Happy. Free.

It was enough. It had to be.