Author's note: As I was clearing some stuff off of my computer I decided to go through some of the stuff I had previously written, this story being one of them and I decided that I was not satisfied with how things were. I made the choice to do a major overhaul on this and hope it works better this time around. I will still leave the original up for fun but this is the re-work

Chapter 1

"The night was…"

So, here I am again on another Friday night, it is payday and the end of a long week. I should be out having dinner at the bar with a few friends or kicking back a few brews at a hockey game, but no. I am at home, in my pajamas, watching Throw Momma From the Train. I would feel somewhat lonely if it wasn't for the fact that I have two cats; both of whom are curled up sleeping on both my legs, only waking when I cannot stop myself from laughing at Danny DeVito hitting Billy Crystal in the head with a cast iron frying pan while the eggs go flying to the floor.

It wasn't until the movie was over when I received a message from an old friend from back home that I realized how much I missed my old life (at least pieces of it anyway).

I moved my entire life (for the second time) and my cats to jump head first into my career field. Prior to leaving I was temporarily living at my parents' home just browsing through job listings for anything that was related to anthropology and/or archaeology. A phone call from my aunt in Boston with a lead was all it took to get the ball rolling. I sent in an application and resume then played the waiting game to see if I would even get a response other than the typical "sorry we're going with other candidates at this time but good luck" that I had been getting for the past several weeks.

The six weeks it took from the time I sent my stuff off to the time I got the initial phone interview was slow as molasses. In that time I wound up getting a job as a delivery driver, just to be able to make some money so I could help pay the bills. It then took another four weeks for them to call me back to say they wanted to do an in-person interview. It wasn't until I was on a plane to Boston that I was grateful to have taken that delivery position – the money I made from my tips alone was enough to pay for my plane ticket there and back.

Finally, a month after that in-person interview, I got the call back saying that I got the job. It was a lab tech position at the USS Constitution Museum; it was entry level, but at that point I would take just about anything as long as I got to put my Bachelor's to work for me. I did not spend all that time and money to get it and have it go to waste

Shortly after I started at the museum, I decided that the next logical step was to go back and work on my Master's. Granted, anthropology as a whole is a limited field, but being able to find a school that would enable me to pursue my ambitions was tougher than finding a job and a roof over my head. I eventually settled on Boston University to pursue a Master's in Forensic Anthropology. I also, somehow, managed to talk a few people at the University into letting me study linguistics as an undergrad.

In short, I managed to keep myself busy, but between work and school I always feel like I'm neglecting my poor cats. They very seldom see me and when they do they just want me to play with them and cuddle them; of course they want to have their food and water bowls filled and their litter boxes cleaned out but that's a given. I feel horrible when I have to push them away, saying that I'm too busy with homework or that I'm too tired to play with them.

But not tonight.

I quickly texted my friend back, changed into a pair of jeans and grabbed the cats' harnesses and leashes deciding that the three of us needed to get out for a bit and do some bonding. Trust me, I know it may look strange to walk a pair of cats on leashes on the streets of Boston, but the boys love being out in the fresh air and it's a good excuse to not have to a) clean out the litter boxes and b) watch them fill it up again not even 5 minutes later. Who could argue with free fertilizer?

Generally speaking, I haven't left my apartment much since moving to Boston. Of course I'd leave to go to the grocery store like clockwork every Saturday morning and on occasion I'd bump into my neighbor but other than that I had no real reason to leave the confines of my apartment. If I wanted some fresh air all I had to do was go out and sit on the fire escape. Although doing so meant having to deal with the never ending frat party two floors up.

The lady next door says it's only two guys living there but if that were true then they sure do make a lot of fucking noise.

Like all major cities Boston still has its crime rates and every day the murder count increases. Unlike all major cities though, Boston's crime rates are due in part to the mafias. The three major ones are the Irish, Italians, and Russians. Living in an Irish neighborhood the Irish mafia doesn't really bother anyone unless someone goes around stepping on their toes. The Russians and the Italians on the other hand, those guys like to cause trouble. Lately we've had the Russians streaming in buying up buildings left and right. Rumor has it they're forcing the bar down the street to close.

Then you got just the plain old, run of the mill type of criminal. The ones who hide out in the alleys, waiting for the opportune moment to grab a girl and rape her or pick-pocket someone as they walk past. You've got your pimps and hoes on the street corners just as night begins to fall. You've got your drug dealers who get busted on a deal then are back out on the streets doing it again in less than 24 hours.

If only vigilantism were legal…

I went with my gut tonight and decided to not only carry my pepper spray with me, but I also strapped my pistol to the belt loops of my jeans. It wasn't anything fancy; my dad had given me a Sig Sauer P229 as a parting gift. The best advice he'd given me to date was to make sure it was always loaded with one in the chamber. I never thought I would actually have to use it, but it was better to have it and not need it than to need it and not have it.

I managed to get the boys into their harnesses and attached the leashes with relatively few scratches this time around. Normally they tag-team me with one going after my arms and the other going after my legs, but once I managed to get the door of the apartment opened they ran out as quickly as they could. The building that I live in would not have been my first choice but considering that it was cheap, err… rather illegal loft housing, I took my chances.

When I first moved here my aunt and uncle invited me to stay with them for as long as I wanted. It was a tempting offer considering that they lived in one of the more swanky parts of town but it just didn't feel right. It didn't feel like home and I felt so out of place being there. Just about every night at dinner my aunt would rattle off some nonsense she saw on the news which would turn into a story of "did you know…" and my uncle would be right there with her talking about how it was this politician's fault or that politician's fault. Then there were the nights when they'd ask how my day was. One particular night I made mention that I had spoken with one of my aunts, on my dad's side, in Texas and was thinking about making a trip down that summer to visit. What did my aunt and uncle do? My aunt started giving me a history lesson on the state of Texas and my uncle started listing all the reasons why he hated former President Bush.

The two of them were driving me so far up the damn wall I had to get out of there. The few friends I did make at work suggested looking in the paper for something that was close to the transit systems, which is what I started out doing. Then these same work friends took me out for a night of drinking. Somehow we wound up at this bar called McGinty's, the same one the Russians are threatening to close, and the bartender made a suggestion on this building. Despite his Tourette's he said two of his favorite patrons lived there and they took care of quite a few people.

In a way the old bartender was right; his two favorite patrons did take care of people who lived in their building. Some days I could smell fresh baked bread coming from the lady next door. When I finally got the nerve to ask her about it she said she always bakes two loaves every week – one for herself and one for the boys upstairs. According to her, they helped her move in when the movers dumped all of her belongings on the curb when her check bounced. Some mornings I'd be running so late for work that one of them will be standing by the front door of building holding the door open for me so I didn't run face first into (again).

That was a fun morning!

I was running late because the cats had decided sometime during the night to bat my shoes around the apartment. I found one right away poking out from under the stove but the other was shoved under the couch and pressed against the wall; I had to pull the couch out to try and get it, when that didn't work I had to use the handle of the broom to drag it out. When both of my shoes were on my feet I rushed out the door only to realize I left my keys inside and the door was unlocked. After running back inside to get the keys and lock the door I discovered that the elevator was out of service. My only other option was to take the stairs and by the time I reached the first floor I was already ten minutes late and had missed my train. I had no choice but to take the car and fight traffic. In my haste to leave the building I ended up running face first into the glass door.

The guys that were just on the other side were doing their best to stifle their laughs but it was no use. They opened the door and helped me to my feet in between giggles of "are ya alright lass?" My face was as red as a tomato with embarrassment but I forced out a quick "I'm fine" and was on my way to the parking garage across the street.

Someone must've told them which unit was mine because the next morning when I opened my door to go to work there was a note taped to my door reminding me to be more careful and a small Band-Aid in case my nose was busted. A few weeks after that there was another note taped to my door with one of those Ace bandages sitting on the floor; apparently they had heard about me twisting my ankle at work the day before.

Approaching the elevator I pressed the down button and waited. I gave a shutter as the wheels and gears grinded against each other and offered up a quick, silent prayer that I didn't get stuck on this contraption. Knowing my luck the wires would snap and this metal death trap would go plummeting down to the ground so damn fast my neck would already be broken by the time it hit the bottom of the shaft. Once it finally grinded to a stop, I pulled open the doors and climbed inside, thankful that it was empty. Grasping the strap, I pulled the doors shut and hit the button for the ground level. The cats were huddled together in the corner, sniffing around until their noses hit something repulsive. They both looked at me with their mouths hanging open for a second or two before they took off for another corner only to discover it smelled just as bad.

I would've kissed the ground when the elevator stopped, but not knowing what kinds of things had fallen on the ground, I opted for a quick "thank God!" The boys had a pleasant walk despite getting the odd looks from strangers and a group of teenagers exclaiming "black cats are bad luck" when we passed by. Yes, black cats have a bad reputation, especially with today being Friday the 13th, but my boys are nothing but sweethearts who want nothing more than to be loved. I wish I could say though that the way back home was just as pleasant. They freaked the fuck out when a siren started going off just a few blocks away followed by gun shots, so I had the misfortune of carrying them back home. It was times like this that I'm also thankful that I grabbed their carrier before we left.

Once the boys were safely stowed away in their carrier, I high-tailed it back home but as I crossed in front of one of the alleys I felt something catch on my hair. In my naivety, I had thought it was just caught on some invisible force like a spider web. I felt myself being dragged backwards into the alley when my instincts kicked in; I hated having to do it, but I dropped the carrier my cats were in and pulled the pepper spray from my pocket. Unfortunately, I panicked and dropped the canister. My attacker threw me against the wall and upon glancing up saw that his face was covered (the pepper spray wouldn't have done any good had I been able to use it). My head hit the wall pretty hard so I had no clue what it was he was muttering, something about killing me and then killing my cats. There was no way in hell some stupid motherfucker was going to hurt my cats.

Before I had a chance to grab my pistol out the holster, I felt a sharp sting pierce through my left shoulder. He wrenched the blade around in my shoulder for what seemed like an eternity, but the adrenaline coursing through my veins told me to grab the pistol and fire. I did just that. I flipped the safety off and pressed the barrel into his left shoulder. Squeezing the trigger, I fired a single shot into his shoulder and once he lurched back in pain, I squeezed off a couple more rounds, not really caring where they hit, put the safety back on, grabbed the cats, and ran like hell all the back home.

It wasn't until I reached the confines of the elevator that I heard an accented voice ask if I was alright, exclaiming that I looked like I just ran a half marathon in a somewhat amused tone of voice. I muttered, more to myself, that I was fine and quickly climbed out once the elevator reached the third floor. I wanted nothing more at this point than to get the cats inside and check them for any injuries. It didn't dawn on me that in my haste to make sure the cats were okay that I had forgotten to lock the deadbolt and throw the chain on the door.