Chapter One: Bring in INTERPOL

"And shepards we shall be, for Thee, my Lord, for Thee. Power hath descended forth from Thy hand, that our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command. So we shall flow forth a river to Thee and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In Nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritu Sancti."

And without a second's hesitation, three fingers pulled three triggers, and three bullets ended one evil man's cursed life. Brains and blood spilled to the floor as the bullets exited through both the man's eyes and his nose. As the body fell to the floor, covered already with twelve more bullet riddled bodies, Duke, Connor, and Murphy McManus pulled out their family rosaries and began their final preparations. Within ten minutes, they'd placed their trademark copper coins over the eyes of their latest victims and prayed for their souls. In the distance, Big Ben marked the hour with it's resonating bells.

It was midnight in the foggy streets of London. Having found the United States becoming too hot an item for the McManus', they'd quickly and quietly disappeared thanks to help from Smecker and were bound for England. Finding their next target had been a little tricky early on their arrival, but they found that people with similar thoughts against crime often had their ears to the ground and were more than willing to divulge their secrets, with a little prodding of course. And now, thanks to the Saints infamous handiwork, London was thirteen mobsters lower.

As the Saints got to their feet, Murphy narrowed his eyes at the bodies for the third time that evening. Connor glanced over his shoulder at his twin brother's back.

"Murph?" he said. "What's the matter, bro? One of those fuckers give you a bad look?"

"Thirteen," Murphy replied. "There are thirteen bodies."

"Oh, look at the boy, Da," Connor teased. "He's learning to count."

"I'm serious, guys," Murphy shot at his chuckling father and brother. "Thirteen is not a fuckin' lucky number."

Duke laughed and patted his son's shoulder reassuringly. "It's okay, lad, it's just a number. Besides, think about it, we've been in London for only three nights, and not a single Bobby has come down on us. What'll they do, anyway, call INTERPOL?"

Thomas Attenbury, Chief of Scotland Yard Police, scratched at his half shaved face as he tried to come up with a good explaination for the mess he and his lads were investigating at the moment. Literally, he'd only shaved one side of his face before he got the call to come to the Marriot Hotel's penthouse. It reminded him of a scene out of a book he'd read when he was a boy, King Solomon's Mines. One of the characters was halfway through shaving while in their campsite in an African jungle when he was interrupted by aborigine warriors.

Odd, he mused. At the time, I found it quite humorous. Now I'm rather flustered.

Just at that moment, a tap on his shoulder forced his attention elsewhere. Behind him stood a young man, maybe in his late twenties, wearing a totally white suit comlete with silver etched waistcoat and crisply polished, black leather shoes with white spats. His white blonde hair looked as though it was sculpted by an artist, not a single hair was out of place. He'd replaced his tie with a simple, silver crusifix fitting snuggly against the neck of his shirt. Were it not for the gore filled crimescene this guy would have looked like he was the current tenent.

"Who are you?" Attenbury asked wondering how the hell he got past the sentries outside without being alerted.

"I'm the man who's going to be handling this investigation, Chief," the stranger replied while folding up his gray overcoat and dropping it in Attenbury's arms. "Hold this, will you?"

Before another word could be said the well dressed stranger casually strolled into the crimescene, pulling on white rubber gloves. One by one he inspected the bodies of the victims, slowly and carefully turning over one or lowering his eyes down to floor level, occasionally. The whole room had gone deathly quiet while this went on, adding to the drama already overflowing in the room. Finally, the man stood up and strolled back to Attenbury.

"Alright," Attenbury sighed. "Now will you tell me who you are?"

"I think you and your men should go back to the station, Chief," the stranger replied, nonchalantly. "Let the pros handle this. This is work of the Saints, a group of vigilantes originated out of South Boston in America. Seems they've made their way over to Europe, now."

"How do you know that?"

"The cause of deaths matches the work from those men. Burn marks on the back of the head of the final victim prove that silencers were used. The casings and bullets recovered by ballistics also identify that they used nine millimeter pistols. And the copper coins over the eyes are usually a big clue, genius."

Attenbury spread his arms in mock praise. "Top notch, sir. Abso-fucking-lutely brilliant. NOW WHO THE FUCK ARE YOU?!"

As the other man fanned away Chief Attenbury's coffee and donut breath, he reached into his inside pocket and raised an identity card for all to see.

"That's who the fuck I am. Inspector James Bishop, INTERPOL. Now give me my coat, take your lads with you, and go buy some fucking Tic-Tacs..."