It seemed to be the only story on any of the new channels. It was all over the newspapers. Plastered on all the news site online. Hell, even social media explored about it. They were out; the Saints were out. They called it genius, the work of a true master mind. The top FBI detectives in the country couldn't seem to figure out how they managed to get out. Three years after they were condemned to rot for life, they managed to break out. They were out, and I was going to have to kill them.

I sat in the den, alone, with the curtains drawn shut and lights out. The only light in the room from the fireplace; I listened to the wood crack from the heat as I drank my wine. I heard the knock at the door, the knock I had been waiting for. My brother didn't wait for me to tell him to come in, he just did. The lights from the hall flooded my dark space and I kept my eyes turned to the fire as I heard his footsteps coming closer. "Val," He whispered my name, "They called." He spoke to me in Russian, our first language.

"Do they know where the Saints are?" I spoke back in Russian.

"They're probably half way back to Ireland now."

"If they're gone, then why-"

"Because they'll come back."

"They didn't before, not until they drew them out. The way I see it, as long they keep their toes in line, they won't have any more problems."

"It's not our place to question them Val, only do as we're asked."

"You mean do as we're told."

"You should be thanking me for this contract, it's made you a rich woman."

"I never cared much for riches." I stood from my chair, keeping my wine in hand as I turned to face my brother. Vladimir was a terrifying man to look at; tall with wide shoulders, head shaved but a full black beard lining his rather square looking jaw. We looked nothing alike, really. "Get everything ready." I wasn't scared to give him orders, he might have acted like the brains of this team, like the boss, but truth was he was one who was really scared of me.

Vladimir is my twin brother, making our vast differences in appearance rather ironic. Volkov is our family name, meaning wolf. The only thing we had in common was out matching wolf tattoos forearms. "We are more than a family, we are a pack." My father always told us. We came from a long line of highly trained assassins, who always worked in siblings teams. My brother was the planner, the coordinator, I was the killer. He might have been bigger than me, stronger, but he didn't know how to kill. Killing came easy to me, so easy that my father said I was born to kill. He was right.

I didn't look like much of a killer; I was barely five foot three, and I was cursed with a "baby face". While Vladimir looked too old for his age, I still looked like I belonged in high school. It was better that way really; I used it to my advantage. No one suspects you're going to slaughter them when you look like a sweet and innocent teenager.

My hair was a rich brunette color, cut into a trendy "bob" style, with the layers in the back cut shorter and then the front. My front layers came to about my shoulder, while the back was more even with my chin. My skin was naturally rather fair, made my brilliant blue eyes stand out even more. Since I looked so young I tried my best to dress to look older and wear heels to compensate for my short height. Out for business, however I had a slightly different wardrobe. I wore some dark denim jeans and black combat styled boots. I layered a black leather jacket over a plain black tee and wore a pair of leather gloves. I had an undeniable love for ray band sunglasses, mine of course were black.

I packed an extra pair of clothes, some overnight products (i.e. shampoo, toothpaste, etc.), and my favorite hunting knife. Everything else I'd need would be waiting for me when I landed in Ireland. After I was dressed and packed my brother was waiting for me out in the car to take me to a private airport, in the car he gave me a file with everything I'd need to know about the Saints. I flew out from Russia to Ireland to another private airport. From there I traveled via helicopter to a small village where the Saints were "presumed" to be. My family's empire ran like a well-oiled machine with employee's ranging in very different fields. Transportation, weapon suppliers, spies, techs, and the clean-up crew. They all got me from Russia to this tiny piss-poor Irish village, supplied me with a car and gave me the address to a small farm house where I was instructed to "set up shop". They had already stocked the house with everything I'd need; food and weapons galore.

I made myself dinner, ate and drank some wine by the fireplace before I started to study up on my files. Two seemingly average men take up arms and wage a war on crime. Follow in their father's footsteps without even realizing that was what they were doing. They recited a family prayer before each kill, crossed the victim's arm and placed pennies on the eyes. Poetic, ridiculous, but poetic. When you got down to it, they were hardcore killers just like me. Only difference was they justified their killings by only going after those they felt deserve their bullets. I just killed as I was told.

The next morning there was a knock at the door. It was a man, an employee of the family business. He didn't say anything to me, didn't even look at me, just handed me an envelope and went about his day. Inside the envelope were pictures of two men entering an old run down looking farmhouse. On the back of one picture, scribble in ink, was an address.

I put my knife in a sheath, clipped onto my belt. I had two separate guns in holsters, each strapped to my legs from my belt as well a third on the actual hip of my belt. I waited till night and then drove out to the Saint's farmhouse. I parked the car about two miles away and went the rest on foot. The house was pretty well surrounded by wooded area, which played well to my advantage. I walked through the trees, staying off the more opened road. I saw a faint light in the distance before I really saw the house, and when I got closer I could see the light coming from a window. It was still a good ways away and the window had curtains drawn shut in front of it. It was pretty late, and at around eleven when the light in the window went off it was pretty safe to assume the Saints had gone to bed for the night.

I walked another thirty minutes, just to make sure they were good and asleep before I made my move.