Chapter One: Old Faces
"Drop yer gun and put yer hands where I can see 'em"
She felt the cold muzzle of the 92F Beretta press against the nape of her neck. Sighing with a smile, she lifted her hands into the air and lightly tossed her handgun, a Browning High Power, in front of her; within eyesight and possibly within reach. He hadn't touched her yet but Branna knew it was coming. This was one of the Saints. They didn't take their work lightly.
"Thatta girl, now ye do as I say and I might just let ye fancy on outta 'ere. Got that?"
She knew that voice. Remembered it all too well in fact. She nodded her agreement to his suggestion. Branna wasn't ready to let him know she knew him, or for that matter, give him a chance to recognize her. She'd gone to a lot of trouble to disguise her identity.
Her dark hair was tied in a long braid down her back. Upon entering the shipyard she'd pulled on her square shades and pulled the lapels on her leather coat up around her face. She hadn't wanted the boys to know she was here. At least, that was before the MacManus bastard pressed his fucking Beretta into her skull. Now? Now she had no choice. She felt movement behind her and she felt the scrap of plastic against her arm as he cuffed her, or tried too.
As he went for her left arm, Branna dropped to the floor and rolled over to where she'd thrown her handgun. Like a shot, she drew herself up and levelled the Browning at her assailant.
There he stood, Murphy MacManus, same as the last day she'd seen him, nine years ago. He held up his pistol and stared her down. She breathed an inward sigh of relief tha,t face to face, he still didn't recognize her. That was a good sign. For now.
* * * *
Murphy MacManus cocked his pistol, loading a round into the chamber. It was pointed straight at the strange girl's head. He'd seen her scurry into the main warehouse on the shipyard while Connor had been scouting the perimeter. They'd been looking for the best angle to off Silas Kingsley.
Kingsley was one of the few low life gambits they'd yet to have a chance to face. Stealing people's identities and selling them for cheap to the immigrants. Not that Murphy had a problem with selling someone a new lease on life; he'd had to use it once before. The fact that Kingsley killed the people he stole his identities from put him on the hit list.
He'd watched the brod move closer to the warehouse door. She stayed out of the lights, and clung to the buildings. He thought at first she might have been a peddler; some homeless lass looking for a place to sleep. That was until he watched her pull out her piece. He'd tapped Connor on the shoulder, motioned to the girl and Connor nodded.
They almost never had to speak on jobs like this, one did the scouting whilst the other off-ed any possible threats. That was what had led Murphy to the lass in the first place. Now? Now the stupid bitch was pointing a 9mm in his face because he couldn't get the bloody plastic rope out of his coat so he could tie her up. He didn't want to kill her right away. She might have some useful information. But now he was staring down the barrel of her fucking gun. All because of Connor's fascination with fucking rope.
Keeping a straight face he cocked his head in a nod at her gun.
"Not a bad move there lass. That be a nice piece of machinery ye got there. Shiny, ya just pick up the pretty today?"
She smiled smugly and pulled the hammer back, loading a bullet into the chamber.
"Na son, I just like to take care of me weapons. They be the closest thing I got to kin nowadays."
Murphy's eyes widened when he heard the accent. She was Irish. He hadn't seen that one coming.
"What now. Cat got yer tongue there Murph? I'm surprised ye were able to sneak up on me back there. Ye never were too good at being quiet as I remember." She laughed.
Murphy could only stand there, holding out the Beretta in shock. Who the fuck was she? How did she know who he was? His breath caught in his throat as she pulled at her coat, one handed, pulling down her collar and pushing her shades to the top of her head. She cocked an eye at him. With the cover of her shades gone he could clearly see her bright green eyes, and the thin pale scar that ran along the top of her right eyebrow.
"Remember me now? God knows ye should Murphy MacManus." The end of the sentence had an angry tone.
He couldn't speak. It couldn't be. She should not be here. How the fuck did she get here? His chest felt like it was about to explode. She must've thought him dumb because when he didn't answer she tugged angrily at her leather glove with her teeth. Exposing her left hand she held it out at him as she took a bold step forward. If there'd been any doubt in who she was before, there was none now. On her third finger, the ring finger, sat a golden claddagh with a green jewelled heart in the middle.
He was fucked.
* * * *
Branna knew the second she flashed the ring. The only thing she had left to remind her of the past. He knew now who he was dealing with.
"What, dya ferget how to form a cohesive sentence there dear?" she asked. He hadn't said a word after she'd spoken in her natural brogue. "I thought maybe once ye figured out who I was, ye might actually take yer little pistol there and put it back in yer pants where it belongs."
His eyes hardened as she spoke. She recognized the look. He'd had the same look the last time she'd seen him and she'd been covered in someone's blood.
"Branna, how lovely to see ye. Ye haven't changed a bit." he quipped, his voice laced with steel.
She was opening her mouth to reply when she heard two short whipping sounds. Suddenly she felt the burning sensation in her right shoulder and arm. Her handgun wavered and fell to the floor.
"Fucking hell!" she could hear someone shout. "What the fuck is goin' on here brother? Kingsley is already fucking dead. Somebody got him! We gotta get the fuck outta here. What the fuck is this!"
Connor. That was Connors voice. She suddenly realized she was on her knees, reeling from the pain in her arm. Dots swam in front of her eyes and she felt herself falling forward, into Murphy's Beretta. How had he gotten that close? As darkness closed in she cursed herself. The bastard had shot her.
* * * *
"Murphy, what the fuck?" Connor shouted. There was more gunfire coming from the upper deck of the warehouse. He saw the glint of a gold patch on the white of a sleeve. Security. Figures. He fired a few rounds in the direction of the shot. Ducking he grabbed his brother's coat and pulled them both behind a metal support beam. His brother just stared at the bleeding girl.
"Fucking answer me idiot!"
"It's Branna," was all he said, his face pale. Connors eyes widened.
"Well. Ya got two choices brother. Ye could sit here and watch her bleed out or we can drag her and our own arses the fuck outta here."
Murphy didn't answer; he just dove towards the girl. Picking her up, he lifted her up over his shoulder and jogged to the open door they came in. In Connor's eyes, she looked like a limp rag doll. He scooped up her handgun from the floor, sliding it into his pants. He turned to flank his brother's back.
The percussion of the gunshots off of the steel walls of the warehouse were near deafening. Connor took up the tail, firing rounds as they fled the building. As they ran, he couldn't believe what Murphy'd said.
Branna. How could she be here? The last time he'd seen Branna she'd been a lass of about 24, just a few years shy of he and Murphy. Mind you, she was a dangerous lass if you weren't careful. Murphy'd found out exactly how dangerous on his own. That in itself was enough for Connor to be suspicious of what she was doing in Boston.
* * * *
Branna could barely stay conscious. She knew she was being carried. By whom she couldn't tell.
That fucking bastard shot her.
She had done everything in her power to make sure she couldn't be identified. Working nights, hiding in scummy motels. She'd been in Boston for six months before she found out that the MacManus brothers were there too, much less that they were the infamous Saints. She hadn't even planned on coming to the U.S.A when she got on the boat in Spain. After chasing ghosts for years, she'd finally given up and decided to just get on the next boat and go. Seamus was never coming back. She couldn't find Fitzpatrick and her R.I.R.A. leads were colder than a corpse now. All she'd wanted when she got here was to be left alone.
She laughed to herself. She hadn't even gone to the shipyard warehouse to try and find the MacManus brothers. Once she arrived, she saw from a distance the twin heads moving along a parapet above a building. She had come to collect her "official" U.S.A documents; her green card, her passport, birth certificate and everything. The last six months she spent waiting for her fake identity were wasted. Fucking Murphy MacManus.
* * * *
Back at their safe house, Murphy laid the limp woman down on his mattress. She looked ashen, the colour gone from her face. The thought tugged at a scar he'd hidden for years. He felt strangely happy to at least have somewhere soft to lay her.
"Christ Murph," he cursed softly to himself.
What the fuck was going on. He needed answers, but she was in no condition to give them. She was barely awake. Good, he thought. Connor was busy putting away their hardware so Murphy had a few moments to take in what had just happened.
Branna Ferguson had suddenly waltzed back into his life. Waltzed? More like fucking barrelled her way in. She was still wearing the ring. She had it turned out so it didn't mean what it had meant all those years ago, but she was still fucking wearing it. He couldn't get the image of her all those years ago out of his head. Everyone he knew had said she was a dangerous girl and to never get mixed up too deep with her. He'd been warned and he still stepped into the fire.
He'd been on his way to visit her, and when he got there he heard a whimper from round the back of the cottage. He ran.
The first thing he noticed was the blood. It soaked everything. He'd never seen so much blood. He saw her lying on her side in the pool of blood beside the body. He'd wanted to vomit. Gagging he moved toward her. She hadn't moved and his panic began to set in a bit. He moved closer and began to crouch down.
"Branna, Branna it's me Murphy-" was all he could get out. In a flash she had a seven inch blade to his throat.
Murphy shook his head of the memory. Connor had already peeled off her jacket and cut off the sleeve of her shirt so they could get a better look at her wounds. The bullet hadn't passed through; that would have been an easy fix. Now he just had to find the round. Her arm needed a few stitches but she'd manage to live another day. Fucking shame.
"Before we try and seal 'er up, ye think we should...?" Connor looked across at him and motioned to the exposed piping in the wall. Murphy nodded.
"Fucking right. I don't need to be blindsided by her right hook."
"Aye, ye should remember it well brother." Connor laughed.
Murphy watched Connor pull out the rope and motion to him to push the mattress up against the wall. He nodded and the two gently nudged the mattress up against a spot on the wall where there was an exposed stud beam. Connor deftly applied the restraint while Murphy turned to grab the first aid kit.
As Murphy turned back he looked down into her open eyes. She grimaced weakly and looked up as she tugged on the arm tied up.
"Ye always were good at tying me up Murph." she joked. He ignored the jibe. He would not let her win this. This was what Branna Ferguson was best at.
"Well I didn't really want to have another fist in me face or blade against me throat Branna. Now yer gonna sit tight while we fix ye up and then, yer gonna give us some fucking answers. Number one being what the fuck are ye doin' in Boston. Got that?"
She nodded, closing her eyes as she twisted herself up into a sitting position. He could tell she was in incredible pain, but she never let it cross her face. She'd always been good at that, Murphy thought, keeping her feelings bundled up tighter than a Celtic knot.
"Just get the fucking bullet out of me shoulder please? It fucking kills." she asked through gritted teeth.
He rolled his eyes and opened the kit he and Connor had put together. He rummaged through the gauze and bandages until he found the forceps. Connor was busy heating up the iron to stop the bleeding. Judging by the blood around the injury, she hadn't lost as much blood at they'd originally thought. Murphy passed the suture kit to Connor and straddled her legs. This was not an angle he particularly enjoyed having to use, but with the bullet having hit her in the front of her shoulder, he had no choice.
"I'm not gonna lie to ye. This'll fucking hurt."
"I've been through worse than this Murph. Just get the fucker outta me shoulder." Branna pressed.
Murphy looked around for something to put between her teeth and all he had was his leather belt. Leaning back he undid it and held it up.
"Open yer mouth and bite down hard." He said. She looked up at him from under her furrowed brows and reluctantly opened her mouth. He placed the leather between her teeth and she bit down. He watched as she carefully slid her tongue underneath.
"Sorry lass, I'll be goin' at yer arm whilst me brother digs out the slug ight?" Connor said softly. He'd already strung the suture and had locked her left arm between his knees so she couldn't move it while they worked. He was waiting for Murphy to give the signal. Well bugger.
"Ok, here goes." He said finally.
Leaning in, he pressed the tips of the forceps into the hole in her shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Connor slip the needle into the tear on her arm. She stiffened at the initial pressure but never made a sound. He pressed harder into the wound and finally found the bullet. He could feel her legs trembling underneath him. The feeling stirred up things he wasn't ready to face. He gave his head a shake. Concentrate here Murph, he told himself. Spreading the utensil he gently gripped the metal and began to pull.
* * * *
Branna wanted to scream. She'd closed her eyes when they started. It felt like her whole left arm was on fire. She couldn't feel the needle slipping through her skin, and the hole in her shoulder… well she wouldn't go there. She knew Connor was going as gently as he could to try and stitch her up but Murphy, she couldn't tell if Murphy was gouging her as some sort of sick retribution or if the bullet was just difficult to remove. She was hoping for the latter.
"Ight now, she be coming out. Connor, ye done with the stitches?" she heard Murphy ask.
"Ye, lemme get the iron; don't pull it out just yet." Connor replied.
She could feel Murphy holding the bullet right at the entry of the wound. They were going to cauterize it now. She'd been fixed up in the field before; she knew what was coming next. The searing heat and the smell of burnt flesh was always nauseating. Branna remembered the first time someone had closed a bullet graze for her. It had been high on her thigh, close to her hip. She'd been forced to be held down. Overtime, she'd learned, you just learn to take the pain because struggling only made it worse.
"Ok Branna, ye make sure to bite down real hard...." she heard Connor say.
She didn't even acknowledge him. They didn't know that she'd spent hours in makeshift infirmaries; they couldn't know that she knew what was happening. She steeled herself against what she was expecting. She could feel the heat of the iron before it touched her skin. Contact followed by darkness. As she slipped into the abyss she thought she heard Murphy whisper, "I'm sorry."