Fireworks rumbled across the Boston skies that night, as they had been since early that evening, and the show was close enough to home for Connor and Murphy to sit on the roof of their apartment building to watch them with a case of beer and several cigarettes. It felt strange to them that on that day they were to celebrate their freedom, when they had agreed not more than a few days ago to use it for the sole purpose of murdering people.

Detective Malone was strict, but his demands were crystal clear: they were to meet with him on Friday evening, ride with him to the target house, and he would give them some instructions. Though he made it sound like he'd be with them every step of the way, they had their doubts as to how well it could possibly go. Despite their skill with ranged weapons, they knew they weren't prepared for anything they'd be up against.

Connor, spending almost every waking second with Murphy, knew how nervous he was, but he could also sense a childlike excitement and fascination that he didn't possess. Perhaps Murphy had been more ready for this than he had been, and it made him all the more concerned for his safety and well-being. It almost made him regret how close they had become with each other—on levels most brothers didn't, he was certain. He already worried for Murphy while they merely loved each other as siblings. As more than that, he had to be twice as vigilant.

All of this and more had plagued Murphy's mind just as much as it had Connor's, and the fireworks show wasn't as enjoyable as he thought it would be now that they had so much tension between them. He wished Connor would speak to him, just tell him what was on his mind, but neither of them had any idea of what to say, as neither of them wanted to discuss that they had shaken hands with an assassin and told him they'd be willing to take the lives of others.

"Ya want ano'ter?" Connor asked his twin when the silence got too strong.

Murphy didn't hear him well enough over the fireworks that blasted his eardrums. "A what?"

"Ano'ter beer." He fished a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and proceeded to smoke his third one in the past thirty minutes.

"Oh. Aye." That had been the longest conversation they had that day, and it felt almost like ripping off a bandage. Murphy hadn't felt this awkward around Connor since after they first had sex with each other. "Several." The sound of Connor's laughter was just the ticket for his stress. Connor placed a palm on the surface of Murphy's short, clipped hair and gave his head a brief stroke. Physical contact; it was exactly what they both needed after the unintentional distance they had created. Maybe they could remain the same around each other, after all.

Connor stood up off the ground and headed down the fire escape, into their filthy loft, kicking newspapers aside to grab another few beers from the fridge, which they recently had repaired. With the chilled brews in hand, he climbed back out to the steel stairs and jogged back to the top, and saw Murphy lying on his back with his hands tucked underneath his head.

Connor took a seat beside him and set the beers down on the cement, pleased to see that his brother had become more relaxed. After opening a can and gulping down a few sips, Connor lied down beside him and saw that the view of the multi-colored sky was much better from this angle. Murphy, however, wasn't watching the fireworks at this point.

"What if we die?" he asked Connor, who wasn't expecting him to open with such a horrific thought. "Or worse… if one of us dies."

Connor didn't want to have this talk now. He just wanted to enjoy the show and their time together. "I don' t'ink we'll have much of a problem."

"Malone talked about us goin' against criminals and shit. Some of dem would be armed, I'm sure, if not all of dem."

"Murph," Connor sighed. "Dere comes a time when…" He bit his lip, thinking of how to continue. He shook his head in frustration that the answers were not coming as quickly as he would have liked. "We jus' gotta…" He sighed again and palmed his face. "We'll be fine."

"Ya don' believe dat," Murphy realized.

"Well, I'm tryin' to. I know how dangerous it'll be, all 'ight? And no, I don' want any'tin' to happen to us. If ya wanna back down from dis… jus' say so, and we'll tell him."

"No," Murphy snapped. "I don' wanna do dat." He grabbed an unopened can and snapped the cap off, slurping down the cool, heady beverage. "Fer once I kinda feel like we have dis purpose, ya know?"

"Aye," Connor answered. "We'll be all 'ight, Murph. Ya go into it scared, ya'll never have de nerve to start."

Murphy understood that concept. The only problem was that a lot of his fear was eliminated by alcohol, and so too was his judgment. He turned away from the bursting finale of fireworks to tuck his face into Connor's neck, loving him without words. Connor placed a kiss upon his forehead. For all Murphy knew, this might be the last time they'd ever be intimate with each other. He found it difficult to imagine how they'd be able to carry on their special link with each other after having killed people. Death wasn't very sexy, or romantic.

If it was the last of their tight connection, Murphy was sadder to see it fade away than he was at the thought of murder. Connor would always be in his life— always would be a part of him, always would be the one to get him out of scraps and tell him when he was wrong— but if they lost what they had grown to share over the past couple of weeks, he'd feel he had been separated from a part of Connor that he had learned to love and respect. The very idea of their dark path smiting whatever light had dawned on them depressed him. However, he'd try to make the most of it.

As the rapid booming of fireworks continued, Murphy put his mouth to Connor's already vibrating ear. "I love ya, Connie."

For five whole years, Connor had never heard these words from Murphy. He would find other ways of telling him: buying gifts, cooking food, or doing favors for him, but the words themselves were never forged from his lips, and for long enough that Connor had simply gotten used to it. Murphy acted on his feelings, never spoke on them, and Connor was a common victim to his icy demeanor.

If Murphy was feeling vulnerable enough to expose his underbelly to him, Connor knew that something was wrong, or soon would be. "We'll be all 'ight," he told Murphy after the explosions died down.

"I know. I jus'… wanted ya to know it."

Connor cradled him, clutched him against his chest, and drew in a concentrated inhalation. "I love you, too, Murph." He thought he heard his twin whimper. "Come on. Calm down. We'll be okay."

"What?" whispered Murphy, drying his eyes on Connor's shirt as he tried to hide his tears from him. "What are ya sayin' dat for? I know we will."

He didn't acknowledge Murphy's tears. He didn't want to upset him further. Things were already getting serious enough. "Jus' sayin'."

Now that the show was over, they picked up their drinks and headed back down to their apartment. Connor didn't get the chance to put his cigarette out in the ashtray before he was climbed upon by Murphy, who seemed to want to hang onto what he thought was their "final moments." Connor wasn't exactly in the mood for their particular type of playtime, but he could sense Murphy's desperation in the matter—in the way that he kissed him, the way he grabbed him and clawed at his shirt.

"Murph," Connor tried to protest, but Murphy continued to cling to him, lick and bite his lip. "Wait." He didn't have time to catch his breath once he said it before his twin was kissing him again.

"Please," Murphy begged him, clutching the back of Connor's neck, pulling at follicles of his short hair.

"I… I'm not feelin' it right now."

"Please, Connor." Connor didn't fight him off the next time he went in for a kiss, and he returned it with the same adulation and dynamism Murphy did. He knew what was on Murphy's mind. He thought that he'd change his opinion of him after they took on their new occupation, that he'd see him differently, and that he might not want to touch him again. Since their first fateful night together, Connor had no doubts that they were meant to be as close as they were, and though Murphy had felt compelled to agree then, he was too frightened to consider it now. Connor was certain that the idea of losing him forever put him in this mindset, and no matter how he worded the phrase "we'll be okay, you have to have faith," Murphy wouldn't buy into it.

If it would comfort him, Connor would do it. He opened his mouth wider, inviting his tongue into it, and when under the assumption that it would be their final time, it made it all the better, and yet all the more disheartening. Murphy grasped onto his neck for dear life, and didn't let go as Connor squeezed him around the waist, opening and closing his mouth around Murphy's as their tongues wrestled.

It was Connor who undressed first, and Murphy followed, removing an identical piece of clothing from his body each time Connor did. Then once they were both free of all restricting fabric, they jumped into bed with each other, Connor climbing atop him as though scaling the most stubborn of mountains. Murphy's arms never loosened from his neck, even while Connor pinned him down. During every other encounter between them, Murphy would sit upon him as Connor delivered his physical ardor from below, but this time, he was comfortable with Connor taking the reins, even enjoyed it better.

Connor smothered his twin with his mouth, kissing every inch of skin he saw as Murphy writhed beneath his roaming lips, sounding his approval and appreciation of the time and care Connor took to showing him affection through erotic moans. When Connor flattened his body against Murphy's, he connected their mouths as well as their hips as he dove inside of him. Murphy's cries were like music to his ears, as was Connor's grunts to Murphy's. After only having been interlocked for a few moments, Murphy was already begging him to give it to him rough. Connor had no issues, nor complaints about it. They were rough fighters, and thus, rough players.

Between every breath, Murphy gasped Connor's name, which Connor had to admit he loved, as well as the invigorating sensation of his fingers raking down his back. The end would come crashing into a glorious crescendo, better than any score ever composed, and Connor could feel it approaching with swiftness. Holding back was too much of a challenge, though he wanted to make it last as long as possible, but as Murphy was such a pure delight to make love to, he couldn't help himself. Murphy didn't require him to signal a warning that it would be over soon, because he could tell in the way Connor altered his thrusts. Murphy encouraged him, throwing his legs around his hips, pressing him harder against his hips as his pumps became more jagged.

Connor called out to his brother, his God, as well as any and quite possibly all neighbors as the climax was reached, one of the most explosive he had ever faced in his lifetime. "Oh, God," Connor chanted as he fell forward, hair and back soaking as though he had just been doused with rainwater. He continued to repeat this until he had forgotten why he was saying it in the first place. Murphy pulled at some of the short hair on the back of his neck while he came down from the greatest high he had ever reached the summit of, and as silence struck them, Connor thought one thing to himself:

He thinks I'm going to just give up something like this? Is he out of his mind or just drunk?

Murphy kissed on his face and neck, doting and grateful, clutching him in desperation.

"No'tin' will change between us, Murph," Connor vowed.

An oath didn't need to be sworn. Murphy knew it was a lie. "How do you know it won't?"

"How do ya know it will?"

"Let's not talk about it. Jus'…" He sighed, relaxing his legs, laying back, enjoying for a moment the pressure of Connor on top of him. "Lay wit' meh."

Connor did just that, though they had trouble fitting on the same bed. For the remainder of the night, neither of them spoke, just enjoyed it, whatever was left of it.

Rocco came to McGinty's late that evening, and Connor and Murphy had waited at least a few hours for him. To them, it could have been the last time they'd see him, but when Rocco noticed their gloomy faces, he wondered why. It had been way too long since he had heard them laugh. Whatever went on in their lives he knew they were too proud to discuss it, and he wasn't nosey enough to pry them of information.

When he joined them at the bar, he slapped both of their backs, and they leapt with fright as though they had been shot through the heart. Murphy's shot of whiskey dumped onto the bar top and he shouted a curse the entire room could hear.

"Shit," Rocco gasped. "Jumpy much?"

"Sorry," Connor panted. "It's been a stressful few days."

"I'll buy you a new shot, Murph," Rocco offered when he saw Murphy drop his head and pull his arms over it.

"S'all 'ight," he mumbled, dejected. Rocco tried to ignore the sniffle he heard.

"S'good to see ya t'ough, Roc," Connor told him with sincerity, though with traces of darkness, and Rocco's perplexity inclined each second he spent talking with them. Connor looked at though he hadn't slept in a couple of days, and usually he was so full of life.

"Uh… is something going on?" he finally questioned, unable to bear it any longer. "Did you guys take some of those pills again?"

"No, no'tin' like dat."

"Well what the fuck? This is McGinty's, not a damn funeral. Cheer the fuck up, already." He didn't wait for an answer. Instead he ordered his first beer of the night and sat to Murphy's right, who still had been too emotionally weak to converse.

"M'afraid it's not easily explained, Roc," Connor continued as he sat beside Murphy.

"Don't tell me you're going back to Ireland."

"No."

"S'been debated," Murphy added, rubbing his face.

"It's not some'tin' dat… we can really… talk to ya about."

Before leaning over to them, he looked around at the other patrons to see if any were in earshot. "Is it… you know…" When trying to bring the matter up, no words seemed appropriate enough. "I mean, when you guys… you know…" They stared at him, each of their pairs of eyes bloodshot. Rocco, exasperated, grunted. "You know?"

"No," they said together, amused.

"Fuckin' hell," he sighed, chugging half of his beer down.

Though their upcoming work lingered in the back of their minds, the conversation with Rocco did put smiles on their faces. He always knew how to light up a room. Before the night was over, they were joining him in drink and song, listening to his awful jokes, and yet laughing at them all the same. It was the perfect way for them to spend their last murder-free evening. Even Doc tried to lift their spirits.

After Murphy had consumed one too many shots, Connor announced to Rocco and Doc that he had to carry him home. They already saw it coming when Murphy started slurring nonsense. As he stepped out the door with his inebriated brother, he hauled him over his shoulder and walked down the street, listening to him trying to form sentences. He took him to his bed when he brought him into the apartment, turning in as well.

He would need his energy for tomorrow. All of it.

The shrill ringing of the telephone was what woke Connor, who could only slink toward it in a weak crawl. Once the receiver was in his hand, he flattened his body against the floor as he pressed it against his ear. "'Lo," he groaned into it.

"Two o'clock." It was the thick, mature voice of Malone, and he didn't sound as though he was in the mood for waiting around. "Be ready. Both of you."

"Aye," Connor let out in a long exhale. Malone hung up afterward, not giving Connor any details, though he didn't need any. He looked at the couch where Murphy was sitting, silent and contemplative, rubbing his throbbing head. "Well…" he said to his blank-faced twin. "It starts."

"I don' feel good," Murphy groaned.

"I know. But we can do dis. Try to stay calm, all 'ight? I'll be wit' ya de whole time."

"It's not dat. I got a fuckin' hangover."

Connor cracked a smile and helped Murphy to his feet, taking his chin in his palm and stroking it. "Take a shower. It'll help." Murphy obeyed him and staggered to the showers, coughing and grabbing his head.

Two o'clock was the time Malone promised he'd stop by, and he was ten minutes early when he showed up. When he knocked on the door, he saw that it wasn't latched shut. After giving it a nudge, it drifted open, and he saw Connor and Murphy sitting beside each other on one of the beds.

Eric Malone, who was dressed in a black button-down shirt and slacks to match, gave them a thorough observation as he stepped into the apartment. "Well," he said, watching them rise to their feet and shuffle toward him like zombies. "Don't you two look sunny this afternoon?" They said nothing to him. "Let's get going, shall we? We don't have a lot of time to work, so we'll have to make things quick." The brothers nodded. He waved for them to follow, and they did, all the way down to the street. When they didn't see his shiny, flashy car anywhere, Connor brought it up.

"Where's yer car?"

"My car, Connor, is at my house," Malone told him as he walked them across the street to a white service van with a company name on the side of it. "People notice a car like mine. It's expensive, and stands out too much. Many people also know that I own one. Therefore… I am much more likely to be noticed if I drive it anywhere near my targets. The word for the day is?" He pointed to Murphy, who thought would vomit if he opened his mouth. Sighing, he pointed to Connor next.

"Um…" Connor trembled, intimidated.

"In…?"

"In…"

"Con…?"

"Inconspicuous?"

"Bingo." He slid open the side door for the van and gestured for them to climb aboard. They did as was commanded, sitting in the seats in the back. After Malone jumped into the driver's seat, he started the engine and took off. "White vehicles are always the best choice. A white vehicle is less likely to get pulled over. It is less likely to attract attention."

"What's de worst choice?" mumbled Murphy, still holding his stomach.

Malone turned down a street leading into a suburban neighborhood. "Red. You drive red, you may end up dead. That's what I tell the youth of today. Worse off would be something bright and colorful, spray painted, something that has those ugly fucking lights all over them. No one will steal it, but everyone will remember the asshole that drove it. Never stand out, gentlemen. You're one with the scum of the earth until you pull a trigger."

"Noted," Murphy uttered with a hint of begrudging in his voice.

"Aren't ya wearin' all black in de middle of de day?" Connor noticed.

"Wearing black doesn't hurt, as long as you're not covered in tattoos," Malone lectured. "Black is a professional hue, Connor, and I like to assume myself a professional."

"Professional horse's ass," whispered Murphy. Malone heard him, but made no comment.

Malone parked his van in the driveway of a luxurious house, one vacant of owners or visitors, other than themselves. After killing the engine, he turned halfway in his seat and faced his students. "This one should be an easy start for you both. Four people live here. Husband, wife, two kids. The husband is the only target."

Connor wanted to know the facts right away. "What'd he do?"

"Do?" asked Malone, wondering what he meant, then it dawned on him. He had forgotten for a moment that the MacManus brothers were under the impression that he only killed criminals. "Oh! Oh, Lord." He placed his face into his hand, attempting to appear solemn. "Are you sure you want to know?" Connor and Murphy both nodded, their attention hooked. "Well, there were rumors for a long time that the guy operates a child porn ring." Connor especially looked horrified; tear-stricken. "We never got the proof, because he destroyed most of the information on his computer, and he started hiding from us. I recently got a tip off that he's been buying some new camera equipment, and the children of the neighborhood are afraid of going near his house. I was told that he filmed a young boy, the boy told his parents, and no one believed him. The kid's in counseling now."

"Dat's horrible!" Connor gasped.

"Aye," agreed the nauseous Murphy, who felt sicker after the tale was finished.

"I know," Malone said, closing his eyes for dramatic effect. "I don't think our target's family knows about it. We have to make this one look like an accident, fellas; that he skipped town, possibly with another woman. I… uh… don't want the poor wife to know what her husband was up to."

"Lord, no," Connor expressed with sorrow. "Course not."

"What do we do?" Murphy asked.

Malone pulled back his sleeve to check his wristwatch. "I've already scouted the home for about a week. I know everyone's schedule by now. You'll join me on the next scout, but this kill needed to be done quickly. Our… client is going on vacation and wanted to pay me before he left." The twins nodded at the same rhythm. "You're both going to come into the house with me. Don't worry, I won't always be there with you to babysit, but I need to watch you on our first go, make sure you don't… well, for lack of better words, fuck it up. Once inside, we'll hide, and wait. Connor." He pointed at him.

Connor sat upright. "A-aye?"

"You'll hide out in the bedroom closet. Make sure your gun is loaded." Connor removed it from his belt and checked the clip. "What are you doing?!" he snapped and Connor flinched, almost dropping it.

"Y-ya told meh to!"

"With your bare hands?!" Malone growled, closed his eyes, counted to ten, took a deep breath, then reached into the car's console. "Christ," he grumbled to himself while he fished out a few pairs of black leather gloves. "Here. Put these on." He passed a pair to each of them, and once they took them, he slipped on a pair of his own. "Give me your weapons." They passed him their guns, apprehensive at doing so. He reached under his seat and removed a box, setting it in his lap and unlatching it. He rummaged around the assortment of tools until he found a cloth, which he used to wipe both guns off thoroughly, cleaning them of fingerprints.

When he passed the weapons back, they took them with caution. "Why are we doin' dis in the de daytime?" It was Murphy who asked.

"This is the only time the target will be alone," explained Malone. "In addition to that, the Neighborhood Watch program is much more alert during the night. Everyone is at home, eating dinner, tucking their kids in, reading them bedtime stories. If they hear a gunshot, they come running to check it out or call the police, especially in a quiet place like this." He checked his watch again. "Right now, both of our guy's neighbors are at work. They won't witness anything."

Breathless, the brothers drank in his every word. "He's really t'ought dis shit t'rough, hasn't he?" Connor said to his stunned twin.

"Guess so," answered Murphy.

"Now's the time, boys. Murphy."

Murphy was now the one to flinch. "Aye," he responded, his breath shaking.

"You'll be hiding in the hall closet. Our guy is going to come in through the garage. He does this every day. You will take the first shot."

He jabbed himself in the chest with his finger. "Meh?!"

"Yes. You. Now listen to me. If you lose your nerve, his next stop will be the bedroom, and your brother will take the shot instead. If your brother also loses the nerve, I'll take the shot from the banister as he crosses the living room to the kitchen like he does every time he comes home. Are we in agreement, gentlemen?"

A new sheet of sweat coated their faces, but they nodded regardless. Malone reopened the case he had earlier and pulled out a few things: A bottle filled with a liquid solvent, unlabeled; a sponge; towels, and slipped them into a black satchel. When he turned back toward the two shaking pure-of-heart siblings, he sighed.

"Keep your focus. I have faith in you both. You can do this." They swallowed, but it didn't make their throats any less dry. "I'll be watching out for you. All right. Let's roll."

Before exiting the van, Connor and Murphy nodded at one another. It was the point of no return.

There was no going back now.