Author's Note: This one-shot started in March 2009 as a dream I had. I couldn't get the story out of my head, so I decided to write it down. And it grew from there into… this. At points I don't think the action is very good, because I just wrote this free association-style. There wasn't much of a plan for how to write this, so it's kind of disjointed in my opinion. Enjoy it anyways.
Disclaimer: Y'all know why I named him Sean. This should not be taken as an indication that I am Team Veritas, because I am not. I am and forever shall be Team Aequitas.
It had been two years since they started their vendetta against evil. Three men, known only as the Boondock Saints. Criminals. Killers. Heroes. They were worshipped and feared by the people of Boston. They had started their killing with the Yakavetta mob and the Russian crime syndicate. In the ensuing two years they had spread out to much of the upper East Coast, and now included other evildoers in their jurisdiction— drug dealers, rapists, pimps, anyone they deemed a threat to society. They kept only one rule: never harm an innocent.
The FBI had delegated a special task force to Boston in an effort to stop the three criminals. The team was headed by Special Agent Karl Sanders, a hardass originally from LA who had no tolerance for vigilante justice. Sanders wanted the Saints behind bars, and he wanted it done five minutes ago.
"Someone has to know these guys," he growled, pacing back and forth in his office.
He threw periodic glares at the newspapers on his desk, each of which featured a headline about the Saints' latest kill— the third in command of the East Coast chapter of the Cacciatori mafia, plus four of his close associates, who had been killed in Giacomo Cacciatori's Boston apartment the night before.
"Someone has to have seen them at some point during the day!"
"Nobody has anything on them, Boss," Detective McLain said. "Anybody who did see them isn't talking. We're lucky we heard about this so early, yesterday being St. Patty's and all."
"The fucking Irish," Sanders growled, knocking over one of the chairs that lined his office wall. "They act like this is a hundred fucking years ago and they're just off the immigration boat, can't trust the authorities."
There was a knock on the door, and an officer stuck his head in.
"Sir, we just got a call," he said. "This guy says he saw the Saints yesterday afternoon, about six blocks south of Cacciatori's apartment."
"Finally!" Sanders spat out. "Put the call through." He settled himself at his desk, smoothing his blue striped tie before taking the call. "This is Special Agent Karl Sanders. I understand you have information about the Boondock Saints."
"He said they came to this pub at 3:00 in the afternoon," Sanders said, leading three men down Dublin Street towards the Féile Pub. "Stayed for a few hours, talking to the owner, then left and headed north… straight toward Cacciatori's place. If this guy's right, the owner might know something. Or be involved."
The pub was as authentically Irish as one could wish, including the rowdy Irish drinkers crowded around the bar enjoying their Jameson whiskey or nursing their hangovers from yesterday. Sanders walked up to the bar, all tough-shit FBI attitude, which impressed the bar patrons not at all.
"I'm Special Agent Sanders," he said, flashing his badge. "I'd like to speak to the owner."
"Owner's left for the day," the barkeep said in a thick Irish brogue. "So if it's the person in charge you're after, you're lookin' at him."
"And who might you be?" Sanders asked, swaggering a little.
"Sean Flanery," the middle-aged man in a button-up shirt and green cardigan vest said, sizing the agent up. "What's this all about?"
"We had a tip that a trio of criminals came in here yesterday evening and ate dinner with your boss before they went up a few blocks and killed a few men," Sanders said. "So I need to speak to the owner to make sure he's not involved in the crime. You'll give him my card," he said, holding up his business card.
Flanery took the card reluctantly. "Aye, I'll give her your card." Sanders nodded and turned to leave, but Flanery's voice stopped him in his tracks. "But I'd not be counting on her comin' in to see you."
Sanders turned, his face hardening. "Why not? She have something to hide?"
Flanery chuckled once. "She's not one to hide her dislike for the authorities."
Just as Sean Flanery had predicted, days passed without a call from the owner of the Féile Pub. March had passed into April, and Sanders was beginning to give up hope that the pub lead would go anywhere, when one of his agents walked through Sanders' office door.
"You had better the fuck have something good if you're bargin' in here," Sanders growled, lighting a cigarette and staring at the busily whirring databases.
Agent Brennan walked forward. "You told us that the Saints had to have a weakness somewhere, right?"
"What the fuck about it?" Sanders said.
Brennan smirked. "You want details? Or just her name?"
"Her name is Rachel Margaret Spencer. Twenty-seven. Went to all the best prep schools, graduated with honors from Harvard six years ago with a degree in the Humanities, spent two years working with the Peace Corps in Bolivia, then went back with Habitat for Humanity to build houses and school buildings for another year," Sanders said, putting a transparent on the overhead in the police office's conference room.
The picture showed a lovely Irish lass. Her rich, layered red hair flowed halfway down her back, the asymmetrical bangs falling in her painfully green eyes. The picture had been taken by a detective following her, and showed her sitting at a table at a nearby outdoor café. She was leaned toward someone else whose back was turned to the camera, holding his tattooed hand so the diamond ring on her finger was clearly visible, and she was laughing.
One of the officers raised his hand. "So you're saying this girl's a fucking hippie, all about saving the world and shit. Why are we tailin' her?"
Sanders smirked, then put up another transparency, showing Rachel walking out of a posh apartment building with a well-dressed middle-aged man. "Rachel Spencer is the only daughter of Patrick Spencer, the Irish kingpin."
The assembled officers stared at the picture of one of the most wanted mob bosses in the East Coast, stunned. Sanders continued, his amusement growing with each second.
"You can do your psychological bullshit on her; say she's making up for her mafia father by working for peace, whatever. Or you can say that all the Peace Corps shit is to cover up her involvement in her father's crimes," Sanders said. "The fact remains, that Rachel is Da Spencer's little darling. He has her protected, no matter what the cost." Sanders put back the original transparency. "Rachel Spencer owns the Féile Pub, where the Saints were reported to be hours before the Cacciatori murders on St. Patrick's Day. The reason we have her under surveillance is because of who she's sitting with."
The officers leaned forward, trying to make out who the man was. Sanders smiled.
"That, gentlemen, is one of the Boondock Saints."
Sanders' team took their time gathering information on Rachel Spencer. For once, Sanders was patient, allowing them four months and untold numbers of Saint killings before he called them in to report.
"Now, I've been very generous with you, let you take your sweet fucking time while those murdering bastards roamed free," Sanders said. "So you'd better have something solid for me to use to catch those murdering bastards, or I will be very, very unhappy."
Agent Perry stepped forward. "We watched Rachel Spencer night and day— followed her to the pub, to the grocery store, to Da's mansion outside the city. All she's involved in is volunteer work and the pub. The people love her, call her— you're gonna love this— they call her the Angel of South Boston."
Sanders smirked, the irony not lost on him. "The Saints are coming to visit the Angel? Is there a connection besides the religious symbolism?"
"The Saints come to the pub once a month," Agent Myers spoke up. "A different date every time. There's no rhyme or reason to when they come, except that it's always after a big killing somewhere else. They come and eat at the pub, visit with Rachel for a few hours, and then leave again, usually to kill someone."
"Why?" Sanders demanded. "Why do they come to her?"
"Well, sir, it's really more like one of the Saints is coming to see her. The other two just tag along for the Guinness," Perry said. "There's a point during every visit that he and Rachel will leave the pub and go upstairs to her apartment for an hour or so."
"And what do they do?" Sanders asked.
Perry cleared his throat and raised his eyebrows, trying to convey his meaning with his head movements. Sanders nodded as it clicked.
"So the Angel and the Saint are involved," he said.
"Engaged, it looks like, sir," Agent Martin said. "She has a nice-sized rock on her finger."
"She could just be screwing him behind her fiancé's back," Sanders said. "I wanna know how the Angel and the Saints know each other. If we can use her to drag them in, that's what I'm gonna do."
Rachel Spencer rolled her shoulders and ran a tired hand through her hair as she sat in her office balancing the books and taking care of office work. She had had a long day, between taking care of the pub's business and volunteering at the YMCA, not to mention three meetings for some of the charitable causes she worked with. It was only 5 o'clock, but Rachel was already yearning for her apartment upstairs, for a hot shower before curling up in bed and falling asleep to whatever nonsense she found on TV.
There was a knock on her office door, and then Sean's head appeared where the door once was. "Rachel, there's a wild buck at the bar, demandin' to see yeh."
"What's the problem?" Rachel asked disinterestedly without looking up from her bookkeeping.
A crafty smile flitted across Sean's aged face. "He said he'd gone too long without seein' his fiancée, and he wasn't fixin' to stand for it any longer."
Rachel's head shot up as soon as Sean said the magic F word, and a huge smile appeared on her face as she jumped up and ran out the door into the crowded pub, her eyes sparkling more fiercely than the ring on her finger.
"Murphy!" she cried a moment before she had thrown herself into the arms of her reckless, charismatic criminal of a fiancé.
"See, I told yeh she'd come runnin'," Murphy MacManus smirked, sticking his tongue out at his twin brother while he hugged his Rachel to him.
"Yeah, but see, what yeh don' know is that she came runnin' for me," Connor said between long draughts of his Guinness. "You jus' got in the way, as usual."
"Ah, fuck off, Con," Murphy said good-naturedly before turning and placing his lips on Rachel's, much to the amusement of the bar patrons.
The kiss was just getting good when there was a resounding SMACK and Murphy was suddenly clutching his cheek in pain.
"Christ! Fuckin' ow, woman!" he exclaimed, rubbing his cheek.
"Where the fuck have you been, Murphy Diarmuid MacManus?" Rachel demanded, hands on her hips. "Two months, I've been waiting, and no word you're still alive except for what the papers say!"
"Nothin' like a warm homecoming, eh Murph?" Connor asked, highly amused at the talking-to his twin was getting.
"You're not off the hook either, Connor Fearghal," Rachel glared. "And until I find a lass who'll take you in hand, I'll punish you as well as him."
"Ah, go easy on him, Rachel, he's been mopin' like a fuckin' woman since we left," Connor said, lounging against the bar. "Made my life shite. He's missed ya."
"And he can go on missin' me for the moment until I'm done yellin' at the pair of yeh," Rachel said.
Suddenly remembering the audience, Rachel turned, beckoning to the boys and leading them back to their normal secluded corner booth. Knowing that there was serious talk coming, the twins exchanged a wary glance and ordered more Guinness before following her.
"Don't I even get a hello, then?" Murphy asked, now looking properly contrite.
"You've gotten all you're gettin' until I've said my piece," Rachel said
Connor laughed. "Christ, Murph. You're fuckin' twenty-nine years old, and actin' like a two-year-old who's been smacked by yer ma."
"If that's what it takes to get you two to be serious," Rachel said, looking around the bar before leaning in. "You're not injured, any of you?"
"We're fine," Murphy assured her, sliding his arm around her shoulders.
"How's your shoulder?" she asked, motioning with her head towards the injury he'd sustained from the gunfight with Il Duce.
Murphy shrugged. "Same as always."
"Did you bring us back here to worry about old wounds?" Connor asked, leaning back and lighting a cigarette.
"Where's your da?" Rachel asked, taking a sip of Murphy's beer.
"He went to put the place to rights," Connor replied. "Get our effects hidden."
"You boys have been careful lately, haven't you?" Rachel asked, biting her lip— a surefire sign she was worried.
"Christ," Connor swore, blowing out a stream of smoke. "Don't you start worryin' about us, Rachel. We're still here, aren't we?"
"Barely," she retorted. "At least you're not staggerin' in here broken and bleeding like you did Valentine's day last year."
The twins winced and shifted. "Always gotta bring that up, don't ya?" Murphy muttered.
"I'll not be made a widow before I've been made a proper wife," Rachel shot back before lacing her fingers with Murphy's and settling down to business. "The police are gettin' nosy. There've been stiffs comin' around more than once, askin' after yeh. They're tryin' to bring you lads in and get you to trial."
"What about Agent Smecker?" Connor asked. "He wouldn't let us get taken in."
"He's gone," Rachel shook her head. "They booted him after he let you go last year."
"What?" the boys asked indignantly.
"Smecker was a good man," Connor said.
"Apparently not good enough," Rachel said. "They charged him with obstruction of justice. They didn't put him in prison, but they stripped him of his badge and his gun. They've got a new agent in charge, and he'll not rest until he has you behind bars, or dead."
"They'll not catch us, Rachel," Murphy said confidently.
"Sanders isn't like Smecker," she insisted. "He don't care about destroyin' evil, protectin' the good. He cares about gettin' promoted, and flashin' his shiny badge in people's faces. He'll go to any lengths to see the Saints brought down. So be careful, the three of yeh. Stay away from Boston and he'll have a harder time of followin' yeh."
"I'm not stayin' away," Murphy said defiantly. "This bastard'll not scare me off'a seein' you."
He glanced at his brother, his face thoughtful but his eyes dancing with mischief. Upon seeing his face, Rachel muttered an 'oh Lord' and leaned back in the booth, snatching the rest of Murphy's Guinness for herself.
"Y'know, Con, I'm thinking maybe we should pull somethin' here," Murphy said thoughtfully. "If this Sanders is so busy trackin' us, there've gotta be dozens of assholes he's not watchin'."
Connor leaned forward, an anticipatory grin mirroring his brother's on his face. "Y'know, I'll bet you're right. I s'pose it couldn't hurt to remind Agent Sanders what he should be doin'. So who'll we go after?"
"The Teaghlach," Rachel said suddenly. "Go after the Teaghlach."
Connor and Murphy stopped dead and stared at Rachel, for once speechless. She met their gazes evenly, her face emotionless.
"Just because he's my da doesn't mean he's not an evil man," she said quietly.
"Rachel, he's your da," Murphy said. "We'll not kill him."
"Not unless we have to," Connor added, lighting another cigarette. "There's plenty in the Teaghlach to take out without killin' your father."
Murphy lay in Rachel's bed, lazily smoking a cigarette, while Rachel lay tucked against his side, covered only by her rumpled hair and the sheet pooled low around her hips. He smiled down at her when he saw how much trouble she was having keeping her eyes open, and dragged his fingers up and down her back, encouraging her to give in and go to sleep.
"I don't want to sleep," she murmured.
"I don't think you can fight it, love," he grinned, kissing her forehead.
"I will fight it," she said, forcing her eyelids up once again. "If I go to sleep, you'll leave."
"I don't think I have the energy to go anywhere just yet," he smiled.
"That's never stopped you before," she pointed out, laying her head over his heart.
Murphy chuckled, too tired to argue with her. Rachel traced whimsical patterns over his chest, her gaze soft and unfocused as his heartbeat filled her ear.
"D'you think it'll ever end?" she asked softly. "The killin'?"
Murphy sighed. "I don't know, love. There'll always be evil in the world."
"So there'll always have to be the Saints, to fight it," she sighed. "I don't… that's not…" She struggled for a moment, trying to verbalize what was on her mind. "That's not how I imagined life being. Spendin' all my days and nights praying to God that you'll come home alive and unharmed. Always worrying that I won't get you back next time, that I'll lose you to a bullet or to the police."
"Hey," Murphy said, tilting Rachel's head back, serious for once. "I will always come back t'you. Unless… unless you don't want me to?"
Rachel shook her head, clinging to Murphy. "I'll always want you. I just… I want a home, and babies, and I want you safe."
"You'll have it all," he whispered, kissing the top of her head. "I promise."
Rachel closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep so she wouldn't have to tell Murphy just how much she doubted that he'd be able to keep his promise. And soon, too soon, Murphy eased out of her arms, dressed, and left, vowing to make the city of Boston safe enough that he could give her everything she wanted.
The next few weeks found the papers full of reports about the Saints. There was a string of deaths of members of the Teaghlach mob. First low-level package boys had died. Then soldiers. Now the bosses and underbosses were starting to turn up murdered. All of them had been found with their arms folded across their chests, and with coins over their eyes; the trademarks of the Saints of South Boston.
In his office in the Boston Police Department, Agent Sanders was pacing again. "What's the connection?" he muttered to himself. "What's the goddamn connection?"
How did the so-called Saints know about the organization of the Irish mob? How did they know who to target, how to get to them? He turned back to the chart he had made, cataloguing all the lives the Saints had taken, any possible connections they might have. He looked for something, anyone, who he could connect to both the Boondock Saints and the Irish mob.
When he found the connection, Sanders cursed himself for being so blind, for missing the link that now was as plain as the overly large nose on his face. Then he went rushing for his phone.
"Dia dhuit?"
"I'd like to speak to Da Spencer."
Sanders closed the door to the interrogation room, his eyes on the mob boss seated on the other side of the table. Patrick Spencer was a good-looking man, his wrinkles and gray hair making him look distinguished, not aged. His dark suit was very well tailored; he carried himself with an air of confidence and power that, despite his criminal leanings, Sanders could respect.
"You said you had information, Agent Sanders," Spencer said, watching Sanders just as closely as Sanders was watching Spencer. "Not a typical call from the authorities."
"You and I want the same thing, Mr. Spencer," Sanders said, sitting opposite Spencer and leaning forward over his interlocked fingers. "We want the Boondock Saints off the streets and out of our hair. If you're willing to make a deal with me, I think we can get that."
"A deal with the police?" Spencer asked, laughing.
"What if I told you that I know who's been leaking information about your operations to the Boondock Saints?" Sanders asked, smirking with satisfaction when Spencer stopped laughing. "What if I told you that we could use that person as bait to catch the Saints?"
"What kind of deal did you have in mind, Agent Sanders?" Spencer asked.
"Simple," Sanders answered. "You hold the rat captive. The Saints will come to free the rat. Your men gun the Saints down, while my men take the rat off to prison for a very long time. Everyone wins."
"Simple and effective," Spencer nodded, leaning back. "I believe we have a deal, Agent Sanders. Now, tell me: who is the rat? How did you discover what I did not know?"
Agent Sanders smiled; he had been looking forward to this part. "How much do you know about your daughter's fiancé?"
It had been three days since Sean had seen Rachel, and he was getting anxious. Rachel never went this long without communicating with him. Perhaps he was getting paranoid in his old age, but Sean had the sinking feeling that something was wrong.
He waited one more day, hoping that he was over thinking things, that Rachel was sick and just couldn't get to the phone. But when the fifth day dawned, Sean knew he couldn't delay any more.
Rachel had once given him two numbers on a business card, with orders that if she ever disappeared, he was to call the numbers and give the people he contacted anything they asked for. She called them her guardian angel and her patron saint, and she promised that they would always bring her back. Whoever these people were, Sean knew it wasn't a light matter to call them. They were only to be contacted in the direst emergency, but it was clear that it was time to get in touch with these unknown persons.
Sean barricaded himself in Rachel's office, telling the staff that he was taking care of paperwork and for the love of God and St. Patrick not to bother him. He sat in Rachel's oversized leather wingchair, staring at the phone for a moment before drawing a deep breath and calling the first number on the card, marked only with the word "Aequitas."
When he called, he learned that the number was for a pager. He paused, unsure of what to do, until he saw miniscule directions printed in Rachel's hand beneath the number on the card.
Dial 26435 911.
Sean did so, spelling out the secret message as he punched the numbers in. Angel 911. He smiled wearily; how apropos. He hung up the phone, then dialed the second number.
"Smecker," came a gravelly, tired voice.
"Hello, this is Sean Flanery," Sean said, trying to figure out who was on the line. "I was told to ring this number if Rachel Spencer ever went missin'."
"How long has she been gone?" the unknown man asked.
"This is the fifth day," Sean answered.
"Shit," the man swore. "I'll be at the pub in an hour."
Sean stared at the phone as the line went dead, wondering what kind of help he had just called in.
Four hours later, Sean was sitting in on the oddest meeting he could ever have imagined. On one side of the table sat himself and former FBI Agent Paul Smecker. On the other side of the table sat the notorious Boondock Saints, one of whom looked about ready to murder everyone he could get his hands on. Sean knew he should've felt anxious, or nervous, now that he knew the true identity of Rachel's wild buck; instead, he was just relieved.
"Who'da taken her?" Murphy growled, his leg jiggling as he clenched and unclenched his hands.
"Rival mob, maybe," Connor suggested, smoking and drinking as only the Irish can do. "Get her da to pay a ransom."
"No," Smecker said slowly, shaking his head while he smoked a cigarette. "No, if this was the mob, there'd have been a ransom note or a body by now."
"Then what's your theory?" Murphy snapped.
"Get a hold o'yourself, Murphy," the eldest MacManus, known simply as Il Duce, said, placing a restraining hand on his son's shoulder while holding a Cuban cigar in the other. "You'll not be gettin' Rachel back by flying off the handle."
"She's not dead, we know that much," Smecker said, using his burning cigarette to gesture. "My guess is that she's being held somewhere, as bait. Whoever this is, they know you'll come for her, and they'll be waiting."
"Oh, we'll come, alright," Murphy snarled. "And they'll be prayin' for death before the end."
"That's all well and good, Murph, but it don't mean shite until we know who took her," Connor pointed out.
"What about the police?" Sean chimed in.
"No fuckin' way can we take this to the police," Connor shook his head incredulously. "They'd throw us in jail before we ever got to a detective-"
"No, I mean, what if the police are involved?" Sean asked.
At this, all four men turned towards Sean, faces puzzled. Sean fiddled with his hands as she spoke on, trying to make sense of his new theory.
"I mean… They've been comin' down here often, askin' around," he said. "They've dragged Rachel in for questionin' at least twice. What if they knew she could lead them t'you?"
"They're cops," Murphy said. "They wouldn't-"
"Don't be so sure," Smecker cut him off. "Their new guy, Sanders, he'll be up for a big promotion if he catches the Saints of South Boston. He's made underhanded deals with criminals before— granting immunity during trials if mob bosses will produce members of rival mobs, assuring drug trafficking rights in exchange for information. He's a good cop, but he's a scumbag."
"So you think he's in on this whole thing?" Connor asked.
Smecker nodded. "Only question is, who'd he make a deal with this time?" He thought for a moment, then turned to Sean. "Has anyone been up to Rachel's apartment since she disappeared?"
"No," Sean shook his head. "Rachel told me that if she were to disappear, I was to barricade her apartment. She said her contacts would need to see it."
Smecker smiled appreciatively, nodding. "Good girl."
The men stood and followed Sean up to the apartment over the pub. Sean unlocked the door, then motioned the others in ahead of him. Murphy barged right in, a tortured expression on his face; Smecker followed more slowly, taking everything in.
"It's all in order," Murphy commented. "Nothin' looks to be missing."
"There are no signs of a struggle," Smecker said, turning in a slow circle. "She knew whoever took her."
Murphy paused, then turned. "You said this is the fifth day she's been gone?"
"Aye," Sean nodded.
Murphy's eyes narrowed. "That was a Sunday. Sundays she goes for supper at her da's. He always sends a driver."
The five men glanced at each other uneasily. Murphy stalked into Rachel's bedroom. He emerged a moment later, his face set in determination, his hand clenched around Rachel's engagement ring.
"I know where she is."
"You think Mr. Spencer kidnapped his own daughter?" Sean said fearfully.
"It is his mob we've been killin'," Connor said uneasily.
"Fuck!" Murphy yelled, overturning a chair in his anger.
"I've been watching Sanders," Smecker said heavily. "He's met with Patrick Spencer five times in the last two weeks."
"Looks as though you've found who he's been makin' deals with this time, Mr. Smecker," Il Duce said gravely.
"So what?" Connor asked. "Spencer holds his own fuckin' daughter hostage and kills her if we don't fuckin' get to her?"
"Or, Spencer holds his daughter hostage, he and his men wait for the Saints to come rescue her, they kill you and then turn Rachel over to Sanders for being an accessory to the crimes against the Teaghlach mob," Smecker said.
"Fuckin' shit!" Murphy fumed. "I'm gonna kill him. I'll murder him meself."
Connor and Il Duce exchanged weary glances. Though they were angry about the kidnapping of their future sister- and daughter-in-law as well, both knew that Murphy's temper wasn't going to help the situation at all.
Rachel wasn't sure how long she had been in the concrete room in her father's basement, but she was quite sure she wouldn't leave it alive. She knew what happened to people who disappeared into the Spencer basement; they vanished under the foundation of the house, never to be seen again.
She wasn't sure how she was managing to stay calm. She knew she was going to die, that she would never see Murphy again. She knew she was losing her life just at the point when life was about to truly begin for her. And yet, she wasn't afraid. She didn't want to die, but death held no fear for her, only a horrible sadness and a terrible finality.
She hadn't been touched, at first. She had opened the door to her apartment when her father's chauffer had knocked, ready to go for the family Sunday supper after church. Colin had walked her downstairs to the car, as usual. Nothing had been amiss— until she saw James, her father's favorite assassin, in the backseat. She'd had no time to struggle before James held a chloroform-soaked cloth over her nose and mouth until she passed out.
When she woke up, she had been in the concrete room. She was sitting in a wooden chair, blindfolded and gagged, tied to the chair by the ankles and wrists. She had been left alone for an unknown amount of time, a tactic which she knew her father favored. She also knew what would come after the isolation: two burly men and a world of pain.
She'd been right about that too. She had been beaten multiple times, and left alone in the interim. It had only taken one beating to figure out that her father had learned that she had turned on him, that she had provided the information that led to the Saints massacring the Irish mafia. She knew the punishment for turncoats: to be locked in the concrete room, denied food and water, beaten until they couldn't take anymore, and then executed.
Rachel had never thought that she would be subjected to this side of her father. She had spent most of her life being protected by the same men who now left her broken and bleeding. To think that she would be killed by the men that she had grown up around was a chilling thought. And yet, she couldn't bring herself to be afraid. She knew she would die, but she also knew that the Saints were coming. Murphy would come for her. And if he found her dead, he and his brother and father wouldn't rest until she had been avenged.
So Rachel was calm as her blindfold was ripped off. She knew that this was the last thing she would see— not the face of her fiancé, but the faces of the men who would kill her.
They made her kneel on the floor. She refused to make a noise, even though her body was so battered that any movement caused her incredible pain. They re-tied her wrists and ankles to be sure she wouldn't try to escape, and then James walked behind her, loading his gun.
"Any last requests?" Colin asked, to his credit looking sick that he had to kill his boss' daughter.
"Can I pray?" she asked, looking up at him without fear.
Colin and James exchanged glances, then nodded. Rachel took a deep breath, then looked at them.
"This is the prayer that you'll hear right before you die," she said. "I want you to remember it, because the Saints will avenge my death, and you will beg the avenging angels for mercy before the end."
She looked up, past the ceiling and into the heavens, recalling the prayer that Connor and Murphy had taught her.
"And shepards we shall be, to thee, my Lord, to thee. Power hath descended forth from thy hand that our feet may swiftly carry out thy command. And we shall flow a river forth to thee, and teeming with souls shall it ever be. In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti."
"Amen."
Rachel's head turned towards the door when she heard his voice, just as the room exploded with gunfire. Connor and Murphy ran in, raining bullets. Colin and James returned fire. It must've only taken a few seconds, but it seemed an eternity to Rachel. The eternity was ended by a sudden tearing sensation and a burning pain. She fell to the floor, closing her eyes as a hot, sticky substance flowed out of her shoulder and darkness covered her eyes.
Getting into the Spencer home had been suspiciously easy. Il Duce and Smecker had done a cursory inspection of the first floor and declared that either everyone was upstairs, or gone. Murphy had taken off for the basement, Connor close on his heels, while Il Duce and Smecker began searching the rest of the house more thoroughly, killing what soldiers they found.
The most terrifying moment of Murphy's life had been when he kicked down the door in the basement and saw his Rachel kneeling on the floor, broken, bleeding, and bound, reciting the family's prayer. Though battered and abused, she had still been defiant, her voice strong and sure as she repeated the prayer.
The gunfight had lasted only moments, but it had been a lifetime. They had killed Spencer's men with little trouble, but somehow in the chaos, the assassin had managed to shoot Rachel through the shoulder. Time had frozen the moment her body began to slump towards the floor. Abandoning the fight to Connor, Murphy had dove forwards, catching Rachel before she hit the ground, cradling her broken body, applying pressure to the gunshot.
Time flowed in odd ways after that. A blink of the eye brought Murphy from Patrick Spencer's home to the hospital. An eternity passed before he had carried Rachel's broken, bleeding body through the doors of the ER, through the hallway that never seemed to end. Another eternity as the doctors took Rachel further and further away from him. Decades followed by minutes followed by seconds followed by centuries as he sat in the waiting room with Connor and his da, all of them staying silent, doing what they could to keep Murphy calm, to keep him from killing the doctors who were taking too long and the nurses who wouldn't give him straight answers.
Fuzzy moments passed, that became crystal clear only in retrospect. Are you family, I'm her fiancé, they're my da and brother, we need you to fill these papers out, where is her family? They disowned her… she's in the ICU, she isn't responding, they're trying to stabilize her, she and the child are both in danger, yes, didn't you know Rachel is pregnant? She's eleven weeks along… She's my fiancée, I'm the father, we're going to have a child? We'll do all we can to save both her and the baby, the child is fine, doing very well despite the injuries, must be your little miracle, Rachel dances on the edge of a coma, we think she'll pull through, do you know what happened to her?
He went into her room as soon as the nurses would let him, and sank into the chair by her right side numbly, his eyes seeing the damage without registering it. All he could see was the rise and fall of her chest, the monitors which told him that her heart was still beating. He reached out slowly and took her left hand in his, sliding her engagement ring back onto her finger, wincing at how incongruous the platinum and sparkling diamonds looked against her broken, bruised flesh.
"Can't leave you alone fer five minutes without you gettin' in trouble. Why didn't yeh tell me, woman?" he whispered, resting his elbow by her pillow and stroking her face as gently as he could.
"Tell you what?" she breathed, finally opening her eyes.
Murphy winced when he saw the broken blood vessels and the black eyes and the cuts that would take weeks to heal, but the sight of Rachel's green eyes trained on him was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen.
"Christ, yeh didn't know," he muttered, stroking her matted, tangled hair. "Yer pregnant, Rachel."
"What?" she breathed, staring at him.
Murphy nodded. "We're gonna have a baby."
She began to laugh at that, until the jostling of her broken ribs made her gasp in pain. Murphy winced, continuing to stroke her hair and her face as she regulated her breathing.
"I can't see you a da," she said, her eyes sparkling faintly.
"Excuse you, I'll be a fucking amazin' da!" Murphy exclaimed. "He'll be a lucky little bastard."
Rachel raised an eyebrow. "He?"
"Well, o'course we're havin' a boy," Murphy nodded. "We can name him Aiden."
Rachel let out a weak laugh. "I think not. We'll name her Dierdre."
"How about we argue when you're better," Murphy suggested.
"Don't even try to make me sleep," Rachel threatened him.
"You need it, love," he protested.
"Every time I go to sleep, you leave," she said.
Murphy winced. "I'm not goin' anywhere. Sleep, Rachel."
She probably would have argued further, but she was in fact exhausted, so she merely closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep. And Murphy, for once, couldn't be torn away from her for any length of time, no matter how Connor and Il Duce tried. So eventually they went home to plan their revenge against Spencer and the Teaghlach, while Murphy guarded his angel.
The FBI task force walked into Patrick Spencer's dining room apprehensively. Though they knew what they would find, they could never get used to the sight of so much blood, so many bullets.
Spencer's top five associates were all slumped over the table, riddled with gunshots. Spencer— or what was left of him— sat upright, his hands folded in prayer on the table, the Saints' trademark coins over the gaping cavities that had once been his eyes.
"It only took seconds," Agent Martin said to Detective Greenly, the one with the most experience on this endless case. "They came in through the kitchen door, gunned down the bosses. Then they gathered behind Spencer and shot him execution-style."
"Yeah, that's the Saints," Greenly nodded. "Quick and clean, no bullshittin' around."
Greenly stepped away as his cell phone rang. He listened silently, then hung up and turned.
"They got Sanders."
He'd been found in his living room, also shot through the head. Playing on his TV was footage of him and Spencer in the interrogation room, making the deal to use Rachel as bait; footage that showed Sanders for the crooked man he was. On the coffee table, the Saints had left a note.
Never again use an innocent as bait to capture us.
The Angel has loosed its sword, and casts its protective wings over the Saints.
And the Saints shall avenge the helpless, and they shall loose terror upon the heads of the wicked.
Where there is evil, know that there shall be us three. We lay claim to all the corrupt and black hearted, wherever they hide.
There is no rest for the wicked.
The papers were full of the news that the Boondock Saints had gathered a new recruit, known only as the Angel. Everyone speculated on who the Angel could be, how and why he or she had come to join the Saints.
Rachel MacManus just laughed the headlines off. When people in her bar asked her who she thought the Angel and the Saints were, she just held her son closer and said, "I don't care who they are, so long as they don't make a mess of my bar."
Rachel's life had changed dramatically in the last year. In his will, her father had left everything to her. Rachel had taken most of the money and put it in investments, and taken the rest to buy herself, her husband, and her in-laws a townhouse in the Irish neighborhoods of South Boston. After months of arguing, Rachel and Murphy had finally settled on the name Gabriel for their child— the name of the Angel of the Apocalypse.
The Saints were still gone from Boston often. And when they left, Rachel would wait in the hotel or at home for the Saints to come home, so she could yell at them for neglecting their safety, and bind their wounds for them. It wasn't how she had pictured saving the world. But God had called them to protect humanity in this way, and she wasn't one to ignore divine summons.