Title: In Nomine Patris

Author: Sierra

Rated: PG-13 for Violence

Disclaimer: I don't own anything

Summary: For a moment, everything in him screamed at Noah to stop; there was something about the boys that was urging him not to pull the trigger.

A/N: Character Deaths! Very depressing stuff ahead . . .

xxx

Noah MacManus crept through the bushes surrounding Papa Joe's house, the thick shrubbery and night sky concealing him entirely; he moved silently, leaves barely crunching beneath his boots, walking slowly but surely. His leather vest creaked a bit, like a saddle, as he made his way over the wall protecting the property, getting closer to the big, stone house. A gunshot echoed through the walls, piercing the silent night, and if he listened hard enough Noah could hear the screams that followed; they were agonized, terrified, and full of rage. Nothing new, in this line of work.

Papa Joe came out of the house a minute later, looking over his shoulder, face pinched with fear and a gun gripped tightly in his hand; he got into a car and drove off, and Noah let him go, uninterested. Oh, he would get around to killing the Italian scumbag eventually, but not tonight. No need to hurry.

He watched as a woman walked up to the door and knocked, long red hair cascading around her shoulders, a tight black dress clinging to a straight body; the words she exchanged with the fat man who answered the door were too quiet for Noah's ears, but she was ushered in after just a moment. The door clicked shut and Noah sprinted for the porch, crouching low and out of sight; he peeked through a window, catching a glimpse of the fat man and the woman disappearing into another room. No one else. He grasped the door handle, pushed the lever, and entered the house in one smooth, silent motion.

The house was eerily quiet, just some low moans coming from behind a closed door, and Noah's shallow breathing; he drew his knife, preferring to keep the silence intact. Moving his way through the house, he came around a corner and saw a man sitting in a high-backed chair, smoking a cigar. Noah slit his throat before he could utter a single word.

The kitchen was empty. And the living room. Noah frowned, heading back to the entranceway, his gut twisting; there should've been more people, he knew that. So where were they? He stopped short before passing by the man he'd killed, for in front of him was the woman in her black dress, holding a handgun and pointing it at the already-dead man in the chair. So there was another player in the game.

Noah slipped his knife away and brought his gun out, swiftly hitting her in the head with the grip; she crumpled, the wig falling away when she . . . he landed on the floor. Noah scowled, nudged the man with his boot, and decided to leave him for later. He needed to find his real targets. Knock them off so he didn't have to worry about the Italians being on his tail, while he was on theirs.

It didn't take him long to discover the doorway to the room they were being held in; it was slightly ajar, and he could see the dark walls, bloody floors, and dim lighting on the inside. There were no sounds, and Noah wondered to himself if perhaps Papa Joe had already disposed of the men, taking things into his own hands for once. But then, he saw, that was not the case. At least, not for two of them.

The long-haired Italian . . . Rocco, he believed they'd called him, was sitting in a chair with his head hanging limply, his white shirt drenched in blood. The hole in the middle of his chest was so tiny, but nonetheless deadly. On either side of him, were the two men Noah recognized from the shoot-out the day before; young men, he reflected, taking them in from his spot on the other side of the door. One had dark blond hair, a face covered in blood, and a leg that looked as if it could barely hold him up; Noah had inflicted that wound. His face was a mask of pain and grief. The other was darker, in both looks and manners, black hair and a face that was nearly devoid of emotion, his mouth set in a thin line. Noah's eyes trailed down to his left hand, mangled and broken, and his shoulder, steadily bleeding onto the floor.

For a moment, everything in him screamed at Noah to stop; there was something about the boys that was urging him not to pull the trigger. He waited, biding his time to see if there really was anything else he should know about them, something besides the fact that they were skilled assassins. But they just stood, face-to-face, their eyes trained on their fallen friend, oblivious to their surroundings.

So with that, Noah brought his .45s to eye level and fired them simultaneously. The dark-haired boy fell instantly, gasping out in shock and pain as blood spurted from the new wound in his chest; the other stared at him in horror, even as blood began to seep from the hole in his belly. Then he sank to his knees, and Noah caught a glimpse of the gun he had tucked into his jeans; instinctively, he went to shoot again, but found there was no need. The man was reaching out for the other, his hand shaking as it grasped the pantleg, his voice barely a mumble: "Murphy . . . "

"C-Connor?" the dark-haired . . . Murphy, Noah presumed, croaked. Blood was dribbling from his lips and running down his chin, his blue eyes were already glassy, unfocused.

Connor pulled himself closer as Noah stepped into the room, and moving with speed Noah wouldn't have thought possible for someone so gravely injured, Connor grabbed his gun and fired two shots. One found its target, ripping through Noah's leg and sending him crashing down just as he pulled the trigger again; Connor slumped over Murphy's legs, his hand going limp and the gun clattering to the floor. Murphy let out a pathetic whimper, strained to see his killer in the darkness and through the blood running over his eyes, then he, too, went limp . . . and suddenly, Noah was alone.

Without warning, his stomach rebelled. He fell onto his side and vomited onto the concrete floor, so violently his sides were aching and his throat was raw by the time it was over; he gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he pushed himself back up. His mind was fuzzy, both with confusion and blood loss, but he knew that he needed to get closer to the boys he'd just killed. He didn't know why but that didn't matter anymore. He half-dragged, half-crawled to their bodies, fighting down the urge to vomit again when he saw their faces, so very young and so very still.

Something around Connor's neck glinted in the low light, it was dull and brown, looked like a string of beads . . . Noah took it in his fingers and tugged sharply, breaking it and tearing it away from the dead man. A tiny cross seemed to glare at him, taunting him with the sudden realization that his entire being was revolting against accepting as a fact.

"No . . . " he whispered.

His hand trembled uncontrollably as he brought the cross closer and inspected it, so obviously handcrafted, carefully detailed . . . his own hands, carving away at the wood, shaving it until it was smooth. Annabelle watched him from the kitchen, her smile wide, her belly so big it was looked ready to pop. It was at that moment he knew he would have sons, and he scrawled right into the back of the cross . . .

Noah was silently pleading as he turned the cross over, his vision already blurring with tears before he saw the Veritas so plainly carved into the wood; he didn't have to look at the one around Murphy's neck, but he did anyway, and the sob that erupted from deep in his throat when he saw Aequitas shook his whole body. His cries echoed in the room and around the house as he took both boys into his arms and pulled them close, holding them for the first time since their birth. Connor's head rested on his shoulder and Murphy's down on his lap, his boys . . .

"Noah, for Christ's sake tha' lads aren't gonna bite ya'!" Annabelle's words were strong but her voice was full of laughter as she beckoned him into the bedroom. She was laying in bed, propped up by an enormous amount of pillows, a red-faced newborn in each arm.

There were the most beautiful and terrifying creatures Noah had ever seen.

"Two boys!" Annabelle declared, proudly. "Connor and Murphy . . . they're gonna be trouble, I can tell ya' that. Eigheen hours o' labor to bring 'em into this world." She smiled down at them, placed a kiss on their foreheads. "Worth every minute." She looked back up at Noah. "Now, c'mon! Take a look at your boys."

Noah was shaking when his wife handed the babies to him, squirmy little arms and legs flailing nervously as they left the warm and safe arms of their mother; Connor's big eyes stared up at him, focused, while Murphy's little eyes were darting around. Noah chuckled. They were fan lads, strong and alert. Perfect.

"My boys . . . "