Approximately 10:45 pm

Evening following the 'Ma Soba Shootout'

Beacon County Hospital

Donahue held the small syringe, filled with clear fluid, and frowned at it. "You sure this won't harm her in any way?"

Smecker have half a shrug. "Not anymore than she already is, no. It will drop her vitals low, and long enough that technically, she'll be dead."

"There's no other way to do this?"

At this, Smecker sighed and shook his head. "I wish there was. I find it pretty macabre myself, but in order for this to work, and for me to keep my job for a little while longer, she needs to die."

Donahue quirked an eyebrow. "What about my job?"

"Your FBI credentials supported an application to a very…elite force. They'll be waiting for you at Beacon Private Airfield. Everything has been arranged." Smecker slid a leather portfolio across the swing-arm table.

Donahue opened it and checked the contents: two passports, immigration papers, work visas, and Euros were arranged neatly in the pockets. He nodded and looked back to Smecker. "And the file on her?"

Smecker patted his coat, slung over the chair beside him. "I'll see to it that it gets to the right people."

Donahue nodded. "Right. Make sure." He tucked his hand under his pillow and slid out the silver necklace that Smecker had given to him the day before. "Add this to the package." He dropped it into Smecker's waiting hand.

"You look nervous, kid," Smecker commented as he slipped the necklace into the envelope he'd pulled from his coat.

Donahue took a deep breath. "Yeah, well, I've never had to do this before."

"She'll be awake again in forty-eight hours," Smecker reassured him as he slipped his suit jacket on. "By that time, you'll both be clear of American soil."

Donahue nodded again and glanced at the clock. "Midnight?"

"As close as you can get it," Smecker replied. "Good luck."

"I'm going to get some coffee. Do you want some?"

Donahue smiled at the pretty brunette who'd introduced herself as Pam. He'd been surprised to see her there in Wren's room, but he'd pushed it aside and shrugged it off. After learning that she knew the MacManus brothers, he'd seen the connection – she was most likely involved with the fairer brother, and therefore probably close to Wren.

"That's what they're calling the brown water?"

Pam laughed, but got up, letting him know she'd get him one, too. She'd left the room easily enough, and when the door closed behind her, Donahue let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding and reached into the padding of the wheelchair, withdrawing the

syringe Smecker had handed to him. His hands shook as he took hold of Wren's IV line, and so he ceased breathing to steel himself for the task.

It was over in seconds that crawled by like a lifetime. It would take a while for the drug to kick in, Smecker had told him. Out in the hall, he heard a small commotion and voices steadily becoming louder, more agitated. Whatever was happening could result in the appearance of security, a risk Donahue wasn't willing to take. With as much grace as he could muster, Donahue wheeled himself from the room, not willing to cast a glance behind him, and worked his way down to the elevators.

Now, all he had to do was wait.

Three Months Later…

"Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners…"

Murphy looked up at the assembly of lit candles and pulled a taper from the lot, holding it to the flame of the closest candle before reaching and lighting two new ones. "Pray for us sinners," he continued gently, glancing up at the statue of the Virgin. "Now and at the hour of our death." He blew the taper out and crossed himself. "Amen." Standing slowly, he turned to the church and shuffled to a pew near the back.

At this time of night, St. Michael's was nearly empty, and the candles that had been lit after evening mass still flickered in their places, casting a golden glow and long shadows in the cathedral. The stained glass was ethereal, glowing, and Murphy remembered Midnight Mass, and how he had brought Wren and how she had looked in the soft light. He clasped his hands on the pew in front of him and bent his head, refusing his tears.

He'd shed enough already. Almost three months ago, to be exact, when they'd put her in a box and put that box in a plot in Westerly Burying Grounds, with a name that wasn't hers and a birth date he was sceptical about on the headstone. From a distance, as no place was safe anymore, not with media coverage, he'd had to watch, safe in the backseat of Rocco's Toyota, as the pastor presided and the groundskeeper looked on. It killed him not being there, right there, to pay his respects.

To say goodbye.

Even if he had been able to attend, he didn't think he would have been able to keep it together. Rocco had been buried two days prior to Wren, and Connor had been forced to remove Murphy from the mausoleum, the sounds of his sobbing echoing off of the stone. Connor had been grim faced the whole ride back to the motel, and once they got there, his Da…fuck, his Da, could only offer a small smile of condolences.

He felt removed from it all. Like it was some big ugly dream and Connor only had to wake him up by smacking him across the back of the head and tell him that they were fucking late for work again and that he'd better get his ass in the shower. But it wasn't a dream; he was certain in his new line of work, he didn't have to worry about schedules, but whether or not he was running low on ammo. Wren would never pour him a beer again, or fire another round, or push him back and make him forget his name and his worries for the span of an evening. His fingers fumbled, and finally, he sighed with relief as he clutched the beads of the rosary around his neck. Fucking bastards at the hospital wouldn't even let him have her personal effects – another rule about next of kin. The necklace was gone, and for some reason, Connor was distraught by this. Maybe it was his twin's way of dealing with his grief.

"What's this?" Connor stared at the large manila envelope Agent Smecker held out to him.

Smecker gave a grim smile. "The complete dossier on Wren 'Little Bird' Abernathy."

Connor hesitated before taking it from Smecker's hands. It was thick. He glanced back to the agent. "What's in it?"

"Everything," Smecker replied. "Prior arrest reports, previous employment, and I use that term loosely, fingerprints, photographs…" Smecker trailed off. "Murphy wanted to know it all. Give it to your brother, all right?"

Connor frowned but nodded, and tucked the envelope into his coat. "She's really gone, then?"

"You saw the grave," Smecker answered cryptically.

"That's not what I asked," Connor growled.

"Look, Connor, it's over. I suggest you concentrate on getting you and your brother and father out of the country. I've lined up transportation. You boys will be safe as long as you stay off of American soil."

"Right," Connor mumbled. He looked closely at the FBI agent. "Why didya help us?"

Smecker paused and then shrugged, before taking a deep breath. "There comes a time in every man's life when he has to ask himself if he's doing the right thing – if he's standing up for what he believes in. I became an FBI agent because I thought it would make a difference. I thought I'd be putting scum bags away, but instead I was only helping them get to prison so they could get out in a year's time and be back on the streets. The taxpayers pay my paycheck. I figured it was time I paid them back." He grinned at the end of his speech and winked at Connor. "Besides, who wouldn't want to work right next to a couple of good lookin' lads like you and your brother?"

Connor scoffed and felt his ears flush. "Aye, well…tanks, an' everyting." He patted his coat where he'd stuffed the envelope. "I don't know if I'll give it him right away, but I'll make sure that he knows everythin'."

McGinty's was closed for the night, but Connor still sat at the end of the bar, smoking a cigarette, a half-empty bottle of Bushmill's at his elbow. The file that Smecker had handed him that morning sat next to him. He'd read everything in there, some of it twice, and he was still uncertain about a few things.

"Who were ya, lass?" Connor murmured as he crushed out his cigarette and poured another glass of whiskey. He picked up the package again and fiddled with it, feeling its thickness. There was a bump in the bottom of it, hard and small and flat, and so he flipped the top of the envelope open and upended it over his palm.

Wren's necklace poured out and Connor felt a surge of relief. He thought he'd lost it that night, but there it was in the palm of his hand. He swallowed thickly and set it on the bar, staring at it as he reached for his glass. He'd taken it off…then rambled about some superstition that even he didn't believe in – and neither had Wren. But it had happened anyway, and Murphy had been heartbroken when the chain and pendant couldn't be recovered. Connor slapped his hand down over it and scooped it off the bar, shoving it into his coat pocket. If Murphy didn't want to look in the envelope, that was fine, but he deserved to have the necklace. Connor stood, shoving the package back into his coat and pocketing his cigarettes before picking up his shot of whiskey and downing it.

"Doc. M'leavin'. Don't know when I'll be back. M'takin' Murph wit' me."

Doc looked up from his paper, his face sad, but understanding. "Aye, lad. Take care o'each other, right? You boys always have a place here, understand?"

Connor smiled fondly as he stepped out of the bar and he looked back over his shoulder one last time. "Thanks, Doc."

Murphy felt his brother's presence a while later, settling beside him on the pew, calm and quiet. Connor whispered a quick 'Our Father' and then was silent until Murphy sat back and wiped his eyes.

Neither of them said anything. Connor merely dug into his pocket and pulled out the necklace, and let it pool on the wooden pew before Murphy. The darker twin took a shuddering breath and stared at it as his eyes filled once more. Connor was silent still as he felt Murphy slide closer. Leaning back, Connor lifted his arm and allowed Murphy to lean into his side. His arm went around his mourning brother; his hand to the dark head of hair, and his lips pressed to his brow as he quieted Murphy's broken sobs.

Connor didn't know how long they sat there. The few worshippers that had been present when he arrived were long gone now, and the church was silent as the grave. Murphy had quieted some time ago, but still sat with his face buried in his brother's shoulder. When the dark haired twin finally did move, it was with purpose. He pushed from Connor's embrace and stood, palming the necklace up from where it had lain untouched on the back of the pew. He dropped it into his pocket and looked down at Connor with tired eyes.

"Ya ready?" Connor asked as he stood.

Murphy nodded. "Almost. Got one more stop ta make. Reckon yer goin' to tha same place, so I'll walk wit ya." Outside the church, he turned to Connor. "Did ya meet with Smecker?"

"Aye," Connor nodded. He hesitated, assessing his brother's condition. Then he dug the envelope out of his pocket and handed it over to Murphy.

"Did ya read it?" Murphy asked as he turned it over in his hands.

"Aye," Connor answered solemnly.

Murphy nodded and stuffed the envelope into his jacket. "Let's go."

"I've got a few things to take care of, so I'm not stayin long, aye?" Murphy put on his best cheeky grin as he looked between Connor and Pam. "Conn, d'ya mind if I steal her fer a minute?"

Connor shrugged and waved them away. Pam led Murphy out to the balcony and closed the door behind them. She leaned against the railing as Murphy stared at her long and hard. Finally, he reached into his coat and pulled out the envelope containing Wren's information. "I need ya ta keep this fer me."

Pam took the envelope. "What is it?"

"It's everythin' Donahue ever documented about Wren. I haven't read it. I…" He shook his head and looked out to the Boston skyline. My life isn't a book open for discussion. Murphy swallowed the rising tears and clutched the railing.

"Murphy, maybe you should take it? I mean, what if you want to know someday…"

He shook his head. "If and when I want ta know, I'll find ya," he said with stark finality.

Pam nodded. "Okay."

Murphy dug into his other pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and Wren's necklace. Lighting a smoke, he dangled the necklace in front of Pam who swallowed thickly and then looked into Murphy's eyes. "An' keep this, too."

Pam shook her head. "I won't."

Murphy smiled tightly. "You will. I don't expect ya ta wear it. But I do expect ya ta keep it, aye? Fer me. I'll feel better knowin' it's safe in yer hands."

Pam gaped at the Irishman in front of her, not willing to believe what he'd just announced. "You're leaving?"

Connor frowned and nodded faintly, and then crossed the hardwood floor to take Pam's hands in his. "We can't stay here."

In her heart, she knew that, and the realization made her sick. She glanced from the balcony to where Murphy slumped on her couch, his dull blue eyes staring out the window. Wren had been buried three months now, but the shadows under Murphy's eyes had only darkened with his pain. It broke Pam's heart – and made her own grief that much harder to determine. She'd loved Wren to the best of her ability, but hadn't really known her. Pam wondered if anyone actually had.

"Murphy can't stay here," Connor stressed, garnering the brunette's attention once more.

Pam nodded. "I know." She sighed and turned back to Connor. "Doesn't mean I'm happy about it."

"I don't want ta leave ya, Pam. Yer in me heart. Ye know that."

"Do you know where you're going?"

Connor shook his head. "Don't ask me that. I…can't tell ya. Isn't safe." He frowned as Pam's eyes began to water and he cupped her face, his thumbs wiping away the tears as they began to fall. "It's breakin' me too, lass. If tings were diff'rent…"

"Don't say it," Pam interrupted with a quick shake of the head. "Things aren't different. They're like this. And we can't change them. Will you come back?"

Connor looked at his feet. "I don't know, lass," he said with stark finality. He met her eyes once more. "Don't wait 'round fer me, ye hear? Find yerself a good man. Get married and have dem babes I know ye want."

Pam narrowed her eyes but managed a small smirk. "Fuck you, Connor MacManus. I'll wait for you if I damn well please."

Murphy sank to the bottom of a Bushmill's bottle, the guilt of Rocco's and Wren's deaths shackled to his ankles, making it impossible to keep his head at the surface.

"Neither of them were yer fault, Murph," Connor's voice mumbled from somewhere.

The darker twin lifted the bottle and took another drink.

"We have important work to do," the MacManus patriarch reminded his boys, and for a moment, Murphy opened his bleary eyes and focused on the grey-haired man that he called 'Da.'

Murphy snorted and the bottle upended once more.

The icy shock of water made him snap his eyes open and he found himself staring at the bottom of a stainless steel sink. He thrashed, feeling the hands grip his shoulders and hold him down. A stream of bubbles ran to the surface as Murphy screamed and cursed and finally, when the hands holding him down relented, he flung himself backwards in a spray of water and a string of gargled curses. His eyes blinked the water away and he focused on the mirror in front of him, refusing to look at his own reflection and instead, looking at that of his brother.

He guessed they both looked equally miserable. "Conn?" he croaked.

"Aye," the sandy-haired man nodded.

"Where are we?"

"Middle of the Atlantic."

Murphy scowled and shook his head. "When…"

"Ye've been in a drunken delirium for almost a week. We boarded three days ago. We're crossin' t'Ireland." He stared back into his brother's haunted eyes. "We're goin' back home."

November, 2001

Upper Siberia

She shivered violently beneath the reindeer hides, trying to pinpoint when she'd last been this cold. Certainly not in the United States. There was something almost welcoming about the sub zero temperatures in the wilds of Siberia. The smell of the cold air mixed with the oil from the Mauser perched under her nose was conjuring distant memories, and she cursed her fragmented memory again.

A year ago, she'd woken in a care facility somewhere in the Mediterranean, speaking Russian while thinking it was English. She remembered Russia, she remembered Washington, and Colorado, and finally Chicago…but beyond that there was almost an entire year gone from her brain, carefully extracted by the drug administered by the one-quarter dago Mick that was supposedly her handler. Some prick by the name of Donahue, who told her daily that she'd never really hated him like she did now, but had amazing patience for her outbursts. She'd found out early on she like cocaine, and that the program frowned upon that behaviour.

Hence, Siberia.

Eventually, her English had come back, but none of the memories. Donahue told her that her brother was dead, something that left her surprised and feeling alone. He'd been her partner in crime, the only one who really knew what it was like to be her. She'd pressed Donahue for details, maybe the name of his killer, but the Mick had been tight-lipped, and she'd been left unsatisfied.

There was a crackle in her radio. "Little Bird, this is Eagle One. Target has been acquired. Hold for visual confirmation and position."

"Copy that," she murmured, rolling her eyes at the code name she'd been given. Fuck Arkady for ever hanging that one on her; she hated it as much as the fragility it suggested. She wondered briefly if Arkady was even still alive. She'd volunteer for that job, no payment required.

"You're muttering again," the voice in her earpiece came back. "Why won't you teach me Russian?"

She growled under her breath. Not only had Donahue mentioned that she never really hated him, he had also let her know that she actually liked him. Had maybe even kissed him. "Because," she snapped, fidgeting with the focus on her sight, "if I did that, you'd know when I was insulting you."

"You wound me," came Donahue's snide reply.

"You'll get over it," she came back.

"I'll probably scar," he sighed.

"Good. Scars are sexy," she mumbled.

"Did you say I was sexy?"

She growled again and prepared to rip into him with a scathing commentary in both English and Russian about now not sexy he was (but really wasn't). Donahue's voice cut her off, all traces of joking gone.

"Target spotted." She heard him say something else to the person next to him, and then he was speaking to her again. "Sixty seconds to visual."

"I need a description," she said as she felt her blood begin to heat and her brain to clear.

"Copy that," Donahue replied. Seconds later: "Male, Caucasian, twenty-two to twenty-five years of age. This is him. This is the guy we've been looking for."

"Oh yeah?" She mumbled, peering down her scope. "Time to visual?"

"Thirty seconds."

"Mark," she replied, setting her stopwatch. "You gonna tell me his name, or should I just chalk him up with all the other nameless wastes of space you've hooked me up with?"

"The name isn't important," he scoffed, though he knew better than to leave her hanging.

She'd insisted he call her by her given name, rather than some weak alias she'd supposedly chosen for herself. "If you have a name," she said lowly, "I would have it."

"No name…we just know this is our guy."

Right, her mind growled sarcastically. Never give away the whole game; that seemed to be the modus operandi of the 'program'. She pushed the thought aside as her watch began the final ten seconds and instead concentrated on her breathing.

Her hands are steady. She takes a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds, and lets it out slowly. Then she does it again. The vehicle appears on the game trail, a sturdy jeep followed by three old Soviet all terrains. She takes a last breath and she counts down, exhales.

Three. Her finger caresses the trigger.

Two. Her tongue presses against her top lip.

One. She squeezes and holds as the last molecules of oxygen leave her lungs.

Boom.