Every Fool Gets a Lucky Chance Or Two

Chapter One

Jane walked through the streets of South Boston, her heels clicking against the concrete sidewalk with each step. She was walking to the nearest T stop after another failed first date. She was alone, having refused her date's offer to walk her to the stop. He had been a boor, and the last thing she wanted to do was spend her walk home listening as he struggled to strike up a decent conversation. She made sure to remain aware of her surroundings as she took a short cut through a small gathering of alleyways. It was dark, she was alone, and she was dressed rather nice - not a good combination in South Boston at night. Although her decision to take the special alleyway short cut was not at all advisable, she wasn't afraid. Jane had grown up in the city, and she knew it well. She was used to walking the streets alone and had been doing so since she was a teenager. She approached the first of three connected alleys, preparing to round the corner. She saw the lights from one of the many bars that backed into these alleyways, and she could hear several voices coming from around the corner. She hesitated, recognizing the deep Russian accents with which the men spoke. Organized crime was a problem in any major city, and Boston was certainly no exception.

Jane peered around the corner carefully. There were five men standing outside the bar. They were talking quite loudly, clearly intoxicated. She watched them, hoping they would clear the alley soon or maybe return to the bar. She definitely did not feel like walking past five potential members of the Russian Mob, least of all at this hour of night. Suddenly gunshots were fired. Two of the men went down. The remaining three reached for their weapons but quickly joined the other two on the ground. Jane let out a cry, instantly wishing she hadn't. The gunmen were almost certainly nearby. Two masked men stepped out from the shadows.

"You hear that?" one asked the other.

Jane's eyes widened. She weighed her options. She wasn't too deep into the alleyway system, so she could possibly make it out to the street in time. Or she could wait, hoping the killers would not find her. Jane chose the former, taking off down the alley. Her heels clacked loudly, giving her away. She heard the gunmen begin to run after her, their feet pounding against the pavement. Terror was pumping through her veins as she ran, her heart pounding in her chest, deepening her fear. She refused to look behind her, but she could hear the footsteps gaining on her. She cried out in pain and fear as one of the men grabbed her, pushing her into the brick wall lining the alley. Her attacker covered her mouth with a gloved hand, silencing her shout.

"Hey, hey, hey," he said. "Shhh."

Jane raised her leg up, swiftly kneeing the man in the groin. He groaned in pain, releasing her. She began to run again but was quickly grabbed by the second gunman and was thrown back against the wall, another gloved hand covering her mouth.

"Fucking hell," the first gunman muttered, still clutching himself.

"You'd best not try that again," the second gunman said, holding her down tightly.

She noticed that both men had distinctly Irish accents. They weren't much taller than her either. She guessed they were around five or so inches taller, making them around 5'10". It fell silent in the alleyway. Jane glanced to her right. The street was still far away, and she realized, with a sinking feeling, that she never had a chance. These men were going to kill her. The first gunman straightened up, seemingly recovered from her assault. She waited for the gunshot. The first gunman came closer, muttering to the second one.

"What should we do?" she heard him ask.

"How the fuck should I know?" the second snapped.

"Well, we can't kill her," the first one said.

"I know that."

"So, what do we do?"

They were quiet for a moment.

"She hasn't seen our faces," the second gunman commented.

"Yeah, well she's fucking heard our voices enough," said the first.

"What do you suggest, then?" The first shook his head. The gunman holding her turned to face her.

"You'd better not fucking say anything to anyone," he said. "We've seen your face, we'd know who it was."

He held onto her for a moment longer, finally releasing her.

"Now, get the fuck home."

The men began to walk away, making their way back through the alley.

"Oh yeah, really fucking threatening," she heard the first gunman say.

Jane composed herself before exiting the alley. She walked back onto the sidewalk, stepping as confidently as before, although her pace quickened. She felt her knees threatening to buckle as she walked. She desperately needed to be back in her apartment. After several minutes on the T and another short walk, she was finally there. She unlocked her door, closing it firmly and locking it after her. Once the locks were secured, Jane's knees gave out, and she slumped down on the hardwood floor of her apartment with a thud. She began to sob, all of her fear and horror coming to a gut wrenchingly visceral head. She had watched five men die, somehow escaping death herself. As sobs continued to wrack her body, she wondered how she had been so lucky. The gunmen had let her escape with her life. She presumed it was because she was a woman. She doubted the truth behind the second gunman's threats but not nearly enough to test them.

She pulled herself off the floor, thankful that she did not have work the next day. She worked as a schoolteacher and loved the freedom it afforded her on weekends. Still, she was in dire need of some sleep. She took her heels off, leaving them by the front door. Her bare feet padded across the floor, and she undressed as she went. She was far too tired to care as she discarded her dress and bra on the way to her bedroom. Once inside her room she grabbed the first tee shirt in her dresser that she spotted, pulling it over her head. She yanked back the covers to her bed, shut off her lamp, and was asleep minutes after closing her eyes.

xxx

Jane awoke the next morning much later than she usually did. On a typical day during the weekend, she was up by eight at the latest. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table, groaning. It was 9:23. She hated waking up so late. She felt like she had wasted part of the day. Considering the circumstances, though, she was willing to let one morning slide. She sat up, stretching her aching muscles. Her back was slightly sore from being shoved so forcefully into the alleyway wall. She ignored the pain, forcing herself to get up and moving.

She sauntered into her small kitchen, putting on some coffee. She made herself a bagel, spreading a thin layer of cream cheese on top of each side. Once she had fixed herself a generous cup of coffee, she made her way into the living room, which was barely separated from her kitchen. Her apartment was tiny, but she hadn't expected much living in downtown Boston on a teacher's salary. Jane plopped down onto her couch, which was by far her favorite piece of furniture. Her mother had bought it for her from Ikea, and had absolutely refused to allow Jane to pay her back for it. After settling herself on the couch and placing her coffee on the table to cool, she picked up the remote, turning on the television. It was a modest set. She had stubbornly held on to her old television, refusing to replace it until necessary. When it finally broke, she had buckled, buying a decently sized flat screen. She had winced at the price; she preferred to live more simply. She browsed through the channels, munching on her bagel and taking the occasional sip of coffee.

Just as she was about to give up on the TV, she flipped to a local news station. She had just caught the ten o'clock news and smiled at her small bit of luck. The main reason she even bought a new television was so that she could watch the news. Sometimes she would grab a paper on the way to work, skimming it on the ride or during her lunch break. Televised news was what she preferred, the admission of which made her feel lazy. She watched the news cast, mostly uninterested in what the anchors had to say. She drank her coffee, staring blankly at the screen, her eyes unfocused. It was a boring day for Boston, it seemed. Jane was reached for the remote to turn off the television when the newscast caught her attention.

"Last night in South Boston, five high profile members of the Russian Mob were murdered. The bodies were found behind a local bar at which the mobsters had been for the majority of the night. The bodies were discovered early this morning by an employee of the bar. The Boston Police have yet to release a statement, but public speculation has already begun. It seems that these killings may be a part of a string of murders committed by two unknown men, dubbed the Saints of South Boston."

The newscast cut back to the anchors.

"We'll have more on that later once the Boston Police release their statement."

The sounds of the television faded out as Jane's focus shifted. She was stunned. Her stomach had dropped as soon as she had seen the reporter standing just outside of the alley where she had witnessed the brutal murder. As her shock began to wear off, she wondered why she hadn't made the connection earlier. Of course it was the Saints. They had Boston absolutely riveted. They were both largely praised and largely criticized. Everyone had something to say about the Saints. It made sense to Jane that they let her go. It wasn't in them to kill an innocent person, even if that person was a witness. She had a run in with the Saints. The thought thrilled her. They were dangerous. They were criminals. But they killed for a cause. She wasn't sure what to think of them. She couldn't imagine what it took for a person to kill another so effortlessly, but she couldn't deny that she felt safer knowing that the Saints were out there.

Her sudden realization brought up a whole new slew of emotions, and she decided that spending one day wasting away in her apartment wouldn't hurt. She got up to look through her collection of movies, suddenly wishing it wasn't so sparse. She fixed herself some more coffee and settled back onto the sofa, preparing to spend the day as useless as possible.

xxx

By nighttime Jane was eager to leave her apartment. She had exhausted the extent of her small DVD collection and was beginning to grow restless. She got herself showered, deciding that she would go out tonight. She thought of calling up a girlfriend but thought better of it. She still needed some time to process the range of emotions she was experiencing. Jane put the slightest amount of effort into her appearance. She had spent some time trying to decide what it was that she wanted to do. She finally determined that she would go to a local bar - an Irish one. She remembered the dad of her best friend growing up talking about it – McGinty's, if she remembered correctly. He used to go drink there with several of his friends, and the place seemed to hold many fond memories for him. Besides, Irish bars always had better beer. Even though she didn't feel the need to impress, she still managed to make herself look nice. She didn't want to walk into a bar alone looking like a slob. It was going to be weird enough that she was there alone. Jane grabbed her keys and her purse, careful to lock her door before leaving. She had looked up the address of the bar earlier, verifying that she was indeed right about the name. She would have to venture back into South Boston, which didn't really surprise her. South Boston was home to many Irishmen and Irish descendants, and it made sense that it was where an Irish bar was located.

It wasn't long before she found the bar. It looked like your typical pub on the outside, and she was sure the inside would match. She entered the bar, stifling the feeling of slight discomfort that rose in her, and headed toward the bar counter. She was the only woman, something she had half expected. She began to regret her decision to come alone as some of the men turned to stare at her, murmuring among themselves. She ignored the whispering, taking a seat on one of the stools. She made sure to place enough space between her and the small group of men gathered around the bar. They were laughing and joking loudly, throwing back shots and chugging beers. She was also cautious of sitting too far away, not wanting to seem as nervous as she really was. The bartender, a sweet looking old man, turned his attention to her.

"What'll you have?" he asked with an unsurprising Irish accent.

"Guinness," she said. She felt the men's eyes on her. "A perfect pint."

"Good choice," she heard one of them say.

He also had an Irish accent. Jane turned and smiled at his compliment as the bartender placed a large glass brimming with beer in front of her. Something about the man's voice seemed familiar to her. She took him in, examining his face carefully as she sipped her beer. He was no longer looking at her, but she could still make out some of the details of his face. He was charmingly rugged looking, a carpet of stubble covering his face. His hair was dark brown, and his eyes were a piercing blue. He noticed her assessing him, smiling slightly. She took another drink from her significantly less full glass, wishing there was some way she could magically draw attention away from herself. The dark haired man nudged the equally handsome man next to him, and they exchanged whispers.

Jane began to feel more than slightly uncomfortable as she studied the second man. He was blonde, his hair sticking up slightly rather than laying flat like his friend's hair. His face was pure charm as he flashed her a grin. She felt her face grow warm, and she willed herself not to blush, fiddling with her glass. The bar was too well lit for her to hide her reddening face, and she heard slight laughter coming from the men.

She glanced back at them a minute later. They were still staring at her, odd expressions in their eyes. They exchanged looks, and she thought she saw concern flash between them. She turned away from them again, confused. She eavesdropped a bit as she drank the rest of her beer and ordered another. She could pick out the voice of the dark haired man who had complimented her choice of drink along with a second familiar sounding voice. She struggled to place them, noticing with a sneaking glance that the second voice belonged to the charming blonde. Suddenly, she remembered. She was drinking the last bit of her second beer when it hit her. The night before - the gunmen! These men were the gunmen. These men were the Saints.