Chapter two... Fast forward to the Sin Bin. There is method to the madness, trust me.
A little summary for Di (movie fans, skip this paragraph). After turning themselves in for killing two Russian mobsters, the MacManus brothers are let off on self-defense. That night in the Boston police department, they share a dream calling them to destroy evil men. They hit more Russians at the Copley Plaza hotel and learn their friend Rocco, a package boy for the Italian mafia, has been sold out and his boss is trying to kill him. They decide to eliminate Pappa Joe's right hand man, Vincenzo, at a strip club and take out two others along with him. At this point, my story picks up.
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"All right, fine, hang onto your little prayer, but we still need our own thing, like a slogan or something."
"Why's that?"
"Why the fuck not? We're like the three musketeers in here, man!"
"Ye know, maybe he's right..."
"Are ye fuckin serious?"
"Aye, but I think 'all for one and one for all' is taken."
Connor and Murphy laughed between themselves at the joke while Rocco looked from one to the other with an irritable expression. "Just trying to get into the spirit of the whole thing," he grumbled.
"No worries, Wyatt Earp, ye got plenty enough spirit," Murphy informed him, clapping him on the shoulder and ruffling his hair.
They stood in the back hallway of the Sin Bin, loud music reverberating through the walls. Once Rocco had finished off the two men in the booths next to Vincenzo, the brothers went from one corpse to the next, laying out the bodies, folding the hands and placing pennies over the eyes. Connor draped a robe from the dressing room over the unconscious dancer before they left, casting a sly look at Rocco who avoided his gaze, looking awkward.
The brothers holstered their weapons and hid their masks in their coat pockets. Rocco paced back and forth, gun still in hand and adrenaline coursing through his system. "Fuck this," he said, "there's got to be more fuckin assholes around here, there always is in places like this!"
"Ye speakin from experience there, Roc?" Murphy japed.
"I'm serious!" Rocco burst out. "Let's fuckin kill the bastards!"
"We've stayed long enough," Connor said, nodding towards the room where they had left the dancer. "She's gonna be comin 'round any minute now, an' we can't be here when she does."
Murphy nodded his agreement and Rocco stowed the gun, looking disappointed.
They set off up the hallway, Rocco leading the way to the back exit. Rowdy voices punctuated the music from the club's main room, but Rocco steered them towards the back of the building.
"Ye know the way around here, Roc, I'll give ye that," Connor commented.
"I was errand boy for a regular customer," Rocco groused, "that's how I got familiar with the layout."
"Yeah, that's how," Murphy needled, and Rocco shot him a sideways look.
They approached the door onto the back alley, and when they were still ten feet away it swung open. They froze in their tracks, Connor and Murphy covertly reaching for their weapons, and a woman stumbled into the hallway.
At first glance she looked homeless, with unkempt brown hair, dirty clothes, and an old backpack slung over one shoulder. After a second look she appeared to be a prostitute, wearing a black openwork mesh top and a mini skirt under a dark green coat and with one heel snapped off her stilletto boots. Under a third examination she was clearly drunk as drunk can be. She wove and staggered as she walked, further impeded by her broken shoes, her bloodshot eyes focused on nothing, and she wore the smell of booze the way another woman would wear perfume.
She closed the door and took several more precarious steps down the hallway, caught sight of the three men ahead of her, and paused. Her brow furrowed and she swayed where she stood, her gaze sliding from one face to the next. "Who the hell are you?" she asked.
Connor, Murphy and Rocco exchanged glances before Connor replied, "On our way out. Who're you?"
"I'm looking for someone." She examined their faces again, asking, "You seen him anywhere?"
"Seen who?"
"That fucking bastard who—" She stumbled and pitched sideways into the wall, the backpack sliding off her shoulder and landing on the floor. Something inside smashed; she cursed and unzipped the bag to look. "Aw shit..." she groaned.
Connor and Murphy took the lead, edging past her on the way to the door. She looked up and lunged towards them, latching onto Murphy's arm. "You can't go," she said. "Tell me where he is, I know he's around here somewhere."
"I'd forget about it, sweetheart," Murphy replied, trying to brush her off, but her grip was deceptively strong. "Why not call it a night and head home?"
She shook her head, the motion making her entire body wobble. "Can't do that, I've got to find him tonight."
"Whatever ye have with him'll keep til tomorrow," Connor told her, steering her away from Murphy.
"No, it won't," she argued, her voice rising. "I've got to find him so I can kill him." She drew a switchblade from the backpack and snapped it open.
The brothers drew back, instantly alert. Behind them, Rocco burst out, "Holy shit!"
She shifted her attention to him, a gleam of recognition springing to her eyes. "Is that Rocco?" she asked.
"Aw shit, she knows me," he groaned, moving to pull his mask down over his face too late then stopping himself; if she had already recognized him, it was a wasted effort. "We're fucked now!"
"Who is she?" Murphy demanded, his eyes riveted on the blade in her hand.
"She's one of the fucking dancers," Rocco told him.
"An' she can put a name ta yer face?" Connor asked. "Jesus, Roc, how often are ye in here?"
The woman ignored the exchange, focusing again on the brothers. "I know you," she said, as if trying to convince herself. "I know you..."
Rocco began to pace again, running a hand through his hair in agitation. "So how often do you guys fuckin come here if she fuckin knows you?" he challenged. "We might as well just start handing out business cards!"
"Roc, shut it!"
It seemed to take more and more effort for the woman to stay on her feet as the alcohol caught up to her. The knife fell from her hand and she repeated one more time, "I know you." She took a few staggering steps towards them, wobbling on her shaky knees and broken heels, then tripped over her own backpack and fell face first into the wall, knocking herself out cold and leaving a smudge of blood from one of the cuts on her face.
Connor and Murphy rushed to catch her before she hit the floor and her head lolled back on her shoulders, her hair falling away from her face. "Murph," Connor said, "it's her, the one from the hospital!"
Murphy studied her face, then his eyes widened. "Fuckin hell," he swore, "ye're right!"
She looked even worse than she had days before. The old bruises were fading but there were fresh ones on her face and whatever skin could be seen through the mesh top bore similar marks. Scrapes marred her bare legs and a large scab covered a gash on her thigh. The untreated injuries were smudged with dirt and grime, and by the way the gash had swollen, it looked infected.
"What do ye think we should do with her?" Connor queried.
Murphy shrugged, then glanced at Rocco. "Way ta uphold the family honor," he said, gesturing down the hallway. "That's her pimp ye got back there."
Rocco spread his arms as if to say What now? "So," he replied, "what are we doing with her? I don't know how you feel about leaving witnesses, but I—"
Panicked screams echoed from the far end of the club; the dancer in the booth had woken up.
Connor and Murphy traded looks, then Connor hoisted the woman's limp body over his shoulder. "At least we can take her ta the ER."
Murphy shrugged. "Still bein' the hero..."
"We're taking her with us?" Rocco burst out. "Are you fuckin crazy?"
"Look at it like this, Roc," Murphy told him, picking up the fallen knife and the backpack; whatever had smashed inside the bag had soaked through and smelled strongly of whiskey. "We're not leavin witnesses."
"No, just taking one to get patched up and go to the cops!" But the brothers had already turned towards the exit; "Jesus Christ," Rocco muttered, then he hurried to open the door so Connor could pass.
"How noble of ye, Roc," Connor remarked, carrying the woman outside. "Helpin ta rescue a damsel in distress like a real prince charming."
"Can we just get to the fuckin car?" he urged.
They exited the alley behind the club and made for Vincenzo's Lincoln parked across the street. Rocco climbed into the backseat, then Connor set the woman in the seat beside him. "Maybe we should, I don't know, cuff her or blindfold her or something," he suggested.
"What for?" Connor asked, walking around the car and getting into the driver's seat. He had taken the keys from Vincenzo's body before they left; he took them from his pocket now and started the car. "We're not takin her hostage."
"I would feel a lot better about riding with her," Rocco replied.
"She's out cold and wasted," Murphy pointed out, setting the backpack in the floorboard at the woman's feet and sliding into the car. "If it comes to a fight, I think ye can take her."
Rocco rolled his eyes but fell silent.
Consciousness was slow in returning; it always was when she was this drunk. Bits and pieces drifted in through her stupor, like the hypnotic lull of a car engine, the sickening lurch in her stomach when it hit a pothole, and the occasional murmur of unfamiliar voices. The whiskey was wearing off and she was no longer numb to the pain of her injuries, and she winced as she shifted in her seat. I've got Percs in my bag, she reminded herself, and she opened her eyes.
The backpack was at her feet, but she paused before reaching for it. Something seemed off...she tried to focus, willing her surroundings to make sense. She was in the back of a car, headed God only knew where, with one, two, three strange men.
Panic surged through her body like electricity, eclipsing the pain. "What the fuck is this?" she shouted. "Where are you taking me?"
All three men gave starts of surprise at her outburst. The one sitting next to her had a gun sticking out of his belt; she snatched it and pointed it in his face. "Pull the fuck over," she said, "or I swear to God I'll shoot him right now!"
The three of them started yelling at the same time, the one in the back cursing over and over with eyes trained on the gun, the two in the front trying to talk her down. She cocked the gun and repeated, "Pull over now, or I'm going to shoot him!"
"Put the gun down," the driver urged in a foreign accent, gaze darting between her and the road ahead. "No one's tryin ta hurt ye, just relax—"
"Don't fucking tell me to relax! Why am I in this car?"
"Ease up a bit, now," the man in the passenger seat reasoned. "Just drop the gun, ye don't wanna be doin' anythin stupid—"
"The fuck I don't!"
"Quit fuckin antagonizing the bitch!" the man next to her shouted. "She's about to fucking kill me!"
"Shut the fu—"
The man in the passenger seat made a grab for the gun, wrenching it away from his friend. She tightened her grip and squeezed the trigger; the bullet shot out the driver's side window, the report deafening in the car's interior. There was more yelling and shouting as the man driving slammed on the brakes and swerved towards the curb, the car mounting the sidewalk as it squealed to a stop.
The two in the front got out of the car, the passenger wrestling the gun out of her hand before opening her door. "C'mon," he said. "Outta the car."
She got out, unsteady on her broken heels and ears ringing from the gunshot. She tripped as she climbed out and sprawled onto the pavement, cursing at the impact. He held out a hand to help her to her feet, and her head spun as she stood. Her stomach lurched again and she bowed over to be sick. The man kept a steadying hand on her shoulder as she threw up, careful to stand out of the line of fire, and he asked as she straightened up, "Feelin better?"
"No," she croaked, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. She took several deep breaths and looked around at the three men. They stood under a street light, so she was able to see their faces.
She recognized the one she'd had the gun on easily. He came into the club often enough, and it wasn't hard to place the long hair and scruffy beard. The other two were a different story, of similar height and build, one with light hair and the other dark. They both watched her as closely as if she was a wild animal that could either bolt away or attack at any moment. She was sure she didn't know them, but equally sure she had seen them before.
"Have ye lost yer mind?" the light-haired one demanded. There again was that lilting accent, putting her in mind of leprechauns and Lucky Charms, a thought so stupid she could have laughed if she wasn't so pissed off. "Ye could've killed someone doin' a thing like that!"
"Good, that's what I was aiming to do," she shot back.
"Homicidal, then, ain't she?" the dark one asked in the same accent. The question was posed as a joke, but his tone was steady and serious.
"I knew bringing her was a bad idea," the bearded one put in.
"Bringing me?" she repeated. "I didn't ask to come along, did I?"
"Can we just calm ourselves an' talk reasonable here?" the light-haired one asked. He addressed her directly. "Sorry we got off on the wrong foot, but let's start over. I'm Connor, this is my brother Murphy, an' that's our friend—"
"Rocco," she finished for him, dismissing the man with a gesture. "Screw that. Why am I here and what were you doing with me?"
"Bein' good Samaritans," the one called Murphy told her.
"Ye were blacked out an' worse for wear," Connor added. "We were takin ye to a hospital."
"So you were just driving around and saw some random bitch, drunk off her ass with a few bruises, and decided to lend a hand out of the goodness of your hearts?"
They shrugged. "Close enough ta get on with," Connor replied.
She snorted, swaying where she stood, and turned to Rocco. "And what the hell are you doing here?" she asked. "I'd have thought you would be out on some job for that boss you're always going on about."
The brothers laughed. "How 'bout it, Roc?" Murphy asked. "Are ye sure ye only went to that place on business? Looks like she's got yer number, there."
Rocco gave him the finger.
She leaned against the car as another wave of nausea stole over her. Something trickled down her leg; the cut on her thigh was bleeding again.
"Look, let us get ye to a doctor or take ye home, or somethin," Connor wheedled. "I don't feel right leavin a woman on the side of the road."
Murphy nodded, but she shook her head. "Home is a bad idea."
"Then a doctor? We're not meanin ye any harm, so ye can rest easy."
"Is that so?" Her head was pounding; she would have one hell of a hangover to look forward to. She looked back at Connor and Murphy again, finally recognizing them. "Wait a second," she said, "I know you two."
"Aw shit, this again," Rocco muttered.
"You were in the ER that day," she went on, ignoring him. "You tried to stand up for me when that asshole Benny took me out of there."
They nodded again, and she laughed. "And you still think you have to rescue me!"
"I wouldn't call it rescue," Connor replied. "Just tryin ta help. To the hospital, then?"
"You know what, I think I've got it under control." She turned to walk away from the car and staggered wildly between her broken boots and injured leg.
"Ye sure about that?" Murphy asked skeptically.
"Yeah, I'm sure," she replied. She kept at it with a tenacious effort, but after covering only a few yards she was forced to stop. She gave a growl of irritation and said, "Fine, but give me that gun back as a show of your good intentions."
"Good intentions?" Connor repeated. "An' what about yers? We only got five windows left, an' it's fuckin cold out."
"You'll have bigger shit to worry about if you try anything," she promised. "If you want to help me out so bad, then give me some peace of mind while you're at it, you know what I'm saying?"
The brothers shrugged. "Fine, then," Murphy said, moving to hand back the gun.
"Whoa whoa, wait one fuckin minute here," Rocco burst in. "I'm not going nowhere with a psycho fucking bitch with a loaded gun."
"Ye wanna walk?" Murphy asked.
"C'mon, Roc, the gun's only as good as the bullets in it," Connor told him.
"What the fuck do you think I'm saying?"
"Can the bullshit, Rocco," the woman snapped. "I won't shoot you unless you piss me off."
Murphy smirked. "Sounds pretty reasonable ta me."
Rocco threw up his hands and walked around the car. "Fine. Fuck it. And don't blame me if she fuckin kills us all."
"Fine, then, we'll just have ta compromise," Murphy replied. He ejected the magazine from the gun and checked the chamber for any rounds before handing the woman the empty gun. "Ye can still knock some of his teeth out if ye get pissed off," he suggested. "I'm fairly sure that won't kill him."
"Jesus, my leg is fucking killing me," she groaned as she limped back to the car.
"How'd that happen?" he asked.
"It's a long story." Murphy held the door to let her into the backseat, but she reeled back again and moved away to vomit one more time.
"Take it easy on the road, Connor," Murphy instructed as she spat out the last of the bile. "Might need ta pull over later."
"And I'd hate to puke in the car," she agreed.
He smiled and she got into the back. She leaned against the headrest and closed her eyes, the pain in her head and leg building. "Has anyone seen a bottle of whiskey anywhere?"
"Sorry ta disappoint," Murphy replied. "Ye had one, but it broke when ye dropped the backpack."
She groaned. "You're right. Never mind."
"Hey, do us a favor," Connor said, starting the car. "Tell us yer name."
"You want the real one, or should I use an alias?"
"The real one."
"Renata. Sorry I almost shot you."
He smiled at her. "Thanks for missin me."
She returned the smile, if a bit faintly, and they drove away.
8/18 - revised. A salute to the amazing archerlove! :)