A/N: Hey everyone! Here's the second chapter. I'm working as hard and fast as I possibly can so we can all get to the good part! Special thanks to IrishSaints for being my first reviewer!

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Chapter 2: Matter of Saints

Murphy continued to angrily stomp his way over to McGuinty's, hands in pockets, backpack lugged over his shoulder. Spotting the lively pub amidst the snowfall from the corner of his eye, he no longer paid attention to the biting cold nipping at his skin. Rather than concentrating on the still boiling anger within him, he instead began to crave the bitter taste of beer, imagining the cold, bubbly liquid running down his esophagus, then warming his stomach, subsequently relaxing his incredibly tense muscles, and…

He was suddenly shaken from his wonderful daydream by a soft whack on his shoulder, consequently knocking his bag to the ground and, to his annoyance, spilling some of its contents all over the wet, snow-covered sidewalk. Before he could mutter a curse at the incident, he distinctly heard an 'excuse me' hastily offered as he bent down to quickly replace his belongings into the bag. Snapping his head upwards towards the sound of the voice, his green eyes instantly met dark-brown ones.

Lourdes then bent down beside Murphy with an apologetic smile on her face, helping to pick up the scattered contents of his bag. As she began to observe exactly what she was holding, she momentarily squinted her eyes in suspicion as she noticed peculiar newspaper clippings and – she was not at all mistaken – bullets. Bullets?, she questioned inwardly, though wiping the look of suspicion from her expression. Before she could question, or even apprehend, the stranger, he cleared his throat, catching her attention.

"Sorry 'bout that," Murphy mumbled quickly, almost snatching his belongings from Lourdes' firm grasp and wildly stuffing them inside his backpack, "wasn't watchin' where I was goin'."

"No problem." replied Lourdes with a cordial smile as the two both stood up simultaneously. As indiscreetly as possible, Lourdes quickly gave Murphy a once-over - which, to the high amusement of the Saint, certainly did not go unnoticed. As she had been trained to do, she mentally recorded what she saw in front of her: distinctly Irish; late 20's; mysterious backpack with newspaper clippings and bullets inside. Of course, she couldn't accurately identify the other contents of the bag for certain, but obviously bullets came with guns, and whether or not he had any weapons stuffed in that bag of his, he still merited some suspicion in Lourdes' opinion.

"Well," Murphy gave her a small smirk and a nod, hauling his bag over his shoulder once more, "see ya."

Giving him another smile, Lourdes began to pace away from Murphy as they continued on their way in opposite directions. Turning the corner, Lourdes casually looked back as to where the Irishman was headed, and, at the same time, memorized to the best of her ability every feature and characteristic. To her surprise, Murphy had not far to go to get to his destination. Only after a few more paces did he take a left, walking right into McGuinty's pub.

"McGuinty's." Lourdes whispered under her breath, eyes squinted in even more suspicion. "Looks like we have ourselves a potential meeting point."

Pursing her lips, she made her way over to her royal blue Camaro, hopping inside and instantly turning on the engine. Before she began to drive away, though, she slipped something out of the sleeve of her coat.

A newspaper clipping.

Quickly reading through the article, the circled sentence immediately caught her attention. It read: "Supporters of the late mobster, Yakavetta, murder enemy crime syndicates yesterday."

"Yakavetta?" Lourdes widened her eyes in sudden recognition as she remembered hearing about mass killings of mobsters in Boston just a year prior. With even more suspicion and question clouding her mind, she knew exactly who to go to for answers. Pumping the gas, she pulled out of the parking space and made her way over to the place in Southern Boston that she knew best – the police station.

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"Finally, ye fuckin' made it!" As Murphy entered the door and made his way towards the bar, Connor happily greeted his sulking brother with a light, jovial slap on the back. "What the fuck took ye so long?"

"Got caught up with somethin'," replied Murphy abrasively as he promptly snatched the drink sitting on the bar that Doc had offered to him. He plopped down on the stool beside Connor, resting his elbows upon the bar. As he heaved a sigh, he shrugged his shoulders, "At least I'm 'ere now."

Immediately recognizing his brother's attitude and expression, Connor's own spirits plummeted. Living with his brother for almost thirty years, and of course, being twins, he almost always knew exactly what was going on with Murphy. Also, he could say the same thing about his brother's own intuition about him. Seeing the louder twin so quiet, Connor decided to test his theory as he proclaimed slowly, "She dumped ye, didn't she?"

"Fuck off, Con."

Bingo.

"No, seriously, she dumped ye?"

After a few moments of silence, Murphy replied spiritless before he took another sip of his drink, "Yea."

Connor and Doc both shared a squinted look of pitiful condolement, their expressions frozen in a wince as though they were the ones in pain. When Murphy didn't pursue the topic any further, in unison, they merely mumbled, "Ouch."

As Connor gave Murphy another slap on the back and as Doc slid another drink in front of him, Doc piped up, "W-well, y-ye know what they s-say…It's b-better to have l-loved and lost t-than to have loved blindly."

It was Connor and Murphy's turn to share a look. When Doc eyed them blankly, Murphy eventually commented, "At least that one almost made sense."

"Aye." Connor shrugged, taking another sip of his beer. "Almost."

Doc gave the smirking twins a flippant, dismissive gesture, and then set off to take care of his other customers. With his smile slowly disappearing from his face, Connor suddenly grew serious, leaning forward closer to his brother's ear. "Look, Murph, really sorry to hear 'bout what happened between ye and Stacie, but ye gotta concentrate right now." As he saw Murphy's nod of acquiesce, he continued, "I've got some things to tell ye 'bout. This is some real shit, bigger than anything that we've ever dealt with before. Da wants to meet with us tonight to talk about everythin'…"

"I've got the stuff right here…"

Connor gave his head an abrupt shake. "It's not about the fuckin' Yakavetta supporter murders. Like I said, this is bigger than anythin' we've ever taken care of. Da hasn't told me much, but I think we'll get more answers from him tonight."

"Hell, if it's another hit, sign me up." Murphy scoffed, necking his pint and slamming the glass on the table. "I'm in the fuckin' mood."

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Paul Smecker swung his office door open in obvious annoyance, his patience for being continuously disturbed as he worked running thin. His uninviting snarl eventually disappeared as he perceived who stood at his door. Clearing his throat and now wearing a welcoming smile, he stepped aside, ushering his guest into his office. Subsequently closing his blinds shut, he offered the empty seats across the table from his. "Agent Villamor, please come and make yourself comfortable. You'll have to excuse me. I was very busy with a case, and a few of my detectives – well, one in particular – kept disturbing me."

"Not a problem, Agent Smecker." Lourdes gave him a smile as she shrugged off her coat. In jest, she remarked, "At least here, for most of the time, your detectives are sober."

"That's arguable." Smecker remarked, mock seriousness lining his face.

As the two shared a laugh, Smecker inquired, "How's your team doing on the IRA case? Any leads?"

"I haven't been notified of anything of importance as of yet." Lourdes informed Smecker, taking a seat across from him. "Although," pulling the newspaper clipping out of her pocket, she pushed it towards Smecker, who gave it a curious glance, "I literally bumped into an Irishman this afternoon, and he spilt all of his things on the sidewalk. I picked this off of him when I was helping him gather his things. It was just a few meters from a pub called McGuinty''s. I know it's just a newspaper clipping, but look at what he had circled." As Smecker read the article and observed what Lourdes had pointed out, she continued, "There were also bullets in his bag. I know I'm merely speculating at the moment, but I remember that only a year ago there were numerous mob killings right here in Boston. And if I also remember clearly, you were the one heading the investigation. I thought this might be of help to you."

"Thank you." Smecker slowly took the newspaper clipping from the table, placing it in his pocket. Doing his best to conceal his real emotions, he inquired seriously, "Did you get a good look at the man you took this from?"

"A very good look." Lourdes replied confidently, to which Smecker inconspicuously tensed, "Like I said, it's only mere speculation. But I think I will follow up on this…"

Smecker suddenly leaned forward, unintentionally snapping, "I thought we spoke of this before, Agent Villamor. This is our jurisdiction, not that of the Irish National Police Service." He knew the very consequences if anyone out of the Boston Police Department found out about the Saints and their hits – not to mention the hits that he himself had helped them commit. Not only would he be imprisoned for life: he would be responsible for the apprehension of the Saints and, inevitably, for scum to continually roam the streets of Boston, unchecked, unafraid.

"I beg your pardon, Agent Smecker," unphased by his sudden actions, Lourdes placed her hands together, leaning forward in the same manner as Paul, "but like I mentioned to you and your fellow agents just a few days ago, anything related to mob crimes must be investigated by us. Whatever this may be can be a part of this international mob war, this IRA hit."

"You don't know that for sure." defended Smecker, trying not to sound so eager.

"And neither do you." Lourdes pointed out coolly, leaning back comfortably upon her seat. "Every mob crime and those connected to them must be investigated. And to some, the IRA is a mob. We don't know who was really behind that IRA attack, and now, who's apparently planning another one." Breathing out, she continued in a reasonable tone, "Italians, Russians, Americans – and even the Irish themselves – can be behind of all of this violence. We never know. Thus, no one can be overlooked at this point."

Paul Smecker let out a sigh. He knew that she was only doing her job, and yes, that it was also his responsibility to solve the IRA case and, inevitably, to keep Boston streets safe. Even though he could rightly be placing the Saints in jeopardy, or in the way of jeopardy, he also needed answers. So, after a few moments of deliberation, he said, "Alright. Do what you feel is necessary. But everything goes through me first."

"Wouldn't have it any other way, Agent Smecker." Lourdes smiled, preparing to take her leave. She said in an agreeable tone, "Don't worry, Paul. I'm not one to carry out any operations here without the auspices of the Boston Police Department and the FBI."

Smecker followed her towards the door, slightly chuckling. "I'm glad we have a good understanding of protocol, Agent Villamor. You wouldn't believe the caliber of some of the people I've – and continue to – work with."

With another chuckle, Lourdes nodded her leave and Smecker quickly closed and locked his door. Waiting for her to exit the building altogether, he stalked towards his desk, instantly grabbing his telephone and punching some numbers. After a few rings and a gruff hello, he simply said,

"We've got trouble."

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A/N: What'd you guys think? I'd love to hear from you guys! xx