It was early evening when the Saints set out. The hit this time was uncomfortably close to home, but it was also relatively safe. They did have home court advantage, after all. So out came the masks and the guns and down the street they went.

It was in an alley behind a recently-emptied tenement that Pavel Grigorovich would meet his cousin Nikolay for a hand-off of magnanimous proportions. The Saints knew security would be tight, so they couldn't meet them in the alley. A block down, they took their places, the two brothers chatting in a doorway, and the father having a smoke a ways away. The best place to hide is in plain sight. They hadn't known the exact time of the switch -- it was hard enough to get a location -- and so they had quite a time to wait before the first black car rolled languidly down the street. It was another twenty minutes after that before they heard another car coming and ducked into the building. Once it had passed, they crept out slowly, listening for the sounds that would tell them when to strike. The click of a door opening. The heavy clunk of the door closing. Another click, and another clunk. Then voices.

The Saints moved forward and peered around the corner. Pavel and Nikolay were moving towards each other. They'd strike, they knew, when they shook. There was a man at the door of each car and there would be a driver for each, but they suspected that was all, since it was a rather minor meeting and a reasonably secure location. Connor slipped across the alleyway to come from the other side. Then down behind the first jet black car he crawled, waiting for the first shot to be fired.

Pavel grasped Nikolay's hand in friendship, and they both smiled and patted each other on the back, relaxing. And that was when they struck. Two shots went off almost simultaneously and Everyone turned in the direction from with they had come. A third shot turned them all to face the cars as glass shattered and they knew a driver was dead. Pavel was hit, but not fatally, until the next shots came, at least. By the third set of shots, there was counter fire, and Murphy and his father were forced to seek cover. But a second shot from behind the cars drew the attention away long enough for them to get a fourth round off.

Then it was just Nikolay and Pavel's man standing. And they were being attacked from both sides. The Saints shot, and Nikolay went down. Now Pavel's man took one gun in each hand and let shots off like a manic until he was out of rounds. And halfway through a cry rose from behind one of the jet back cars. The two Saints on the other side of the car dispensed of Pavel's man, before running to Connor's side. He was hit, just like they'd known he would be. Now there was no time for coins or crosses, only time to run. And run they did. Each with one of Connor's arms slung over a shoulder, Murphy and Da made their way towards the best place they knew: McGinty's, two blocks away.

Before the door of the bar, Da split off. It wasn't that he wanted to leave his son, but more that he needed to keep his distance for the sake of their cover, for the sake of all of their lives. And so Murphy pushed through the door alone, dragging Connor along with him. As the great, heavy door burst open and shouts spread like wildfire about the pub, first from those entering, then from those few still drinking the night away. At the bar, Trista spun on her stool. When she saw them, she catapulted herself forward, pushing through the small crowd to take Connor's feet from Murphy. "Let 'em through! Let 'em through!" Patrick was yelling above the noise. Soon Trista and Murphy were laying Connor across the bar, pushing glasses, bottles, and peanuts all out of the way as they did so. Patrick, ever the quick thinker, was ready with a towel doused with vodka… that would be the unused bottle on the top with the yellow label. Whenever there was a hubbub like this, someone was hurt, and whenever someone was hurt, Patrick got to get rid of a little of his vodka.

The vodka-soaked rag went to Connor's side, the source of most of the blood, but it seemed one rag would not be enough this time. So Patrick ran for more towels, while Murphy mounted the bar and pressed the cloth deep into Connor's wound. Connor writhed about at the pain, and, were not some of the other men holding him down, would've rolled himself off the bar to dash himself to death on the ground. As it was he remained conscious only for a few more moments before the pain, coupled with a lovely blow he'd received to the head, dragged him under. Patrick wrapped his patron's head in gauze, which he happened to keep on hand for times like thee -- which were apparently not so uncommon among the Irish -- and then began to tend to his side. It was a gunshot wound, and Patrick was apparently multitalented.

Trista stood back and looked on with the other patrons as Patrick did his best to clean and bind the wound. Then, when all of the dirty work was done, and all that remained to be done was the cleaning up, she moved forward at last and questioned Murphy. "What happened?"

"Bar fight," he said distractedly.

"There was a gun?"

Murphy did not respond.

"Wait. Bar fight? What bar?"