o()o
Author's Note: SAC stands for Special Agent in Charge. Assuming that Smecker is a field agent, the SAC would be his superior.
o(12)o
"Agent Smecker?"
A semi-familiar voice jolted the detective from the file he was engrossed in. "What is it, Caldwell?" he said, addressing the young man standing before him.
"H.R. sent me down to tell you that the request you put in has been approved. Your flight leaves tomorrow at six, and we've already reserved you a rental car in addition to your hotel room."
"Fantastic." Smecker said, "Tell Annie to get these files boxed up, I want them sent to my hotel room as soon as possible. Have her call the local P.D. and let them know what's going on, just the bare bones of the situation though, there's no need to get everybody excited yet. I'm going to go home now and start packing."
"Yes, sir," the young man said, nodding, "and sir?"
Smecker raised his eyebrows inquisitively slinging his suit-jacket over his shoulder.
"The SAC wants to see you before you go."
Smecker fought the urge to grimace, and nodded the last thing he needed right now was to deal with that imperious prick. "Thanks, Caldwell." He said, "I'll make sure I talk to him."
"Yes sir." The young man walked out of the office and Smecker sighed.
The SAC had been riding his ass since his last case in the Boston area; the case in which he had met the MacManus brothers, the case that had changed Smecker's life forever.
There wasn't a chance that the SAC didn't take to rub his nose in the fact that he 'blew' the case by not arresting the Saints. And although Smecker knew he was doing the right thing, he hated the idea of being thought of as a disappointment.
It was something that went against his very nature; he had always been the brightest and the best. Top of his class at the academy, one of the quickest promoted agents in the field; Smecker didn't know the meaning of the word failure. Having that taken away was like losing a loved one, and the SAC knew it. The overbearing asshole loved rubbing salt in that particular wound and Smecker was not looking forward to listening to whatever the he had to say today.
He had more important things to deal with right now. The more information he dug up on these Street Priests, the grimmer the picture became.
o()o
The airport was crowded and noisy. Hundreds of conversations melded together to make a single droning buzz that warred with the announcements blaring overhead. People milled in every direction, tugging luggage behind them, hurrying to and from their boarding gates.
Smecker stepped out off of the plane rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension that had knotted his muscles during the flight; he had never been much of a flyer.
Glancing around the busy terminal, he spied his name neatly printed on a cardboard sign not too far away. Making his way through the crowd, he extended a hand towards the man holding the sign.
"I'm Paul Smecker."
The man shook his hand heartily. "It's a pleasure to meet you Agent Smecker, I'm Detective Bill Croghan. The precinct sent me down to make sure that you get settled in all right."
Bill Croghan was a powerfully built man; stocky was the first word that came to Smecker's mind. He had close a cropped haircut that didn't quite disguise the fact that he was balding, a thick mustache the same steely gray as his thinning hair and pale eyes that were both careworn and intelligent. He gave the impression of a man that had never been anything other than a cop, and couldn't imagine ever being anything else.
"I appreciate that." Smecker said, studying the detective casually.
"No problem." Croghan said, "There's a squad car waiting out front now. As soon as my partner gets his lazy ass back here we can get your luggage and get out of here . . . ah there he is."
The detective waved a hand impatiently, "Townsend!" he bellowed, making Smecker flinch, "Over here!"
A tall, lanky looking man emerged from the crowd, awkwardly balancing three cups of coffee between his hands. Significantly younger than Detective Croghan, this man had dark hair, small dark eyes and the harassed expression that only a rookie could manage. He reminded Smecker a great deal of Detective Greenly from the South Boston P.D.
Detective Croghan took one of the cups of coffee and offered another to Smecker. "Agent Smecker this is my partner, Joshua Townsend."
"Pleasure." Townsend said, and Smecker inclined his head in greeting.
Detective Croghan took a drink of his coffee and grimaced shaking his head. "I swear to God, Townsend, how hard is it to get a goddamned cup of coffee? This shit tastes like deer piss."
Townsend opened his mouth to speak, but Detective Croghan made a dismissive gesture, already walking away from the younger man.
"Forget it. You know, that's the problem with you rookies nowadays, you don't know shit from shinola." He shook his head, "Come on, Agent Smecker, let's get your luggage, and get the hell out of this place."
Taking a swallow of his own coffee, Smecker flashed Townsend a knowing smirk, and then followed Detective Croghan toward the baggage claim.
o()o
Sliding his keycard into the lock, Murphy opened the door and smiled, seeing Connor asleep, stretched out across one of the motel beds, using his jacket as a makeshift pillow.
For a moment, he watched Connor breathe. His brother's chest rose and fell in a rhythm that was as familiar to him as his own heartbeat. This was the first time in days that Connor wasn't in pain and Murphy breathed a quiet sigh of relief to see that his twin was finally resting.
He sat at the rickety table, pulling a black duffel bag, identical to the one Connor had been using earlier, onto its scratched surface. Inside the bag were two guns equipped with silencers, his holster, a black ski mask, a fatally sharp hunting knife, and four or five bricks of fifty-dollar bills; everything that made him a Saint.
But right now, he didn't want to be a Saint, he wanted simply to be Murphy MacManus.
More than anything, he wanted to separate the gun-toting vigilante from the man who could read an entire book in one sitting (one of the few things he had patience for) and who liked to cook, although if you asked his brother, getting Murphy anywhere near a stove was begging for disaster.
For just a little while, he wanted to forget that the bittersweet events of the last year had ever happened and pretend that he was just like every one else in the world.
The faint fragrance of Danae's perfume still lingered in Murphy's nose. Winsome, and warm like she was, the scent reminded him of vanilla and oranges mixed together. Closing his eyes, he pressed two fingers to his lips, smiling at the memory of her mouth against his.
It was funny, he mused, how it seemed that Danae had always been a part of his life. Over the course of the month they had known each other, an easy sort of friendship had formed between them. It was a bond built over vile coffee, card games and the helplessness that comes with waiting. It had been tested with hardships and strengthened with laughter.
He wasn't sure when he'd realized that he wanted to be more to her than just a friend, but the notion had launched him into a whirlwind of conflicting emotions.
He warred back and forth between his God-given calling, his loyalty to his faith and to his twin, and what his heart was whispering to him whenever Danae came around.
To be the vengeful, striking, hammer of God, or to be in love; the choice should have been an easy one.
It wasn't.
Their Da had once told them that the question they needed to ask themselves, was did they possess the constitution, and the depth of faith, to go as far as was needed?
Murphy had always known, without a doubt, that he was blessed with that faith and temperament. He had never wavered in the mission and had never once questioned that he was doing the right thing. When Rocco was killed, he had poured his grief and loss into retribution. He'd taken his friend's final words to heart, and since then every criminal he had sent to meet their maker was a tribute to Roc.
Then he'd nearly lost his brother.
Getting hurt was a risk they had both been willing to take. Scrapes and bruises healed, lacerations were cleaned and bandaged, even bullet gouges were sealed with the aid of a sizzling iron, but Connor had almost died. Murphy had been left helpless and alone and Connor had almost died.
Dragging the lifeless, bleeding body of the person he loved more than anything in the world through the ER doors had sent a spike of uncertainty stabbing through Murphy's previously ironclad convictions.
It had forced him to reevaluate what was truly important in his life, and suddenly, an existence revolving around the slaughter of wicked men wasn't as fulfilling as it used to be.
Burying his face in his hands, Murphy sighed into his palms. It's too fuckin' early for this depressing shit. He thought sullenly.
A warm hand mussed his hair, rousing him out of his dark thoughts. Lifting his face from his hands, he saw Connor, leaning awkwardly on a single crutch, a crooked smile curving his mouth.
"If yer face were any longer, ye'd be trippin' over it." He said, sympathetically, "Yer walk with Danae didn't go well?"
Despite Murphy's bleak mood, the thought of Danae made him smile. "No, the walk was . . . fine."
Connor stared at him for a moment, brow furrowing as he sussed out his brother's meaning, and then a wide grin spread over his face. "Ye finally fuckin' kissed her, didn't ye?"
Murphy rubbed the back of his neck, unable to stop his smile from turning into a soppy grin, his face growing hot under his brother's teasing.
"Aye." He said, running a hand through his hair.
"Well, halle-fuckin-lujah, it's about time!" Connor said with good-natured exasperation, clapping his twin on the back, "I thought it was gonna take Christ hisself to get the two o' ye together."
o()o
Another Author's Note: Hey all of you out there in PCLand! You see this litte button? Yeah, this one . . . right . . .
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