I just downloaded the Boondock Saints II soundtrack. (Sigh). I am so screwed. These boys are so deep in my head it's not even funny right now. I promise they'll be back in the next chapter...though they are discussed many times in this one, they're hiding out back...with the raccoons in Clare's shed...

Somehow, the trio of detectives entrusted with keeping the secret of the Saints managed to fend off the media that had quickly gathered in front of Clare's house. She sat in the basement and gave her statement—the same story she had told Greenly and the fresh-faced Jones. Her conscience didn't even grumble at her omissions—lying by omission was still a sin, and she knew it, but she had no qualms about protecting Connor and Murphy. Not after what they'd been through. Not now that she knew what they did for Boston, even though she still didn't approve of cold-blooded killing. But she approved of it enough, she supposed, to want to protect the two brothers that she had dragged off the streets. After she told her story to the fourth policeman, she was beginning to believe it herself.

A pair of paramedics wrestled a gurney down the stairs, and with much cursing under their breath they lifted it over the tangle of bodies. When she realized they were coming for her, she stood quickly. "That's really not necessary…" she began, but the blood rushed from her head, leaving her swaying dizzily. One of the paramedics caught her with a firm grip on her uninjured arm, easing her back down to the floor.

"Steady, miss," he said in a warm, trustworthy voice.

She nodded woozily and blinked up at him. "Sorry. Just stood up too fast."

"Well, you've lost a bit of blood too, and I'm sure your adrenaline was pumping pretty high during the…fight," finished the paramedic. They all knew that "fight" was not a suitable word to describe what had occurred in her basement. She made a face. What would be the word? Slaughter? Shootout? Gunbattle? Showdown? Her head started to hurt.

"Could you just clean me up, please?" Clare asked wearily, looking at the paramedic who was still holding her arm. His appearance matched his voice: solid, reliable, somehow honest. Not a memorable face, but a face that inspired trust nonetheless.

"Y'know," the paramedic said conversationally as his partner handed him a squeeze-bottle of saline solution to flush the bullet-graze, "first time the cops have had to come outside o' Southie for one of these scenes."

The paramedic's accent was vaguely familiar. Through the pounding in her head, she recognized the familiar lilt of an Irish accent, much more Americanized than both Connor and Murphy, but still there under the veneer of South Boston.

"What do you mean, one of these scenes?" Clare asked quietly, narrowing her eyes suspiciously. She didn't care if the kid had an honest face.

"This might sting," he cautioned before squirting the saline onto Clare's arm, mopping the pink fluid up with a thick pad of gauze. He glanced at her when she didn't even hiss, and found her staring at him with hard eyes. He glanced over his shoulder at his partner, who was helping a cop check all the Lobos bodies for vital signs.

"You should tell him that's a waste of time," Clare said.

"I know it is," he said, turning back to her arm. He met her gaze with green eyes. "They never leave anyone alive."

"I don't know who you're talking about," she snapped, too hotly for her own liking. "The only person in this basement when—it—happened was me." She dared him to contradict her, eyes blazing.

"I know," he replied simply, unperturbed. "D'ye want stitches or glue? I can do either. Or we can take you to the hospital."

"I don't need a fucking hospital," she hissed, and then had the grace to look ashamed at her outburst. "Sorry. It's just that…I've been through a lot…today."

"Stitches or glue?" he asked again.

"Which won't leave a scar?" she asked with a weak attempt at a grin.

"Glue it is," he said, digging in his bag. "My name's Luke, by the way. Luke Donovan."

Clare almost rolled her eyes. Instead she said, "Jesus, how many Irishman am I going to run into today?" Then she realized the slip of tongue and shut her mouth, compressing her lips into a thin white line.

Luke glanced up at her as he moved in close, situating her arm to put the graze in the best light as he uncapped the tube of Surgi-glue. She thought she saw a spark of amusement in his eyes. "Well, you look like you could have a bit o' the blood in ye, too."

"Last name's McDonough," Clare muttered, heat rising in her cheeks.

"That's why then. We just can't keep away from a good Irish lass. Reminds us of home." He grinned cheekily at her, putting the cap back on the glue. "There. Let me just wrap that up for ye."

The glue stung more than she expected, and to her irritation her eyes began to water. She swiped at them with her good arm—or her former bad arm, now her good arm for the moment, she corrected herself wryly.

"If I may say, that's some mighty fine shootin' for a young woman of substance," Luke continued conversationally, ripping off a short length of surgical tape.

"First of all, of course it's fine shooting," Clare replied. "Marines."

"One of the cops said as much," Luke said, nodding.

"Second of all, I don't appreciate being called a young woman of substance," she finished dryly.

He chuckled. "Well then, ye're all patched up. Just let me get the form for ye to sign…ah, I left it in the van. Hey, Pete, wouldja mind runnin' out to the van and grabbin' me the release forms?"

His partner grumbled but picked his way back to the stairwell, clearly relieved to be heading away from the gore. Luke made a show of putting away all his supplies, surreptitiously checking to see that all the other policemen were busy. Then he turned back to Clare. "Look. I know it was just you down here." He winked and took a card out of his pocket. "But I drink at McGinty's every now and again…well, every night I'm not on call, that is…and I can stop by later tonight once all this has cleared out. Or…if ye need to go to a hotel, I know some safe ones."

"McGinty's?" she repeated stupidly, taking the card. Then she shook herself a little. "Yeah…um, I think I'm probably going to head to a hotel tonight. I don't know…are any of the meds you're going to give me—" she looked at him significantly—"going to make it difficult for me to drive?"

"Definitely," he said, extracting a few blister-packs of pills from his bag.

"Then I'd appreciate a ride…maybe you could pick me up a block over, the street behind the house? Just in case the media is still hanging around," she said carefully. "And I might need…more meds then."

"How bad is the pain? Where does it hurt?" he asked.

"Upper left shoulder, and right thigh," she replied.

H e nodded. "Probably muscle strains from all the shooting."

"Probably," she agreed. The coded conversation was beginning to get exhausting.

Then there was a commotion over by the steps, and a slim man in a sharply pressed suit and immaculate white shirt, over which he wore a stylish trenchcoat, swept down the stairs. Clare watched in amused amazement as he made his entrance as delicately as a debutant, taking care not to step in any blood with his shiny leather shoes. His sharp, lined face exhibited an uncanny intelligence, and his eyes lit up when he saw her from across the room.

"Ah," he said in a voice slightly higher than she'd expected, "so here is the hero of the moment." He paused. "Or…heroine. Excuse me, miss." He smiled charmingly.

"I…who are you?" Clare asked.

He inclined his head with a gentlemanly air. "Agent Smecker, FBI. Pleased to meet you." He extended one hand, and Clare started to stand to shake hands, but he waved her off. "No, no, stay seated, please. How silly of me." And he paused, turning to survey the carnage with a contemplative, almost beatific look upon his face. He turned back to her. "Beautiful work," he said with half a smile.

She stared up at him silently.

"Of course I'm sure you've been rather…traumatized by recent events," he continued. "I see that Donovan here has patched you up quite nicely. And I hear you've cooperated with our policemen very willingly." He settled down in front of Clare on his haunches. "You called Detective Greenly directly?" he asked intently.

She regarded him warily. "I…yes."

"And how exactly did you know the good detective's number?"

"Through…mutual acquaintances," she answered through numb lips. Was this man in league with the three detectives, or had she just blown all of their cover? Her heart beat so hard it hurt as she waited, watching his expressive face.

"I see," he said, nodding. "And are those…mutual acquaintances…safe?"

"What kind of question is that?" she stuttered.

He tilted his head. "Be a good girl and answer."

"As safe as they can be right now," she whispered.

At that, he nodded briskly and stood. "Good. Now," he said, raising his voice and turning away from her, "someone get me the goddamned forensics team that was supposed to be here half an hour ago! For chrissakes, it's a miracle that you all know how to wipe your own asses!"

Clare raised her eyebrows at the slender agent's sudden change in demeanor. She had to suppress a smile when he turned back to her, clasping his hands together. "Thank you for your cooperation, Ms…?"

"McDonough. Clare McDonough," she supplied.

"Ms. McDonough," he finished gracefully. "I will try to keep your name out of the papers for as long as possible, but you know the media around here. They don't know a donut from their own assholes but anything to do with the Saints and they're swarming like a bunch of fucking killer bees." He stopped himself. "Pardon my French."

"But sir," said Clare in her best innocent voice, "like I told Detective Greenly and several other of your officers…" She blinked up at him with wide eyes. "I was the only one down here. This has nothing at all to do with the Saints."

He grinned briefly at her. "Christ, at least they found a decent liar."

She smiled back and then he turned, striding away and wreaking havoc on the small knot of officers gathered by the stairway. Then she looked down at the card that Luke Donovan the EMT had slipped into her hand, and she knew that as long of a day as it had been already, it was only going to get longer.