Hello all! Sorry for the delay, but this one is nice and long to make up for it!

Since the last update, I've been bombarded with happy thoughts and the like; imagine a pillow fight, and getting walloped over and over with soft, fluffy, comfy things stuffed with sweet dreams. So I want to say first off, thanks! The love and support in your reviews and PM's is a silver lining in itself. Hugs to all of you! xoxo

A special salute to xxInspireMexx for her feedback this weekend, and for cracking the whip!

Chapter notes: thank my brother the firearms enthusiast for his work as technical consultant on this update. You should also know that an insane amount of effort went into this one! Choreographing fight scenes with so many characters is no walk in the park! You might find it amusing to learn I ended up doing a one-woman pantomime for all of this, testing it all out and literally kicking my own butt just to get this right. If I failed after all, don't tell me because it will break my heart. LOL Fans of Stieg Larsson will notice a tribute to Lisbeth Salander, the ultimate bad ass fictional female. Finally, the soundtrack for this chapter includes "Radioactive" by Imagine Dragons, "Dance With the Devil" by Breaking Benjamin, and "Renegade" by Styx. And as always, reviews are welcomed and much appreciated. Enjoy! :)

"My place is more convenient to where we're headed," Rocco pointed out.

"An' as long as Pappa Joe's still tryin ta get rid of ye, it's no good," Connor replied. "If he sends someone ta knock on yer door, I'd rather it no one's home ta answer."

Rocco rolled his eyes with a sigh and shrugged. "Just trying to contribute, maybe save a little gas money."

"I'd rather spend the money than get my ass shot off," Murphy asserted.

It was bright and early the next morning, and the three men and Renata were gathered in the MacManuses apartment in preparation for the hit on Reg McDowell. An arsenal lay spread across the beds: handguns, magazines, silencers, Murphy's and Renata's knives, and what was left of Connor's rope. The brothers were dealing out arms like playing cards, separating ammo into piles, fitting silencers into muzzles, and assigning weapons to each person.

Renata picked up her knife and opened it, testing the keenness of the blade with her thumb. "Do I get a holster?" she inquired conversationally.

"If ye suppose ye need one," Connor told her, setting two duffel bags on the bed.

"And what do we need rope for?"

"Don't get him started on that shit," Murphy implored. He handed her two guns and several magazines. "Take these an' keep em close."

She took the guns and studied them, testing their weight and gazing down the sights. "I like this one," she said, setting a Glock beside her backpack, "but I'm not taking that." She offered the second gun, a Ruger, back to Murphy.

He didn't take it, looking blank. "Why the fuck not?" he asked.

"It's the one you just bought a few days ago."

"And?"

"You haven't serviced it since then. There could be anything wrong with it."

"C'mon, we fuckin know the guy who sold it to us. He doesn't deal faulty shit."

"Maybe not, but who knows how long it's been sitting around collecting dust and other shit. If there's the slightest bit of grit in any moving parts, it's going to jam and it'll be fucking useless."

"How did you become an expert?" Rocco demanded.

"My granddad was a gun collector, so I've handled quite a few in my time," she retorted, looking irritable. Her body had recognized it wasn't getting the drugs it craved anytime soon, and chosen to launch a violent protest. She had indeed run a fever most of the previous night and spent a good part of that time kneeling beside the toilet, vomitting until she felt turned inside out. Connor and Murphy had offered plenty of moral support, keeping her supplied with the beer she'd promised and water to keep her from getting dehydrated, and aspirin once she could keep it down. Her fever broke after several hours and she had finally stopped puking, but she looked tired and was still very moody...and certainly not in the spirits to play nicely with their loud, brash friend. "I've been around these since I was a kid, and I know what the fuck I'm talking about. So shut your fucking trap and give me another gun."

"What, you want me to fork over one of mine? Fuck that! You got two of your own!"

"Look, dipshit, we're about to go in hot, and I'm not going in with a weapon I can't rely on-"

"Then don't fucking go in at all!"

"Fuck you! I'm not staying behind!"

"All right, shut it!" Connor broke in. "Both of ye grow the fuck up right fuckin now, or ye both stay behind, ye got it?"

They both fell silent, looking sullen, then Renata wheedled, "Come on, Connor, we've got to have each other's backs in there, and I can't do that with this gun."

"There's nothin wrong with the gun," he told her, "an' we don't have any ta spare. So take what ye got, or don't go."

Looking very perturbed, Renata took the Ruger and put it in her backpack along with the Glock. She was stowing the magazines and her knife when Connor leaned over, reached into the bag, and took out the bottle of Jack Daniel's; by now it was nearly empty. "This stays here," he informed her. "If ye're gonna do this, ye're gonna do it sober."

"Fine. Whatever."

Murphy loaded the duffel bags and zipped them shut. "We're all set," he announced. They gathered their things and put on their coats, and before walking out the door, Connor and Murphy paused to put on their rosaries. They were going to do God's work.

Their first stop wasn't Reg's house, but St. Augustine's church. The brothers went inside while Renata and Rocco sat in the car, walking up the steps with calm, quiet purpose and disappearing through the front doors.

Renata sighed and leaned back in her seat, trying to ignore the jittery, needy feeling still rampant in her system, then glanced at Rocco sitting shotgun. "You don't like me much, do you?" she asked.

He didn't answer.

She shrugged. "Have it your way. I don't like you either."

"What's wrong with me?" he demanded.

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Fine, then. Since you asked, you're a smart-mouthed bitch and I don't like your attitude."

She laughed. "That's all? Come on, Rocco, I thought it was going to be something serious! That's just who I am."

"And I don't trust you any fuckin farther than I can throw you, either," he added.

"Oh, now that hurts. Have I ever given you a reason not to?"

"You tried to shoot me! With my own fuckin gun!"

She waved that off. "Details. Keep bringing it up, and you'll make me regret not shooting you."

"Then what's your problem with me?"

"Well, you're either whining about one thing or bragging about something else, and it gets on my nerves." She slouched a little more, putting her knees in the seat in front of her, then asked, "How does a guy involved in the Italian mob end up pals with Truth and Justice?"

It was a mark of how bored they were that he answered her question. "We happened to be drinking in the same beer joint one night when some guys jumped me," he told her. "I was just having a friendly conversation with these fuckin assholes when someone called someone else a cocksucker, total misunderstanding, and next thing I know they're just kicking the fuckin shit out of me. I could have taken them on my own, you know, but I was wasted and caught off guard, otherwise their asses would have been grass-"

Renata rolled her eyes.

"So they come at me at the same time, just stomping my ass, and then here come these two guys out of fuckin nowhere, tag-teaming these mothers like it's a fuckin cake walk."

"Connor and Murphy," Renata concluded.

"You got it."

"So they had your back in a tight spot, and you became the musketeers after that?"

"Something like that. They're good guys, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

Pigeons strutted up and down the sidewalk, taking flight from the steps of the church as if to soar all the way to Heaven itself from God's temple. Renata watched the birds for a moment, then asked, "They take this religious stuff seriously, don't they?"

"Dead serious," Rocco replied. "As long as I've known them."

"And this whole thing about killing bad guys is part of that?"

Rocco shrugged. "I guess so. They think it's their God-given task, or some shit."

"Do you believe that?"

"They do. And I don't believe in much, but I believe in what they're doing, you know what I mean?"

Renata stared out the window at the church doors as if still seeing the brothers on the threshold, seeking the sanctuary of their Lord and Savior before their mission. "I guess I do..."

They didn't exchange another word until Connor and Murphy walked out of the church and returned to the car. The transformation was remarkable; they went in as humble pilgrims in search of the Creator, and came out as soldiers of God ready to deliver justice to the unrighteous. Renata sensed rather than saw the difference, and it made her breath catch and her heart beat faster, wrapping her in a feeling of reverent wonder. Looking at them, seeing the serenity in their faces and the determination in their steps, it wasn't hard to imagine they did have some holy duty, a crusade of their own in a world that had departed from faith such as theirs. She struggled to recover from the feeling as they got back in the car, trying to return to her typical irony. "Any divine revelations while you were in there?"

"Didn't go lookin for any," Murphy replied, sliding into the back seat with her.

"Then what were you doing?"

"Come in sometime an' find out," Connor told her, getting into the driver's seat and starting the car.

"Well, what about today?" Rocco asked. "Any blessings on us, the mission, that kind of thing?"

"C'mon, Roc, benedictions aren't in the day's work, are they? Doesn't mean we're goin in unblessed."

Midmorning saw them parked down the street from the house with the crowded driveway and overgrown yard. Each was readying weapons, double- and triple-checking silencers, and stowing spare magazines in coat pockets. It was awkward work; Vincenzo's Lincoln was a boat, but too cramped for the four of them.

"We need a bigger car," Rocco said to no one in particular. "A cargo van, or some shit. Isn't that how they do it in the movies?"

"Roc, this isn't a fuckin movie," Murphy told him, reaching up to smack him over the head.

"With a van, we could be like the new A-Team," Renata remarked offhand, ignoring him.

"Yeah!" Rocco exclaimed, seizing the idea with enthusiasm. "That's it, the motherfucking A-Team! I call Hannibal!"

"No way, it was my idea, so I'm Hannibal."

"Hannibal came up with all the good ideas," Connor supplied, and Renata grinned, "which is why I'm the most obvious pick."

She flipped him off.

"Ye're all fuckin insane's what ye are," Murphy told them, drawing on his leather gloves. He searched through his duffel bag and brought out another pair, handing them to Renata along with a ski mask. "Take these."

"Aw shucks, Murph, I'm speechless," she japed.

"Can't take chances," he told her. "No prints, no ID, an' ye might as well look like ye belong."

"Well, aren't you the practical one."

"Hey, wait one fuckin minute," Rocco cut in. "You're just passing out uniforms now? Then why the fuck am I still walking around with this thing?" He brandished a cap with frayed and gaping holes cut into it, and Renata burst out laughing.

"Yers is good," Murphy tried to assure him, fighting to keep a straight face. "Ye look like a fuckin psycho, an' the last person I'd wanna fuck with."

Rocco glared at him and stuffed the crude mask into his pocket. "Fine," he said in a would-be casual voice heavy with irritation. "I see how it is, I'm stuck playing class clown around here-"

"Oh, stop bitching," Renata interrupted. "I'll buy you a drink when we're done here."

"All right, look sharp," Connor broke in, gazing up the road through the windshield. "This looks like our man."

Renata leaned up to get a better view. "Well, fuck me if it ain't," she said, following the gray SUV as it pulled into the driveway.

"You know, you're no fuckin kind of lady I ever met," Rocco informed her.

"What, you mean to tell me you would know a lady if you saw one?"

He rolled his eyes. "Look," he told Connor in an undertone that carried throughout the car, "I love you, man, but this broad's about to drive me fuckin crazy."

"Aye," Connor agreed. "I know the feelin."

Renata winked at him in the rearview mirror.

They watched in silence as the SUV came to a stop and the driver stepped out onto the pavement. Even at a distance Reg cut an imposing figure, a mountain of a man striding up the walk to his front door, fumbling with his keys as he went.

Renata stared unblinking at him, her rational mind slipping away as something more primeval began to take control. Every second of fear and hate she had known in his presence kindled a rage inside that burned stronger than whiskey and hotter than the end of a late-night cigarette. The caution and control she had learned in the past four years fell to nothing as all of her deeper instincts, so long suppressed they were nearly forgotten, flared back to life...to fight, to stalk and hunt and take what was hers. There was evil in that house, and she would use these instincts to help eradicate it. Adrenaline spiked in her veins at the thought, setting loose a wild animal within that wanted nothing more than to jump into battle with blood and fury. If what she was feeling was anything like what drove the brothers, then she could understand what had transformed them in St. Augustine's. Faced with freedom after so long spent in chains, she finally felt alive again.

Murphy glanced sideways at her and saw the fire in her eyes, casting her face in an eerie, feral beauty. It wasn't the flame of God he could feel burning in his own chest, stoking the righteous ardor that fueled his and Connor's mission. It was something different, something almost out of control, like the last scant inch of a lit fuse on a stick of dynamite. The look he saw was dangerous and strangely seductive; he could feel an answering fire within, begging to reach out and merge with hers, and he struggled to contain it before it grew to an inferno. There was no time for it when they were preparing for war. He nudged her gently and urged her, "Steady, Renata. All right?"

She nodded.

"Ye sure? Ye look a little pale."

"So do you," she replied with a smile. "Are we doing this?"

Connor waited until the door had closed behind Reg, then nodded. "Let's go."

The four of them got out of the car and set off up the street, walking casually at first then picking up the pace as they approached the house. They stole around the cars to the back gate, and Connor and Murphy pulled their masks over their faces. Rocco and Renata followed suit, Renata twisting her hair up so it didn't show. Her hands shook slightly and Connor asked her, "Ye sure ye can do this?"

She nodded. "I'm sure."

"Coz this is yer last chance if ye can't."

"I can."

"Good." He opened the gate and they rushed into the backyard.

If the front yard was overgrown, the back was a mess. Patches of dry, dead grass interspersed with areas where it grew to almost knee-height. A beech tree grew at the far end, its trunk scarred by a rusty chain fastened around the bole where a dog was once tethered. Mole hills made the ground treacherous to walk on, and there was a hodge podge of lawn chairs scattered on the patio. Blinds were drawn across the sliding door, but the kitchen window was left uncovered. Connor approached it quietly and stole a glance inside. "Empty," he told them in a whisper.

"Most of them will be winding down for the day," Renata replied. "I used to go home and chill out after my shift before I slept, so I can't imagine they'll do differently."

"Aye." He tried to open the window, but it was locked. "Murph, get yer knife."

Murphy drew his knife and worked at the seam of the window, wedging the blade into the sash and forcing the latch. After a moment's efforts, he withdrew the knife and sheathed it again, nodding. "Got it."

Connor fitted his fingers to the frame and pushed the window open.

Without warning, the air was suddenly filled with the piercing wail of an active alarm system, cacophonous and deafening in the quiet neighborhood. The four of them recoiled in shock and Rocco burst out, "You mean you didn't know about the fuckin alarm?"

"How the fuck was I to know?" Renata shot back. While the three men stood dumbfounded, she went to the window and crawled through it into the house.

"Where the fuck are ye goin?" Connor demanded, going after her. Murphy followed his brother without a second thought, and Rocco gave one last curse before bringing up the rear.

They stood in the kitchen, guns hastily drawn, when a man Renata recognized as Jason came sauntering in to shut off the alarm. He paused in surprise, staring at the four intruders, then made to run again, shouting a warning to the others in the house. They all fired at the same time and Jason went down, his blood spattering the walls and carpet.

Connor, Murphy and Rocco stepped over the body and set off up the hallway. Jason's shout, along with the persistent racket of the alarm, had roused the house, drawing the other occupants to the noise. One man rushed down the hallway with a baseball bat and Rocco shot wild, most of the bullets lodging in the walls with only a few hitting their mark before Murphy finished the job with two shots.

"Nice one, Murph!" Connor called over the alarm, stopping only briefly to make sure the man was dead.

Murphy grinned, feeling the excitement and the heat of battle flaring strong. He followed the flickering light of a television set up the hallway and into the living room.

Despite the hour, the room was dark as twilight, heavy drapes over the windows blocking out the sun. Smoke hung thick and gloomy, and the air was rank with the smell of marijuana. The volume on the TV was so high Murphy barely had to muffle his footsteps as he crept into the room-

Something whizzed past his head and he ducked as a television remote smashed against the wall behind him. He turned to his assailant and leveled a shot, but the paunchy man yelled and cursed and began to fling whatever he could lay hands on: couch cushions, ashtrays, empty beer bottles, various drug paraphernalia, and a copy of TV Guide. Murphy ducked, dodged and circled, spitting out a few obscenities of his own. Where the fuck was Connor?

He raised his guns, trying to get a clear shot while retreating from the man's relentless volley and tripped backwards over the coffee table, landing hard among old pizza boxes and what looked like enough pot to supply the brothers' entire apartment building for a few days. It was then he noticed Connor and Rocco on the far side of the room, both trying to shoot without hitting Murphy. The man whirled around in search of his next missile and caught sight of the two of them, ready to fire; Connor yelled to Murphy, "Move!"

He rolled off the table and ducked, almost missing the sound of the silenced rounds as they left his twin's and their friend's guns. The bullets tore through the man's chest and exited to hit the TV, the screen shattering in a burst of glass. The man himself fell backwards, landing with a crash on the coffee table where Murphy had been only seconds before.

Murphy got to his feet, brushing off the marijuana leaves. "Ye took yer fuckin time about it," he said.

"Ye're the bastard ta talk," Connor replied. "Ye're losin yer touch if ye can't handle one pot-bellied fuckin pot head with a TV changer."

Murphy smiled, then saw the massive figure in the hall behind Connor and Rocco. "Watch it!"

They moved aside just as the man swung the baseball bat his comrade had dropped. The blow connected with the door frame in an explosion of lumber, shrapnel and splinters flying in every direction. They backed away into the living room as the man advanced, standing well over six feet tall with a prison body, arms and chest worked to solid muscle. Based on Renata's information, they guessed this had to be Nugget.

Connor raised his guns and Nugget took another swing at him, forcing him to retreat. Murphy fired several shots but the man was fast despite his size, moving just in time to avoid taking any lethal bullets, and what he didn't dodge entirely struck him in the shoulder; he ignored the injury and just kept coming.

The brothers had been in their share of fights before, but this was something else entirely. In such close quarters neither they nor Rocco could use their guns without putting each other at risk. Nugget was swinging for the fences, keeping them all at arm's length. He moved for Rocco, who dodged the hit by a hair's breadth and leaped aside, falling hard on the coffee table. It groaned and cracked under his and the dead man's weight, creaking even louder as he rolled off and scrambled away from another swing. Connor and Murphy dropped as one to crouch side by side, twisting their guns in their fists to deliver a punch to Nugget's legs; as far as barfights went, it was their signature move, and it was always effective. Nugget dropped to his knees and they rose to their feet, readjusting their weapons for the kill.

Nugget hadn't lost his grip on the bat. He offered a wild swing and clipped Murphy in the elbow, knocking him off balance and causing him to drop the gun. Another swing sent Connor reeling back, putting the big man between him and his brother. Murphy took a hastily-aimed shot that went wide...his senses were blurred with adrenaline, so perhaps he missed seeing the bullet casing eject from the chamber...he took another shot, but there was only a loud click. The gun was jammed. Stunned, he looked closer.

It was the Ruger he had given Renata earlier; she must have switched them in the car when he wasn't looking.

"Fuck!" He pulled the trigger again but nothing happened. Nugget started for Connor and Rocco, dropping the bat and snatching Murphy's fallen gun off the floor, and Murphy rushed him, clubbing him over the head with the jammed Ruger. He stumbled to the floor and Murphy yanked the gun from his hand; he rolled to his feet and made a grab for the baseball bat with his uninjured arm, but the brothers were faster. Two final shots and a spray of blood and gore, and it was done. Nugget dropped next to his housemate and the coffee table finally collapsed with an earsplitting crunch.

Murphy took off his mask, furious. "Swappin shit without a fuckin word," he burst out. "Someone coulda been killed! Where the fuck's she gone?"

Connor and Rocco exchanged puzzled looks as they pulled off their masks. In the flurry of confrontation they hadn't given Renata much thought, and all three of them only just noticed her absence.

"Hey," Rocco said, looking around, "Reg ain't here either."

Connor raised his eyes skyward. "Fuckin hell..."

As her companions stepped past Jason's body, Renata slipped away and crept upstairs, unwilling to lose her chance. They had lost the element of surprise with the alarm and she was determined to corner Reg no matter what. She kept her gun ready to fire, feeling a little guilty for trading with Murphy but no less resolved. Let him bitch at her later if it cheered him up.

She paused on the landing at the top of the stairs, trying to listen. Reg would surely be ready for something, especially since the shouting started downstairs; it sounded as though the boys had resorted to tearing the house apart. She risked a glance around the corner, but no one was there.

You're around here somewhere, asshole... She started up the hallway, glancing into the bedrooms as she passed, when a closed door further on caught her eye. The room where Benny's disobedient girls were kept...lowering the gun, she reached for the knob and opened the door, then turned on the light in the room.

It was empty.

She released the breath she'd been holding but her heart began to race. This was it. Nothing had changed since she last saw this room, and before she could stop it, that last time rose out of the shadows of memory...Reg and Marcus...and Stacy...fear breaking through her clouded eyes as she moaned with terror-

Renata dragged herself back to reality before she could go any further. Her hand shook as she tightened her grip on her gun and turned to leave the room-walking straight into Reg McDowell.

He raised an enormous fist and punched her in the face. She staggered backward, nearly bowled over by the hit but somehow staying on her feet. The memory of Stacy fueled the rage inside her; she hardly felt the punch through the anger and adrenaline. Fight back...don't back down... he came at her again and she dodged, raising the gun to fire, but another punch sent her sprawling. She hit the floor and dropped the gun, her mask knocked awry. Stars flashed in front of her eyes as she pulled it off and out of the way, yet she saw him draw his own gun and take aim; he paused as her hair fell loose and he recognized her.

"Renata," he said, surprise mixing with hilarity in his voice. "You're one ballsy little bitch, aren't you? After that ass-kicking you got last time, you're coming back for another?"

"Fuck you," she spat, her head still spinning.

He stared down at her on the floor, then glanced around the room, a prison cell for countless women just like Stacy; Renata felt sick to think of how many. "It's funny to think of you on this side of the door," he said. "I didn't think you had the balls to come back here after Stacy."

"Fuck you!" she repeated, her voice rising.

"Too bad you pissed off the boss. You were tougher than we gave you credit for, the way you handled everything that night. You could have done some good work with us."

"Shut up!" She lunged for her gun but he moved further into the room, halting her with a foot pressing down on her arm until she thought it would break. "You're also a colder bitch than I thought," he added. "You never even asked what we did with her afterward." She reached with her other hand and he kicked her in the stomach, knocking the air from her lungs. "You know something, I'll deal with you later. Marcus still wants his money, and I didn't get to finish with you last time." There was a loud bang downstairs, as if the boys had started smashing furniture, and Reg backed out of the room. "I'll be back," he promised, then he closed the door and locked her in.

His mockery had cut to her bones, knives thrust deeper into wounds that hadn't healed. Again she felt that desperate, frantic need, only this time it had less to do with withdrawal sickness as it did with the desire to forget this room and what had happened in it...and her own role in the nightmare.

She fought for self-control, pulling herself back to the here and now with colossal effort. She stood, shaky at first and still rather breathless, then threw herself against the door. She wouldn't be turned aside now, not when she was so close! She yanked and twisted on the knob and pounded her fist against the wood. Of all the shit to happen! She had been lucky to get the upper hand last time, and now-

Her eyes fell on the fallen gun and she picked it up off the floor. Fuck it. She would make her own luck.

Fight back. Don't back down.

She fired at the doorknob; the bullet shattered the lock and blew the knob clean off the door, the door itself swinging open silently. She ran into the hallway and headed for the stairs, then paused again at the landing. A bag of golf clubs leaned against the wall, looking as if someone had only just left them there, ready for the next game.

She hesitated, then holstered the gun and took a nine-iron from the bag and went downstairs.

Connor, Murphy and Rocco stuffed their masks into their pockets but kept their guns drawn, heading for the hallway in search of Renata and Reg.

"I knew this was a bad idea," Rocco muttered.

"Shut it," Connor told him. "Keep yer fuckin eyes open."

They just cleared the living room when the man they knew to be Reg rounded the corner, a gun in his hand. The three of them readied a shot when a woman's voice rang out, " Leave him!"

Renata appeared behind him with a golf club, dealing him a savage blow in the knee. He went down with a scream, jerking the gun up as he fell and firing into the ceiling, chunks of plaster raining down on their heads. She swung again at his hand, knocking the gun aside, and they all heard a crack like another shot as his wrist broke.

Reg lay on the floor, broken and screaming, and her companions watched as he turned to her. "They'll find you, you stupid fucking cunt!" he yelled. "If the cops don't, Marcus will! He'll hunt you down!"

Renata didn't answer, her eyes cold and tense as she tightened her grip on the club. Another swing, and his skull cracked beneath the driver with blood, bone and brain painting the walls. He was dead with one hit but she didn't stop, every blow creating a new shower of crimson. Droplets flew from the end of the iron and she clenched her jaw tighter and tighter as she continued to beat him past recognition. Never a word to betray her, no sign of the depth of her rage, but there was a wild animal in those gray eyes, focused on her prey to the exclusion of all else.

They stood back and watched in silence as anger and frustration exploded with every swing, and she didn't relent until it was spent. She lowered the golf club, bloodied halfway to the handle, and stood staring at the corpse at her feet, panting slightly and her eyes suddenly overbright. She wiped Reg's blood from her face and a lone tear fell, its path coursing through the red smears.

"Ye all right?" Connor ventured to ask.

She nodded. "Yeah," she replied, "I'm fine."

No one believed her, trembling violently and paler than ever beneath the blood. The anger had faded from her eyes, replaced by pain that seemed too deep for words, and though she felt them watching her, she refused to meet anyone's gaze.

"Ye sure?" Murphy pressed.

"Yeah." If they saw through her, she didn't care. Her only concern was getting the fuck out of that house and forgetting everything that had happened there, by any means necessary.

Murphy nodded, then he and Connor each drew a small pouch from their coat pockets.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"What needs ta be done," Connor told her. They shook the pouches open and pennies spilled out into their hands, the copper burnished like new in the light. They moved to the bodies and began to lay them out when Rocco stopped them. "Wait a sec...do you hear that?"

They all froze, straining to listen over the nerve-wracking sound of the burglar alarm, and Connor and Murphy locked eyes, each seeing a flicker of panic akin to the moment in the air duct at the hotel in Copley Plaza, just before they crashed through the ceiling onto a roomful of Russian mob bosses.

It was a police siren.

As if the sound was a starting pistol, they all rushed into action. The brothers stuffed the pennies away again and they barreled for the kitchen, Connor reaching the sliding door first. He wrenched the broomstick handle out of the track and unlocked the door, standing aside to let the other three pass, and they hurtled across the backyard for the fence. Murphy and Rocco scaled it easily, and Renata tossed the golf club over before motioning to Connor, who quickly gave her a leg up. She dropped to the ground with the others and picked up the club as Connor joined them, standing straight and taking a deep breath. "Walk slow," he said as the siren's screeching drew nearer. "Don't try ta rush, for fuck's sake."

They headed up the street, Renata trying to keep the bloody golf club as hidden as possible at her side. They held their breath until they reached the Lincoln, the first squad car appearing seconds later and pulling to a stop outside the house they had just left. They all got in the car and Renata wiped the last of Reg's blood from her face. She wasn't shaking nearly as much, but she still felt sick and the need to block out the memories assaulting her was stronger than ever.

"Use yer backpack if ye gotta puke," Murphy told her. "We don't have time ta pull over."

"I'm fucking fine," she shot back, but God, she sure could use a drink. And recalling Connor had made her leave her whiskey behind definitely didn't improve her mood.

"Ye pull any shit like ye did in there again, an' ye're out," Connor warned her, starting the car.

"To be out, I first have to be in," she pointed out, setting the golf club in the floor at her feet. They could throw it into the harbor later, or something.

Murphy gave a hollow laugh and ejected the magazine from the Ruger, then held out his hand expectantly. "Give it over."

She nodded as she handed him his gun and took the Ruger back. "It jammed, didn't it? What did I tell you?"

"Fuckin save it, would ye?"

"An' we're gonna discuss that fuckin vanishin act a yers," Connor added.

"Can we discuss it later and get the fuck outta Dodge, here?" Rocco cut in. "I don't think those guys up there will be all that sympathetic to our cause."

Connor put the car in gear and they drove straight past the squad cars; the officers swarming the house never spared them a glance as they rolled away.

*faints* Whew! Reviews are love, my lovelies! And buckle up, because we're just getting started...