Happy All Saints Day, and in honor of the occasion, let's have an update!

To the new readers, welcome! To the old readers, welcome back! I'll spare you all the gory details, but this chapter (and likely the next few to come) was trouble incarnate. (Well, maybe a few details like my dog eating part of the paper draft and the document crashing with over two thousand unsaved words on it including a ton of spur-of-the-moment edits. No kidding.) Thanks to my lovely Starcrier for her wisdom; she made the call to split a very long and complex update into two shorter, slightly less complex ones. Which means you MIGHT get the next one sooner...

In other news, yours truly had a run-in with Connor MacManus himself! The one and only SPF was in town for a book signing and the stars aligned (with a little push and shove, that is) for me to finally get a day off and get my behind down there. Believe the hype, he IS that nice and he IS that hilarious.

Because desperation has been the name of the game for this one, I refer you to Fuel's "Hemorrhage." No song conveys said desperation better. I lost count of how many times I watched the fire fight scene trying to suck in all the details, distracted as usual by Dafoe in all his glory. LOL And now, on with the show! Enjoy!

Gunshots created the perfect soundtrack to the chaos on the street. Three against one, bullets flying in all directions, and neither side backing down. The shock of leaving the hit man's house having dispensed divine retribution only to see the old man waiting for them outside with six guns - not six-shooters, but six fucking guns - had fled within seconds, leaving barely enough time to draw their own weapons as he fired on them and they found themselves once again fighting for their lives.

Rocco dropped to his knees to give Connor and Murphy room to shoot as the old man's first shots reached them. They remained rooted on the doorstep while he moved along the street as calmly and deliberately as if their bullets couldn't touch him and he had all day to complete his objective. It would take him all day, the way he was shooting, emptying the first four magazines in seconds; it was like his entire volley was barely missing them-

Rocco went down, clutching his hand, and moments later Murphy took a hit in the arm and fell back. They both took cover in the bushes flanking the doorstep and kept shooting, leaving Connor standing in battle with the assassin. The old man emptied his last two guns and Connor took aim to finish it, but he drew two more from beneath his coat and advanced. A bullet ripped through Connor's leg and he staggered, his shot going wide, and the old man just kept coming. Letting out a scream of pain and rage, Connor fired again and again, not caring where he was aiming if only one bullet would hit that fucker-

A wild shot struck the old man in the arm and he got in a few more shots, then cursing bitterly to himself, turned and fled.

"Murph!" Connor shouted. "Are ye all right?"

"Motherfucker!" Murphy yelled after the old man, emptying his magazine in rapid fire before staggering to his feet.

They had to move fast. There was no fucking way the scene had gone unnoticed and someone was bound to have called the police already. The brothers snatched up their duffel bags, seizing the bottles of ammonia they had packed and spraying it over the spatters of their own blood staining the doorstep and entryway, then the three of them hurried as fast as they could go to the van parked down the street.

"I can't drive," Connor said, climbing into the back and pressing a hand to his wounded leg. It was gushing like a fucking water fountain, staining his jeans and oozing between his fingers as he tried to keep pressure on it.

"And I'm shit outta fuckin luck," Rocco interjected, waving his injured hand and scattering blood from his missing finger.

"Roc, fuckin watch it!" Connor snarled, using more ammonia on the spatters. It had been his idea to use the chemical to contaminate any DNA evidence they might leave behind. They were lucky to avoid such injury at Reg's house, and it was a chance he didn't want to take again.

Murphy got into the van behind them and drew his knife. "Hold still," he warned Rocco, cutting strips off his shirt for bandages. He bound up the hand and Connor's leg, double- and triple-checking the wrappings before he let Connor dress his arm. "Ye better start watchin yerself," he informed his brother. "I don't wanna be draggin yer ass ta safety the rest a my fuckin life."

"Ye sure ye can drive?" Connor asked.

"Do I have a fuckin choice?"

"You don't drive stick," Rocco pointed out.

"Fuck it! I'll learn!" He got into the driver's seat and started the van, struggling for a moment to get it in gear before heading back out of the neighborhood.

Connor edged closer, trying not to disturb his leg too much and listening intently to the sound of the engine, the roar slowly growing louder as the van built up speed and power. "Now," he said as the engine began to bottom out. "Clutch first."

Murphy shifted and the van lurched; Connor pitched forward and groaned loudly. "Jesus fuckin Christ..."

"Sorry," Murphy said, steering with his bad arm while trying to shift with the other, shooting a concerned look at his twin.

"Don't worry about it," Connor told him, focusing through the pain. "Good thing one of us learned ta drive Uncle Sibéal's truck, aye?" Though as he coached Murph through the rather coordinated task of operating a manual transmission, both of them injured and on edge, he had to admit that driving that old pickup through Irish countryside was a better deal.

They stopped at a side street just outside the hub of the city where they had parked the Lincoln and Murphy took the plates off the van, stowing them in one of their duffel bags. They wiped down the interior for fingerprints and sprayed a few errant bloodstains, leaving nothing that could be traced back to them, and left it parked as they made for the car.

"Still can't believe we have to ditch the fucker," Rocco complained.

"We paid cash for it, it's untraceable," Connor told him, limping on his bad leg. "We mighta been able ta hold onto it, but someone had ta have seen it in all that shit. Thank yer fuckin friend for that."

"What the fuck do you mean?" Rocco demanded. "He ain't my fuckin friend!"

"Fuckin bullshit, Roc! This is yer shit we're dealin with, he fuckin had ta be there for you!"

"Well, if you're supposed to be the fuckin brains behind this goddamn fuckin circus-"

"Hey!" Murphy broke in, looking at least as pissed off as the other two. "We don't have time for this shit, so fuckin can it right the fuck now an' let's go!"

Connor and Rocco fell silent and got in the car, Murphy once more getting behind the wheel. "My mom's place is closer," Rocco offered. "She's in Atlantic City for the weekend."

Murphy nodded and they set off again.

Renata sat on the couch, tapping her foot anxiously and trying not to watch the clock too much. It was easy enough to put on a brave face for the boys as she saw them off, even to stay confident as she settled in to wait, but she had underestimated the force of old habits, paired with her worry for Connor and Murphy and hell, even for Rocco. It left room for other thoughts to creep in, and creep they would if she couldn't keep it together. She folded and unfolded her hands, focusing on one breath after another, tying herself as firmly to her surroundings as she could.

She lit a cigarette then poured herself a whiskey over ice, resisting the urge to throw it all back at once and charge headfirst into a drunken stupor. Before Connor and Murphy, she would have already been wasted by now, unwilling to face the time alone. They believed in her, though, and for their sake she had to believe in herself.

Returning to the couch, she leaned her head back and closed her eyes, occasionally lifting the cigarette to her lips for another drag. If she tried hard enough she could picture them both beside her, Connor with a protective arm around her and Murphy cuddling as close as he could get. She could feel them surrounding her, hear their voices in her ears, imagine them so real she could almost touch them, and it was like they hadn't left her at all.

There was nothing wrong with pretending while they were gone. Their faith and their mission was part of who they were, and it would be foolish to wish that away. She couldn't try to keep them with her and keep them from their work. Pretending was okay, as long as it didn't hold them back from dealing their brand of justice to evildoers. Gangsters, criminals, and murderers didn't stand a chance against the instruments of God...

A chill crept along her spine and she took another sip of whiskey, letting the burn of the alcohol pull her back from the dark road her mind was trying to turn down. Forget their mission, nobody stood a chance against those charming, devious, wonderful men. Least of all her. They had worked their way into her heart against all logic, and even her most determined efforts to hold onto her cynicism and pessimism had proved futile against them. Maybe it was the work of God that put them together; who was she to argue otherwise? It was the work of God that put them on their mission in the first place. The irony was that she should end with them when she knew she belonged on the other side, with those they sought...

No, not that... Another sip, a slow burn spreading through her body, and it reminded her of them and the way she felt when they were around. Even when they were gone she could still feel it, and it was stronger than her memories. There wasn't room for anything else as long as she dwelled on Connor and Murphy...just Connor and Murphy, and nothing else...not Reg, not Marcus...not Stacy...

No, God no!

She downed the rest of the whiskey before she had time to rethink it and poured another. She would be damned if the ghosts in her head would win this time. There was the lurking impulse to hide in whatever safe haven she could find, but she wouldn't do it. She was tough enough to outlast the time until the boys were back. They were the strongest thing in her head, not a memory. It didn't matter how fucking bad that memory was, it was only a memory, nothing she couldn't handle. Nothing that could hurt her.

A memory, after all...always laying in the back of her mind where she tried to leave it and never staying put...rising like the ghost she named it...

She emptied the glass again and went straight for the bottle, then halted with it halfway to her lips. Old habits. She couldn't let herself give in, had to tough it out; if she gave an inch she'd end up miles away when one more drink turned into scouting the neighborhood trying to score. She was stronger than that. They both said so, and they never just said shit. It didn't matter what Reg and Marcus had done to her, or what she had done to Stacy...

She might have known it would come to this eventually...

That was all in the past now, she wasn't part of that world anymore, she was different...

She forced herself to lower the bottle, excuses and denials chasing each other through her head as the ghosts rose again, with nothing to drive them away this time...

She was only doing what she had to, like everyone does when faced with survival or extinction. Even Stacy understood that...

The heavy feeling in her chest grew heavier as memory won again...

Stacy...

"Stacy..."

She recognized the woman on the floor in an instant, even through the blood and bruises on her face. There was dim acknowledgement in eyes fogged over with the drugs they had gotten her hooked on, but not much else. Not pain, not fear, just blank nothingness.

"You see we have a problem here, Renata," Marcus said, laying a hand on her shoulder and gripping tight. "She's been disloyal to us, and we can't tolerate that in this business."

Benny sauntered across the room to where Stacy lay and kicked her in the stomach, and she gave a pitiful moan and rolled onto her back. There was still more blood drying on her thighs, sticky red mixing with milky semen, and a shrill whine filled Renata's ears as she wondered how many times they must have raped and beaten her, what kind of nightmare she and Benny's other girls went through in this room...

"Stupid cunt's been talking to the cops," Benny said. "Like they'd care what a junkie whore had to tell them." He leaned down and grasped a handful of her hair, lifting her head off the floor and sneering at her, "Like we wouldn't fucking find out."

The room began to spin and Renata's stomach lurched, her knees beginning to buckle; Marcus tightened his grip on her shoulder and added, "We've been lenient with her in the past, maybe too lenient given the frequency of her misbehavior, but this is a much more serious offense. Something more has to be done."

She barely heard him, her mind racing in a panic while her body's fight or flight responses struggled to take control. She had to get the fuck out of that house, she had to get Stacy out, call the police, something-

"Renata."

The metallic voice sliced through her thoughts and she turned to meet those pitiless eyes. She shouldn't have set foot in that room, in the whole fucking house, in that damned godforsaken club. She should have taken one look into those eyes so long ago and run away as fast as she could. "I need you to settle this for me."

"How?" she asked hoarsely, terrified of the answer.

He reached down and toyed with the green scarf around her neck. "I can't afford a traitor in this line of work. If any of my associates betrays me, he - or she - becomes a threat, and has to be removed as soon as possible." He stared down at Stacy, then turned back to Renata. "Do you understand?"

She was going to be sick.

She clapped a hand over her mouth, a cold, clammy sensation overtaking her and freezing her in her urge to run even as her instincts burned to do so. No. No fucking way, he couldn't ask her, he had lost his fucking mind...but he kept playing with her scarf, slowly drawing it tighter as he said, "Trust is everything, Renata. People who can't be trusted have to be..." he cinched the scarf again and she felt the pressure on her windpipe, "dealt with."

Her insides had turned to serpents. Twisting, writhing serpents, sinking their fangs into her flesh. He wasn't asking her to do jack fucking shit. Her options were clear in the noose wrapped around her neck. She looked down at the broken woman on the floor, damaged beyond hope of recovery. She didn't deserve any of this, not one fucking thing that had happened to her...but the look in Marcus's eyes frightened her as nothing else had in her life. Stacy was dead no matter what, and if Renata didn't play along...

"I can't trust her anymore," he said softly. "Can I trust you?"

The whine in her head grew louder until she thought it would drive her insane. She tried to step outside of herself for as long as possible, to disconnect from Marcus and Stacy, from her own hands as they reached for the scarf. The scarf her grandmother had made with such love, in the color her grandfather loved best. She hoped to God they didn't know what she was doing as she took it off and wound it between her hands and oh God they wouldn't stop shaking. How surreal, how perverse that she should feel like a condemned prisoner ascending the gallows as she approached Stacy, her knees quaking so badly she could hardly stand. The heavy-lidded eyes fluttered and struggled to focus; there was no telling how high she was, but there was a flicker of recognition and she breathed, "Renata..."

Don't breathe...don't think...

She closed the distance between them and raised the scarf and Stacy somehow understood her intent, moaning aloud and trying to move away but Renata moved faster, kneeling beside her on the floor and wrapping the scarf around her neck-

Renata leaped off the couch and staggered across the loft to the toilet, falling to her knees and heaving violently. The whiskey had numbed her throat but it still burned as it came back up, her body spasming and her head spinning until there was nothing left in her stomach. She slid to the floor and curled into a ball on the cold concrete, shaking uncontrollably and squeezing her eyes shut to try and stop the tears from falling. She had killed an innocent woman. She strangled her until her pitiful struggles to escape ceased and whatever light still existed in her eyes had gone out for good. She had tried to hide from it in booze and pills, but there was no such haven for her now, and she was faced with the worst of herself for the first time.

A sob broke free and then she couldn't hold back anymore, the tears coming so fast and hard she couldn't breathe. She could still see them gathered around her, watching her unwind the scarf from Stacy's neck, Benny with his gloating smirk back in place, Reg leering at her as he stepped forward to take the body from the room, and Marcus looking grimly satisfied as he offered her a hand to pull her to her feet. She hated all of them, hated them, but not as much as she hated herself. She killed Stacy to save her own life, and she had been convinced ever since that it wasn't worth saving. She was an addict, a thief, and a murderer, and she had involved herself with two men committed to destroying people like her.

The thought of them made her feel sick all over again. They didn't know what she was, what she'd done, and the only thing worse than the blood on her hands was the way she kept it secret from them. She didn't deserve them, and if they ever found out...what would they do? Would they cut her down like the other monsters they'd visited? They would have to do something, unable to tolerate a crime like hers, and she would deserve it, whatever it was. Their feelings for her would mean nothing when the time came for her to face her just reward, and that was another crime against her. She had allowed them to care for her, knowing what she was and who they were and how it should end. They would be no less affected when the end came.

Guilt tore at her, as it had torn at her ever since that night at Reg's house. Like a coward, she had buried it in drugs and alcohol, whatever would keep it at bay. She would have died that way if not for Connor and Murphy, who were only trying to help her and had no idea what they had forced her to face in their absence and without her usual crutch to lean on. She had been pretending all along that what she had done was necessary, only to save herself, no need for two people to die when one of them could live. Anything to make herself feel better and ease the burden she carried. But after all, maybe it was better to die with honor than to live with none, to stand for what was right no matter the cost. It was what the boys did.

She finally had the strength to pick herself off the floor, only to flop facedown on the bed. Her sobs had slowed but the tears still fell and she did nothing to stop them. She didn't know what they would do if they knew what she had done, but she meant something to them and they to her, and that in itself meant the world. There was nothing she could do to change that night with Marcus and Stacy, but the brothers' faith in her was like a candle in the darkness, unmerited as it was yet shining all the same. Maybe there was hope. Maybe she could become the person they believed she could be. She could spend the rest of her life making up for what she had done and maybe, just maybe, they would never have to know.

As for the guilt...well, she would just have to learn to carry that burden on her own.

Leave me some love! See you soon! :)