"Did you see which way she feckin' went?" Murphy growled from behind Connor. They were charging back through the milling crowd, going against the flow of traffic headed back to the seats.

"No, but Roc had a line on Agosti's two men. They were scoping out some spot near the west bar," Connor muttered. He could feel his twin's agitation. "This could get ugly," he pointed out. "I mean, if we hafta shoot these muther fuckers in front of her…"

Murphy shook his head. "Don't really care 'bout dat, Conn," Murphy admitted. He reached into his coat and closed his fingers around the grip of his Desert Eagle. "M'not gonna let her be fuckin' bait."

Connor stopped and spun around to face his brother. "We take Agosti out tonight, and we make sure Wren isn't harmed. We don't stick around for the after party, got it?"

Murphy nodded, his blood coursing wildly through his veins. It was mirrored in Connor's flashing eyes. The place was crawling with Italians and it wouldn't do them any good wait and see who noticed Agosti's absence in the next round.


"Mister Durante," Agosti began in lilting Italian. "It seems as though your little dolcezza has a thing for other men."

Donahue's gaze never wavered from Wren's and she saw a hint of pain flit over his face.

"I know," Donahue replied smoothly over his shoulder. "It's a habit I'm trying very hard to break."

A ripple of laughter fluttered around Wren and she held her tongue between her teeth. Donahue cocked an eyebrow at her. What are you waiting for?

"You wouldn't mind, perhaps, if I watched you break her? It's hard to find decent entertainment these days and while I enjoyed the boxing match, I find that this may be more in line with my taste."

"Please, do stay. If she hasn't learned her place by the time I'm finished with her, perhaps one of your men can take over."

There was another round of cruel chuckles and although Wren didn't understand a word being spoken around her, she knew the malice and the intent clearly enough. Her hands wound into Donahue's jacket and she pressed her palms flat against his flanks. "Please, Damon," she murmured, as her hands slid over the handles of the Berettas.


"Christ, this won't be an easy shot," Connor muttered from where he and his brother crouched.

"We can't wait any longer, Conn," Murphy growled back. They had both heard the exchange between Agosti and the man Wren was currently being cornered by. Even if it was a ruse, it didn't look like it would fare well for Wren. And Murphy was fairly certain that he couldn't take much more of Wren pawing at that guy like that, for show or not. He tugged his ski mask into place. "In an' out, yeah? Can't let her get a good look at us."

"Aye," Connor nodded, pulling the wool down his face. He grinned, knowing that Murphy would know he was smiling; and Murphy's eyes crinkled a moment after, returning the smile. They clicked the barrels of their guns together, as if offering a toast. "Slainte," Connor offered.

They moved into the shadows, slinking behind Agosti's two men, intent on taking them down first. Connor fired a clear shot into the skull of the man on the right, and the body dropped uselessly. The mechanical zip of the suppressed shot made the second man turn, but Murphy beat him to the punch, delivering two bullets to the back. Then they turned their sights on Agosti.


Donahue heard the shots and froze. Wren's eyes widened and then narrowed. "Fucking amateurs!" she growled hotly, shoving her hands into his shoulder holsters and drawing both Berettas. She kneed Donahue in the gut, making him suck in a breath and double over. When he was clear, Wren flashed a smile in Agosti's direction and then glanced at the two ski-mask wearing morons behind him. "Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me!" she hissed. "He's mine!"

Behind the ski masks, Connor and Murphy paused, watching as Wren sent the dark-eyed Irishman down. Too stunned to move, they merely stared as Wren fired two shots, point blank, into Agosti's skull without hesitation, and then aimed her weapons on them.

"We should go," Connor mused in a strained voice, already backing away.

"Agreed," Murphy nodded quickly.

"You're the same assholes from Copely!" Wren snapped. "You ruined my job that night." She fired, narrowly missing Connor's head.

The lighter MacManus glared at her. "Calm the fuck down," he bellowed, dredging up a flat Midwestern accent. "We both had the same goal – just like right now!"

"You think I fucking care?" she fired another shot and Connor's eyes bulged as he heard Murphy hiss sharply and swear.

"Let's go, man," Murphy growled from the shadows, clutching his thigh. The bullet had grazed him, but it was deep, and was bleeding quite profusely.

"She fuckin' shot you!" Connor yelped, his brogue slipping. He sneered behind the ski mask and sent a bullet in Wren's direction.

"I know!" Murphy roared, reaching out and grabbing his twin by the shirt and yanking him back. "Let's go!"

Wren skittered after them, kicking her heels aside and stepping into the shadows.

"Wren," she heard Donahue croak from behind her.

She glanced back over her shoulder. "You're fine," she shrugged. "I didn't hit you that hard."

Donahue grimaced and shook his head slowly. He managed to turn onto his side with stiff limbs. A bright bloom of sticky, wet red was blooming near his hip, and the stain was getting larger by the second.

"Fuck," she uttered, falling to her knees in front of him. "Were you shot?"

He bared his teeth, glared up at her. "Yes," he growled, grunting again. "But either the guy was trying to kill me and has shitty aim, or he wanted to cripple me." He winched sharply. "Shit. I feel like my hip is shattered."

"Fuck," she snapped this time. "Okay. Don't move."

"Thanks for the advice," he droned through clenched teeth. "My phone is in my pocket."

She dove towards him, her hand skirting into the hip pocket of his pants that he wasn't laying on, and he rocked with the movement, howling again. "Ow! Goddammit, Wren! Take it easy – no, the other pocket." He suddenly broke off and his eyelids fluttered. "Shit," he murmured, almost bewildered.

"Donahue," Wren growled, watching him with wide eyes. Shit, he was pale – too pale, almost sickly yellow with the overhead warehouse lighting. Suddenly, his body sagged back, his breath shallow.

"Ambulance," he slurred, his head rocking to one side. "Phone in my pocket. Loosing a lot of blood."

The other pocket – the one he had been lying on? It was covered in blood, and Wren swallowed the sudden flood of salt through her mouth. A ragged bullet hone was directly above the pocket opening, and she could see blood still pumping at an alarming rate. It was close the femoral artery, and acting quickly, Wren jammed her hand into the pocket, fished around, and yanked her hand back as soon as her fingers curled around the phone. She fished it out, her vision filled with Donahue's blood-drowned cell phone. She had to wipe the screen off of on her dress, and her fingers slipped clumsily along the keys as she hastily dialled for an ambulance.

Lifting the phone to her ear, her eyes scanned over him. She needed to stop the bleeding, and so she cradled the phone with her shoulder and yanked his suit jacket off of his good side. The sleeve of his shirt went next and she wadded it with her hands. As she went to press it tight to the wound, the phone clicked in.

"9-11 Emergency, please go ahead."

She frowned at the voice. The ambulance. Donahue had asked her to call an ambulance. Not get Monaghan, or Callahan, or one of the other boyos. Call an ambulance.

"9-11 Emergency, is there someone there?"

The voice of the lady working dispatch echoed mechanically down the line. She jammed the 'off' button and set the phone down. She yanked open his tie and managed to hitch it around the injured side between the legs, and secure the makeshift bandage made from his sleeve. He mind raced as she worked. Why would the head of Gareghty's security want an ambulance – and no doubt the cops, judging by the surrounding body count – instead of using their own guy on the inside?

As she pulled back, her hand brushed against something beneath his shirt, higher up on his flank, beneath his arm. Tearing open the shirt, she parted the sides and narrowed her eyes at the small transmitter box of a legal wire system taped to Donahue's side. A thin wire traveled up to a mic taped to his chest. She tore it, and the transmitter, off viciously, a little satisfied at the mumbled grunt of pain he heaved. On the backside of the transmitter, a serial number, and the unmistakable seal of the FBI were stamped into the metal of the casing.

The box and mic clattered to the ground as if they had burned her, and she sprung back, standing and looking frantically about for the rest of a team. The crowd over head were still hollering their distaste or triumph over the fight outcome, and they were beginning to leave their seats as they did. She glanced back down to Donahue.

She couldn't leave him – not like this. She dialled 9-11 again and this time, when the dispatcher came on, Wren didn't hesitate. Donahue was a cop, and that meant he had a pretty good idea who she was. Gareghty had nothing on her anymore. "Someone's been shot at an illegal boxing match in Southie." She rattled off the address of the warehouse and the approximate location of Donahue. She ended the call as she was asked her name, and she crouched back down beside Donahue.

"Ambulance is coming," she muttered as she set his phone back on his chest. "You're a Fed?"

He winced. "It's not what you think," he croaked with a weak shake of his head.

She held up the transmitter box and gave it a little wave. "I think if it looks like a duck and it walks like a duck, it's a duck."

"No, Wren," he pleaded.

"Can't stick around," she said as she stood. Her head tilted as she looked down at him. "You understand, don't you?" Her mouth lifted in a wry smile and then she scooped up her heels. As she caught sight of the bloodied hem of her dress, she found his discarded jacket, having fared not too badly. Her legs were soaked with blood; they'd have to be dealt with. Wrapping Donahue's coat around her body, she ducked out into the swelling crowd and cut across the flow to the bathroom, her head down, not meeting anyone's eyes. For some reason, it was empty, a rarity with women's bathrooms, but she had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She threw the bolt, locking the door, and got to work at the sink.

The blood was heavier than she thought, and she had built up quite a pile of bloody, damp paper towels. At the mirror, she twisted her hair up, securing it with a pen from Donahue's coat pocket, and then slipped the coat on. It almost went around her body twice, but she shoved her hands into the pockets and stepped into her heels. She wasn't likely to be noticed if she made her exit stealthily. Opening the bathroom door once more, she eyed the flow of the crowd and stepped into it as it passed.

As the east entrance became closer, she filtered close to the edge again, and slipped back out of the crowd, and straight into someone standing right there. Her eyes flew up into the infuriated face of Papa Joe Yakavetta himself.