When she had finally managed to hoist herself to a defensible position, Diana was fortunate enough to find that she also had a clear view of the room itself. There were four men talking in the middle of the room, and two men at both of the doors on the ground level. She had enough bullets to take them all out if necessary, but it would be a close call, and once she gave away her position, she'd have to be moving constantly to get any semblance of aim if they tried to shoot at her and ended up spraying plaster everywhere.

Actually, thought Diana, starting to plant a smoke bomb and then thinking better of it, spraying plaster everywhere might not be such a bad idea. She scanned the room, estimating distances between the filing cabinets and end-tables. She was actually lying on a pair of wooden stairs, underneath which was an empty wall. Immediately to her left was the foot of the stairs, and a few potted plants in front of a window. Normally she wouldn't even have considered this a defensible position, but she'd given up finding anywhere else. The door behind her led to the room through which she'd come in, seemingly unused, but she'd locked and glued to the other doors leading to it just in case.

Let's hope my hunch about the room being unused was correct. I don't want anyone walking up those stairs.

On the wall and to her left was a tall filing cabinet, next to which was what Diana would have staked quite a lot on being a door, though she couldn't see it. On the other wall directly across from her was another door, and a sofa, and in the corner was a table, with some more potted plants on it.

And here was the moment she'd been avoiding. Now that she didn't have to worry about where she was going to be and how she was going to stay there or move somewhere else, she'd have to decide who she was going to shoot, if it came to that. It might have been easier for her to just call for backup, but the Boston police would come in noisily, and alert both sets of "bad guys" to their imminent company.

She'd call. To not call would make this entire scenario pointless. She would call when they arrived. Then both sets of antagonists would be rightly arrested, and THIS time, she'd wouldn't let the Boston police hinder the justice system when it came to the Saints getting what they deserved. No one had the right to make themselves an executioner. No one. Her blood boiled just thinking about it.

And Connor? Well... Connor was a murderer. He deserved to spend his life rotting away in some prison. And she would put him there. It didn't matter who he killed.

Eight men visible. No idea how many are behind the doors, or anywhere else in the house. This was by far one of the most risky ventures Diana had ever attended, and the only one she'd ever elected to perform alone. But I can take out eight men. Reassuring herself was necessary. Made her calmer. No panicking. Roughly two feet between the stairs and that filing cabinet. Another foot to the door. Four more feet to the corner. Two feet to the right, the sofa...and so on.

Her hand clenched around the gun as the first shots were fired. Frustrated, she forced herself to relax. To not be confused about her enemies.

Damn. I should call now. But she didn't. Her mind kept flitting to the unsavory possibilites of three manned forces shooting at each other in the same house.

I should have brought a fucking team.She was cross now. She admonished herself for cursing, even in her head. She'd been with the Saints too much.

Damn him anyway.

And then she heard the door beneath her crack open with the force of what could only be a booted foot.

Oops... forgot to glue down that one.

Not that it would have mattered.

Connor, Murphy, and the nameless Da McManus stormed in through the door and the blood flooded forth. They'd taken out two of the four in the middle of the room and had, heedless to their own safety, taken solid standing positions in the bottom right of the room.

Two more down. One more of the four, and one by the door farthest from Diana. She didn't even see the other four drop. It was over in a matter of seconds.

And here she froze. No, she whispered to herself, you have to do this. Don't hesitate. And she was indeed hesitating. Practically stalling.

Until she felt the gentle whisper of an opened door. The one they'd come through, and it was clear from their lack of response that they hadn't felt what she had.

"Get down!" she cried, and aimed blindly at whoever had come through the door below the stairs. She could see them, just barely, as she vaulted herself over the railing, keeping steady by force of will and a single arm and leg straining to keep her aloof. All four of the forwarned men coming through the door dropped. Diana had killed them.

Blood ran cold, and Diana suddenly understood the shock of defeat. With an angry hiss she snapped the gun toward the three, who were now standing silently in the middle of the room.

Murphy's gun twitched in response to her own.

"No," Connor snapped his fist around his brother's hand.

"Connor," growled Da.

"I'm not going to shoot damnit," Diana's voice felt steely in her throat, but in her mind it trembled.

"You tried to arrest us once." Da's voice was calm, distinct... almost comforting in a way. "And still we're here."

"Yes." she said, and her mind and voice became one as she felt the cold shroud of the law entrench her.

"This is our life Diana," Connor pleaded. His eyes searching for some recognition. For some bit of the woman he'd kissed in the kitchen of a small Boston apartment.

"Not for long." Diana's grip on her gun tightened resolutely. She snapped open her phone and started dialing, missing Connor's flinch at the unforgiving noise.

"Danny," she began, almost smiling. "I've got them. No. No local police involvement this time. It's not necessary. Bring the team, and have somewhere to put them." No names. Not even an awknowledgement of how important this was for them. The FBI was no longer needed here. She could go home.

She hung up the phone.

"No go," she said quietly, almost not believing herself, and relaxing only enough to lower the gun.

"What?" Murphy bit of a curse of disbelief.

"Go," she said again, begging them to be silent and leave her in peace.

"Diana," Connor stepped forward, and began to lift his hand to her.

The gun snapped up again.

"Go home." This time there was no confusion. There was cold fury in her eyes, and somehow, something had snapped inside.

She closed her eyes, and felt them start for the door. Two of them. One lagged, and then answered the hiss of his brother and followed.

There was an impact, and sharp pain at the back of her head. And then... nothing.

She wasn't sure how much time had passed between the moment she lost consciousness and the moment she regained it.

"Christ," she said slowly, lifting herself off the ground. "What the hell happened."

"Your guess is as good as mine," Danny extended a hand, and Diana took it gratefully, trying to regain her balance. "But they're gone, and we've got a dozen more bodies to add to the count."

"Damn," Diana swore, trying to feign innocence. Not a hard thing to do with a swelled head.

"Looks like you'll have to stick around in the cold a little longer." Danny was trying to be cheerfull, not admonishing her for not calling for backup sooner. Then again, he hadn't known how long she'd been there.

She tried to think on how to explain to Danny that there was a mole for the mob in the Boston police, but she couldn't think of how to broach the subject without giving herself away.

"Go home. Get some sleep. We'll clean up the mess." Danny's reassurances had given her escape, but no comfort.

And after another hour. She was home. No sleep. No poetry. No warm beverage to soothe her nerves. Just a window. And a quiet vigil over a fucked up city.

And that was how things stood when she felt him walk in silently through the door behind her.