Waiting Game Chapter 27, a boondock saints fanfic

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Author's Note: Perra is Spanish for bitch, caballero means gentleman, familia means family, ovejas means sheep, jefe translates to head or boss and novia means girlfriend. I swear we're all going to be fluent in Spanish by the time this story is over!
Nifty Fact for the Day: Just in case all that Spanish wasn't enough, if you want to tell someone that they're beautiful in Gaelic you tell them Tá tú go h-álainn, if you want to tell them you miss them, the phrase is cronaím thú.
Special Thanks: To MKOLO for reading this 8 billion times only to have me scrap it and start over. You're the best, Monkey! Also to Aranatta for the nudge (read foot in ass) in the right direction.

o(27)o

Danae stared at the paperwork before her without actually seeing it, her fingers flying over the keyboard automatically as she typed, her mind on the Saints.

The ER was quiet, having seen its last patient well over an hour ago. The night nurse had gone on her lunch break and the ER physician had retreated to his lounge to eek in what little precious sleep his shift would allow. The lights had been dimmed, and some movie was playing on the lobby television.

Listening for a moment, she placed the dialogue and shook her head, unable to believe that they were actually televising Pulp Fiction.

Samuel L. Jackson's voice seemed to fill the waiting room and Danae felt a painful throb in her chest as the words reached her.

"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee."

Apparently, there was no getting away from crazy men on a mission from God today.

She had spent the last three days in a daze, the reality about what Connor and Murphy had done had gotten shuffled to the back of her mind, maybe in self-defense, and she had somehow managed to disregard Murphy's bruises and the articles in the newspaper describing the MacManus's 'mission' in every brutal detail.

But when she had woken up to go to work yesterday evening, padding silently through the house, and had found one of the brothers' guns sitting on the kitchen table, as though it belonged there, next to a newspaper proclaiming the Saints as serial killers, the truth had been brought into startling focus.

Killers, vigilantes, criminals.

Her hands began to tremble slightly as the thought hit her for a second time, along with the heartrending jolt of emotion that accompanied it, and her typing faltered. The computer beeped its disapproval of her inattention and she swiped at the warmth gathering in her eyes, refusing to lose her composure at work. Sucking in a fortifying breath and forcing the tears back where they belonged, she started typing again.

She had left them that night without saying goodbye, slipping out of the house as quietly as possible, leaving them where they had fallen asleep in the living room. Murphy had been sprawled out across the couch and Connor stretched out in the recliner, some movie about aliens invading earth on the television. Pausing in the doorway, giving them a long look as they slept, separated but still curled slightly toward each other, she had realized that she could no longer see her Connor and Murphy; she could only see the Saints.

They had killed more people than she could fathom without a second thought, thinking themselves to be the judge, jury and executioner of the depraved. They had been charged with a divine undertaking that she could never understand, and they acted on it with an unparalleled passion. They lived in a world where there was a war raging, but what they didn't seem to see was that they were the only ones fighting.

She couldn't watch them come home to her time after time beaten and weary. She didn't want the nauseating anxiety that came with waiting for them to return, wondering if they had a gun to someone's head at that very moment, or if they were the ones about to lose their lives. It was too much to know that the men who had grown so dear to her had an invisible clock above them, counting down the minutes until they were taken away, either by some obscure mission, or by death itself.

Now more than ever, she was certain that there was no place for her in the lives of the MacManus brothers.

Armed with that knowledge, she had begun the painful process of letting them go, telling herself that it was better this way.

The phrase had become an oft-repeated mantra over the past few days. She used it as a balm for the pain that came with avoiding her makeshift family. She told herself that it eased the sick feeling in the pit of her stomach whenever she thought about coming home to a cold empty apartment, of being stripped of the light and love the MacManuses seemed to radiate, even though it was a lie

It's better this way.

She had reiterated it as she resisted the urge to touch Murphy as he slept, to balance the signs of violence his body still bore with a gentle caress, as she forced herself to ignore the fact that she was still very much in love with him and, in all probability, always would be.

Oh, how she loved him. She loved his eyes and his smile, his ceaseless energy and they way his mind worked. She loved the way he was devoted to his brother and his conviction in doing what was right, even if what he thought was right was horribly wrong. She loved him more than she could ever put into words, but she could never have him completely. His heart would always belong to his blood-spattered calling.

The tears she had been fighting came without warning, dripping off of her nose and onto the keyboard before she even had the sense to stop typing. For a moment, her fingers continued to dance across the keys in a desperate attempt to reclaim control over her emotions, but when the keyboard began to blur she buried her face in her hands and gave in.

She cried until her eyes were swollen and her nose was clogged, pouring out all the worry and grief that had been threatening to eat her alive since before the mission in a flood of tearstained emotion.

A sudden noise behind her, almost too soft to be heard startled Danae away from her misery, sniffling she looked up just as a hand clamped over her mouth, effectively muffling her alarmed screams. Strong arms jerked her out of her chair, dragging her backward through the ER.

Struggling to get loose, the heel of her shoe connected with something and she heard a yelp, followed immediately by a blow to the back of her neck and something cold and metal being pressed against her temple.

"Keep fighting me and I'll blow your fucking head off, perra." A low, accented voice growled in her ear and Danae stilled at once, terrified.

There's a gun to my head, her mind gibbered hysterically, I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die. . .

Frantically searching for help, she saw Jean, the night nurse, sprawled over the white tiled floor of the ER hallway, chillingly motionless in a spreading pool of crimson.

Oh god . . .

Her wrists were bound behind her back, something hard and sharp cutting into the delicate skin there, and a dirty, foul-tasting rag was shoved into her mouth, replacing the hand and making her gag.

There was a sudden, sharp pain across the right side of her head and Danae gave a muffled, panicked, sob as she caught the glint of a knife in the fluorescent hospital lights.

I don't want to die I don't want to die I don't want to die . . .

A musty bag was thrown over her head, blinding her, and someone gave her a hard shove between the shoulder blades, making her stumble, bruising her knees on the hard tile. Tears streaming down her cheeks, panting like some caged animal, she was roughly hauled back to her feet, unfamiliar fingers biting into the flesh of her arms as the pressure of the gun was returned to her temple.

"Walk!" an angry voice commanded.

The cold night air cut through her thin sweater like a knife as she staggered through the ER doors and she shuddered as much from the chill of the night air as from fear. Blinded and disoriented she followed the growled commands and vicious shoves until she was lifted and dumped into a tiny space, something closing securely over her head.

The tight, closed in, feeling sent her panic soaring to new heights, and she struggled, screaming against the gag. She couldn't move, she couldn't breathe, she was trapped and for a fleeting moment her mind conjured images of a coffin.

She was already dead and this was her casket, she was dead and they were going to bury her in the ground forever.

Breathe. She commanded herself, forcing air around the gag and through her clogged nose. Breathe. Breathe. You aren't dead. Breathe. Calm down. This isn't a coffin. Breathe. You're moving; this must be the trunk of a car. Breathe. Oh God, oh god, oh god . . .

Time lost meaning for Danae as she focused solely on breathing what little stale air was available, forcing her body to relax until, unceremoniously, she was hauled out of the trunk and dropped onto the hard, cold ground.

o()o

Arturo Mendoza reclined in his comfortable leather chair, his feet propped up on the polished rosewood desk, flipping through a stack to papers taken from the briefcase in front of him as he listened to the television drone on in the background.

The briefcase was made of beautiful black leather, adorned with silver latches and locks and Arturo's experienced eye priced it well above your average caballero's briefcase. The FBI agent had good taste, he had to admit.

Most of the papers inside were meaningless to him, police reports, official documents and the like but a newspaper clipping caught his eye, and Arturo plucked it from the stack, frowning as he read.

It was an article describing the most recent attack on the Sacerdotes De la Calle, haphazardly cut from one of the more prominent local newspapers and detailing the attack in macabre detail. Reading about his dead soldiers, Arturo felt a surprising beat of remorse and unconsciously crossed himself.

So much death, he thought, skimming over the names of his fallen familia, is this really worth the cost I have paid?

As quickly as the thought surfaced, he buried again. Of course this was worth it, it was worth whatever cost he had to pay, no matter how dear.

Setting the article aside, he closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the television. The actor's deep voice filled his office, surrounding him like dark velvet.

He smiled as he listened to the words; they seemed to be particularly fitting in his case; in all actuality, the entire passage seemed to be written just for him tonight. He would lead the Sacerdotes De la Calle through these trials as he had led them through so many before this, he would find the men that had harmed his familia and make them suffer for their malice, and once Absolution hit the street he would be A god among the ovejas.

Shuffling through the briefcase, Arturo discovered a file at the very bottom, buried under the other papers. It was tattered and dog-eared, stained with fingerprints and what looked like coffee, a stark contrast to the rest of the crisp, professional documents the briefcase housed. Pulling out the file, he read the neatly printed label.

MacManus, Connor/ Murphy.

Opening the folder he found several more newspaper clippings, every one of them detailing an attack on some Mafia family, an attack that sounded exactly like the ones that had befallen his Sacerdotes.

The file began to tremble slightly in Arturo's hands. Here were the men that were targeting his people, the men that were destroying his life's endeavor bullet by bullet. MacManus, Connor and Murphy.

In the very back of the folder he discovered a single, grainy, black and white photo of two men standing back to back, guns drawn as they faced the camera. By the expression on the men's faces, Arturo was certain that the fate of the photographer hadn't been a pleasant one.

Staring at the photo meditatively, he made a quiet noise of annoyance as the door to his office burst open. Didn't anyone have the courtesy to knock anymore?

Tomas and Ramiro, oblivious to their Jefe's irritation, came in carrying a feebly struggling bundle that could only be a person and abruptly dropped it on the floor in front of him where it landed with a muffled cry.

Tomas bent over, black eyes flashing maliciously as he ripped the sack from the bundle's head, revealing a dark haired girl, eyes enormous and frightened.

Arturo gave the girl a brief once-over then turned admonishing eyes to the men that flanked her. "Tomas," he chided, "Ramiro, what is this? Have you no manners coming into my office like this? What are you doing dumping her here like garbage? What do you want me to do with her at this time of night?"

Seeing the men exchange confused glances, Arturo sighed. "Take her out of here now; I will deal with her in the morning."

Shaking his head, Arturo pinched the bridge of his nose. Tomas's only saving grace was that he was Esteban's brother and Arturo had been a close friend of their mother's in Columbia.

He consoled himself that the remaining underbosses and all the actual important members of the Sacerdotes De la Calle would arrive from Columbia as soon as the preparations were complete. They would replace the fools he was working with and deal with these trivial matters from then on.

Tomas grabbed the girl, hauling her roughly to her feet. Giving her a hard push, snickering when she stumbled, he navigated her to the door, Ramiro following close behind, his thin shoulders hunched, his head bowed.

Arturo held up a hand, halting them both. "Boys!" he said, "That is no way to treat a lady. Nobody can respect a man who treats a woman poorly. Remember that.

Giving Arturo the condescending eye-roll that only belligerent young people seemed to be able to manage, Tomas gave the girl another, albeit gentler, push toward the door. Ramiro at least had the good sense to look chagrined as he nodded his agreement to Arturo's words.

"Sorry, Señor Mendoza," he mumbled, staring at his shoes.

"Did you to leave the message like I told you to do?"

Both men nodded. "Si." They said in perfect unison and he smiled at them.

"Excellent. Now go, vete."

Turning his attention back to the black and white photo in his hand, Arturo smiled at the two scowling men.

"You are hard men to kill." He said softly, "but now I have something of yours and a completely different way to make you bleed. You have survived gunshots and explosions but we'll see how strong you are when I make you listen to your novia's dying screams."

Thoughtfully studying the photograph, Arturo's smile widened, it really was a very nice picture.

When all this was said and done, he might just have it framed.

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