o()o
Author's Note: Happy Friday to everybody out there in PCLand. I hope you have a wonderful weekend!
o(31)o
Danae was going to die.
The men that dragged her to the bathroom and occasionally ripped the tape from her mouth to give her something to eat made sure she was well aware of the fact. They had been talking about it for the last day and a half, taunting her with threats and plans, and from what she could gather, it was going to happen tonight.
She had gone through all the typical stages of dying with startling speed.
Denial had been the shortest of them all, lasting less than an hour before reality set in. Nobody knew where she was, even if Murphy and Connor were looking for her, they would never find her in time. These men were going to kill her, they'd probably hurt her first just to be thorough, then they would make her scream and bleed until either there was no more air in her lungs or blood in her body.
She had slipped easily from denial to black fury, when the talks of her death continued. Rage, thick and oily filled her to the very brim, and she hated. She hated the men that were going to take her life away before she had even gotten the chance to live it and she hated Murphy and Connor for getting her into this and abandoning her. Screaming against the tape that covered her mouth, slamming her already bruised body against the door, she had earned a couple of vicious backhands after biting one of the men that tried to retape her mouth and spitting his own blood defiantly back into his face.
Bargaining slipped past her in a flurry of thoughts, life was so precious, there was so much that she loved about this world, so much she hadn't done yet and so many people she wished she could have talked to just once more. She was sure she should pray, it seemed like the right thing to do, but instead she found herself pleading with the missing MacManus brothers.
Please find me. . .I swear I'll do anything if you only find me. . .please, please, please find me . . .
Depression and acceptance melded together in an ebbing, flowing, war with one another and she wished she had taken out the time to fill out a living will, but she was still so young and had never, ever expected to die before her thirtieth birthday. Her last wishes would go unheard and her life would be over as if it had never been.
Now, as the sun dipped below the horizon, searing the sky with colors only nature could manage, she thought that the pinks and oranges seemed a little more vibrant than previous days' and the blue that was slowly seeping into the brighter colors seemed a little closer to the color of Murphy's eyes.
She wished that she could have seen just one more sunrise, one more chance to see the world wake up refreshed and new, the thought sent a painful jolt through her. There would be no more clean slates and no more sunrises for her. Not ever.
Tears again slipping down her cheeks, She carefully compiled a list of things to remember before she died, memories to be grateful for, and to cling to when things reached their worst before she left this world behind.
She wanted to remember the way her mother's perfume smelled, her father's smile, Connor's laugh, raspy and warm, Murphy's voice, softer and gentler than his brother's. She wanted to hold on to the memory of Connor's hand ruffling her hair and Murphy's mouth when he kissed her that certain way that took her breath away.
Hang on to these things. She reminded herself, unable to stop a tiny sob from escaping, Mom, Dad, Murphy, Connor, never let them go.
Trying to control the sobs that were now threatening to tear through her, tears flowing freely down her face as the sky darkened, she conjured a picture of Murphy and Connor bright in her mind, laughing and joking.
Mom, Dad, Murphy, Connor . . . happy memories, peaceful times . . .
The heavy door opened revealing two growingly familiar silhouettes, the thugs assigned to 'guard' her. Danae heard a far off church bell toll the hour, forlorn and abandoned, and shuddered, her list of comforts forgotten the face of her own mortality.
It was time.
o()o
Smecker was exhausted.
The MacManus brothers had woken him from his first chance at rest in two friggin' days and he hadn't been to sleep since. He'd tried, but every time he closed his eyes, he realized that there were a thousand more things to worry about and a thousand and one more things to plan for. He had a sinking feeling that no matter how this ordeal went the ending wouldn't be a happy one.
He had watched as the Saints forced Detective Bill Croghan to his knees in some darkened alleyway and made the older man confess what he knew only to haul him to his feet again, shoving him away in an irrational gesture of mercy. But not before muttering something into the detective's ear.
When Smecker had questioned their motives for doing something so reckless, Murphy had turned to face him and Smecker hoped he never saw the expression that was on the dark-haired man's face directed at himself or anyone he ever cared about. It had been both feral in its intensity and chilling in its hate.
"He'll have fuckin' his day." Murphy had said roughly before brushing past Smecker and falling into step with his brother, who was already walking away, his dark coat billowing out behind him.
Smecker didn't doubt the truth behind the dark-haired man's words for a minute, and judging from the way the blood drained from Croghan's face, the detective didn't either.
Now, 48 sleepless hours later he checked and rechecked his gun, musing on how history was so liable to repeat itself. Once again, he found himself irrevocably involved in the world of the Saints, teetering in the edge of the precipice spanning right and wrong and readying himself to take the plunge, blindfolded, unsure which side of the frighteningly fine line he would come to rest on.
Well, at least I'm not dressed as a friggin' woman this time, he thought, darkly amused.
Somewhere not too far away he heard a church bell toll the hour, weary and archaic, and shivered, his dark amusement fading away like smoke. There was a leap of faith to be taken and he could only hope that he landed on the right side.
It was time.
o()o
Arturo Mendoza knew that something was about to happen.
He could feel it in the air like some people could feel rain, the certainty that something was going to happen and, for better or worse, nobody that was involved would ever be the same. It was the same feeling he'd had the night Absolution was perfected, like the entire world was still and expectant, waiting for him.
His acquaintance on the force had just left, giving Arturo a wild-eyed message in halting, jumbled Spanish. A warning from his vigilantes, saying that his time was drawing to a close and that they would be seeing him soon.
He studied the grainy photo from the FBI agent's briefcase thoughtfully, everything was working out just as he had planned, although granted a little earlier than he had expected.
Nevertheless, MacManus, Connor and Murphy had found a way to come for their novia, just like he knew they would. It was a pity she would already be dead by the time they got here.
It was less of a pity, however, that they wouldn't live much longer than she.
The idea of killing the dark haired girl sent a swift twist of regret through Arturo's gut. He didn't particularly want to put an end to her, she reminded him ever so slightly of his oldest granddaughter, still young and guiltless, lovely not merely in features (although they were certainly appealing enough) but because her soul shone in her eyes. Arturo regretted that he would have to be the one to make such rare eyes go cloudy and dull.
But, business was business and he had to make sure that the Sacerdotes De la Calle thrived, no matter his personal preferences. Their faltering foothold in this city was slipping a little more every day and he couldn't afford another assault on his familia.
Above all things, his familia came first.
They came first more now than ever because the rest of the Sacerdotes were on their way to America and another diminutive shipment of Absolution, scavenged from the storehouses of his home in Columbia, coming with them. This was his last chance and he couldn't afford anything getting in the way.
Somewhere in the distance, a church bell tolled the hour, sounding resolute and enduring, and his regret melted away. It was all or nothing for his family, and he would give all.
It was time.
o()o
Connor refused to feel anything but collected.
Kneeling in the back pew of the church, rosary biting into his palm, Latin on his lips, he refused to let Danae's pained screams echo in his head, creating stomach-churning ripples through him. He refused to hear her sobbing his name like a prayer and her terrified whisper just before the call ended.
She was fine, he told himself sternly. They would come for her and get her the fuck out of there and everything would be fine. He couldn't think of it any other way.
He refused to think about the indignant anger that cop had stirred up in him. They were supposed to uphold the fucking law, not help tear it down. He had wanted to shake the older man and ask him what the fuck he was thinking getting involved in something like the Street Priests. How fucked up did you have to be to lead such a double life?
Most of all, he refused to worry about Murphy.
Connor had seen every mood that Murphy could conjure; he knew every facet of his twin as well as he knew himself. Hell, better than he knew himself.
From happy to angry, from nervous to grieving to puking his guts out after a night on the piss, Connor had been there for all of it. He could read his brother like a book, knowing what Murphy was thinking with a simple glance or touch, sometimes with even less than that.
But now, watching his twin pray, the light that shone through the church's stained glass windows turning Murphy into a sort of living kaleidoscope, Connor felt as though he were kneeling next to a stranger. This man clutched a rosary identical to his, and mouthed the same prayer in the same language as he did, but there was no trace of his high-spirited, energetic twin, this man was made of stone.
Shaking his head, rising to his feet he ignored the aching protestations of his leg and the whisper of disquiet in the back of his mind that was asking if maybe this entire ordeal had pushed his brother just too far. They'd get Danae back and everything would be fine. Everything had to be fine; he wouldn't let it be any other way.
All around him a church bell tolled the hour, sounding grim and determined, and Connor forced all the feelings away until he was calm and collected again. Ready.
It was time.
o()o
Murphy felt like a stone casing around molten lava.
Normally the church was a place of peace for him. The smell of incense and the patterns cast by the stained glass windows soothed his ever-changing moods. Talking to God gave him a stillness that nothing on this earth could.
Not so today.
He could feel the red-hot emotion bubbling over, eating away at his desperately maintained composure. His emotions flared and faded, each blending into the next with seamless ease before being burned away by the purest, most potent anger he had ever known.
He was going to kill every last one of those motherfuckers for what they had done.
Every.
Last.
One.
He was going to kill one Street Priest for every prayer that he had uttered while waiting for his brother to wake up in the hospital, for each time his twin had grimaced from the pain of their bullets, for every time they had hurt Danae, making her scream. He was going to be the vengeful striking hand of God and heaven itself couldn't help the person that tried to stop him.
He was aware of Connor watching him from the corner of his eye; he could feel his twin's concern glowing along the edges of his mind, a slightly different color than the red that had tinged Murphy's vision since Danae's first scream had come across the telephone line.
For a moment, he felt guilty for making his brother worry, but like all the other emotions, it sparked and was swallowed by the searing fury that was within him.
Finishing his prayer, the Latin thick on his tongue, he got to his feet and turned to match his brother's stride, falling in perfect step with him without thinking about it.
Echoing through him, a church bell tolled the hour, sounding like a death march and the molten emotion in his gut hardened into a leaden ball, leaving him cold and ready.
It was time.
o()o