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Author's Note: Thanks to MKOLO and Aranatta, who both practically need co-author creds for how much they nursed me through this chapter! Double thanks to MKOLO for all the brainstormin' and beta-ing. Love ya Monkey!!
Nifty fact for the day: I just want to wish you all Nollaig shona duit (merry christmas) and a Athbhliain faoi mhaise duit (happy new year)
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Getting into the building where they were keeping Danae was easier than Connor had thought it would be, which immediately indicated that something was amiss. The fact that this was a trap screamed through every cell in Connor's body, but he adamantly ignored the feeling. They had to get Danae; nothing else mattered.
The uptairs was as sizable as the downstairs had been, luxuriously outfitted in gleaming, polished woods, lushly patterned rugs and colorful replicas of fine art. To Connor's left a grand staircase spiraled upward to yet another level of the building, to his left a generous foyer seemed to stretch on forever.
They had made it through the entire lower floor without seeing a single soul, and the writhing sense of forewarning in Connor's gut intensified. He knew now, without a doubt, that this was a setup, it was only a matter of time until some motherfuckers came springing out of fucking nowhere, guns drawn and blazing.
Readjusting the black ski mask that covered his features, he turned to his brother, placing a hand on his arm.
"Let's do this quick and clean." He said softly, relieved when Murphy nodded, blue eyes clear and focused for the first time in days. "
Beneath the black of his twin's mask, he could just make out a hint Murphy's crooked smile.
"Aye."
"We'll get Danae and get the fuck out. We can handle the rest of these motherfuckers later, after she's safe."
Murphy inclined his head toward the staircase "Let's go, then."
Gun drawn, Connor silently crept up the flight of steps, his brother following close behind.
"Christ," Murphy muttered, his voice low "If I ever get ta the point where a statue of a kid takin' a piss starts ta look like artwork, promise me that ye'll take me out somewhere and fuckin' shoot me."
"Ye've got my word," Connor said, chuckling despite the grim situation, it really was a fucking ugly statue. "Look at this one, ye can't even tell what the fuck it is."
"Looks like someone sat on the paint tubes ta me, giant painted arseprints."
"Aye." Connor snickered, looking again, his twin was right; it in fact did look like several colorful imprints of someone's backside.
"Where do you think she is?" Murphy asked quietly, sobering, and Connor couldn't help but roll his eyes.
"Ye fuckin' dope. If I knew that, would we be creepin' all through this fuckin' place?" He snorted, giving his twin a slight shove.
"Ye Fuck!" Murphy whispered stridently, catching himself before he could actually stumble. "We're on a rescue here! Ye can't just be . . ."
The deafening crack of a gunshot severed his brother's words and Connor felt his stomach plummet as the noise reverberated through him.
We're too late.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ!" Murphy gasped, eyes wide and frantic beneath the ski mask.
They couldn't get up the stairs fast enough, all attempts of being stealthy forgotten in their desperation to find Danae.
Whether she was dead or alive.
Sliding to a halt in the hallway, Connor barely had the time to grab Murphy's collar, yanking his twin back as a bullet whizzed by, narrowly missing them. Apparently they had found the trap.
"Fuck!" he yelled, still clutching his twin's collar in his fist, "Fuckin' mind yerself, Murphy!"
Another gunshot rang out, echoing throughout the hallway and Connor dropped to a crouch, dragging his brother down with him.
"Jesus fuckin' Christ!"
Murphy pulled his second gun from its holster, shifting to face the direction of the shots. "Find Danae and get her the fuck out o' here. I'll deal with these bastards and meet ye outside when it's all said and done."
Connor hesitated. They were safer as a team, and he didn't like the idea of splitting up, especially since it meant leaving Murphy on his own with a cluster of armed gangmembers.
"Murph . . ."
"Go!"
A firm shove to the center of Connor's chest halted his words and set him in motion. Looking over his shoulder as he ran down the opposite hallway, he saw Murphy rise to his feet and take aim in a single, fluid, motion, both guns spilling casings as he fired. Connor offered a swift prayer for his twin's safety and kept running.
He could hear the clamor of the gunfight behind him, and for a moment was so engrossed in the noise that he almost tripped over the body that was sprawled across the floor in front of him.
"Christ!"
For a moment, he simply stared, at the figure before him, his mind refusing to believe what his eyes were seeing, "Smecker?"
The agent was slumped against one of the walls, legs stretched out, an ugly, gory wound seeping crimson into the shoulder of his grey shirt. A wide smear of blood marred the pristine wall behind him, marking his collapse.
For an endless moment, Connor thought the other man was dead, but then Smecker's eyes fluttered and opened.
"What the fuck happened? Are ye alright?" Connor asked, kneeling down in front of him, carefully inspecting the injury.
Swearing, the agent swatted Connor's hands away and pressed a palm into his bloodied shoulder, shooting Connor a derisive look that quickly turned into a pained grimace.
"Do you think we could skip stupid question hour?" he gritted out.
"What the fuck are ye doin' here?"
"Bleeding, apparently." Smecker deadpanned, and then winced, "A couple of assholes caught me coming in. I clipped one of them and I'm pretty sure I missed the other one completely. I played dead until they left. They had the girl with them"
"Alive?"
Smecker nodded and Connor released a breath that he hadn't been aware of holding.
Amen. He thought, Jesus fucking Christ in heaven, amen.
"They took her down that hallway." The agent twitched a little, groaning. "Being shot hurts worse than I thought it would."
Connor nodded, slipping an arm around Smecker's waist and hauling the other man to his feet. "It does, aye. Listen now, ye need ta get the fuck out o' here and get yerself ta a fuckin' hospital."
Smecker's legs promptly buckled beneath him, sitting him down hard on the lushly carpeted floor again, almost taking Connor as well.
"Forget it, I'll be fine." Smecker said brusquely, "Get to the girl, I don't think she has much time left."
Nodding, Connor let the agent sink back into a heap on the floor, still pressing a hand against his wound, and followed the winding hallway.
Peeking into each of the rooms he passed, he finally found Danae, crudely bound to a chair, duct tape trussing her wrists and ankles. There was a huge, angry looking man in front of her, pointing a gun in her face, leering as he did.
Don't ruin it by thinking, Connor reminded himself, his body already in motion. Moving on long-honed instinct, he raised his gun, pulled the trigger, and delivered the gang member to his creator with a perfectly placed slug to the brain.
Danae jumped and even through the tape, he could hear her bewildered squeak as blood spattered her face. Coming up behind her, Connor dropped his hands onto her shoulders.
"Yer all right, Danae." He said, voice low, "We're here and we're goin' ta get ye out o' this place now."
Using an ancient pocketknife that Murphy had given him when they were boys, the only blade he carried; Connor cut his way through the thick layers of tape that bound her, wishing fleetingly for his twin's hunting knife.
Once the tape was cut, he tried to rip the remaining tape from her wrists, but she gave a muffled, pained cry and he stopped, stomach clenching as he saw what had provoked her cry. The delicate skin of her wrists was already scored and bleeding freely, edges of the silver tape clinging to the red lipped injuries. Trying to tear the tape from her wounds was only making them worse.
Carefully he smoothed the adhesive back over her damaged wrists, creating makeshift bandages.
"I know it stings like hell," he said, not missing her flinch, "but it'll have ta do 'til we can get ye ta a fuckin' doctor."
Moving in front of her, he tugged off his mask and offered her a fleeting smile, one that he hoped was reassuring. She looked terrible, but she was alive, and she was looking at him like he was Christ born again.
Carefully he took the edge of the tape covering her mouth between his fingers. Danae cringed away from him, shaking her head.
"I'm sorry, but it has ta be done." He smoothed a hand over her hair wishing to God that he didn't have to be the one to do this to her. "Are ye ready?"
She gave an almost imperceptible nod, shutting her eyes tightly, and Connor winced sympathetically as he ripped the tape from across her mouth.
"How badly are ye hurt?" he asked, trying to ignore the tightening in his chest as he saw blood beginning to leach from her damaged lips.
Danae exhaled a shuddering sob, tears slipping from behind her eyes. She brought a shaky hand to her mouth, wiping at the crimson welling there, her entire body trembling as she began to cry.
Leaning down, Connor enfolded her in his arms, giving her a gentle squeeze before leaning back to meet her eyes. "Keep it together, Danae. I need ye here with me now, I need ye ta answer me.
Something flickered across her face and Connor nodded his approval as she composed herself with a quick, deep breath.
"Nothing's broken." She said shakily, surprising him with her insight, "I can walk."
"Good girl."
"Connor, please, don't . . . " her words stopped abruptly as her gaze shifted from his face to over his shoulder her eyes widening in alarm.
Connor didn't have time to react before heavy hands grabbed him and hauled backwards. Thrown away from Danae, the momentum sent him skidding across the polished wood. His gun went spinning out of his hand and Connor uttered a curse as it slid well beyond his reach.
"You worthless sonofabitch." A voice above him sneered.
"Motherfucker." Connor spat back defiantly, seeing Detective Croghan standing over him, a gun aimed at his head "Murph and I should've blown yer fuckin' brains out all over the pavement when we had the fuckin' chance."
"Lucky for me you were too much of a pussy to go through with it. Looks like I'll have my day after all."
"Go ta fuckin' hell."
Crohan's eyes were cold and hard; his hand was steady on the gun as he cocked the hammer back. "You first."
There was no place to go, no way to reach his weapon and no doubt that these were his last few moments on this earth. Instinctively, Connor's hand went to his rosary, closing around the beads that were hidden under the fabric his shirt, a prayer quick on his lips. First a rapid-fire plea for his twin, and then one for himself.
Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed are thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our . . .
The gunshot was deafening.
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