(((A/Ns: Bible Verse References: Genesis 9: 5-7 NIV, Matthew 16:24 HCSB, Mark 8:34 HCSB, Luke 9:23 HCSB)))
Chapter One: Deserter
It was deep into the night. The twins had fallen asleep long ago, but Brianna had waited, wanting to be sure. Caution paid well in the job of an assassin.
Nothing indicated to her that the Saints were a force to be reckoned with. They did not seem especially well-trained or powerful. She was surprised they had lived this long, really. They were just two amateurs who had gotten lucky a few times and picked up some scars along the way. There had to be something else, some outside force that they depended on to get them through their fights.
Without a sound, Brianna drew a silenced derringer. Two well-aimed shots and she could be on her way, back to Russia for a break before the next job. Just two shots.
She aimed carefully, right between Murphy's closed eyes. Her finger was on the trigger. Why hadn't she pulled it yet? Bri struggled, grappling with something she could not begin to understand. Her hands trembled. She fought to keep steady and aimed again. Yet, she found that she could not make herself take the shot. At last, she put the derringer away.
What's happening to me?
Her hands shook violently. She strove to keep calm. She could not understand what had stopped her. Something was keeping her from killing these men, and she did not know what it was.
Whoever sheds the blood of man, by man shall his blood be shed; for in the image of God has God made man.
The words flitted through her mind on a wind of memory and were gone just as quickly.
Brianna stilled.
"No one ever fuckin' listens to us when we tell them that God gave us this shit..."
Murphy's voice faded from her mind. Brianna shut her eyes.
Help me out here, she thought tensely. If these guys are really doing what You told them to, show me. As old-fashioned as it sounds, if I could have a sign, that would be great...
With a gasp, Murphy sat up in bed. His breath came hard and heavy. He looked around frantically. "Who's there?" he called softly.
Brianna stiffened, certain that she had made no sound or motion that could have alerted the young man to her presence.
Was that You? she asked silently. She was given no reply, and expected none; she knew the answer. Murphy had been exhausted. He had no reason to wake on his own; he had to have been woken by an outside force.
Even I can take a hint, Brianna thought dryly. I get it. The Saints are Yours. They're untouchable, as far as I'm concerned.
Murphy was still staring into the darkness, eyes wide and searching. He knew someone was there. He knew. He could hear nothing except his own breathing and Connor's gentle snores. He could see nothing out of its place. Still, someone was there. He was sure of it.
"Hello?" he said quietly, for fear of waking Connor. His voice wavered. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Who's there? I know you're around here somewhere. Show yourself!"
Brianna was confused. He couldn't possibly mean her. She had made not a single sound. It was too dark to see her, and he wasn't looking up anyway. He couldn't mean her...
Murphy narrowed his eyes, searching the darkness in vain. Connor would know what to do, he decided. Jerking his blanket off, the dark-haired MacManus stood up and started for his sleeping twin.
He's going to wake up Connor! Brianna bit her lip, thinking fast. She had to keep this as simple as possible. With both of the boys searching for her, they might find her, which was not to be allowed. However, if she tried to stop Murphy, she would have to betray her presence to him; he might even be able to ID her later.
Better to be revealed on her terms. Brianna breathed deeply and took the leap from the rafters to the floor.
She landed, catlike, behind Murphy. Praying that she could keep him quiet, she kicked the back of his knees and caught him as he fell, surprised. Knowing that she could not hold him if he struggled--her physical strength was far inferior to his--she quickly grabbed his bare shoulders and spun him, shoving him onto his vacated bed and pushing his face into the mattress to muffle any sound he might make. She deftly twisted his arms behind his back and held them there, leaning onto him and placing her cheek on the back of his dark head to keep his face in the mattress.
She knew she was taking a chance; if he tried, he could throw her off without too much effort. She was wagering on his surprise at the sudden assault.
"Don't say a word," she breathed next to his ear, intentionally dropping her voice several octaves and speaking through her nose, giving the command a nasal quality. "Just listen. I'm going to leave. I will not be bothering you. If you're a good boy, you'll never hear from me again. Do you understand?"
Murphy nodded. He was tense, but he did not struggle; he seemed curious to hear what she had to say.
"Don't come after me," Brianna continued. "Don't try to find me or figure out who I am. You needn't know; with luck, our paths will never cross again. Understand?"
He nodded again.
"Any questions?"
Nod.
She lifted her head and allowed him to turn his face. Keeping herself out of his eyesight, she leaned in close to hear him.
"Could you ease up a bit?" he whispered. "This is fuckin' hell on my ribs."
Cocking an eyebrow, Bri arched her back, gently lifted her body off of his. He sighed in audible relief, reminding Brianna forcefully of the dark bruises marring his lean torso.
Nervously--he might still attack her--she let go of his wrists with one hand and touched his side. He flinched as her fingers lightly brushed his injuries, but made no complaint. She traced along the bruises until she came to the gash. The blood had clotted nicely, but the scab was still tender, judging from Murphy's sharp intake of breath.
Compassion stirred faintly within her. She was a professional assassin, but she was also a nineteen-year-old girl with an instinctual motherliness.
"Get those bruises looked at," she told him softly. "They'll be a long time in healing." Before he could reply, she hit a pressure point at the base of his neck. He slumped limply onto the bed. She dragged him back onto the bed and pulled the blanket over him. Hopefully, when he woke, he would think it had all been a dream.
As she noiselessly made her exit, it occurred to her that she could have simply hit his pressure point in the first place; the entire discussion had been unnecessary.
Cursing herself furiously, Brianna quelled her instant alarm. It wasn't like her to be so careless! What was happening to her?
The phone dialed, then clicked. "Finished already, O'Keefe?" a male voice drawled. "Your usual efficiency. Those idiots didn't stand a fucking chance."
For some reason, this remark sparked anger and resentment in her. They're not idiots. They're just untrained. Squashing her impulsive desire to snap the cell phone in half and spit on the pieces, Brianna coolly said, "No, Yochlov, they're still alive. I need to talk to the шеф." The Russian word for "boss" rolled easily off her tongue. Although she still kept up with her native tongue--Gaelic--her accent had been nearly wiped out by years of working among Russians and Americans.
"Well, the шеф don't wanna fucking talk to you. He won't talk to you 'til the fucking job's done."
Bri's lips tightened. "Then you talk to him. Tell him I said I'm not doing it. These guys are just doing what they should. In fact, they're doing what we should be doing. They're killing mafia members. Tell the шеф that he should shut his mouth and be happy for their help."
The man on the other end swore, loudly and explosively. "Are you fucking KIDDING me?! This shit could be considered fucking desertion!" he yelled.
Brianna held the phone well away from her ear. "I know."
"You'll be fucking killed for it!"
For a moment, her resolve trembled and she considered changing her mind. The thought was gone as quickly as it had come. "I know."
"Fuck, O'Keefe. Fuck. This is not good. This is bad. This is really fucking bad."
"I'll be fine."
"Fuck you, O'Keefe, I'm worried about myself! I'm the one who has to tell the fucking шеф about this!" He was yelling again.
Brianna rolled her eyes. "You'll talk your way around it, Yochlov. You always do. Good luck."
"Fuck..."
"Have a nice life."
He was quiet for a moment. "...You too, O'Keefe. What's left of it..."
Bri flipped the phone shut and stared at it. This was her last chance for life. She could call Yochlov back and tell him that she had changed her mind. All she had to do was pop off two little gunshots. Her life--and her career--would be safe. Anyway, if she deserted, they would just send someone else after the Irish twins. Better that two of them die than all three of them.
Take up your cross and follow Me.
She closed her eyes.
Take up your cross...
She should call him—why sacrifice herself when the twins would die anyway? Somehow, she could not make herself move.
...and follow me.
Brianna O'Keefe dropped the cell phone on the ground and crushed it beneath her heel.