(((A/Ns: Time for some good old Irish slang!
Molly: "wimp" or "pansy"
Cuttie: "young girl"
Bird: "attractive young girl"
Berco: "drunk"
Gersha: "young girl"
Dry up: "shut up"
Gingernut: "redheaded person"
And a touch of Russian—Irelandskii is someone from Ireland.)))
Chapter Two: Rescuer
"I fuckin' swear, Conn! She was here!"
"Away with ye! Ye're fuckin' berco."
"No I'm not! No I fuckin' am not! Connor, you have to fuckin' believe me!"
Connor looked into Murphy's pleading eyes and sighed. After years of trusting each other absolutely and without reserve, he could not turn his back on his twin now. "Alrigh', then. What did the lass look like?"
"I told you, I couldn't fuckin' see her."
"Aye. Ye fuckin' told me. Tell me again what was said."
Murphy recounted his tale once again, and Connor listened carefully. He leaned back in his chair.
"What do you make of it?" Murphy asked when he had finished, eager for his twin's views.
Connor shrugged. "I don't know what to make of it."
"I think we should try to find her," Murphy exclaimed.
"She told ye not to look for her..."
"I know, but fuck, Connor, she can't really have expected me to just stew in my own fuckin' curiosity!"
"I think that's exactly what she expected."
"I want to find her! We don't fuckin' have anything else to do anyway!"
"And just how do ye expect to fuckin' find a gersha that ye know nothing about, not even what she fuckin' looks like?"
Murphy opened his mouth to say--what? He closed it again, considering. "Shit! Good question. Fuck."
"When ye know the fuckin' answer to that good fuckin' question, we can think about going out to look for yer little bird."
The dark-haired twin pouted. "Fuck you."
"Fuck ye, too, ye molly boy!"
"Fuck you first, you pansy!"
Before they knew it, they were rolling around on the floor, pounding on each other like good respectable Irishmen should. However, communicating without speaking in their uncanny way, they were oddly gentle with one another. Murphy cautiously skirted Connor's broken ribs and Connor carefully avoided Murphy's bruised chest.
The fight ended with Connor lying on the floor on his back, laughing. Murphy was next to him, on his stomach with his chin propped in his hands, grinning his head off.
"Ye're such a fuckin' pansy," Connor laughed, giving his twin a playful shove.
"And you're a fuckin' hypocrite! You gave up before meself."
"Ye're a fuckin' liar!"
"Como dices, loco," Murphy said in fluent Spanish. ("As you say, crazy man.")
"Que mentiroso eres, hermano menor!" Connor responded. ("What a liar you are, little brother!")
"We don't fuckin' know that I'm younger!" Agitated, Murphy had switched back to English.
Connor laughed and affectionately ruffled his twin's dark hair. "I know. Ye're my little brother, and ye always will be... ye fuckin' molly boy."
With a playful growl, Murphy jumped on his brother and started the wrestling match back up.
Brianna found herself powerfully and inexplicably drawn back to the MacManus brothers' home. She really had no reason to return... but then, she supposed, she had no reason not to return. Her life was forfeit. She might as well do what she wanted for a while before she died. And she wanted to see the twins again. She could not explain why, even to herself.
Waiting until they were out for a smoke, she crept back into their apartment with little effort. Settling back into her hiding place in the rafters, she waited for the twins to return.
Murphy MacManus burst through the door, laughing and fleeing his good-naturedly irate brother. Connor chased him with a shout of, "Gimme the fuckin' cigarettes back!"
Brianna found herself grinning at the ease with which the boys bantered and capered about. They obviously cared deeply for each other, and they were very comfortable in each others' presence. When Connor's ribs started to bother him, Murphy seemed to just somehow know. He quickly eased up.
A strange, sick feeling in her chest startled the redhead. She searched herself and found that, to her shock and chagrin, she longed to be down there with them. She wanted so badly to be able to trust someone as much as the brothers trusted each other.
She didn't want to remain an outsider for the rest of her days. She didn't want to be nothing but an angel of death. She could be the executioner; despite her blatant femininity, she was cut out for the job. But that wasn't all she wanted. She wanted more.
She wanted what they had; an un-split life, but one that had more to it than the death of the evil.
A sound apart from the brothers' repartee made the assassin twitch. She cocked her head carefully, wishing impatiently that the boys would hush so that she could hear properly.
She tensed. Heavy footsteps pounded toward them, but Connor and Murphy were too busy laughing to hear it.
Who could be coming?
The door burst open. The twins stopped laughing and looked up, surprised.
There was a frozen moment.
Then, everyone exploded into movement. Murphy was scrambling for a gun hidden under his pillow, swearing at the top of his lungs in a dozen different languages. Connor had stood abruptly, his chair toppling over backwards, his eyes flashing.
Black-clad men wearing masks and toting large guns flooded into the room, spreading out to circle the Saints. The twins were surrounded in no time at all.
One of the men slammed the butt of his gun into Connor's temple. As the older MacManus slumped, Murphy clenched his fists and gritted his teeth.
An especially large black-clad man reached his hand under Murphy's chin and forced his face up. White-hot fury blazed in the dark-haired Irishman's eyes, but he was wise enough to know that he would be shot six different ways before he could move.
"It's definitely them," said the man, speaking with a distinctly Russian accent. He chuckled. "I'm surprised that the Irelandskii girl, O'Keefe, didn't massacre these guys. They were simply too easy. And she's supposed to be a professional."
He seemed ready to deliver another taunt, but there was a popping noise and he froze. Blood blasted outward from a gaping black hole in his face. Then he slowly keeled over, a derringer slug planted firmly in his brain.
The men immediately started moving, making themselves more difficult targets and searching for the shooter.
Brianna settled her shoulders, stretched out on her stomach on top of the crosspiece, and took aim again. Another would-be assassin went down with a derringer bullet to the head.
Murphy had taken the hint and moved quickly. The gun from under his pillow was in his hand. Two gunshots went off and another couple of black-suited men went down.
Soon all of the assailants were lying on the floor in a bloody heap. Murphy dropped his gun and ran to Connor. He checked his brother's pulse, then shook him gently. "Conn? Connor? Fuck. C'mon, Connor... c'mon, you fuckin' pansy... wake up..."
Brianna dropped from the rafters and strode over to the brothers. Kneeling, she touched Connor's temple. Her fingers came away sticky with blood.
"Who the hell are you?" Murphy demanded. "Why'd you fuckin' help us?"
"I didn't," she said coolly. "I was helping myself. The Russian insulted my professionalism. I wanted to make him regret it." But she wondered privately if that was the whole of it. Certainly, the insult had made her angry. Yet, it seemed that, even more than the insult, the attack on the twins made her want to drop her cool and start shooting like a madwoman.
"Then you're O'Keefe."
She nodded.
He swore. "Fuck! That means you'll be wantin' to kill us as well, I suppose?"
She shook her head.
"But he said..."
"He was misinformed. I dropped this mission only a couple of days after I got it." She examined Connor. "He doesn't seem too badly hurt, but he'll be unconscious for a while yet. Can you carry him?"
"Why?"
"You can't stay here."
"And why the fuckin' hell not?" Murphy asked, aggravated.
Brianna bit back a sharp retort, reminding herself firmly that he was simply concerned for Connor. "It's too dangerous," she said, keeping her voice gentle. "If you stay, they'll come back for you--and Connor. It's not safe."
"And I suppose you know somewhere that is..." Murphy said uneasily.
"I do." She nodded. She pointed to the light-haired twin. "Now pick him up and come with me."
"How do I fuckin' know I can trust you?"
"You don't." She looked at him squarely. "Have you any choice?"
He frowned. "No." For a moment he struggled with himself. Then he said, "Listen up, aye? If this is a trap and something fuckin' happens to me brother, there will be hell to pay, and you'll be the first on the fuckin' debt list."
She did not miss the fact that he had not said, "something happens to me" or "to us"; he had said "to my brother." He was too busy worrying about Connor to worry about his own safety.
It touched her.
"Heard and understood," she said calmly. Murphy nodded shortly and knelt down. With some grunting and struggling, he managed to get his older brother draped over his shoulders.
Standing with a groan, he looked at Bri. "Lead on, lass."
Murphy followed Brianna to her hideout there in Boston. In almost every major city in Russia and America, she had a little cubbyhole to retreat to should things turn sour at some point. This one was small and bare, but clean. The plumbing was in good shape, at least. And, Brianna thought dryly, at least it had doors.
"Lay him on the couch," she instructed Murphy briskly. "Are you hungry? Thirsty?"
"Not really," Murphy muttered distractedly, laying Connor gently on the couch.
Brianna watched him for a moment, knowing better than to believe him. He didn't think he had any appetite, but he would feel better with a hot drink. Perhaps a coffee. Or maybe some chamomile tea would be better. The Irish girl went to the kitchen to search through her stores.
Connor groaned. His eyelids flickered. Murphy leaned over him. "Conn?" he whispered.
"Murph?" Connor mumbled. His eyes focused slowly on his brother. "What happened? Where are the fuckin' metalmen?"
Murphy chuckled weakly. "It's quite a tale. Suffice to say I think we have a guardian angel. Fuck it, maybe she's the fuckin' grim reaper. I'm not sure which."
Brianna leaned on the doorframe in the kitchen doorway, smiling darkly at Murphy's comment. Two mugs of hot tea steamed in her hands.
Connor noticed her. "And that would be her, then?" he inquired, jerking his chin in her direction.
Murphy turned around, saw her, and nodded. "Aye. That's her."
Bri walked over and handed a cup of tea to each twin. "How do you feel?" she asked Connor.
"Like shit," the lighter-haired man said grimly, rubbing his temple.
Murphy smacked the back of his brother's head. "Connor! For shame, sayin' such things in front of a cuttie!"
"Aw, dry up, Murph! I'm sure ye've sullied the gingernut's pretty little ears with yer dirty mouth already anyway."
They began to insult each other in a large variety of languages, their voices rising and falling in waves. Brianna watched them, bemused and unsure how to proceed.
What was she going to do with these two?