(((A/Ns: WARNING: In this chapter, there are some slight adult insinuations and lots of gore.
Also, guess what! Troy Duffy said that Connor was older! So I was right! Go me!
Brianna's Gaelic may be slightly shaky, but that's because the silly writer who made this story (coughcoughMEcoughcough) doesn't have a good translator.
Man! This chapter took some research!)))
Chapter Four: Medic
The boys stayed with Brianna for the next few weeks. A lot changed for her in that time.
It was really quite foreign to her, living with other people--especially Irish males. For one thing, she had to add cigarettes and beer to her shopping list. For another, she tended to find towels draped over the edge of the sink instead of hung up on the towel rack. Fortunately, it had been beaten into the boys during childhood to always put the toilet seat down.
Connor healed quickly. His ribs were soon mended and the cut on his temple healed right up. Murphy still complained about the ache of bruises, but the gash on his side was soon no more than a pale scar.
"I suppose we'll not be bothering ye for much longer, then," Connor said one day at last. "We're nearly ready to go."
They all three sat at the table in her small kitchen, the twins drinking Guinness and Brianna drinking nonalcoholic sparkling grape juice.
"Ready to go where?" Bri wanted to know. "You can't go back."
"We've been thinkin'," Murphy replied. "We had planned on goin' to New York anyway. We're just goin' a mite bit earlier than we expected."
"How will you get there? They'll hardly let you on a plane..."
"We know a guy who knows a guy," Connor said lightly. "Don't ye worry yer pretty little gingernut head about us. We'll make it."
Brianna nodded, doing her best to ignore the painful tightening in her chest. She had known they would leave at some point--had as much as told them so. How dare she feel upset by it?
"Brianna..." Connor reached across the table toward her.
A breeze touched Brianna's cheek. Her stomach dropped and she stiffened, her eyes darting to the open window.
She never left the windows open.
"Down!" she hissed, diving beneath the table.
Connor grabbed Murphy's arm and followed her. The muffled pop of a silenced gun sounded out and Murphy yelled a very nasty word, blood blossoming on his shoulder.
"This one's mine," Brianna said grimly, pulling her derringer out of her belt, where she carried it at all times. She peeked around a chair and pulled off two shots. The singular gunman went down, two bullet holes in his leg.
Bri looked around warily, willing her heart to slow down. "Keep an eye out. There could be more of them."
"There are no more," the gunman called, apparently overhearing her. "They thought you'd gone fuckin' soft, O'Keefe. They thought I could take you on myself. Or maybe they didn't... maybe they just wanted me gone. Fuck 'em all!"
Brianna hesitated, recognizing the voice. She debated with herself whether to trust him about there being no more assassins and decided not to. Their employers might have thought that Bri was getting sloppy, but they would not have taken chances.
"I think you're lying, Yochlov," she called. She felt more than saw the twins exchange glances as she indirectly admitted knowing the shooter.
"Not this time, O'Keefe. I'd lie if I thought I'd fuckin' get anything out of it, but they did only send me. They probably hoped we'd fuckin' kill each other and they'd be rid of both of us at once. Two birds with one stone an' all that shit."
That fit the logic of the assassination industry. Never leave witnesses.
Signaling for Connor to tend to Murphy's shoulder, Brianna emerged cautiously out from under the table. She trained her gun on Yochlov and approached him slowly, her ears straining for the tiniest sound.
"They sent you to get rid of me." It was a statement, not a question.
"Of course." He had struggled into sitting position, wincing in pain. Sweat glistened on his face. When he spotted the twins, his eyebrows shot up. "Guests, O'Keefe? Did they both spend the night? I never would have figured you for it."
Brianna slapped him, her derringer still trained on his chest.
"Did I touch a nerve?" Yochlov asked smugly, rubbing his cheek, where her hand had left a red handprint.
"Not everyone is as much of a scumbag as you are."
"Perhaps, but you have to admit that the circumstances are quite suspicious." He flinched as she raised her hand for another slap, but he could not resist one last jibe. "And besides... they're Irish, aren't they? That's just like you. You were always too good for we silly Russian-Americans."
This time she hit him with her gun. "You're under my roof, Yochlov, even if you are uninvited. Mind your filthy, wagging tongue."
"Alright, alright, I get the idea, O'Keefe."
"Good. You do realize, of course, that I cannot let you leave here knowing that I have others under my protection."
"Certainly not," Yochlov agreed lightly, "especially not if those others are the Saints of South Boston."
"Exactly," Brianna said amiably. "I'm so glad you see things my way."
"Hey, we're assassins. We understand each other. In someone else's shoes all that other shit. So it's curtains for me?"
"Oh, no. Unlike most people in my line of work, I don't shoot defenseless people. You're just not allowed to leave."
"Sorry, O'Keefe," said Yochlov, "but death before capture." His foot shot out to catch her beneath the knees.
Brianna's body reacted before she knew what she was doing. Her finger squeezed the trigger and she threw herself backwards along with the kick to avoid Yochlov's foot.
The Russian assassin slumped, a defiant look fixed permanently on his face.
Bri didn't bother to check him. He had just been shot in the heart by a derringer at close range; he was dead. Instead, she concerned herself with Murphy's shoulder.
Murphy was leaning heavily on Connor, his eyes closed and his face pale, biting his lip against the pain. Connor had removed Murphy's shirt and pressed it against his brother's shoulder, using it as a gauze pad to staunch the blood flow. His head was bent to his younger twin's ear as he whispered soothing words in Gaelic.
Brianna crouched beside them. "We have to get the bullet out," she said matter-of-factly.
Connor shut his eyes tightly for a moment. "Aye," he said finally, his voice a choked whisper.
The redheaded girl cupped Murphy's face gently. "Murphy? I'm going to cut the bullet out. We'll have to tie you down, and it will probably be better if you're inebriated." She cursed her lack of medical equipment. For herself, she had never feared going to a hospital; she was too careful to be linked to crime scenes, and she could always claim to have been wounded in the crossfire between mobs. Therefore, she didn't really keep many medical supplies on hand.
Murphy opened his eyes and nodded. His face was nearly white. "Hurry," he rasped.
Brianna stood up. In one motion, she swept everything off the table, not caring that she was splashed with Guinness and grape juice. "Lay him on the table and get any kind of alcohol you can find from the fridge. I'll also need a steak knife and a needle." She took off to search out thread for the stitches and some kind of rope or wire with which to tie Murphy down.
When she returned, she found the things she had asked for on the table. A pot of water simmered on the stove and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide from the cabinet in the bathroom was on the counter near it. Brianna smiled grimly. Connor clearly knew his way around these procedures. The assassin washed her hands in scalding water and antibacterial soap, then sterilized the steak knife and the needle with the pot of boiling water and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide.
Connor had gotten Murphy drunk, then tied him to the table with metallic wire. The older twin knelt on the tabletop, one knee pressing on his brother's chest. Murphy's eyes were unfocused and fearful. Connor held tightly to the scarf that the boys were using as a gag to muffle the inevitable screams.
"He's drunk?" Brianna asked, securing her red hair back out of her face and donning a pair of sterilized gloves.
Connor nodded, tight-lipped. Murphy closed his eyes. He knew what was coming.
"Bail ò Dhia ar againn," Brianna said prayerfully. The Gaelic words flowed from her heart; the blessings of God on us.
"Amen," whispered Connor, crossing himself.
"Mmn..." Murphy mumbled, only half conscious and so drunk that he couldn't see straight.
Brianna cupped Murphy's face briefly. "I'm sorry," she said softly, then brought the knife to bear.
"The bullet dug into the outer edge of the supraspinatus tendon," Brianna explained as she worked, partially to keep herself calm and partially to drown out Murphy's muted screams. "Since it didn't go all the way to the bone, it's easier and less damaging if I simply cut down from the outside of the shoulder. Our other option was to cut out a cone of flesh and then have me stick my fingers in there and dig around for the bullet, probably causing more damage than the gunshot did."
She had found the bullet. Using the tip of the knife, Bri flicked it out of the wound. Things had gone smoothly so far, but the job was only halfway done.
Murphy arched his back, straining against his wire bonds, his screams muffled by the scarf in his mouth. Connor leaned over him, soothing Gaelic words pouring forth from his lips, tears dripping off of his chin.
Reaching for the bottle of hydrogen peroxide, Brianna uncapped it swiftly and poured the searing liquid over the open wound. Murphy arched his back still farther and screamed, long and agonized. His wrists bled from the chafes and cuts that his wire bonds had inflicted on him. Finally, he blacked out from the pain. Connor inhaled sharply when he felt Murphy go limp beneath him.
"It's almost over," Brianna murmured, not sure whether she was speaking to Murphy, Connor, or herself. She threaded her sterilized needle and got to work.
Soon the wound was closed. Brianna snipped the thread and tied it off. Then, trembling with restrained fear and adrenaline, she pulled up two chairs to the table. She was so numb and shaking so hard that she had a difficult time trying to grab Connor's slick, bloody sleeve. When she finally caught it, she tugged at it. "Get off the table and sit down."
He was quivering as well. She helped him into the chair and they both collapsed. There was gore everywhere, all over Murphy and Brianna, all the way up Connor's arms and staining his jeans. The table was ruined, as were the chairs. It would take forever to mop up that pool of blood on the kitchen floor tiles. Yochlov's corpse was still slumped on the ground.
Brianna mustered her strength enough to reach out and touch Connor's arm. "He'll be okay," she promised, trying to sound sure. Then her strength was gone, and the tears came. "He was screaming, Connor. He was screaming..."
The Irishman draped one arm over her shoulders. For a moment she stiffened, but she had no strength to pull away. Then she forced herself to loosen up.
"I guess you've had to do this before," she whispered.
"Aye," Connor replied, his own voice thick with tears. "Many a time, but... well, we used a clothes iron, lass. I think this way is better."
This time she did pull away from him, turning to stare at him in shock. "You used what?"
He looked back at her, his blue eyes grieving. "If not for ye, Murphy probably would never have been able to use his arm again. I probably could have kept him alive, but..."
"You need me," Brianna commented, then stilled as the implications of what she had just said hit her.
"Aye," Connor said softly, "we do." He looked at her, long and steadily. "Where will ye go, once we're on our way?"
The fluttering of paper diverted Bri's attention. The window had been left open, and the breeze from outside had turned the pages of Murphy's Bible, which lay on the counter. The stirring air also moved the red-ribbon bookmark in the book.
Dredging up her strength, Brianna pulled herself up and walked over to the counter. When she saw on what page and under what words the bookmark had come to rest, her eyes grew to the size of saucers.
"Connor," she said in a tiny voice, "come here."
Wondering what could have troubled her so much, Connor hoisted himself up and stepped to her side. She pointed wordlessly at the passage.
His jaw dropped.
It is not good for man to be alone.
"Ye think God's tryin' to tell us something?" Connor asked dryly.
"I guess this settles the matter of my going with you."
"I suppose so." He looked at her thoughtfully. "I suppose so..."