Disclaimer: Blah, blah, blah, BDS is not my creation, etc.
AN: So, all good feelings are gone in this chapter. You've been warned.
Ericka POV
Blood. So much blood everywhere.
My hands were in latex gloves.
My gloved hands were bloody.
My gloved hands didn't know what to do, so I stood there and stared.
My ears strained for the beeping- the horrible beeping that meant he was alive. But there was no beeping. Just horrible, awful silence. I looked down at the man in front of me. He had tattoos and gunshot wounds. His limp hand was wrapped around a rosary- the word on his trigger finger-'Aequitas' stood out to me, like black ink on paper.
"Murph" I whispered in horror. "Nein! Nein!"
Another man stood at my side. He had a gun in his hand, the word 'veritas' on his trigger finger. He stared at me accusingly. "Sie haben wir im Stich gelassen." He whispered.
I jolted awake, drenched in cold sweat. I took a couple deep breaths, willing myself to calm down. Connor's arm was wrapped loosely around my waist; he was still fast asleep, something I was grateful for- I wasn't much in the mood to explain my latest bad dream. I laid there for a few minutes listening to him breathe.
The last two weeks had been wonderful- I saw both Connor and Murphy every day, and Connor had stayed with me most nights. Murph took to crashing in my spare bedroom on the nights he invited himself over. I made them keys to my apartment- they were there so often anyways, I figured I might as well. Rocco made an occasional appearance, though I was still having a difficult time warming up to him- the Italian man had rubbed me the wrong way.
I was glad for their sudden presence in my life- I hadn't realized how miserable I had been until they showed up out of nowhere. Murph was quickly becoming something akin to an older brother to me, and Connor, well; he was nothing short of wonderful. I had never had a man treat me like he did. It was the little things he did that I never considered before; He insisted on opening doors for me and walking me home from work if I had late night shifts. It was taking some getting used to, admittedly. I was still a staunch believer in my independence.
That being said, there were a few things about sharing my living space with the twins that really annoyed me. They were atypical men, not picking up after themselves, hogging the TV remote, leaving the toilet lid up, drinking the last beer in the fridge and not telling anyone, leaving their guns lying around…
I would never forget the day I woke up to find two black duffels on my kitchen table, full of guns, ammo, and rope. At the time, I could only assume they were the twins', and I could tell whose duffle was whose by the rope- Murphy's rope was carelessly thrown into the bag while Connor's was knotted up and coiled neatly. Connor and Murphy came in front that patio and saw me pawing through them. After a rather loud shouting match, I point blank told them to keep their weapons out of my sight if they felt that protective of them. I hadn't seen either of the duffels since, nor had I seen any guns- though I was positive they kept at least one on them at all times.
I closed my eyes and sighed, trying to fall back asleep. I had almost succeeded when I heard noises coming from Murph's room. I frowned to myself, looking at the clock on my wall. It's 1am, what the hell is he doing?
I gently untangled myself from Connor's grasp and got up from the couch, walking cautiously to his room. I heard the muted clanking of metal on metal, like someone was shuffling the contents of a bag around.
And then game of connect the dots was over- I knew what was going on- Now to figure out why Murphy is grabbing his guns in the middle of the night.
Quietly I opened his door and stepped inside. He didn't notice me at first. I stood against his door frame, watching what seemed to be a sort of ritual for him. His guns and bullets and Rambo-esque knife were all arranged in certain way in his bag, rope thrown in as a clear afterthought. He counted out pennies from a jar on his dresser and slipped them into the pocket of his coat, wearing black gloves. He zipped up his bag and took off his gloves long enough to drop to his knees and clutch onto a rosary, whispering a prayer in a language I didn't understand. He crossed himself as he stood up, pulling on his coat and gloves. He bent to pick up his bag, and froze finally noticing me.
"Ericka-"
"The fuck are you doing?" I demanded.
"None of your fucking business." He said coldly, slinging his bag over shoulder. He made to walk past me out the door but I moved in front of him.
"I think it is my fucking business." I snarled, sleep deprivation loosening my tongue. "This is MY apartment I'm letting you and your brother and Rocco run in and out of like it's a fucking halfway house or some shit. If someone is going to come back here from a job, I want to know what the fuck to expect- potential injuries, arrival and departure times, a whole fucking itinerary and packing list if I goddamned feel like it." I took a breath and held it in, attempting to stop the angry tirade coming from my mouth. I knew Murphy knew what he was doing, and was damn good at it too. But I wasn't going to apologize- I did need to know at least the very basic details in order to keep my sanity.
"Speaking of, does Conn know you're going out alone, without him?"
Murphy rolled his eyes at me. "Conner isn't my keeper, I can-"
"-take care of yourself, yeah yeah, I got it, I know. But this isn't like going out to a bar and finding your way home when you're plastered! You're going out and you're going to kill someone. Don't lie to me, Murphy. I know better." My anger turned into frustration, and tears pricked the back of my eyes. I blinked them away and clenched my fists at my sides, looking him in the face. Murph's face softened for a brief moment before he clenched his jaw tight.
"I'm not telling you more than you need to know. But yes, I'm going out to kill a man, and no, Connor has no idea, and he won't know until long after the fact. Got it?" he hissed.
I held back tears as I glared at him, knowing that whatever he had decided, his mind had been made up for a good while; there was no changing it. "You better come back in one piece." I warned, willing my voice not crack. "You drank the last beer; it's your turn to restock the fridge."
Murph saw right through my bad attempt at humor, but thankfully said nothing. He pulled me into a one armed hug and kissed the top of my head. "Guinness on me, got it." He said, walking away. I waited until I heard the lock on the front door click before I went back out to the living room, closing the door to Murph's room behind me. I laid back down on the couch carefully so to not wake Connor. I listened to his steady breathing, silently whispering every prayer I could think of for both Murphy and his soul, just in case something went wrong.
Just in case.
Connor POV
I'm not sure what woke me from a dead sleep- all I knew was that I was wide awake- and something wasn't right.
The clock on the wall read it was almost 2am. Ericka was still laying next to me on the couch. I listened for any unusual sounds, but heard nothing. I glanced down at Ericka and listened harder. Her breathing wasn't deep like it was when she was sleeping.
"Talk to me love." I rubbed her arm. "I know you're awake." She slowly let out a breath and rolled over to look at me, eyes dark and distant.
"It's two in the morning, go back to bed." She grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest. I smirked to myself, idea blooming in my head.
"Can't sleep." I kissed her neck playfully, unwarranted anxiety forgotten. She pushed me away, giving an irritated sigh as she got up from the couch and walked to the bathroom, leaving me alone in the darkened living room.
What the hell did I do?
I rubbed a hand through my hair, confused. Ericka had seemed perfectly fine earlier. Somewhere between falling asleep on the couch and when I jerked awake, something had royally pissed Ericka off. I swore aloud in French, deciding that I needed a smoke to calm my nerves- among other things.
I got up from the couch, grabbing my coat off the kitchen table. I patted down my pockets for my smokes, coming up empty. Damnit. I forgot Murph had taken my last one earlier in the day, swearing he would pick up a couple packs on his way back from Roc's.
Might as well collect now. I walked to Murphy's room and opened the door quietly, so I wouldn't wake him. To my surprise, there was no loud snoring coming from the bed.
That's odd.
I flicked on the light. There was no sign of Murph anywhere- no clothes on the floor, no cigarettes or spare change on his dresser- nothing. Sudden inspiration made me check the closet where we stashed our bags- and to my horror I only found one black duffle.
"He can't be that fuckin' stupid!"
"No. But he's that fucking stubborn." Said Ericka from the doorway. I rounded on her, furious. "Why'd you let him go on a job alone?"
"Like I could fucking stop him! I don't know where the fuck he went or what the hell he plans on doing!" She balled up her fists like she was going to take a swing at something. Her face was ashen and judging way by the way her shoulders shook, she was upset. She pressed a shaking hand up to her mouth and stared at the floor. Ignoring her, I pulled my duffle out of the closet and dropped to my knees, hurriedly examining it's contents.
Ericka's eye widened. "You're not going after him, are you?"
"Of course I am. That's my fucking brother out there." I was relieved as I found my gear intact. I pulled off my tshirt and pulled on the black turtleneck in my bag, remembering to hide my neck tats this time around and hoping to God that Murph had remembered the same detail.
"Your wrist hasn't healed yet! You're still in a friggen cast!" I raised an eyebrow at her as I got up and pulled on my coat, slinging the bag over my shoulder.
"Oh well." I spat, stalking through the apartment. Re-breaking bones was the least of my worries at the moment.
Bones heal. Dead people don't.
"Connor." I turned around long enough to look at her. She opened her mouth to say something, but apparently thought better of it. Instead she simply nodded her head at me, and I rushed out the door without a further glance. She'd be there when I got back- Murphy wouldn't return with me if I lost any more time, that much I was sure of.
As I walked the freezing streets I blocked out all doubts I had and let my feet guide me. I had no idea where I was going, or what the hell I was doing- all I knew was that my absolute retard of a brother was somewhere in Boston, in way over his head and I wasn't there to bail him out of it.
Alright, God, if you've got a plan for this shit, help me out. A little divine intervention here?
As I walked past an alleyway, a glint of a shiny something on the ground caught my eye. I looked closer and saw two burnished copper pennies placed heads-up on the front steps of a building.
Divine intervention indeed.
I looked at the building itself- a rundown bar with a Russian flag hanging in the window. I smirked at both the ingenuity and stupidity of my brother. Who else uses pennies as their calling card besides us?
At least he knew to leave our mark…just in case…
Just in case.
Murph POV
The plan had been simple- mind numbingly so. No crawling through air ducts, no surprise ambushes- just a simple walk in, shoot the shit with the man we were looking for, follow him out of the bar, and shoot the shit out of him- which was mainly Jose's role in the whole thing; I planned to stay on the sidelines while Jose executed him (after all, it was his revenge, not mine. I was simply a mediator in the situation.)
Simple enough, right?
I should have known before I had even left Ericka's apartment that it was a horrible plan. Bad omen number one: Ericka had walked in on me packing my shit and had actually been visibly upset- not a typical thing for her. Bad omen number two: I had run out of cigarettes earlier in the day and forgot to get a new pack, something virtually unheard of since I had picked up the habit. Bad omen number three: I had missed church that morning.
Still, I decided to go ahead and go through with it. Jose and I agreed on it that night in the ICU- he told me every single detail he could think of and we formed our seemingly fail proof plan from there. I wasn't going to bail because I had a few nerves about doing a job solo. It was my honest opinion Connor needed a break from the blood and bullets routine- he had seemed much more like his old self the last couple weeks- he was genuinely happy again and he had a good thing going with Ericka; I wasn't about to ruin that for him and in any case his wrist was still broken. This job was so cut and dry, in-and-out that I doubted I would need more than an hour or two to complete it and back at the apartment, with Connor none the wiser.
I met Jose in front of the hospital. He looked anxious, shivering with his back to the wind. I put a hand on his shoulder. "You sure about this?" I asked, giving him a last chance to back out. He looked up and nodded.
"Yeah." He scrubbed a hand over his face roughly. "Yeah. Let's do this."
We took separate routes, meeting up on a side street a block from the Russian bar. "He's in there." Jose reported. "Car is out back."
"They believe in gun control?" Jose shook his head. "Everyone in that bar is armed to the teeth, man." I pulled my trusty Berettas out of my bag and loaded them.
"How long you gonna take?" he asked nervously as I concealed my weapons under my coat.
I handed him my bag. "Hold onto that for me. Meet you at his car in an hour." I walked out of the alley onto the brightly lit street. There was no one around, the night silent aside from the buzz of streetlights. I took a deep breath and continued onto the bar. It was as rundown as Jose promised, the flag of Otet's motherland in the window. It was impulsive and I couldn't explain why I felt the need to do so, but I took two pennies out of my coat pocket and placed them faceup on the steps of the bar.
Just in case.
The bar looked just like every other one I had been in- dimly lit, smoky, pool table tucked into a corner, sticky hardwood floors. I peered around at the room. There were a few men sitting at a table in the corner talking quietly with each other. Another man with short blonde hair sat at the bar, hunched over something- I assumed it was a newspaper or something similar
I didn't see a man that Jose's description anywhere. Shit….
The bartender was staring at me. "Last call's in ten minutes, kid." He said in Russian. Before I attracted more attention to myself I made my way to bar and took a seat.
"Just looking for something to warm me up." I replied back, taking care to keep my Irish accent from slipping into my Russian. Apparently I succeeded because he nodded and slid a bottle of vodka and a shot glass in front of me. I poured myself a shot and downed, trying hard to not make a face as the alcohol burned my throat. Vodka and I had never gotten along well. It made me feel disconnected from the world in a way I wasn't fond of.
The man who sat next to me looked up from his stack of newspapers. "You from Russia?" he asked. His face had a deep scar running across his eyebrow and wore glasses and a neatly pressed suit. Exactly the description Jose had given me.
"Nah. Raised here in the states."
His eyebrows raised behind the thick frames of his glasses. "How is it you speak Russian so well?"
Trick question.
I rolled the shotglass around in my fingers."Parents are from Russia. They taught me at home."
Otets nodded his head. "Good parents. There aren't enough of those these days." He appraised me before pouring another shot of the rancid alcohol. He tipped his glass back and I got a glimpse of what he was reading- the opinion page, and glimpsing at the headlines, the topic of discussion was the Saints of South Boston.
"What's your take on them?" asked Otets, pouring me a shot. I took it without grimacing and kept my face carefully blank.
"My take on who?"
"The Saints. I saw you eyeing my paper. They're infamous among us Russians here in Boston. Surely you've heard of them."
"Afraid I don't know of them." I said nonchalantly, sensing the danger that was in front of me. I stood up from the barstool and threw a couple bucks down on the counter. A sharp click stopped me in my tracks.
"Oh, but I'm afraid you do."
He pressed his gun roughly into my ribs, grinding the barrel in deep. "Move. Now." Slowly I walked in the direction he wanted me to go. We walked around the bar and I heard him say to the barman, "Lock it up." as he pushed me through a door.
He pushed me to the floor of what would have appeared to anyone else as a supply closet, but to me was a clear makeshift interrogation room, complete with the clichéd swinging lightbulb hanging from the ceiling and dried blood staining the walls and floor.
I guess they do this a lot.
I reached for my weapon again and came face to face with cold steel. He rapped me across the face with his gun and I stumbled a few steps backwards. He picked me up by the throat and pinned me against a wall, tugging off my coat and searching me for weapons. When he had collected everything I had on me he threw me back on the ground and stood watching me with slight interest as I gasped for breath.
"You might have had me fooled but unfortunately for you, Irishman, your Russian is piss-poor with that accent of yours."
He leaned down and roughly pulled down the collar of my t-shirt; His face lit up in a way I didn't like. My stomach dropped as I realized both my neck tattoo and rosary had fully given me away.
Fuck!
Otets chuckled to himself as he rolled the beads between his fingers. "So, you're one half of the infamous Saints. I've heard a lot about you from business partners. I thought you would be something more terrifying." He punched me in jaw; I tasted blood in my mouth. "Everyone says you're capable of cold blooded murder with a gun in your hand and your brother by your side." He paused, staring calmly into my face. "Let's see how capable you are without your weapons or your brother."
He handed my coat and guns to the one of the men standing in the doorframe before walking out of the room. The last words I caught before my own personal hell engulfed me sent fear- genuine, undiluted and heart stopping waves of fear throughout by body.
"Have at him, boys,"
AN: Be kind. Please review.