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Connor POV

"Connor?" A voice whispered from the shadows. I pulled out my gun and took aim at the source. To my surprise, Jose stepped out into the light and beckoned for me to join him. Join him I did- I took three furious steps at him and pushed him into the wall.

"Where the fuck is he?" My voice echoed off the brick buildings.

"Inside the Longue!"

"What the- Why is he-" I took a breath in attempt to calm myself down, stepping back from the kid. "When is he supposed to be back?"

He looked at his watch. "Said he be an hour, he's been in there for forty five minutes." I clenched my jaw tight and paced back and forth in a straight line.

Jose stared at me. "I'm sure he's fine, man."

In ignoring his statement the next question came out bluntly. "What's the fucking point of this shit?"

Jose swallowed and looked around wildly as if I was a rabid dog about to bite him. "The whole point of this thing was to kill Otets. The reason he's in there is to get him liquored up, get him talking, get him alone, so I can shoot the son of a bitch. I couldn't just waltz in there, everyone in that bar knows who I am."

Murph, attempting to infiltrate the close knit Russian circle? He doesn't stand a snowball's chance in hell. That's like fucking suicide.

"Does he have a death wish?" I muttered aloud. Another question came to mind as I stared down Jose. "Why didn't I know about this?"

He shook his head. "I dunno man. It was his idea- this plan and shit. You'll have to ask him."

"Oh trust me, I will."

Assuming he's alive and in once piece when I see him next...

I leaned against the wall, taking a page out of Murphy's book and gnawingon my thumbnail. "Ten minutes." I said aloud.

Jose gave me a confused look. "Until?" I waved my gun at him, feeling it was pretty obvious what I meant.

"Until we go in after him."

Murph POV

It was agony after the second man.

There were four, maybe five of them- they all looked the same, so I couldn't be sure. They took turns, punching, kicking, hitting every inch of me they could. I was a good fighter- almost as good as Connor- but I couldn't compete with the damn Russians. They were always a step ahead of me and eventually I just stood there and took the beatings without making a sound, trying to think of ways to escape.

One of the men yanked my head back while another one held a knife- my knife- to my exposed throat. He pressed the blade in deep enough to draw blood, I could feel it leaking slowly down my neck. "I could kill you in the blink of an eye." He whispered in badly accented English. His face was so close to mine, his breath landed on my face. He reeked of alcohol and onions- why that detail stuck out to me, I don't know but the smell was enough to make me gag a little. "I could make it quick- just one slice, and you could bleed out like a butchered pig."

He laughed loudly. "But that wouldn't be fun for me- Argh!" He took a step back as I spit on him. I head butted the guy behind me, getting free of his grasp. The man with the knife grabbed my shirt and got an inch away from my face, knife cutting into my side.

"You'll fucking pay for that." He swore. He delivered on that promise.

I tried to think back to times when it had been worse for us. Getting in bar fights with strangers was bad. Falling out of an airduct while tangled up in rope was bad. The scene in the diner was bad. Chekov chaining my brother to a toilet and dragging me down to an alleyway to execute me was very bad. But we had made it out of those situations.

And that's the principle of the whole thing. They had been 'we' things, not 'I' things. Connor had always been with me in those tight situations. Even as kids, Connor almost always took the heat for whatever I did, because that was his job as the older twin, to make sure his brother didn't go and totally fuck things up for himself. But Connor wasn't there this time. Connor couldn't bail me out my present situation. For the first time in my life, I was completely and utterly on my own.

There's no way I'm going to make it out of here alive, I knew it as I spat out a mouthful of blood onto one of the Russians' shoes, earning me a sharp knee to the face. The knowledge that I was indeed going to die was empowering in a strange way. I'm not going down without a fight. I straightened up and lunged at the man in front of me, fist connecting with his jaw with a loud crack. He gave a loud groan of pain and a couple other guys rushed forward and ended my sudden second wind with a couple sharp blows to the back of my head and a kick or three to my ribs. I fell to the floor, lightheaded, black spots dancing in front of my eyes.

Everything was in slow motion, like the world was underwater. The hulking Russians were leaving the box-like room, sending scathing glances over their shoulders. The lightbulb swung back and forth, a pendulum of light dancing around. I stared at it, blinking. I could feel my face swelling, bruises blooming. There were deep, bleeding cuts all over my body. I faded in and out of awareness, the pain pulsating. My limbs felt heavy, as if someone had cut them open and filled them with sand or replaced my bones with concrete ones.

At least they didn't give me cement shoes and throw me off the pier, like in that one movie… The Godfather? I'll have to ask Connor, he'd know…

It hit me like a train then- I would never see my brother again, would never again drink another beer or start another bar fight for the hell of it with him, or bum a cigarette off of him or be forced to watch another shitty action flick. A whimper escaped my mouth. Even if I could summon the energy to get up off the floor that was covered in my own blood and sweat, I knew there was no way I'd get further than the doorway. They had my guns. They had their own guns. I had nothing but bruised up fists and a broken spirit. Resigned, I laid there, barely noticing the hot tears leaking from my eyes and mingling with the floor.

It's over. All over.

Loud shouts and noises came from outside the door. Otets came in and grabbed me by the hair, pulling me to my knees. "You Irish fucks!" He slapped my across the face with his gun yet again. "Fuck you! Fuck you!" He pressed his gun to my forehead as he ranted, screaming like a madman. I couldn't make out what he was saying as he lapsed into Russian, nor did I really care. Closing my eyes tight, I wrapped a hand around my rosary and started praying as I saw my end rapidly approaching.

And shepherds we shall be for Thee, my Lord, for Thee…

The door burst open again and the screaming became audible. Words in different languages mingled together.

"Where the fuck is he?"

"In here!"

"You're dead!"

Power hath descended forth from Thy hand.That our feet may swiftly carry out Thy command.

"Murphy!"

So we shall flow a river forth to Thee.

"Behind you!"

"Watch yourself!"

And teeming with souls shall it ever be…

"SHOOT HIM!"

…. In nomine Patri, Et Fili, Spiritus Sancti.

Guns fired loudly. The sound of a body hitting the floor was followed by quiet.

I swallowed, waiting for the bullet to lodged in my body.

"Do it now." I whispered aloud. "Just fucking kill me."

I felt hands on my shoulders. "Murph, Murph! C'mon, open yer fuckin' eyes! Fucking open them!"

That voice is so familiar. I thought lethargically. It almost sounds like…

"Connor! There's cops coming! We need to leave!"

Connor?

I opened my eyes and saw Connor staring me, frantic. "Conn?" I asked in disbelief.

"C'mon Murph. Get up. We need to go." He pulled me to my feet and threw my arm over his shoulder, dragging me along. I went with it, allowing the sudden numbness spreading through my body to overtake me. It made it easier to stumble out of the bar, along dark sidestreets, into another building. It took the edge off of the fact I wasn't, well... dead.

I'm alive. I'm…alive.

I was only dimly aware of the yelling around me, the sound of breaking dishes or of a brown haired girl asking me questions and doing enough yelling of her own. "What hurts? What happened? Grab the bag under the sink in the bathroom. Can you feel this? Back off of him- let me fucking work!" It dawned on me who she was.

"Ericka-" I coughed out. The coppery taste of blood filled my mouth; I felt myself lurch forward and throw up onto the floor. She pushed me into a chair and handed me something to puke into.

"Murphy…" Her voice was hard and rough, eyes lacking all usual warmth. "What in the fuck were you thinking?"

"I'm thinking," I said weakly "It's nice to be home."

She lost it then, tears streaming down her face. "Did you think at all about what this would to your brother? To Rocco? To me? Is this mission from God all you care about? Is it worth risking your life? Do realize you would be dead right now if Connor hadn't gone after you like a fucking idiot?"

She threw the bottle of rubbing alcohol she was holding onto the floor. "What the fuck is wrong with you two?" She screamed at me.

For once I didn't have an answer. I just sat there in a daze as she eventually stopped crying and went back to cleaning and stitching up the cuts that were still bleeding in complete silence.