A/N: This chapter is a Saint Patrick's Day gift to all my fans and readers. Sláinte

1999

Connor and Murphy hurried down a set of side stairs to one of the many service entrances of the opulent Copley Plaza Hotel, both shouldering black duffel bags filled with all the tools of their new trade. They slipped onto a service elevator; Connor pushed the button for the 7th floor. The brothers stood in silence facing each other, Murphy's head hung low and hands stuffed in the pockets of his pea coat. If he hadn't chosen to put his hands in his pockets, Connor was certain Murphy would be chewing his nails to the quick right now. Murphy had developed that habit as a kid and had never been able to completely shake it, though he mostly only bit his nails out of anxiety anymore.

"Ya nervous?" Connor asked.

Murphy nodded.

"Myself as well," Connor admitted.

The lighter-haired twin reached out a finger and pressed a red button on the elevator's panel, causing the elevator to stall between floors 6 and 7. He and Murphy swiftly dropped to their knees and unzipped their duffel bags. Both twins holstered a 9 mm Beretta to each hip, then put on black leather gloves and ski masks. They pushed the sleeves of their shirts down over their matching intricate Celtic cross tattoos. They checked themselves in the elevator mirror to make sure their neck tattoos were completely covered. Each twin retrieved a heavy Maglite flashlight and a coil of thick black rope from his respective bag. Murphy tucked his new Rambo knife down the front of his jeans. At last, they were ready.

"You and your fuckin' rope," Murphy muttered as Connor handed his own length of rope to his twin.

Murphy gave him a leg up and Connor climbed out of the elevator through the ceiling hatch. After a brief struggle, Murphy managed to hoist himself up. Once atop the stalled elevator car, he found Connor examining a wall vent intently.

"I toldja there'd be a shaft," he said.

Connor climbed into the air duct first, barely making it through the opening because of his broad shoulders. He flicked on his flaslight and waited for Murphy to follow. Murphy, having a slightly slimmer build than his brother, fit easily into the vent. They began to crawl through the hotel's ventilation system on their hands and knees, Murphy still carrying both coils of rope. As they made random turns, Murphy sincerely hoped Connor had at least some idea of where he was going. Connor suddenly paused, snapped his fingers at Murphy, and carefully turned himself around to head down a different path.

"Where the fuck ya goin'?" Murphy demanded, trailing his twin.

"Shhh!" Connor hissed. "I fuckin' hear somet'in' out there."

Murphy thought he did too, specifically a man's voice shouting in Russian. But he wasn't about to give Connor the satisfaction of agreeing with him. Connor was lying on his side a little ahead of him, holding himself up with one elbow so he could have a better angle for a face-to-face conversation.

"I'm sweatin' my ass off draggin' your rope around," Murphy complained. "Must weigh 30 pounds."

"We are doin' some serious shit here, so get a fuckin' hold of yourself," Connor said tersely.

Somewhere below them, the Russian's voice was growing steadily louder.

"Fuck you. I'm not the rope-totin' Charlie Bronson that's gettin' us fuckin' lost." said Murphy loudly.

"Will you fuckin' shut it?" said Connor in an irritated whisper.

He tapped Murphy sharply on the head with the Maglite.

"You mother--" Murphy began, seizing his brother by the lapels of his coat.

Since there was so little room in the air shaft, there was little the twins could do besides throw a few elbows, try to kick each other, slam each other into the sides of vent, and hurl whispered insults in every language they knew. Connor and Murphy became entangled in their own ropes in the process. The ventilation tunnel rattled as the fight raged on. Connor and Murphy knew they were making a hell of a racket, but the pissed-off Russian gangster downstairs was now screaming so loudly that they doubted he could hear a thing. A different noise brought their rough-housing to an abrupt end: creaking metal mixed with something else cracking. It slowly dawned on the brothers that the vent had not been designed to withstand almost 400 pounds of battling MacManuses.

"Jesus," muttered Connor.

"Oh shit," said Murphy.

The metal beneath them suddenly gave way and they crashed right through the ceiling of one of the Copley Plaza's most expensive suites. The only thing that saved them from a painful landing on the floor was the rope that now suspended them upside down by their ankles. The twins drew their guns and fired on all the fat gangster's cohorts. Once all of them were down, Murphy unsheathed his Rambo knife, leaned as far up as he could, and sawed through the rope. He and Connor landed in a heap on the floor, still tied together by their ankles. Murphy freed them, then they finished off the Russian mob boss.

"Well," said Connor after they'd both caught their breath and taken off their ski masks. He changed his voice to a whiny mocking of Murphy's. "'Name one thing you're gonna need that stupid fuckin' rope for.'"

For once, Murphy did not retort angrily to his brother's teasing. Partly because he saw Connor was grinning and, frankly, he was grateful just to be alive after their plan went to hell in a handbasket.

"That was way easier than I thought," said Murphy. "On TV, you've always got that guy that jumps over the sofa."

"Then ya gotta shoot at him for 10 minutes too," added Connor. He glanced over toward the small in-room bar, where a black canvas bag sat on the counter. "Now what d'ye t'ink is in that little case there?" he asked.

He and Murphy started for the bar at the same time. Connor playfully grabbed Murphy by the jacket and tossed him to the floor. Connor unzipped the bag, which turned out to contain more money than the twins had ever seen in one place in their lives. They each seized a stack.

"Ow!" Connor yelped as Murphy hit him on the head with a brick of 100-dollar bills.

"Tha' was fer ye bashin' me in the fuckin' skull with the flashlight," said Murphy.

Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he could feel a definite lump forming where Connor had hit him. Connor ignored his twin's remark in favor of deeply sniffing his own stack of money.

"Give it a smell," he encouraged.

"I love our new job," Murphy declared.