Chapter 3: Taking Care of Business

"We shouldn't really leave Da all alone, ye know."

"He can fuckin' take care of himself, Murph. He's Il Duce for fuck's sake."

"I'm just sayin', Con, he ain't exactly young, ye know…"

"Would ye quit it?" With a grunt of exasperation at his twin's prattling, Connor pushed the door to their father's home open. After their fated rendez-vous with him the previous year, they found themselves staying over at his house more and more, feeling as though the Saints were not only a force to be reckoned with, but more importantly, finally a family once more. Still adjusting to the newly furnished home, the brothers kicked their shoes off at the front door and made their way towards the living room. There, they found their legendary father, Il Duce, sitting on the rocking chair while silently smoking a pipe. Just as he placed the telephone down onto the receiver, he twisted his head upwards and turned his attention towards his boys, eyeing them alternately. Then staring at Murphy, he beckoned for him to come over, motioning his head abruptly to the side. With a look at Connor, then back to Il Duce, Murphy crossed the room and halted beside his father. His questioning, side glance was immediately answered…

…with a slap on the back of the head.

To the amusement of Connor, Murphy let out a surprised yelp, quickly rubbing his stinging head. In annoyance at even more pain, he turned to his brother and snapped in all seriousness, "I told ye we shouldn't leave 'im all alone! Now he's pissed!"

Da put down his pipe calmly on the coffee table, giving his head a shake with a gruff, "Sit down, boys."

Doing what they were requested of, the MacManus brothers took a seat on the sofa across their father, fully facing him. Firstly giving each other an identical look, they then turned their complete attention to their father.

"Da, ye gotta fill us in on what's goin' on." Connor began eagerly, placing his hands together over his knees, "I told Murph about it just a few hours ago."

"Before that," Da began, leaning forward on his seat as he slid a photograph on the table in front of his sons, "do ye know who she is?"

"Pretty gal, that's for sure." Murphy commented with a whistle, smirking to himself. Giving his brother a nudge with his elbow, he questioned, "What d'ya think, Con?"

"Can't argue with ye, Murph." Connor replied, finding himself wearing an identical smirk. After another look at the photograph, he faced his father. "Where'd ye get this, Da?"

"Smecker just faxed it to me."

The brothers gave each other identical looks once more. Murphy cleared his throat, trying to hold back his amused laughter rather unsuccessfully. Placing his hand over his face when he couldn't control his giggles, he almost squealed, "Da, if this is the kind of stuff Smecker has been sendin' ye, I don't think Ma would be too happy!"

With a rough shove of his elbow upon Murphy's arm, Connor rebuked, "Murph, shut the fuck up, or I'll hit ye!"

"Boys, would ye watch yer fuckin' language?!"

Upon hearing his father's own foul-mouthed reprimand of their foul-mouthed natures, Connor gave out an annoyed grunt directed towards his brother before taking the photo into his own hands. Taking the photo in between his fingers and looking at it observantly, he suddenly recognized the woman in the photo. He twisted his head to meet his father's peering gaze. "Don't know her by name, Da, but I did see her at McGuinty's today. Didn't cause any trouble. She just came in, had a pint, and then left not long after that."

"What?" Snatching the photo from his brother's hand, Murphy scrunched his face as he gave the photo a closer look. After a moment of silence, he muttered under his breath, "Well, fuck me."

"Sorry, Murph, I don't think she'd fuck ye." Connor grinned at this widely, proud that he had another chance to take a light-hearted stab at his brother. He cleared his throat triumphantly. "I think I'm more her type."

"No, no," Murphy completely ignored his brother's comment, his expression finally that of recognition. "I bumped into her today, just outside of McGuinty's. It was right before I came in."

"Ah." Da sat back on his chair comfortably, apparently pleased with the answers that his sons had given him. "And when ye say ye bumped into her, ye mean ye literally bumped into her, correct?"

"Yea." Murphy answered with a shrug of his shoulder. "I dropped my bag, and she helped me pick my stuff up…"

It was then that Da shook his head, almost in disappointment. "So yer tellin' me that she saw most of yer things, such as the newspaper clippings and bullets?"

Murphy's face changed into utter confusion, furrowing his brows. "Wait, what? How did ye know about…"

Standing up from his chair, almost regally, Da began to pace through the living room, deep in thought. "Her name is Special Agent Lourdes Villamor, part of the An Garda Síochána. She's been sent here from Dublin to investigate the hit against the Boston IRA members last month." He briefly paused, making sure he had attained his sons' full attention. "That was what I wanted to talk to ye about tonight, boys. I knew some of the men that were killed and hurt in that attack, and I've done my own digging about that case. Right now, I don't know the identities of those responsible for the hit, but I do know that they are Unionists. That hit attacked high-ranking officers in the IRA, including those connected with the political members of Sinn Féin."

"Who would attack the IRA or the people affiliated with Sinn Féin?" inquired Connor with furrowed brows, piecing together the situation at hand. "For years, the IRA and the Sinn Féin political party had always been peaceful. Granted, there were a few scuffles here and there, but never any murders."

At this question, Da answered simply, "Extreme Unionists that hate the independence of the Republic of Ireland. Irish, English, even some Scottish, they work – and now, kill - to make the Republic part of the United Kingdom once more."

Murphy leaned back onto the couch with a sour expression. "But what'll killin' a bunch of IRA and Sinn Féin people do? That ain't gonna help bring Ireland into the UK again, now would it?"

"Terrorism. To set an example," Connor quickly suggested, earning a nod of agreement from their father. In recollection, Connor recounted, "Verbal and political fighting between both sides had gone on for years, and it had been only recently that they've gone underground. Guess now it's physical and out in the open…and even more violent than anyone thought."

"Exactly." Da gave out a sharp exhale at this new revelation. "Smecker just told me that Agent Villamor and her team are investigating another rumoured Unionist attack, and that now, they're working with the Boston Police Department and the FBI on this case."

"What does that have to do with us?" questioned Murphy, confusion written all over his expression. "We had nothing to do with those IRA attacks."

"She took one of yer newspaper clippings when she was helping ye gather yer shit, and that's when she also saw yer bullets." Da replied, looking as though he wanted to give Murphy another slap on the back of the head, just for good measure. "She grew suspicious and gave the clipping to Smecker as evidence. She knew about the Yakavetta trial and the mob hits that we were responsible for."

"So she automatically thinks we're suspects of this IRA attack?" Connor inquired, almost insulted, though his face remaining calm and firm. "Hell, I'm all for the Republic. Fuck uniting with the UK!" he muttered bitterly as an afterthought.

"I think she has an inkling that we might have been responsible for it," explained Da, placing his hands behind his back, "but for now, all she wants to do is investigate." He glanced at Murphy, eyebrows raised, "The bullets didn't help either."

"Aw, shit." Murphy breathed out, placing his hand on the arm of the sofa. "She got a good look at me, too. Thought she was just checking me out. Didn't think nothin' of it."

"Ye were probably too busy checkin' her out," Connor muttered, though contributed, "but she spoke with Doc at the bar for a bit." He remembered his previous encounter with Lourdes as he eyed his brother and father alternately. "Don't know how much of it is true, but she's Filipino by descent and had studied in Ireland for many years. Said she loves our country…"

Murphy beamed. "I like that in a woman."

Connor rolled his eyes at his unwelcome interjection and continued, "When Doc asked what brought her to Boston, all she said was 'business'."

"Guess both my Saints have had an encounter with this 'Angel'." Da cleared his throat, sitting back down on his rocking chair. "Right now she's got nothin' on Murph but a random paper clipping and an eye-witness account of unused bullets in his bag. But if she keeps digging – and if Smecker is supposed to be helping her – she might find out more. And if she's as good, or even better, than Smecker, our entire operation may be uncovered."

"So what do we do?" Connor questioned, then proposed, "We can't get rid of her, Da. She's first of all a woman, and second of all she ain't evil."

"Hm." After a brief pause and complete silence in the room, Da finally proclaimed, "Right now, lads, we don't have a chance but to do some investigating of our own. The girl, we'll deal with later."

vvv

Lourdes laboured on her laptop for hours, searching for anything that would help her with the case. With empty mugs of coffee around her desk and hard rock music playing in the background, she tried her best to concentrate, printing out anything that had to do with the IRA in Boston and related mob attacks and dealings. As she did so, she found that most of the articles related to mob killings had one thing in common: The Saints of South Boston. Though neither photographs nor names had ever been published, she made notes dealing with anything related to them - sightings, sketches – anything. It may be her only lead.

Soft rapping on her hotel door, followed by a muffled voice saying her name repeatedly, shook her from her concentration. Knowing Smecker would have more information about these dubbed 'Saints', she shut her laptop, called it a night, and made her way to answer the door. As she opened it, she was greeted by a smiling, 6'2'', well-built, spiky brown-haired Irishman. "Hey, boss." He greeted with his deep, rhythmic voice as he rested an elbow on the doorframe, "The team and I were gonna head over to a pub for drinks. You comin' or what?"

"Not tonight, Sean. I think I'll just stay in tonight." Lourdes responded with a shake of her head, fatigue evident in her voice. "The IRA case has got me at least 18 hours a day, even more, now that I'm coming up with things."

Sean scoffed lightly, rolling his eyes for effect. "Same with us, what's yer point? We've all been workin' on this fuckin' case for more than two weeks, and we've got almost diddly squat. That Boston Police Department's not helpin' much, either." He gave out a sigh, placing his hands on Lourdes' shoulders. "Look, boss, yer in Boston. Ye can't just stay in this hotel room and work yer ass off to death on this case without breaks, or outings, or…"

"I do go out, thank you very much!" Lourdes cried out defensively, giving the handsome Irishman a playful shove. He only eyed her warily.

"Driving to the police station doesn't count."

"Oh. Well…"

"Mates!" Sean rightly bellowed through the corridor as he exited the room. "The boss is comin' out with us tonight!"

Hearing cheers echo through the corridor, Lourdes laughed, "Agent Flannagan, you definitely have to learn some manners."

Sean leaned in closer to Lourdes' face quite flirtatiously, giving her a cad-like smirk that he was famous for in all of Dublin. "Maybe ye can teach me, then."

"Flannagan, back away from the boss. That's an order." The fiery red-head, Isolde O'Callaghan, piped up from the corridor. Another agent working on the IRA case with Lourdes, she made up the second of the team of four that had traveled with her. "Ye know if ye don't, she can knock ye out cold before ye even blink!"

A chorus of laughter sounded from the corridor. At least my team is in good spirits, Lourdes contentedly thought to herself. She would never admit it, not even to herself, but she was already becoming frustrated about the case, even if it was just the early stages. Once again feeling the fatigue wash over her, she beckoned for Sean to follow the others, who were already preparing to leave and locking their rooms. "Go on, Flannagan. Have a pint or five for me."

A flash of disappointment appeared on Sean's face, but with a shrug and sigh, he said, "Too bad ye can't witness another night of my amazing wooing skills."

"I've already had a taste of your wooing skills, quite a lot if you may remember," Lourdes beamed brightly, "and I think I've had enough."

Closing the door on Sean's perplexed face and hearing another chorus of laughter from her team, Lourdes shook her head and turned off the lights. She then made her way towards her comfortable bed, slightly hearing her comrades exit the small, private hotel. As their voices became softer in the distance, Lourdes felt herself drifting more and more into sleep.

That is, until she heard several gun shots fire.

With screaming and screeching tires following, Lourdes awoke with a start, instantly reaching for her gun and running towards the window. Back pressed against the wall and gun held tightly in front of her chest, she peered outside. To her horror, she saw a black Mercedes turn the corner, some windows shattered, and right in front of the hotel, part of her team huddling over a body. Just as Lourdes grasped her cell phone in order to alert Smecker and the Boston Police, the sound of panicked knocking came from her door.

"Lourdes, Lourdes it's me!" cried Isolde in distress, continuing to bang loudly and frantically on the door.

Placing her gun in her holster, she sped towards her door, opening it fully. As she beheld the mortified Isolde in front of her, the woman whimpered,

"Sean's been shot!"