The fabric of the mask Connor had pulled over his face was imbued with an overpowering aroma of aftershave, an unflattering brand that made him gag each time he took a breath, but he was in much better shape than Murphy, whose pace was slower than his and Malone's. He lagged so far behind that Malone had to stop and ask what his deal was. Murphy clarified that he and Connor went drinking the night before, and their cohort glared at each of them, muttered something about "kids," then led them into the house, which on first glance, they saw how well-furnished it was. It was the fancy artwork hanging on the wall that Connor had to took a moment to appreciate.

Malone walked over to the white door of the hall closet, which had several grooved, vertical slots running down the center. He directed that Murphy get inside of it, and he obeyed, but not without clutching his own mouth. The musty smell of the mask over his face didn't help settle his stomach any.

Once Malone shut Murphy inside, he motioned for Connor to follow him to the bedroom, which he did. The closet doors in the bedroom were flat, wooden panels, but Malone told him that if their target opened them, he should surprise him with a bullet. Connor felt his heart plummet, but reminded himself why they were there.

"Evil men, dead men, right?" Connor whispered to Malone.

Malone took a few silent moments to contemplate the seriousness in Connor's proclamation. The fact that he was standing before a man he might have considered "evil" had been cloaked in a veil of his charm and intelligence, but he didn't underestimate Connor by any means. If he and his brother had it in them to even think about joining him on these particular jobs, it wouldn't take them long to strengthen their resolves to put anyone out of their misery they saw fit, to abolish any sense of remorse. He didn't wish to be under that wrathful gun if it were to turn on him. From this point forward, it was all about winning their trust.

"Absolutely, Connor," he confirmed, hiding his own malice. "Let's do what we came to do." After directing him to get into the closet, he shut him in, then ascended the main carpeted staircase to the second floor, where he crouched and hid behind a corner, loaded gun at the ready in case his pupils failed.

Approximately ten minutes after their arrival, the front door swung open, and all three of them heard it from their individual positions. The hall closet had become like a sauna since Murphy had climbed into it, and it only worsened his stomachache, as well as the lightheadedness that came with it. Though his eyes were fuzzy and blurred, he managed to lift his gun and point it at the door, holding it in place, listening to the footsteps of the man who had come into the house.

Murphy's hands tightened around his gun handle, his finger on the trigger, but he didn't pull it. His biceps began to tremble from holding it up, feeling much too weak for this sort of pressure. His stomach did a somersault when he saw the silhouette of the man saunter past the door he was hiding behind, until his slow steps came to a halt. He appeared cautious and worrisome, perhaps confused about the strange white van in his driveway.

Murphy's finger clenched the trigger, but loosened afterward. No matter how hard he tried to keep it down, bile threatened to sail up his windpipe, even after the many times he swallowed. The heat, the smell of the mask, and the pressure he was under all piled onto each other at once, and he lost control. He ripped the mask off of his face just in time to keel over and barf onto the floor, as well as onto himself, a dry heave and cough following.

The man standing in front of the closet gasped at the sounds he heard coming from it and took a step back. Knowing he had probably just ruined the entire operation, Murphy became desperate to make it right again, already feeling like a damn fool. He raised his gun, again in a hand that wouldn't stop shaking, and as their target continued to move away from the door and toward the living room where the telephone was, Murphy debated his next course of action.

Malone saw the way the events were now unfolding, and didn't want the man to use the phone or escape the house. He cocked the hammer of his gun back and waited for a clear shot. If he knew people well, and he believed he did, he would make a break for the back door in the kitchen if he didn't stop to use the phone. He could plug him on the way there no problem.

Before Malone could even aim at his target's head, he heard the closet door burst open. A crack of a bullet came next, and then the sound of gasping and choking. Murphy, who had surprised the already weary man, had shot him in the neck and sent him to the floor, grasping at his bullet wound, panting and gurgling. It didn't take long at all for life to drain away from him, and when it was over, Murphy dropped to his knees.

Malone was shocked at how things concluded, and he climbed out of his hiding spot and descended the stairs to check the deceased. He needed only to look at the man— thirty-four year-old Brandon Olsen, the employer his golden-aged client wished to have murdered—to determine his death. He knew a fatal wound when he saw it.

Impressed, he sauntered over to Murphy, pulling the mask from his own face, freeing his wrinkled eyes and gray strings of hair. "Nice, shot, Murphy," he complimented. Murphy didn't respond, only heaved and tried to collect himself. "What happened?"

"Puked," he slurred.

He rang with a series of delighted chuckles. "That's all right. I did that my first time, too." He holstered his gun and helped Murphy up, who stumbled as his knees buckled. "You're pretty pale. Go have a seat." Murphy nodded and dragged his feet over to the white sofa, where he collapsed. "Connor! Come on out, we're clear." He listened to the sound of the bedroom closet creak open and Connor's steps enter the room. The first thing Connor reacted to was the body on the floor, which he covered his mouth at. The second thing he did was tear the mask from his face. "Congratulate your brother, Connor. He did an amazing job."

Connor next looked at Murphy, who was near unconscious on the couch. "Murph? You okay?" His twin couldn't answer.

"He'll be fine. He and his hangover need to have a little quiet time. You and I are going to clean up while he gets some rest." He smacked Connor on the shoulder and guided him over to the hall closet where Murphy had been hiding, and passed him his satchel of cleaning supplies. "Sorry to have to do this, but as your brother is incapacitated, you're going to have to take care of it. Murphy vomited in the closet, and I need you to give the carpet a really good scrub-down with this." Connor nodded to him, taking the order and stepping into the closet with the tools given to him. "Get it good now, okay? And do not, I repeat, do not step in any of it. You step in any fluids, you leave tracks, and you might as well hang yourself now."

"Got it," Connor told him, curling his nose at the foul smell as he crouched in front of the closet to clean up his brother's mess. It wasn't the first time he had done it, and he was certain it wouldn't be the last.

Malone went out to the service van and opened the back doors, grabbing long sheets of plastic, then dragged them back inside the house, taking them over to the body he intended to wrap up, whistling an odd tune the entire time. The strange thing was that Connor recognized it. When Malone rolled the corpse onto the plastic and began wrapping and taping it at insane speeds, it became clear to Connor all at once just how often Malone might have done this. When he completed the wrapping process, he hauled the body over his shoulder and headed for the door, carrying on with his creepy, absentminded whistling. Connor, unsettled, continued on with wiping the carpet clean, until no traces of Murphy's puke remained.

Malone came back into the house, asked Connor to join him at the spot where he wrapped the body, and Connor obeyed. Malone took the cleaning materials from him, proceeding to show him how to clean the bloodstains.

"This here," he explicated while showing Connor the spray bottle, "Is ammonia. Do you know what ammonia is?" Connor shook his head. "Well, you don't need to. If you want to blot out blood in a hurry, it's what you use. It also helps clean it off of surfaces like this. Keep this in mind, all right? It's important."

Connor nodded. "I will."

"Keep some with you on any hit you go to. I can guarantee you will need it." Malone continued to mop the blood off of the floor, teaching Connor how. "Yes indeedy. Don't know where I'd be now if it weren't for the stuff. Probably not here teaching you about it, that's for sure." When they finished cleaning the blood off of the carpet and tile floor, Malone worked on the spatters on the walls. "Go check on your brother. I'll be done in a moment."

Connor left his side and hurried to Murphy's, kneeling next to him and removing his left glove to touch his face. It was damp and chilled. "You okay, Murph?" he whispered. Murphy cracked his right eye open to look at him.

"Wanna go home," he mumbled, a bead of sweat coursing down his nose.

"We're almost done. How bad is it?"

"Stomach still kind of hurts… mostly dizzy."

"I'll get ya home soon. I'm…" The first word he thought of using was "proud," but saying it didn't feel right. He was not proud at all about what they had done. "I'm impressed wit' ya. I t'ink I was too busy tryin' not to piss myself den I was ready to shoot someone."

Murphy found enough energy to smile at him, his eyes half-open. "Was a good shot, wasn't it?"

"Aye," Connor agreed, patting him on the shoulder. "Damn good." Malone called for him again, and he returned to him, inhaling the ripe, powerful scent of ammonia, covering his nose. "Is it s'pposed to smell like dat?"

"It smells awful," Malone confirmed. "You'll get used to it. The water added to the mix should kill the smell before anyone comes home. Now…" Malone planted his hands on his hips. "On to step two: disposal. This one is a bit more complicated. This isn't required every time. Sometimes, when doing a background check, I'll find someone's history to determine whether or not they have psychological disorders, or I'll scout for medications in the home. In those cases, I just make it look like suicide. It's easier that way. In this case, Mister Olsen here appeared normal to everyone else. So, we have to make it look like he skipped town. Getting the picture?"

"So far," Connor answered.

"Good." Malone beckoned him to follow, and he did as he led him to the front door. They peered out at the driveway through one of the windows. "You won't have to worry about paper trails. I'll be handling those. Because we want to make it look like he skipped town, we have to get his car out of here. Connor, I'm going to have you drive it somewhere. Don't worry, I'll give you directions. I have a few friends in my pocket at a local junkyard who will gladly take it off my hands for parts."

"We can't… maybe…" Connor shrugged, hiding a growing smirk.

"Sell it?" His scowl caused Connor's grin to die off. "Don't be foolish, Connor. We might have time to dispose of a body, but we do not have time to find the title of the car and find someone to buy it, you getting me?" Connor, dismayed, gave him a weak nod. "Good. No, the car must be disposed of, with no trace left. It must be as though he's vanished into thin air."

"M'sorry. Was just a suggestion."

"Let me do the thinking please," he advised. Connor sighed at being berated, but he understood why it had to be done. "Now. While you go to the junkyard, I'll be taking care of the dearly departed."

"How?"

"You'll find out eventually. For now, we'll take it a few baby steps at a time." He passed Connor a set of keys he retrieved from the pocket of now dead man. "I'll leave a note with you for the attendant telling him what I need done." Connor didn't have time to ask questions before he shooed him off and demanded he take Murphy along with him. Connor aided Murphy off of his comfortable seat and walked him toward the door as he leaned against him. "No speeding!" Malone called to Connor as they headed out. "There's no rush, gentlemen. We have plenty of time." Connor once again nodded, exiting the house and opening Mister Olsen's car and setting Murphy in the passenger seat. Malone then gave him directions to the junkyard, and told him he would meet them there when he was finished.

Murphy begged Connor to turn the air conditioner on as they drove, and he did, but it still felt like he was boiling in a pot. "Fuckin' hate summer," he griped during the ride there. Connor found it difficult to believe that he wanted to discuss the weather after what they had just done. "Connor," he sighed, fidgeting about in his seat. "When ya shot dat Italian guy…"

"His name was Tony."

"Aye… Tony… did it feel… good?"

Since Connor had killed Tony Abbiati, Murphy didn't seem too interested to know the facts. He had been there, witnessed it, and didn't think he needed to know anything more. Connor was a bit exasperated that he chose now of all times to pick his brain.

"Ya mean as I did it? Or after?"

"When ya did it. When ya pulled de trigger."

"I…" At the time, he hadn't thought much on it, but now when faced with that personal reflection, he could form an opinion. "When I pulled it… I… yeh. It felt good. He was hurtin' ya, and…"

"Really? When I was in dere… in dat closet… I didn't t'ink I'd be able to do it, and then… when I knew I had to, I was ready, ya know? And when I finally did it, it felt… great."

"Did it?"

"Aye…" Murphy gazed at his brother with concern, thinking he might assume he was a maniacal psychopath, but a smile grew on his tired face.

"I have to admit… it does feel good dat a scumbag like dat is gone. Even feel good about ya doin' it." They both chuckled with relief, though it hurt Murphy's stomach to do so. "Maybe dis won't be so bad."

"I'm already set fer de next one. I can't wait. I feel like we were born fer dis, Connor."

"Aye," he agreed. "Meh too."

"Maybe we'll start cappin' really important criminals, like de Mafia. Be on de news, and shit. People'd be talkin' about us."

They both laughed at the ridiculous thought. "Don' get ahead o'yerself. We have to be careful."

"I know, I know. I've jus' never felt dis good about some'tin' before." When Connor frowned at this assertion, he stammered, "Well, ya know… uh… except…"

"It's all 'ight, Murph. I know what ya mean."

Connor shut the car off after pulling up to the door of the garage, and climbed out with Murphy, who had a bit more color to his face by now. After buzzing the intercom, they waited a few moments before a small door off to the side swayed open and a gruff, raggedy man with spots, a grizzly salt and pepper beard and a beer gut stepped outside. His blue name tag was embroidered with the name "Phil". He looked upon the two strapping, young Irish lads in black, thumbed his chin, and said:

"So. What'd I win?"

Connor and Murphy, puzzled, exchanged cursory glances before turning their eyes back to him. Connor spoke first. "We were sent here by Malone. He wants dis car disposed of. He left a note wit' us." He reached into pocket, pulled out the crumpled note, then handed it to the attendant, who scanned it thoroughly.

"Aw, hell," grumbled the scratchy-voiced older man. "Eric. He got me all excited. Thought you leprechauns were gonna give me somethin'."

"Ya wanna pot o'gold?" Murphy joked.

"Well, it'd be nice."

"Leprechauns don' share dere fortune… or dere cereal," Connor informed, and Murphy cackled.

Phil looked up at the sky, which had a cover of storm clouds. "Come on in while you wait for Eric." They followed him inside of the garage, and Murphy gagged at the reeking scent of oil. Thankfully, it wasn't as strong inside of the office where he brought them.

"Mind if we smoke?" asked Murphy. Phil waved his hand to him indicating to please do so. In one simultaneous motion, they ripped packs of cigarettes from their pockets and each lit one in the same fashion, like choreographed dancers in a show choir.

"You two brothers?" interrogated Phil, noticing their similarities.

"Aye," they said in sync.

"Fraternal twins," clarified Murphy, speaking over a low rumble of incoming thunder.

"Twins," repeated Phil, rubbing at the base of his beard. "What are your names?"

"Connor."

"Murphy."

Phil tossed a scoff to the wind and a spit into the garbage. "You're twins and your names don't rhyme?"

"Is dat, like… a rule?" Connor wondered.

"Not exactly. But it helps."

Neither of them got the chance to ask what exactly it would "help" before they heard someone enter the garage. Malone, drenched with his hair stuck to his face, joined them in the office, recoiling at the smell of cigarettes.

"Boys," he acknowledged, and they waved to him. "You got here in one piece. Good job. Keys." Connor tossed Malone the keys to Mister Olsen's car. "Phil. I'm going to clean out the glove compartment and trunk, then she's all yours."

"Shame," lamented Phil, shaking his head. "Looks like a damn nice car, too."

"Was." Malone left the three of them to dig out the man's belongings from the car while Connor and Murphy finished their cigarettes. By the time he came back, the rainfall had picked up, as did the thunder. Malone pulled a leather wallet from his pocket and slipped a thick wad of cash from the sleeve, passing it to Phil, who took it with an eerie, satisfied smirk.

"Pleasure to serve you, detective," he sang with appreciation. "Hope to see you again soon. You, too, leprechauns." They waved to him before getting out of their seats and following Malone out, grateful to be away from the guy. After tossing their finished cigarettes onto the soaked mud, they climbed into the van along with Malone, who swiped back his dripping hair.

"We got this one done pretty quickly," Malone told them with admiration. "It was a fairly clean job, no struggles. Aside from Murphy's mishap, it was a job well done." Murphy's face burned. "Speaking of which—how you feeling?"

"Better."

"Good. You getting drunk the day before work is to be done will not happen again… correct?"

Murphy dragged a hand over his mouth. "Aye…"

"Glad to hear it."

Malone first drove the twins back to their apartment to drop them off. He bid them a good evening and told them he'd be contacting them again within the next few days for payment and possibly another job. Murphy thanked him, but Connor wasn't sure what to say, so he shook his hand instead.

As they returned to their loft, it was as if nothing happened, and the day could go on as usual. It was as though Murphy had not shot a man just a few hours ago, or that Connor was watching a man in his sixties clean up bloodstains. Murphy turned in for sleep right away, but Connor wished he hadn't. He wanted someone to talk to, to help calm him down.

The night would be long for Connor, not only because he had the occasional nightmare, but because he thought he heard Murphy chuckling in his sleep. He wouldn't tell him about it the following day, but he wouldn't deny that it chilled him.