(To Connor McManus)
There was always work for them, when they chose to do it.
They were the best in their business, the only ones specializing in their particular line of work, so they could pick and choose which jobs they wanted. But when an old friend called with an offer, they always obliged. And Papa Joe was a very old and very good friend.
�Gave us our start, we practically owe it to him,� Connor mused as he double-checked the clip in his gun and flicked at his black overcoat until it hid his shoulder holster.
�I don�t owe anybody anything,� sniffed Murphy, slipping the huge, vicious knife into his belt. Connor rolled his eyes.
�Why do you insist on carrying that stupid thing? You never fuckin� use it.�
�I like it. Shut your mouth,� Murph admonished him. �Where�s the job, anyway? And is he paying the full fee? Because I�m kinda feelin� like a trip to Jamaica, if we can afford it.�
�We can afford whatever we fuckin� want,� Connor replied, sliding his sunglasses on. �You want to go to Jamaica, we can take off right now. Don�t need the job to do THAT.�
�Nah, you�re right, wouldn�t be mannerly to let down Papa Joe.� Murphy shrugged into his own black coat. �I just don�t like you saying that we �owe� him. We don�t owe anybody a damned thing. We worked our way up to where we are.�
�That we did,� Connor said soothingly, well-practiced in the role of calming his twin�s temper. Defusing Murphy�s explosions was practically a full-time job in and of itself, but Christ knew Connor had plenty of practice. Defusing, and cleaning up the messes afterwards if defusing failed. Which reminded him...
�Elena�s out of the hospital, you know,� he said, looking pointedly at his brother as they walked from their elegant glass and chrome apartment to the elevator.
Murph�s brow furrowed. �Who?�
�Elena. You remember, the girl Rosskov sent over the other night.� No recollection in his twin�s eyes. �You broke her fuckin� jaw, for Christ�s sake. Think you�d remember her.�
�Oh.� Murphy blinked, then shrugged. �Can�t remember everyone, Con.�
�You could make a little more effort,� he scolded, and they slid into a well-known bickering routine while they walked from the elevator to the waiting black car Yakavetta had sent for them.
***
The targets lived in the suburbs. Murphy found that sweet. He liked getting out of the city once in a while. It made Connor nervous- all those damn lawns, the broad streets. Open space without places to hide. Give him a crumbling warehouse in a bad neighborhood full of alleys and neighbors who kept their mouths shut.
Murph was fucking with the driver. Murph always had to fuck with everybody. Connor watched him chatter away, hands flicking up to mess with the headlights or the wipers or the radio. The man was trying to be patient, but his temper was beginning to show. Con stayed quiet; every driver and errand boy had to learn at some point that when you were dealing with dangerous men, having a temper just wouldn�t do.
And Murphy and Connor McManus were very dangerous men.
But today wasn�t this driver�s day to learn. Murph flopped back into the seat next to his brother. �So what�s the job, exactly?� he asked, squirming against the dark leather. �Christ, I need a new holster, this one�s fuckin� rubbing me somethin� awful...�
�Maybe for your birthday,� mumbled Connor, lighting a cigarette.
�Fuck you,� Murph replied, running a hand back through his hair. �You give me something for my birthday, then I�d feel obliged to get YOU something...�
�Oh, like it�d kill you to show some appreciation to your brother,� he teased.
Murph�s jaw clenched. �You don�t think I fuckin� show you any appreciation?� he asked, a rising, dangerous note entering his voice. �I don�t appreciate you, I like that, who�s the one who�s always watching your worthless fuckin� back...�
�Easy now, old man, easy,� Con said quickly, placing the cigarette in the ashtray and twisting in the seat so his back was against the wall of the car. He stared into Murphy�s eyes, seeking his brother through the rapidly forming storm of anger. Christ, this was all he needed, for Murph to go into one of his temper fits in the back seat of Papa Joe Yakavetta�s town car. �It was just a joke, Murph. Listen to Connor, now, calm yourself. Have a smoke.� He pulled the pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and held it out to his brother, a peace offering he willed Murphy to accept.
Murphy�s eyes were blue, Connor knew that, but they looked so damn dark when he was angry. His breathing was heavy and fierce, loud in the tight space. They stared at each other. The driver glanced at them in the rearview mirror, anxious.
�Keep your eyes on the fuckin� road,� snarled Murphy, taking the pack and slumping back in his seat. He pulled a cigarette out and lit it. �So what�s the job?� he asked, tension vanishing from his body as suddenly as it had come.
Connor exhaled slowly. Successfully defused one more time. He should work for the fuckin� bomb squad. �Fairly typical, a wise guy who isn�t playing by Joe�s rules.�
�Why�d he call us, then?� Something began to flare in Murph�s eyes again. Connor wished he�d thought to bring some whiskey with them. It would be helpful to have his twin�s sedative of choice on hand. �We�re supposed to be the fuckin� ELITE team, not called in on the routine shit...�
�This guy knows a little more than Joe�s comfortable with.� Con lit another cigarette, glancing sidelong at his brother and trying to gauge where the next explosion would come from. �And he thinks it�s about time to set another example for the troops.�
Murph�s eyes lit up at that. Blue fire. Connor loved that look. He relaxed a bit; Murph was mercurial as hell, to be sure, but usually when he got this excited he wouldn�t go off. �So we get to clean house, then?�
�Yeah.� Connor�s hand strayed to his main gun, at his hip. A backup in his shoulder holster, another at the small of his back, but hopefully he�d only need the one. They were the best, after all; one gun each should be plenty. �Yeah, we�re exterminators today.�
Murphy looked out the window and lifted his cigarette to his lips. He exhaled a stream of smoke at a sturdy redbrick church as they passed. Connor looked away.
Church wasn�t an idea either one of them bothered with, anymore. Matters of heaven and hell were for those who couldn�t make things happen in this life. The McManus brothers had learned that a long time ago. All that concerned them were matters of Earth, and all that mattered on Earth was money in the bank and a gun in your hand.
Connor and Murphy McManus were determined to have both for the duration of their mortal lives. They�d chosen to take control of their destinies the minute they stepped off the boat from Ireland and went looking for the men in Boston with the power.
They knew how to make things happen.
***
The door swung open behind them, halfway through the job. Connor turned, startled; the driver had been given strict orders not to come in. They didn�t like to be watched while they worked, he�d fucking TOLD the man that...
Murphy had the target�s wife down on her knees, laughing with wild delight as she begged for mercy. He danced in a slow, playful circle around her, pressing the muzzle of his gun first against her forehead, then her ear, then slowly nuzzling it through her hair. The daughter, a girl of about sixteen, lay sobbing in a corner, bleeding from a shallow slice across the forehead. She�d fought like a tiger when they�d gone to drag her from her bedroom down here to the basement, until Connor had hauled off and cracked her across the face, promising her there was plenty more where that came from, and worse...
It wasn�t the driver in the doorway.
He paused in his dedicated pursuit of kicking the man�s kidneys to jelly. �What the fuck- � was all he got out before the firing started.
His brain was still frantically trying to make sense of it as he fell. Two men- young and nervous and unmistakably Irish, wearing heavy coats and carrying silencer-equipped guns, rosaries clashing against their chests, lips moving in something the last fading thought in his mind identified as a prayer.
Feedback is like oxygen.
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