ANGEL OF THE BRONX
The cool weight of the pistol sat comfortably in his palm, almost like an extra digit for his outstretched hand. His feet were planted firmly at an angle, facing his armed target without being a large one himself. The air smelt of gunpowder overlapping the coppery tang of blood. Bright lights illuminated everything to the point the details in his peripheral were washed away. All he could see was down the barrel of his gun, the man behind it, and the glint of the metal pointed back at him. Muscles tensed, automatically aware of how much force was required to squeeze the trigger and resist recoil. Every sense was locked in preparation and yet the Saint, who had ended the lives of so many men, could not pull the trigger. "Murph?" His opponent stared at him. He wore nothing but the blue boxers he had put on the day he'd been taken and a pair of socks. There was something almost ridiculous to the ensemble, particularly when paired with the .22 in his hand, but Connor didn't feel like laughing. The limited clothing also served to illuminate the various cuts, bruises, and fresh looking burn marks across every inch of Murphy's body and face. The pain, grief, and shame his brother had endured seemed to suddenly flood into him all at once. The room pulsated with it, bathed and marked forever. An irrational, ferocious, protective fury seized him much as it had the moment the Russians forced Murphy out of their loft. Slowly, he lowered his weapon, turning to fully face Murphy. It was only then that he noticed his twin's hand was shaking. "Murph? It's me," Connor paused, a sickening cold spreading along his insides at the thought Murphy might not even know his name, "Tis Connor." Later on, he would never be able to recall what sort of reaction he had expect. At the very least, he knew it was not the one he got. He forced himself to step back as a look of pure, unmitigated horror ran across Murphy's face. The too pale, beaten, broken man suddenly grew several shades paler, almost to the point Connor feared he'd pass out. "No! No, it can' be!" A hoarse whisper, that couldn't have been Murphy's but was, erupted from the terrified man. As the need to save his brother grew stronger, every fiber in Connor's being suddenly resisted with equal measure. Looking in Murphy's eyes, Connor saw the man his brother was was not there. "Can't be what, Murph?" he asked cautiously, trying to sound normal. It only occured to him then that Murphy was still pointing the gun at him and he didn't know if it was still loaded. "Y-yer de-," Murphy stopped, as though afraid his words would confirm the truth in the matter, "He said he..." For the first time in their lives, Connor found himself unable to decipher the look on his twin's face. Murphy's expression ran the gamut of terror to relief, anger to shame, suspicion to understanding, and back again. All combined revealing nothing but a soul on the verge of destruction. The brothers stared at each other unable to even recognize his opposite, silence now their only companion. Until even that companionship was broken by the clatter of metal on concrete as Murphy's pistol fell limply from his hand. In that instant, Connor could see a look of horrified realization in Murphy's eyes, though what was being realized he couldn't say. "Oh God," Murphy spoke, in the same half whisper as before. He took a step back from Connor, head bowed by the weight of terrible knowledge, "He...I was..." He backed away from Connor, his pace slowly increasing with every step. He turned from him, running until the walls prevented him from running anymore. Then, he just slid soundlessly to his knees. "God, no," he cried out after a moment, his hands rising to cover his head, "'m sorry. God, 'm so sorry. 'm sorry..." Connor was left only to stare in complete confusion as his brother pulled himself into a ball, apologizing as though he had performed the worst of all offenses. The apologize soon faded into chopped bits of Latin, a confession. A small trickle of apprehension played along Connor's lower back as he realized he wasn't sure to what Murphy was confessing or even really to whom. Only when he realized his brother was now sobbing did it stop mattering. The cab had dropped him off a few blocks from the address Smecker had given him before they left. Stepping out onto the warm, unshaded sidewalk of an average looking urban neighborhood, Connor felt that same tug he had the moment he read Smecker's notes. It was as if the missing side of him was calling out, saying here I am! Here!For a moment, his weakened condition was forgotten as the adrenaline, which had been hastily building since he left the apartment, ignited his senses and eased the remaining aches. Casting a glance around the neighborhood, his eyes fell on Smecker's car, parked a block from where he assumed the house Anna and Murphy were in stood. Despite the knee jerk reaction to go charging in, what was left of his rational mind reminded Connor he needed the agent's help. Tucking his hands into his jacket (having finally rescued it from a plastic bag in Anna's room), he moved briskly towards the vehicle. To anybody watching, he looked for all the world like he belonged in the neighborhood. Walking up to the driver side door, he pulled out a hand to tap on the glass. From his vantage point, he could see Smecker twitch at the sudden interruption only to turn and let out a muffled curse at the sight of the perpetrator. Cracking open the window slightly, he fixed Connor with a furious glare. "What the fuck are you doing here, MacManus?" he demanded, addressing the younger man by his surname for the first time. "Anna's in trouble. I need a gun," came the blunt reply back as Connor glance momentarily at the house,sizing it up. Smecker blinked, taken aback by the statement. "What do you mean she's in trouble?" he demanded, "She would have called me..." "Well, she didn't. She called me. Now give me a goddamn gun," Connor interrupted, and Smecker could hear the flawless change from common man to Saint in his voice. He felt a chill, almost equivalent to reverence in another man, run through him. All arguments he might have posed died suddenly on his lips as he stepped out of the car, pulling an automatic pistol out from the back seat. If Connor found anything odd about the weapon's position, he said nothing as the agent handed it to him. Checking the safety, he took in the sense of partial completeness he hadn't felt in the past few weeks. "So what's the plan?" Smecker asked,pulling his own gun out of it's holster. Connor looked up at him, his eyes baring nothing but a dead calm. "We kick down the fuckin' door," he replied. For the second time in so many minutes Smecker blinked. "Now wait a minute," the agent started, recovering quickly, "We need a better..." He paused as he realized Connor wasn't listening. The Irishman had already turned and was heading directly towards the house. In the middle of one of the largest, loudest metropolises on the planet there was suddenly nothing but silence. Nothing moved. Nothing breathed. It was as though the whole neighborhood had frozen in anticipation of the bloody vengeance about to be wreaked and Smecker found himself caught up in it, realizing a moment too late he was too far away to prevent the Saint from doing something rash and more then likely suicidal. Stalking up the stairwell, Connor lifted his weapon and delivered a sharp kick against the white painted, hardwood surface. The door groaned under the sudden pressure but didn't cave. Lifting his foot again, Connor smashed it once more against the door, closer to the lock. Again, the wood groaned, shifted back a little, and remained standing. Scowling fiercely, Connor raised his foot in one last attempt. Wood splintered as his foot collided against, snapping and bending off its frame as the metal chain wrent apart from its lock. The sound of a woman screaming erupted on his right as he entered. Whirling his weapon in the direction of the sound, he aimed his gun at a terrified woman now standing frozen in the living room entrance. At the sight of metal, the woman's scream died on her lips as she lifted her hands up in a pathetic attempt to protect herself "Oh God, please, please don-" "Where is he?" Connor demanded, stepping menacingly towards her. The woman shrieked, jumping back, her hands waving wildly. "STOP! Please!" she screamed, "Stop! I don't have anything!" "WHERE IS HE?" Connor roared. He looked her over, noting immediately that despite her age, her hair dyed bleach blond to cover it, the navy blue shirt she wore over her tight, black miniskirt left nothing to the imagination. Particularly when they were paired with six-inch black stilettos. It didn't take an intellectual to recognize a working girl when he saw one and with that knowledge, Connor felt all pity he might have had vanish. "Who?" the woman demanded, tears running black lines of mascara down her rounded face, "I don't know. Please, take what you want. I won't say any-" "Where's Murphy?" Connor felt his anger get the better of him as he drew even closer to the woman. She backed further away from him, only to find herself trapped against the wall, with nowhere to turn. Connor continued his advance until the gun was mere inches from her skull, "Where is he?" "For fucking sake, I DON'T KNOW!" the woman screamed back at him, flinching away just as quickly, "I don't know. I don't know. Please, God, I don't kn-" She lifted her hands to her face, crumpling to the ground in hysterics. Connor barely noticed, however, as something caught his eye. Looking over to the right, he saw a well furnished dining table, with a china teapot at it's very center. Turning away from the crying woman, he moved towards it remembering the sound of china on Anna's call. As he moved into the dining room, he saw the door on the far wall standing ajar. Nothing but darkness stood behind it. Casting a final glance at the woman behind him, Connor tightened his grip on the pistol and moved slowly forward. A small bit of light fell through the doorway, revealing a set of wooden stairs. "Anna?" he called down cautiously. No one answered. Stepping carefully onto the step, he paused. Turning around, he stepped into the kitchen on his left. The sound of the woman crying had ceased, but he cared little. Rummaging quickly through the drawers, his hand closed on what he was looking for. Clicking on the flashlight, he returned to the stairwell and began his descent. His boots creaked noisily on the wood as he hit the weak point of every stair. The place was surrounded in pitch blackness. As his foot came down on the final step, he heard the crack of plastic. Aiming the flashlight down, he saw the remnants of a dropped cell phone. Lifting his foot up partially, he recognized it immediately as Anna's. Looking up, he tensed, prepared for anything. The room stank of blood, propelling him back momentarily to Yakavetta's basement of horrors. Stepping carefully onto the cement floor he thought he heard the sound of a chain rustling. Panning the flashlight across the room accomplished nothing. The beam could barely penetrate two feet in front of him. Backing up slowly, he moved until his back touched the wall. He could feel the presence of someone in the dark, but had no way of knowing just where. He dared not call for Anna, fearing it might give away his position. Again, the echo of chains rustling sounded, louder this time. He could feel his guts shrivel at the realization of how much fucking trouble he was in. He had no idea where Smecker was and no hope the agent would make it past the potential witness. He couldn't see anything and knew better then to grope around in the dark. For the first time in his life, he couldn't come up with a goddamn plan. Then, he heard it. A faint whisper not far off. The sound of a struggle, and then a scream. "CONNOR!" A man yelled out and light flashed followed by the crack of cement a few feet in front of him. Connor ducked beneath the stairs, recognizing the flash and sound for what it was. Suddenly, the room erupted in blindingly bright light. Looking on the other side of the steps, Connor could see Anna, alive, ducking down and away from large fuse box. Her eyes met his, wide and scarred. She pushed up, scrambling awkwardly towards him. Suddenly a hand shot out from nowhere, seizing ahold over her hair. Anna shrieked, her hands flying up instantly to claw helplessly at her attacker. Connor's view of the man was blocked. "Anna!" he yelled, moving to help her. The cement behind him exploded forcing him to duck away from the shooter. "Let go of me you son of a bitch! Let go! Connor!" he could hear the panic in Anna's voice, delicately lace with the edge of fight found only when staring death in the face. He saw her feet rise as the assailant pulled her up by the hair and heard a gagging sound combined with the slap of skin on skin. Damnit!, he thought, he's using her as a shield. Glancing out on the other side, he ducked again, managing only to see Anna being pulled backwards by someone. The man, whoever he was, cowered behind her, hand around her throat while the right one aimed a gun over her shoulder. Peaking around the step, Connor watched the pair back slowly around the corner into an apparent hallway formed by a protruding brick room. Ducking back, he closed his eyes, a prayer briefly running through his head. Taking a deep breath, he opened them, jumping out from beneath the stairwell. A shot exploded behind him as the man fired from behind the corner. Raising his own gun, Connor opened fire, sprinting towards the back wall of the protruding structure. The man ducked back, avoiding the shots. Connor could still hear the sounds of a struggling body. "Anna," he called out, "'m comin'. Hold on!" He peaked around the corner, firing another shot to keep the man stuck behind the wall. He hoped the spot had no exits, though he was fully aware he couldn't just open fire. At best, he might get lucky and kill the shooter. At worst, he could hit Anna. "Fuck,"he whispered, mostly to himself. He glanced momentarily around the corner and back to the stairwell. Where the fuck is Smecker? He could here a muffled voice behind him, taking him a second to realize it was Anna. "Let go of me please," she was begging, her voice halting as she strained against her captor, "He won't hurt you if you let me..." Before she could finish, though, a sickening thud sounded. The sound reminded Connor of the packaging plant, the sound of metal against meat and bone. "Anna?" he called out, a deep fear shooting through him turning his blood to ice. No one responded. "Anna, answer me!" it was his turn to beg. No, he thought, No, she can't be. It was my job to protect her. My duty. No. Another noise sounded, something heavy sliding against the ground. He dared to glance around the corner, only to see Anna's limp body fall into the open space. From the distance, he couldn't tell if she was breathing. "Mother Fucker!" He cried out, fear turning to rage in an instant. Roaring with fury, he turned the corner, intent on making the man pay with his last breath... He tensed at the yell. He knew the man would come for him and he didn't care. He didn't care if the man planned to put a bullet in his brain or his gut. He knew he deserved it. Glancing only briefly at the young woman now prone on the floor, he felt his knees almost give way beneath the wave of shame and remorse. He hadn't meant to kill her. The quick stroke to the back of the head had only been meant to startle her, at most knock her out. But the whistling groan she let out...he knew what a dying breath sounded like. His arms were shaking so hard, he couldn't stop her from slipping to the floor. In the end, he'd done what the man had asked of him. Looking at the gun, he contemplated just throwing it to the floor. It would be so easy. Just toss it to the side and step around the corner. No fight and he would end up where he deserved to be. Memories flashed before him, time seeming irrelevant in their wake:
He had woken to his name being called. A female voice, questioning. She stood over him, her expression one of abject horror. He felt the chains come off his wrist and her fingers brush against his. She was saying something. Reassuring him. Connor. She said Connor's name, but how could she know? Everything came fuzzy and then he saw it. On the chair the man was sitting on, a .22. Dread hit his gut like a punch. He looked at the woman, but she had turned away from him. She was looking for something. God, why her? He reached for the gun. She looked back and saw him. The lights went out, but he had already grabbed ahold of her. Noise upstairs. The same pounding footsteps. The man was coming to see his dirty work. Anger raged through him. He couldn't do it. He wouldn't. A voice, almost familiar, called out. Anna. The girl struggled. It must have been her name. Footsteps. His heart raced, almost painfully. He wouldn't do it. He couldn't. Maybe if pretended...Nothing came rationally anymore. A pain in his hand as the girl bit him. Connor. No, Connor was dead. The girl elbowed him in the side. He lost his grip on her. The gun. Then light. Blinding light. Someone was under the stairwell. HE was under the stairwell. Another shot. He grabbed the girl, pulling her back to him. He had to get out. She wouldn't stop fighting. She wouldn't stop calling his dead brother's name. Connor. He had to get out!
No, he decided. He wouldn't drop the gun. He may not deserve to live, but he had still been a Saint. He couldn't let the man go free without justice being served. He owed the girl and Connor that. Tightening his grip on his gun, he began whisper his family prayer.
"...In Nomeni Patri Et Fili Spirtus Sancti"
He rounded the corner.
The gun dropped from his hand as he ran down the hall towards Murphy. Dropping to his knees beside him, he stared, momentarily helpless, at his brother unsure of how to comfort him. Murphy continued to sob, pulling himself tighter and tighter into a ball. Only when he began to dry heave did Connor grab hold of him.
"Shh, shh," he whispered, wrapping his arms protectively around Murphy's shaking shoulders, pulling him upright, "Yer safe. Shh. I got ye, Murph"
The words meant to comfort, however, only excited deeper, louder sobs. Connor could feel Murphy squirm against him, straining helplessly to get free. Connor held on tighter. He could feel his shirt grow damp with Murphy's tears and sweat. His body chose then to register its complaints at his movements, the adrenaline's edge finally wearing off, but he ignored it. He could hear Murphy mumbling into his shoulder, now. Curses in Italian, Gaelic, and English. His fist still pounded painfully against Connor's side, but still Connor held on. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see movement. He turned his head in time to see Anna sitting up slowly, her hand moving to the back of her head. Relief flooded him. Her eyes turned towards him after a second, burning with anger and pain. As they met his, though, the anger seemed to melt away. Taking in the scene, it was rapidly replaced by understanding and glimmer of pity.
"'m sorry," Murphy mumbled, gasping between sobs, "God, 'm sorry."
Connor looked down again, realizing Murphy still believed himself a killer.
"Shh, Murph," he said, rubbing Murphy's back as though he were a child. A stray memory of Ma came to his mind, "She's alright. The lass. Ye didn't hurt her."
He was certain he could hear a sarcastic snort come from Anna's direction, but he didn't bother to look. Murphy was staring up at him now, glassy blue eyes wide with awe. The sobbing had begun to halt slightly, as though his body couldn't take it anymore. His black hair had taken on a shaggy quality Connor noticed the way it stuck to his forehead, damp with sweat. He tensed as Murphy suddenly lifted a shaky hand, pressing it cautiously against his brother's face.
"Wha' the fuck?" Connor exclaimed, caught off guard. Murphy flinched, yanking his hand back as though burnt.
"Ye...ye're alive," he stammered haltingly, his voice still a coarse whisper. Blown out his vocal chords, Connor realized belatedly. Murphy was still staring at him as though he were an apparition that would vanish if he breathed too suddenly.
"Well of course I am ye fuckin' twit!" Connor exclaimed, releasing his hold on his brother's shoulder's slightly, "Been lookin' over this whole goddamn city for ya."
A warm glimmer of joy flickered to life in Murphy's heart, overwhelming him only in its unfamiliarity. No one aside from his brother would address him like that, even the man. Suddenly he let out a gasp that was a half-sob and half-laugh. Falling back against Connor's shoulder, he took in everything: the solidity of the body against his, the warmth in contrast to the basement, the smell he had grown with as sure as his own, the heartbeat, and the sounds of breathing. Everything he needed to convince himself his brother was there, protecting not condemning him. In that instant, he let go, allowing it all to wash over him. Against his brother's shoulder he finally wept.
Connor closed his eyes as he felt the dampness along the top of his shoulder. He could feel his own tears of anger and relief begin to form, but refused to let them fall. Murphy needed him now, and he be damned if he didn't come through. Wrapping his arms once more around his brother, he opened his eyes enough to shoot a wary glare at Anna. She nodded at him, seeming to understand the men's need for privacy. He watched as she carefully turned herself around, leaning sideways against the wall with her back to them. Closing his eyes again, Connor squeezed gently, assuring his brother he was still there. Lifting his eyes heavenward, he prayed only two simple words:
Thank you.
A.N. Well, there you have it folks. The boys are back together again. Woot, Woot! The next chapter will be this story's epilogue, so stay tuned. Reviews much appreciated.
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