Owen smiled with satisfaction after escorting the Saints and the Mexican from his premises. It was a privilege to provide them with the tools of their trade. And a little bliss as well, he thought, as he recalled their expressions when they opened the cases. Like boys in a candy store. Or a chocolate factory.

He'd been a raw kid on the fringes of the IRA when he first met the MacManus brothers. His fortune had risen as they became the Saints, his reputation tied to theirs as word got around where the boys got their guns. They had blown through Boston in a few short months eight years ago and hadn't been seen or heard of since. But the legend lived on and his own future was assured. He had always believed they would be back and today his faith was justified.

Owen had kept cases packed for them all these years, changing out the weapons as models improved, deliberating over his choices because the Saints' guns were his signature just like the pennies were theirs. He readied new cases for their next visit; breaking down, cleaning and assembling the guns with Forrest Gump speed and precision. They were already in order but you couldn't be too careful when the Saints' lives were at stake.

All his weapons were well-maintained, even before Michael Caine's tag line in 'Harry Brown.' * Caine wasn't Irish but hell, you couldn't hate every Englishman, especially when he played a vigilante. Movies and television were good for gun dealing. Every few years something affected the viewing public so strongly that it created a groundswell of gun lust. And Owen satisfied it. 'The Matrix' had been so popular that he had diversified by adding a roomful of black leather accessories and sunglasses. And fuckin' Nicolas Cage in 'Lord of War.' Owen was moving materiel 24/7 for weeks after the theatrical release with another surge when the DVD came out.

It had always been that way. He remembered Edward Woodward as 'The Equalizer.' That was before his time in the business of course but his Da had done a little gun dealin' on the side and Owen had taken notice even then. Da had worked full-time at the factory but guns provided the extras for his family that a blue-collar job didn't cover. Owen had taken a look at a factory job and a couple of other fairly legitimate and less morally ambiguous options and decided that guns were his clear choice.

He did a nice profit in rope, too. Another thing he owed to the Saints, to Connor actually. Murphy didn't seem fond of rope. That first rope had been hanging about for years but after the story of its use got around, Owen got a few requests and began stocking it for sale to Saints wannabe's.

True professionals knew what they wanted. They might ask his opinion, he might suggest an alternative, but basically he was there to facilitate their decisions. The amateurs and first-time buyers needed a little careful handling. Owen guided them through the process and sold them what they needed, all the while making sure they felt like it was their idea. Repeat business was his goal.

The police could have shut him down or at least made life difficult but they gave him a pass and even became customers for personal weapons and hide-out guns. A good number of Owen's guns were strapped to the ankles of Boston's Finest.

An arms dealer hears all kinds of rumors. A few were true and a lot were not. A true one was that FBI Special Agent Smecker had faked his death a few years ago. Owen knew that Smecker and some Boston PD detectives had been working with the Saints at the end. He wondered if they were still working with them now, or if the Saints knew that Smecker was alive. But it wasn't his business. Owen had his own 'Don't ask - Don't tell' policy. He sold weapons, not information.

He had done well enough in a small-time way before that first visit from the twins but business had trended upward after that. He had a tax attorney now to deal with the financial side of his operation and its sometimes tricky legalities. She was a sharp cookie - literally - since her improbable but real name was Cookie Sharpe. Before she learned about the special circumstances, she had been impressed with how his business took off and had asked about his strategy. Know your product? Target your market? Volume discounts? No, he told her, word of mouth and a couple of famous customers. It was old-fashioned but it still worked. New to Boston since the Saints had gone marching off, Cookie had been a little turned on by the story and Owen had gotten laid regularly ever since. He did not mind in the least that there might be two other men in her head. He was the one in her bed.

Lately Cookie had been following rumors of the Saints return with interest. When he called to tell her of their visit she issued a command he was happy to follow.

"Get your pale Irish ass over here. Right now!"

Aye, he owed the Saints personally as well as professionally. Outfitting them on the house was the least he could do. Cookie would find a way to write it off anyway.

Owen had briefly considered unpacking the cases when he heard the news of the Saints' capture and imprisonment. But almost immediately reason reasserted itself. The boys wouldn't be in prison for long. Not even Hoag could hold them. On the other hand, they were wounded and the Mexican was in a coma. The boys were good but they might need some help. And that help was likely to come from Smecker who was in direct contact with the Holy See. His first crusade was bound to be freeing the Saints. Weapons would be needed and Owen had to step up with something special. As Smecker's successor Eunice Bloom would say, things were about to get Biblical.

He looked around his arsenal: 20 times more than the first time the boys came calling but it suddenly seemed inadequate for the task at hand. He called his manufacturer's contact.

"Somethin' very big might be coming up and I need to be ready."

"Are we talking nuclear?"

"Fuck me, no! I'm not getting involved with that plutonium shit."

"Your choice, man, but you've got the cred now to go that route if you want."

Owen wasn't interested. He was big in Boston but he knew his limitations and had no desire to go global.

"Tell me what you've got in the way of weapons of slightly less than mass destruction."

* "You failed to maintain your weapon."