I got the call early in the morning at an ungodly hour that I was completely used to. It was my dear friend Tracy on the other line, no doubt calling me into work early.

"Becks! You'll never believe it! You remember the Saints, right?" My heart leapt at the reference. "Like the vigilante mobster killers from when we were in high school? They're back. Kevin called me this morning. I got the scoop! We're likely the only station to hear about it. You need to get your ass down here!"

"It's still early. I need to look cute if I'm to show my face this early." I said, trying to sound as calm as possible, thought my heart was racing.

"Well hurry! This is gonna be our big break!" she cried, hanging up on me.

I tried to collect my thoughts as I rushed into the shower. Eight years. It had been eight years since the last time there was, for lack of a better word, a massacre in Boston. The Saints, as everyone so lovingly referred to them, had disappeared completely from the area. No one had so much as uttered the name in the recent years. It was just a part of fine Boston history most had overlooked.

In those eight years, I had many accomplishments. I graduated from ColumbiaUniversity in New York with a degree in English, and then followed up with a Masters in Journalism. I came back to Boston shortly after to take care of my father. His health was dwindling of late and he had to quit his job as manager at Noland's. I got a job at the local news station. "Rebecca Ramone" as they had affectionately deemed me. Because "McGerkin is an atrocious last name."

My friend from high school, Tracy, had also gotten a job at the station, writing the odd story, but mostly just running the teleprompter. She had high aspirations to be a director, but her dreams fell short of reality. She had married Kevin out of high school and he got on the local police squad. He was now chief, six years later.

I remember my life eight years ago fondly. Not only was I young and reckless, but I was madly in love. I always selfishly felt like my life was torn out from under me. I was foolish. You see, I was in love with Murphy MacManus – one half of the vigilante crime fighting team fondly known as the Boston Saints.

The second semester of my senior year in high school, we had a torrid, secret love affair, against all odds and despite our ten year age difference. I still hadn't told anyone. The only person who knew was my father and that's only because Murphy had made it obvious at work, bragging about me to his brother on the job. I wasn't exactly old enough to be with him at the time and it only made our lives more interesting with me sneaking in and out of his apartment to make curfew.

I shut off the water and climbed out, wrapping my drenched body in a towel and staring at myself in the mirror through the fog. I still looked at lot like I did in high school. I just looked older. More mature. I wondered if he would recognize me now, after all these years. I felt silly. It had been so long, he had most likely move on by now. He and his brother, Connor, had no trouble finding ladies. Wherever it was they had ended up, I'm sure I was the only one stuck in the past.

I fixed my hair and makeup for the cameras, diligently and meticulously as if it were any day and then rushed downstairs to my car, racing through the dark to the address Tracy had texted to me while I was in the shower.

"Father Douglas McKinney." Kevin explained to us as I entered the church. The man was strewn across the floor with pennies lovingly placed on his eyes.

"This isn't right." I muttered. Tracy eyed me in response. "The Saints kill mobsters, murderers, drug dealers. Not priests." I explained, kneeling down and looking closer at the corpse in front of me.

"She's an amateur expert on the Saints. She wrote a thesis paper about them in school. Didn't you get some kind of award?" Tracy asked. I only nodded in acknowledgement. No one understood my obsession with the Saints.

"The feds will be here soon. We called them in. This isn't in our jurisdiction anymore. The Saints are felons, now. I need you girls out of the church in a few minutes." Kevin reasoned.

"No worries. We can do this from across the street. Use the church as a background."

"I'm not reporting a lie. This can't have been them." I protested.

"His arms are crossed over his chest and there are pennies on his eyes. It's pretty much a done deal." Kevin said as he walked us out.

"Anyone could copy that calling card. I'm telling you, this isn't right."

"We can just say words like "allegedly" and "supposedly." It'll be like we're not even lying." Tracy said. I could tell she was seething with anticipation. She wanted to get behind the camera more than anything instead of playing secretary. This was going to be her big break. I couldn't say no.

"This is Rebecca Ramone and I am here on the scene as investigations take place right behind me. In this local cathedral, we have received word that a beloved father has been sentenced to death in a familiar fashion. He was found this morning with crossed arms and with pennies placed over his eyes. As many of you may remember, this is the calling card of the beloved Boston Saints who have been seemingly MIA for the past decade. Is this calling card a fake copy? Or the real deal? From Channel 10 News, back to you at the station."

"Eh, Murph! You'll never believe it! Get yer ass out 'ere!" Connor shouted from the hotel room.

Murphy pulled on his boxers and put his towel over his shoulders, opening the bathroom door to see his brother, sprawled across the bed, watching television.

"Ye miss'd 'er!" Connor screamed.

"Miss'd who? What are ye talkin' about, Con?"

"Tha bosses daughter, ya leprechaun dick! Angel face is on the news! She's got 'erself a new name. Ye think she got 'erself hitched?"

Murphy hadn't forgotten his misbegotten love affair with the bosses daughter. On the contrary, it was the only fond memory while he had been in Ireland the past few years. He had every intention of coming back for her, but time had gotten the best of him. He was stuck on the farm for far too long and by the time things had blown over, he had reasoned that she had moved on by now.

They had only been back in Boston a few hours. After the long boat ride over, the Saints and their new companion, Romeo, stopped at a hotel before they made their first hit later tonight at the docks.

Murphy would be lying if he said the possibility of seeing her hadn't crossed his mind. "Ya, well she always deserved bett'r." He mumbled, hanging his head in defeat and turning back to the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

"What's with him?" Romeo asked.

"Oy, just the love uh 'is life."

I was disappointed. I never really expected to see the boys again, but a part of me had never stopped hoping that they really would come back. The chances that it was them today were slim to none.

Our story had made it on the news for each hourly update on the situation. Tracy was ecstatic and we all went out for drinks the following Saturday to celebrate our success.

"To Tracy!" I toasted, "You'll be behind the camera before you know it!" I cried, as my phone began to ring. I glanced at the caller ID before excusing myself outside for better reception. It was my boss, Clinton.

"Hello?"

"Rebecca! I need your ass down by the docks! Please tell me you're free!"

"What's going on?"

"There was another hit down here! It's a fucking mess! We think it was the Saints!"

I laughed to myself at the notion that people really believed it was them. "Alright. I can be there in twenty." I sighed to myself. So much for a fun night out. I looked down. I was a little over dressed to do the news, but it wasn't the worst thing that could happen.

I ran back inside and explained the situation to Tracy and the next thing I knew we were pulling up to the scene our boss had described to us.

There were bodies everywhere. The scene was roped off and press wasn't allowed clearance, but I heard some of the police officers mention the facts. If I didn't know any better, I would say it was them.

"There's Bloom! We need a statement! Get that goddamn camera on!" Clinton shouted.

"Lords fuckin' name." I muttered out of habit.

The camera man readied himself as Tracy handed me a microphone and I went chasing down Special Agent Eunice Bloom. "Miss Bloom! Miss Bloom! Please, a word." I shouted. She continued walking past us, marching through the crowd. "The people of Boston have a right to know!"

Suddenly, the fiery redhead turned on her heels and took one sound step toward me. "You want my official word? Off the record? It wasn't fucking them." And with that she turned back around and sauntered off.

Completely discouraged, I turned to the camera and made a motion as if I was slitting my throat, telling the camera man to cut. My hopes completely extinguished.