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Attired in a loose-fit mini dress with plunging V-neck, ankle-tie platform sandals, and designer sunglasses, Parker emerged from a modest, weathered cottage and into the bright, warm morning. The sky above was flawless azure, the streets empty; the tourists were over in Cancún or perhaps Tulum or Mexico City, and the localswith their unwavering work ethicdidn't come out to play until the work day ended.

A hemp tote high upon her shoulder, Parker strode with determination, crossing several streets, disappearing inside an expansive, brightly painted market. Two children shrieked wildly, pleading for galletas and empanadas, interrupting briefly their mother's transaction, the melodic flow of Spanish.

Parker selected fruit and was considering sunflowers for the vases in her bedroom when she felt an odd, not wholly unpleasant sensation and knew instantly that Jarod was close and evading him improbable.

"The man, the myth, the legend," purred Parker when Jarod was still easily fifteen feet from her. "What brings you to Mexico, Jarod? The paletas? The Convent de San Bernardino de Siena?"

Jarod smiled warmly, said her namenot the coerced childhood lie; her real name. He studied loose and wavy brunette locks that extended beyond mid-back, much longer than he'd ever seen her hair. Consequently, Jarod was spared the grimace that marred Parker's face, but not her soft, tremulous rebuttal. "That little girl is dead, Jarod."

"No," Jarod countered gently with alarming certitude. "No, she is notnot while I'm still alive she isn't; I won't let her die."

"Bastard," Cried Parker quietly, her voice a splintered whisper that too closely resembled a whimper. She drew a sharp, watery breath, blinked away tears, focused on avocados and the enduring carefree laughter and jaunty shrieks tumbling from paletas de aguasstained lips and abominable men in pools of blood staring into the void through lifeless eyes.

Jarod's voice breached the silence, refused to be ignored. "That little girl was my best friend; she saved my life; she is the reason dozens of other little girls are safe in their homes right now, the reason hundreds of children will still be safe in their homes tomorrow. If you want to kill her," Jarod continued, his voice suddenly hard, incisive, "you're going to have to kill me first."

"That's unfair," Parker hissed.

"Yes," Jarod agreed, recalling hundreds of instances in which Little Miss Holy Terror had echoed her adult counterpart's declaration. "Yes, I suppose it is. Fair or not it's the truth. And your mother would be proud that her little girl grew up to be-- you."

Parker closed her eyes, informed through clenched jaw, "I'm no longer chasing. Why the hell are you still tormenting?"

"I've never wanted to torment youfor what ever it's worth."

"Never wanted to," Parker repeated with a snort of disbelief. "Then I don't want to imagine the hell my life would have been had you actually put some effort into it."

"That would be a monumental misuse of imagination," Jarod said with some distaste, advancing at last. "You know, you're not an easy woman to find; I almost didn't," he confessed in a low, grave voice.

"Mm," hummed Parker, gathering two limes in an inexplicably unsteady hand; she mutely cursed the appendage, and Jarod. "Almost."

"Yes," agreed Jarod, stiffly. "It's almost as if you didn't want me to find you this time."

"What do you want, Jarod?" Rejoined Parker brusquely.

"Valladolid is beautiful," observed Jarod casually.

"Why are you here?"

"You know why I'm here," he answered. "I missed you in court. You never had any intention of testifying, did you?"

"Not my style," answered Parker numbly, offering a tall, slim woman a handful of bills and informing her in Spanish to keep the change.

"Executing people isn't either," Jarod murmured softly, following Parker outside. He whispered her name again, adding somberly, "This revenge spree has to end."

"It will," Parker assured him.

"When you've killed them all," Jarod asked, smiling enigmatically. "I cannot allow you to do that. Interpol has suspicions; it's only a matter of time before-"

"Allow," repeated Parker crisply, drawing to an abrupt halt. "They don't suspect me."

"No, they don't," agreed Jarod. "ICE, however, is investigating the disappearance of several high value assets and two of their known associates, all potential security risks, from its radar. I'm asking you to stop this before it's too late. Please. Because I can't protect you if-"

"I don't want your protection."

"That doesn't mean you don't need it," came Jarod's gentle retort.

Parker laughed.

"What's funny?" Jarod asked.

"Sex traffickers aren't assets. They're assholes, monsters; ICE should be more careful about who it climbs into bed with. And when did you become the hunter?"

"I didn't. I'm not hunting you. I'm trying to help you. I want the names of the traffickers; I can assure you they'll be arrested."

"Do what you have to do Jarod," Parker instructed with an expectant, rather scrutinizing gaze at dark jeans and a pale blue-grey shirt opened at the neck. No gun. No handcuffs. "I'm not coming along quietly or willingly and Mexico is no longer honoring any extradition treaty or cooperating, in any way, with the states- and I don't blame Mexico. And you-- if you are here to save the remaining living traffickers you're too late to stop what's already in motion. Even if I wanted to stop it, and I don't, I couldn't. By now they've landed on their private air strip in remote Russia. And it's funny: the same isolation that allowed them to sell children will be the end of them."

"How," inquired Jarod eagerly. "Timed devices? C-4? Trip wires? Dynamite? Cross-bows? Rifles? Grenades? What did you do? Booby trap their-"

"Yes," Parker interrupted curtly.


"Yes," repeated Jarod incredulously. "Yes to all?"

"I don't want them merely maimed, Jarod," Parker said, swiveling.

Jarod drew a breath, jogged to catch up with her. "I think you need to talk to someone about what happened," he suggested warmly.

"All right, Jarod," Conceded Parker impassively, her stride never faltering. "What happened is those bastards kicked me until I was unconscious, every day, sometimes twenty times a day-- just for shits and giggles, indulging their every disgusting, drug-fueled whim and for a brief time they had an audience of terrified children who cried and screamed. I don't really want to think about what might have happened if Clemente hadn't pumped the bastards with Valium and anaphrodisiacs. That's in my official statement. It's on Kirkland's desk. Rachel has a copy and I know you've read it already."

"Chemical castration," Jarod said, somberly.

"Yeah, and don't think for a second that her motives were selfless. It wasn't about protecting me or the children or even herself. That bitch cared only about money and knew that nothing hurt her precious bottom line like, and I quote, "damaged merchandise."

Jarod suppressed a retch, his step faltered. Parker heard him gulp for air, refused to give him even a moment to recover, compose himself.

No one gave me a fucking moment and most people have stopped giving a fucking moment's thought to the victims. And now wonder-boy is up in my grill, judging me. Fuck him.

"I think you'll agree that those details aren't necessary. You've, no doubt, read your girlfriend's analysis. You know what the crimes entail."

"I know Clemente was a sadist, child abductor, a-"

"Not to mention a rapist," interrupted Parker tartly, "and she probably enjoyed long walks on the beach and eighteenth century Russian poetry, too. Whatever. She's dead now. That's all anyone needs to know about her."

"But if you want to tell me-"

"The bitch filmed everything. There's a market for that brand of depravity, apparently. Her hired muscle certainly enjoyed watching. There's a market for snuff films, too. She recorded my supposed death with every intention of mass distribution. And before you ask, no, Jarod, I didn't kill those men to prevent them from distributing those recordings."

"I'm listening," he said when she fell silent.

"I was forced to listen to them describe, explicitly, the things they'd done to children and women and men over the decades. One of the knuckle-dragging morons decided that verbal recounts alone were inadequate, that seeing is believing. He held open my eyelids with hands that reeked of licorice and coerced me to watch his home movies. And that's why they are dead now. If you absolutely insist upon tossing up the Tuesday morning special that you, no doubt, ordered from Maria's Taqueria I'll elaborate for you."

"I only want you to say what you need to say- what ever that might be. I'm listening."

"Then listen to this," Parker snarled, pushing a hand through her hair, "God damn it, Jarod, if I could kill every single one of them again I'd do it."

"What about Clemente?"

"Spit that bitch's name out of your mouth, purge it, eternally, from your vocabulary, now. Or leave. She's no longer anyone's problem. Ding-fucking-dong, Jarod."

Jarod turned away as if he'd been struck, inhaled sharply, closed his eyes; he was still regaining his equanimity when Parker asked, "Are you coming inside or not?"

"This isn't a hotel," Jarod said, studying the crumbling stone arch and small, front lawn whose defense from the sun was a canopy of blue jacarandas and massive purple hibiscus trees. The cottage beyond the lawn was a Spanish colonial that might have been a bungalow in a previous life.

A battered brick footpath dead-ended at six sturdy steps that provided access to a narrow, unadorned veranda. Parker unlocked a heavy wooden doorwith medieval aspirationsbuilt into the house's sole turret and permitted Jarod's entrance with a sweeping flourish. 

"No, this is my home--- as if you didn't already know," answered Parker with a snort of incredulity, closing the door.

"I didn't know. Like I said, finding you wasn't easy."

Parker deposited her keys and sunglasses on a mahogany console table and chose to address Jarod's previous inquiry. "I wouldn't have dropped her into your lap if killing her had been my intention."

"What was your intention," Jarod asked, following Parker into a spacious kitchen brightened naturally by a bank of bare windows.

"I wanted her to suffer; that's why I gave her to you. I enjoyed the show, by the way. And then I left the states and here we are. ¡Viva México! I was rather overextended, and, karma, in all her glorious wonder, decided to lend a hand."

"You were watching," repeated Jarod thickly. "Then you know that her apprehension was nearly botched, she resisted."

"That's a hell of an understatement. I suppose there's no diplomatic euphemism for 'made the woman soil herself' hmm," Parker said, putting away her purchases. "My favorite part was when she nearly escaped six Agents--- only to collide with you. The look of complete horror on her face will be forever etched in my mind. I could never have provoked that kind of-" Parker fell silent and with a wicked smile, concluded contentedly, "visceral fear."

"I see," remarked Jarod, blandly.

"I almost felt sorry for her," Parker confessed and said with a gesture to indicate a high, narrow table and two chairs, "Shall we?"

Jarod sat, waited for Parker to do the same."You knew she'd be terrified of me. Was that your primary reason for texting me the coordinates?"

Parker shrugged noncommittally. "No one terrorizes better. Oh, Jarod," Parker purred when Jarod averted his disparaging gaze, "consider it a compliment. I believed she harbored resentment and a blinding disdain for authority in general; that she had issues with you, specifically, came as a pleasant surprise. To me; and you certainly seemed to be enjoying yourself as well."

"It was never about justice. Was it?"

"Justice. With a drizzle of something extra-- and dark."

"And you're telling me that I provided the something extra?"

"It's not exactly a secret. I read your notebooks, Genius. Hell, I interviewed the criminals that you terrorized prior to delivering them to the police. It wasn't necessary for you to nearly drown that hydrophobic rapist or torment that coronerwho is still being treated for post-traumatic stress disorder, by the way."

Jarod scoffed, disparaged sternly, "You have no idea what it is I-"

Parker's sharp laughter silenced Jarod. "A taste of their own medicine? What it is you do, Jarod, is neither legal nor sane. When you first began leaving behind those notebooks I believed you were crazy and out of control. Hell, maybe you were crazy and out of control and maybe that is the only way to get shit done-- someone has to do it because the justice system sure as hell isn't. Murdering those men has never felt wrong but I know that no one will ever tell me it was right. And I don't need to hear that it was right. It was necessary. And I don't regret killing them."

"Pierce Livingston doesn't regret your killing them either. He was ecstatic to learn that only two traffickers were alive."

"The Livingston's left their home. Joana still hasn't fully recovered; she barely survived, Jarod; the pair aren't certain their marriage will be as lucky."

"Why didn't you tell me that Pierce was planning to go after the traffickers if you didn't?"

Parker grimaced, briefly averted her gaze. "You didn't ask," she answered, at last, her voice so low that Jarod had to strain to hear her.

"He offered you half a million dollars to kill them. Why did you refuse the money?"

"Killing those men was my pleasure."

"You were protecting him, weren't you? You've been protecting him all this time, haven't you?"

"I was protecting his daughter. Those children and their families have suffered enough, Jarod."

"Do you think your family hasn't? That you haven't suffered enough? Ethan is worried sick about you."

"About me, the global economy, the fall of democracy, a planet in flames, the impending apocalypse, what brand of cereal he'll eat for breakfast tomorrow. Worrying is Ethan's signature characteristic, but he's still on his meds and he hasn't missed an appointment with Sydney. Should I be worried about Ethan?"

Jarod exhaled a ragged breath, pushed a hand over his puzzled face. Christ. "You've certainly polished your deflection skills, leveled up."

"Flattery, Jarod," said Parker, her eyes wide and challenging, "will get you everywhere."

"Except where I want to be, evidently."

"And just where the hell do you want to be, Pretender?"

"I'd settle for somewhere in the vicinity of the truth."

"I've told you the truth. You can either accept it or not. If you've come here to pull off scabs you're in the wrong house, my friend; I've seen enough blood." Parker drew a breath and with a satisfied smile, asked warmly, "Something to drink? I have agua de jamaica, papaya-lime agua fresca, cold brew coffee, tequila, water."

 

"No, I'm fine, thank you," Jarod answered and observed her noncommittal shrug. Frustrated, Jarod shook his head, said, "You didn't want me to find you."

Parker rose, strode determinedly to the refrigerator, seized a pitcher of coffee, filled two glasses.

"I know you have a reason," Jarod said. "I'd like to hear it."

"How's the family, Jarod?"

"They're well," answered Jarod, softly. "Thank you for asking. Why-"

"And Kirkland? Is he aware that you've left the states?"

"Tell me," insisted Jarod. "Why didn't you want me to find you?"

"Does it matter?"

"Yes," Jarod answered sharply. "Yes, it does. It matters to me. You're avoiding the question-- just as you've been avoiding me. I want to know what I did wrong; I'd like an opportunity to make it right. If nothing else allow me to apologize."

"You didn't do anything wrong."

"If that's true why-"

"Have you given any thought at all to what you're doing here?" Asked Parker. "To repercussions?"


Jarod's face twisted in confusion. "What? What is it, exactly, that you think I'm doing?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake," murmured Parker. "You're in love with me," she shouted. "With me," repeated Parker indignantly. "God," she added with mirthless laugh. "You drop that kind of bomb, Jarod, you should anticipate some fallout."

"It is truly astonishing," Jarod said with some solemnity, regarding Parker sympathetically. "You didn't flinch in the face of Raines, the Centre, Triumvirate, voices in your head, homicidal monks, ghost children, human traffickers, death, or life in prison. Love, however-"

Parker revolved her eyes. "Doesn't frighten me either, ass-hat," she interrupted flatly. "I'm a murderer; I will always be a murderer. You. Are. A. Cop. And I shouldn't have to spell this one out for you-- considering you're also a genius." Parker set a glass in front of Jarod, punctuating her words with a dull thud.

Pressing her palms to the table top, Parker demanded testily, "Drink your coffee, Jarod, and then go home. Tell Kirkland," she advised crisply, "whatever it is you need to tell him to keep your job."

Jarod covered Parker's hands with his, gazed into her face, said, simply, "Kirkland's gone."

"Gone?"

"He feels responsible for you. The sentencing--uh enraged him. He had enough, moved to Cuba."

"Cuba," Parker repeated, her surprise evident. "I'll be damned," she added softly, studying their joined hands. "Good for him."

Jarod nodded his agreement. "He's happy." A beat. "Are you?"

"Is anyone?" Counterquestioned Parker, sharply.

"Perhaps," answered Jarod thoughtfully, displeased with Parker's non-answer. "I'm not," Jarod confessed. "I miss this, touching you. I work eighteen-hour days to avoid thinking about you-- only to dream of you when I finally sleep." Jarod whispered Parker's name and asked with an expression of bewilderment, "What in the hell have you done to me?"

"Nothing you didn't consent to," Parker answered with a sly smile.

"True," affirmed Jarod, amiably, forgetting himself entirely and staring at her. "That's very true."

An abrupt, one-note laughthat failed to conceal the escalating tension and annoyancedeparted Parker's lips. "Jarod, are you going to kiss me or just sit there?"

"The former," Jarod answered eagerly, drawing Parker into his arms, murmuring against her lips, "Definitely the former."


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