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Divine providence. Jarod believed it was nothing short of divine providence.

It's no miracle, Kyle explained without being prompted by Jarod. You weren't the only one they cloned, you know.

Jarod hadn't known. He'd feared, yes, and had dismissed those fears.

Until now.

Kyle offered documentation, photos, surveillance footage- all of which had been authenticated.

The Centre employs the best of the best. Top assassins, shrinks, researchers, specialists. Their cryonics facility was state of the art. They weren't only preserving clones, either. They were also regenerating organs, limbs.

Regenerating.

Preserving.

Jarod dropped leadenly into a straight-back chair.

Preserving.

He was reminded of an old farm house- - where he'd once sought refuge- - whose pantries and basement were filled with hundreds of shelves of preserved fruits and vegetables in tight-lidded jars- to be taken down and opened when resources were low, when the opened jars were all used up.

He grimaced in disgust, his eyelashes fluttered slowly, the muscles in his jaw worked of their volition.

That's all we are to the Parkers, it's all we've ever been, Kyle continued gravely, resources to be used at their discretion, to be replicated and stored away in the event that we are no longer viable- it's the only way they could guarantee their success, maintain their status. They will always need a Pretender, they will always need leverage. He told a tale of labeled petri dishes, frozen semen by the barrels, replacement body parts numbering in the tens of thousands, all of which contained his, as well as Jarod's- - among others'- - DNA.

He had considered stealing the clone but considered the rampant paranoia that likely accompanied any position within the Centre. The boys in the tower were inherently suspicious. It would've been awfully convenient for Kyle's clone to vanish on the very evening that Kyle died in his brother's arms. Furthermore, Kyle believed such a strike to be an extraordinary facile one. He wanted the theft and the death to be two separate incidents, intended to leave no room for doubt.

There had been one option, one chance to pull it off. And there had been sixty casualties.

Kyle talked briefly about the events that had occurred behind the scenes, the friendships he'd developed- friends who'd helped him pull off the job. "They're former Marines. I met them during one my shorter stints in the Corps when I was between prison sentences. They'd been court-martialed."

"And you cleared their names?" Jarod asked. "That's why they helped you."

Kyle nodded, somewhat disinterestedly. "When I called in the IOU, they didn't even hesitate."

They approached stealthily, severed the facility's surveillance feed and communication, and jammed all mobile devices. The men then entered and opened fire on employees. The clone was id'd, transported to the hospital morgue where Kyle impatiently waited.

Following the transplant, the corpse was returned to the facility; Kyle knew that the Centre recovery team would comb the debris for charred bones and teeth. They had.

"Three days later, we reestablished communication with the Centre, looped old surveillance and security video, made a few vital edits, and had one of the hostages report an incident with the onsite crematory. A break in a gas line." Kyle clarified. "By that time, we'd already doused the place with an undetectable military-grade accelerant."

"The Centre suspected no foul play." Emily said, appreciatively.

Kyle nodded his affirmation. "The break was blamed on earthquakes; off the record, however, the investigators believed that Raines was too greedy with funding to have the facility regularly inspected and maintained."

"And the hostages?" Troy (Jarod's clone) inquired, eagerly.

Kyle turned, stared out the window, and then answered, woodenly:

"The two hostages attempted to escape. And were killed."

Kyle indulged their questions (well into the morning hours) with sometimes vague- - but never glib- - answers, satisfied every curiosity. And Maggie had aplenty. And was the only member of his family to voice suspicions.

"If there is indeed a clone- or was a clone, how do we know that you are the genuine Kyle and not the replica? How do we know that you aren't on their side?"

She believed he was a cold blooded killer. And he believed she was hypocritical and austere. Kyle shook his head and simply replied, "you don't", which prompted Jarod to intervene.

"The Centre would have been hard pressed to replicate scars and tattoos, especially scars and tattoos that they weren't even aware existed. If he was an imposter, mom, an enemy, we'd be in the Centre now, instead of discussing this."

"I still don't understand." Margaret declared irritably. Her mouth was drawn tight in reflection, her brow creased in confusion, her voice colored with a restrained formality and just a hint of derision- as if she didn't believe her son was alive and well and standing before her. She was angry, too.

Angry that he'd been alive all those years and hadn't sought his family, and angry too that she lived in a world where- - courtesy of cutting edge advancements in science- - she could no longer even trust her own eyes. "Didn't you operate on him, Jarod? Weren't you on the transplant team?"

"I was only the delivery man."

Maggie wasn't quite placated. Yet.

"Was the clone alive?" She blurted impatiently. "Or- or did you-"

"Mom!" Emily exclaimed her objection abruptly in a tone colored with acrimony and dolor.

Who is he to decide who lives or dies? He could hear the voices chastising. Who are you to decide who lives or dies? Who are you, Kyle? Who? Who!

Kyle snapped his eyes closed, drew in a fortifying breath and pivoted around to face his family.

"It's all right, Emily." He said, fashioning a tight smile. "My clone, apparently, sustained some sort of brain injury."

"Brain injury?" Maggie repeated fretfully, an expression of abject incredulity marring her features.

"Records indicate that he'd been on life support for three months. His organs were viable; his brain- uh, not so much. Invasive behavior modification gone awry." Kyle surmised with a grimace of disgust contorting his lips.

"Frontal lobe separation?" Jarod ventured.

"Or cortex deafferentation," Kyle answered, "or a number of other barbaric procedures." Kyle added with a dismissive wave. "That bastard Raines is a regular Doctor Ishii." He snarled and shared an expression of contempt with Jarod.

"But- well," Maggie stammered, weakly, "you didn't answer the question. Was he alive?"

"Mom!" Emily decried once more with renewed pique.

Who are you to decide who lives or dies you sniveling little piece of excrement? You are nothing!

Kyle returned to his attention to the window.

Who are you to decide who lives or dies? Who are you to decide who lives or dies? Who are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or dies

Shut up.

Who are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or diesWho are you to decide who lives or dies

Shut up! Shut up! Shut up godamnit!

"Shut up!"

"W-what?" Maggie asked, feebly and clutched her husband's hand for support.
 
"Kyle." Jarod said softly. "Are you all right?"

"Fine," Kyle answered gruffly, "Uh, for all intents and purposes, no. He was not alive when he was transported. He was on life support, he was never taken off the ventilator: the heart had to be viable." Kyle answered and then, when his mother- - reflected in the glass- - continued to gape at him uncomprehendingly, he added quite simply (perhaps too simply): "he was already dead." With a snort of anger, Kyle erupted bitterly: "Look: I'm not like you. I'm not like any of you! I'm certainly not like Jarod." Kyle pivoted, yanked his leather jacket from the coat rack. "I've spent my entire life searching for you, mom. I realize now that you didn't want me to find yo-"

"Son," Major Edward Charles emphatically interjected, "your mother is only concerned. She's suffered a shock. We all have."

"You were shot!" Maggie exclaimed tearfully. "Jarod watched you die. He was certain that you were dead. He said there was blood."

An irritated Jarod silenced his mother with a dismissive wave and pushed a cup of coffee into Kyle's hand - all the while gently coaxing the jacket from his brother's grasp. "Lyle could have killed you, Kyle." Jarod said softly. "You were taking a huge risk by stepping into his line of fire and taking a bullet that was intended for me."

"He could have killed me, had he fired an live round instead of a wax one. I had a few moments alone with his gun, if you recall."

Jarod nodded his affirmation, returned his brother's jacket to the rack. He vividly remembered his visit to Red Rock, remembered every detail. "You do realize that people have been killed with blanks, that even rubber bullets can be deadly, don't you?"

Kyle grinned. "You know, there were moments when I was certain that you felt my heart beating."

Jarod had been so stricken with grief, he wouldn't have felt his brother's heart, wouldn't have noticed the slight rise and fall of his chest.

"The only thing that matters now is that we saved a life, and, more than that, we're going to end this war with the Parkers, for once and for all."

"That's something we need to discuss." Jarod said softly.

"You're damned right it is, big brother. It's time to make the Parkers pay."

"Not all of the Parkers." Jarod corrected and observed as his brother's eyes narrowed.

"Oh, let me guess: you've been bewitched by Miss Parker, fallen under the spell of the ice queen."

"Kyle-"

"The woman is bad news, Jarod."

"Just hear me out."

Kyle listened, however, he didn't believe, didn't want to believe.

Miss Parker.

Miss Parker?

Kyle shook his head grimly. Miss Parker.

The "get-Kyle" Miss Parker siccing the sweepers on him at the Dragon House. She had been more wary than aggressive when she'd visited the hole he'd been thrown into down on death row. Kyle still vividly recalled the maximum security sector of ward thirteen- the place was a regular quacks-R-us, and Miss Parker had been afraid. Angry and afraid.

She was all emotion. She wore her feelings across her features, would have made for a lousy poker partner, and an even lousier war buddy. Which brought him to yet another fault: Miss Parker didn't strike him as the type of woman who played well with others. She seemed incapable of compromise and to his knowledge possessed no leadership skills, had no friends. In fact, aside from that incisive tongue of hers and those cold blue eyes, she had nothing to offer; after all, wars were not won with dagger glares and rapier wit.



Those astute blue eyes were presently regarding- - somewhat morosely- - the finger of bourbon swirling about in the crystal tumbler, and filling with tears that she would not allow to spill past her eyelids.

It hadn't been a horrible plan. In fact-

No.

No.

"No." She whispered aloud to the emptiness.

He was waiting for her, waiting near an old tree, in an open field underneath a bowl of stars. Probably smiling up appreciatively. A lovely night, an omen.

"No." She repeated. The sepulchral tick-ticking of the antique grandfather clock in the corner stabbed the silence, answered, admonished her.

Focus, Parker. Focus.

She hadn't.

Jarod's proposition had distracted her briefly. His dreams always had. She recalled afternoons wandering the Centre's labyrinthine sub-levels (the place seemed to be one enormous maze in which every door, corridor and employee looked exactly the same) by his side and listening intently as he romanticized about one elaborate adventure after another.

Leaving the Centre via teleportation, whisking the two of them off to Lichtenstein or some other obscure locale where they'd drink hot cocoa with marshmallows and whipped cream and do whatever they wanted: listen to music, watch television, ski, swim, surf. Or hot-ballooning around the world- it'll be just like the book, except we'll never land.

We'll go to Capileira and sleep, he'd once suggested prior to a month long simulation involving sleep-deprivation.

Her father (the only father she'd ever known) had since cautioned her against Jarod and recklessness. Spontaneity. Capriciousness. And dreaming. She was to never behave erratically. There were rules; she vividly recalled them:

No walking off in a huff of rebellion.
No changing your mind once you've made it up.
No outburst of tears. Or laughter. One must control their emotions, and never allow their emotions to control them. A person controlled by emotions is weak.
The heart is fickle. People can be fickle. Your mother was fickle. And weak. And she's dead now- I certainly wouldn't want that to happen to my Angel.

She'd heeded his advice and fashioned a perfect mask of indifference, had learned to exude confidence, to become self-possessed, structured, stable. And she was still alive, was older now than her mother had been at the time of her death.

Because she had listened to her father and not those damned voices. (And yet, it was her father's voice telling her that Jarod couldn't be trusted, that the new Centre legacy begins with her, that the scrolls are real- and she was listening.)

I'd be fool to leave now, to join Jarod in launching an assault against the Centre. We'd never win. The Centre will never fall.

She simply couldn't envision a life outside the Centre, a world in which the Centre as she knew it no longer existed. The corruption was too widespread, its root system complex, deep-seated. The Centre, she opined, was insurmountable.

From her perspective, it was logical to work from the inside, attempt to reduce causalities and iniquities and over time, restore the Centre to its former altruistic glory.

To abandon the Centre was to abandon every chance of finding the truth. As if to punctuate that thought, the half hour tolled from the dark corner, resonated the empty house.

I've worked too hard for too many years to walk away now, and to put not only herself but Broots and Debbie in danger, to risk it all on a scheme that sounded like every other fantastical notion Jarod had ever dreamed up: too good to be true.

I've come too far to be swayed by the whims of Franken-boy and his criminally insane brother.

Jarod would have frowned down upon the pet names, however, he had anticipated her second thoughts. He knew there would be doubts. He also knew that the longer Parker remained at the Centre, the more difficult it was going to be for her to leave it behind. Nevertheless, he guesstimated that she'd be no more than ten minutes late.

Or fifteen, he amended minutes later- - with withering confidence- - and willed her headlights to appear on the horizon.

To his left, Kyle hissed a string of obscenities, continued staring off at the distance.

"This is insane, Jarod."

"What is?"

"This." Kyle gestured impatiently. "How do you know that the black choppers aren't en route?"

"Call it a gut feeling."

"Are you sure that what you're feeling in your gut isn't hunger?"

Jarod chuckled heartily and parked his hand on his brother's shoulder. "Kyle, we can trust her."

Kyle grimaced, shrugged off the hand- he continued to struggle with displays of affection. "If we can, if what you say is true, if she has begun batting for our side, where the hell is she?"

"I don't know." Jarod answered with a only a cursory glance at his watch. She was late. Another look at the minute hand wouldn't change that.

"This is the correct rendezvous point?" Kyle asked.

"Yes."

"Is it possible that she spotted me- I can understand how it might spook her to see a dead-"

"No. She knows that you are alive. And Miss Parker isn't easily spook-"

"She knows? Wait a minute: you told her that I'm alive? Jarod, my God! How do you even know that you can trust her?"

"Calm down-"

"No, I won't calm down! I know that you are besotted by the woman, Jarod, but the success of our plan is hinged on the element of surprise, their believing I'm dead, that the only hostile witness to their clandestine operations is a non-factor."

"Your secret is safe with her."

"How do you know that?"

"I know her."

"Oh? You know her?"

"Her loyalties have shifted, Kyle. Trust me."

"Trust you?" Kyle chuckled. "Those words have become your de facto trademark, big brother, and I've no doubt that some troubled soul out there might be comforted by your little catch-phases but where the Parkers are concerned I trust no one."

"She has changed".

"Why? Because she helped you rescue J.R.?" Kyle eyes narrowed. "Jarod, she had everything to gain. She's chairwoman now, in case you hadn't noticed. Do I need to remind you just how many years that woman has been terrorizing our family?

The casual blindness, the utter disregard and nonchalance with which she has regarded the horrors orchestrated by her father, by Raines? She watched as I pretended to die in your arms and then she- what was it that she said again, Jarod? What words of comfort did she offer you in your time of grief?"

"Kyle-"

"Time to come home, Jarod." Kyle mocked, cruelly.

"What was she supposed to say to me, Kyle, when Centre sweepers were present?"

"Oh, so you're telling me that it was all a pretense?"

"No. I can't tell you that it was all a pretense; however, I do believe that she's proven herself worthy of a second chance."

"Why?"

"Everyone deserves one."

"No. Not everyone. She is a Parker, Jarod, she deserves-"

"We can trust her, Kyle!" Jarod trudged on resolutely.

"Stop saying that word!" Kyle, clearly nettled, erupted angrily. "You don't know that you can trust her. You don't even know her."

"I know her. I've always known her. I know her heart. I know that-"

"Jarod, you don't even know her name, let alone-"

"Of course I know her name!" Jarod exclaimed incredulously.

Kyle crossed his arms, challenged his brother.

"Okay then, tell me: what is her name?"

"I'm not supposed to tell anyone- and, I've already accidentally told our father. It's a- it's a secret."

"A secret." Kyle repeated. "Well, you're right about that- in fact, that may be the only thing you've gotten right where that woman is concerned. Since you're sworn to secrecy and I am not, I will tell you the name- - the secret- - she shared with you: Elaine- Catherine's middle name."

"How-"

"I've turned the Centre's records inside out. I have the transcripts and results of every simulation, including the ones that your infallible Miss Parker participated in."

"Simulation? What are you-"

"No." Kyle said. "I'm not going to tell you. I'm going to show you."

Because seeing is believing. Or used to be anyway, back before his mother deduced that he was an imposter clone sent by the Centre to infiltrate the Charles family, back when his brother ran from Miss Parker. The old Jarod would never have attempted to ally himself with a Parker. Jarod, would, with any luck, see the error of his ways. Soon.

When all of the evidence had been viewed and the screen darkened, Jarod ejected himself from the leather chair, accused Kyle of altering the video, of demonizing an innocent woman- aware all the while that Parker was not completely innocent and that his behavior was both irrational and reprehensible.

Kyle stood patiently and listened intently while Jarod paced angrily and cursed. Finally, Jarod thrust a trembling hand into his shirt pocket.

Wordlessly, he retrieved his mobile, punched in Parker's number with rigid angry fingers and paced the floor, up the hall and down again and growing more furious by the second.

A lie. It was all a lie. Everything she ever told me was a lie!

Jarod didn't give her the opportunity to answer the telephone in her usual rude manner. And who the hell answers the phone like that anyway? What the hell is wrong with her?

"Wh-"

"Where were you?"

"I-" She began coldly, fell silent. "I believe you've dialed the wrong number."

Jarod assumed that she was in a meeting, imagined Lyle sneering at her from across the table. "We need to talk. I'll be at the same location again tonight. Nine o'clock."

"It's no problem at all." She answered frothily and promptly ended the the call.

It became apparent to Jarod at approximately half past nine that, contrarily, there was a problem. An enormous one. He found this whole being-stood-up-by-a-woman business rather infuriating. It was a first, to his knowledge. He wanted it to be a last.

He dialed her number. Again. And more angrily than before. Misdialed. Redialed. Cursed under his breath. Dialed again. Success. And not success: the machine picked up. He snarled intelligibly. And then pocketed the mobile, which to his surprise, rang two minutes later.

"Yes." He said gruffly.

"J-Jarod."

"Mr. Broots?"

"Broots. Just Broots, okay? Because uh- well, it's a little strange to be addressed as Mister by someone older than I- and uh, eww, this phone booth smells weird. Geez, what the hell is that-"

"Broots!" Jarod's voice thundered.

"Uh, yeah?"

"Where is Miss Parker?"

"She's still in a meeting with Lyle and the Triumvirate. And that creepy Mr. Cox."

Jarod digested that for a moment with a sneer of disgust curving his lips, and then swallowed and asked: "What kind of meeting?"

"The information-gathering kind. They aren't calling it an interrogation but every Centre employee was summoned and Mr. Cox is asking a helluva lot of questions."

"Do they suspect her?" Jarod asked.

"Uh, no. I was afraid they would, but no they don't. They have zero suspects and no leads on J.R.- but they didn't actually tell us that. Tony did. Tony works in security and-"

"Broots!" Jarod yelled. "I don't care about Tony. If they don't suspect her, why is she still in the meeting?"

"Well, they were going to let her leave with me, but Mr. Cox believes she could be useful. She's Chairwoman now and-"

"Useful." Jarod interrupted. "Useful how?"

"Hey," Broots chuckled, "you gotta admit it: she can be intimidating- what with the gun and all."

"Yes, the gun. It can be quite intimidating. Does she have it with her now?"

"Ha." Broots laughed. "No. Of course not."

"No. Of course not," Jarod concurred, his voice and gut both filling with dread- and with an incomprehensible rapidity, "and I think you will agree that she's not terribly intimidating- not in the least without the gun, and certainly not invincible. How do you know that she's not in trouble? That she hasn't been found out? That she didn't walk into a trap? That she's safe?"

"See," Broots grinned at Jarod's concerned, "I knew you would ask that and I'm way, way ahead of you: I'm listening via communication device."

"You planted one on her. Very clever, Broots." Jarod lauded and could almost hear Broots' ego spike several degrees.

"Yeah, they are undetectable, skin tone. Uh- ooh, she's on her way out now."

"Then, I'll call-"

"No!" Broots blurted. "Uh, well, what I mean to say is that y- you shouldn't. I- how did she word it? She-"

"She's decided to stay on and run the place, hasn't she?" Jarod asked, shirtily.

"Uh, well, that's not exactly what she said, but-"

"Damn it!" Jarod growled.

"Whoa now, don't shoot the messenger!" Broots exclaimed.

"Why not?" Jarod asked, dryly.

"She's going to contact you when it's safe."

"So, I should expect her," Jarod ventured, "never?"

"Huh?" A puzzled Broots returned.

"You know, she's not nearly as smart as I believed her to be, and Broots: you can tell her that I said so."

Jarod believed he could goad her into an argument, at least make her angry enough to telephone him. He was wrong. And his parents were given the opportunity to see their oldest son brood, to see Jarod-the-sulky. It wasn't pretty. And they were certain he would have grown out of the temper tantrum phase by the age of forty.

He groused and murmured obscenities long after his family retired to their bedrooms, sleep rolls and assorted cots. At the breakfast table, over a large glass of orange juice, he back-talked his mother and discovered what it was to be admonished by a father: "Don't take that tone with your mother, young man!

Coming out of hiding was a mistake but we allowed it because you believed Kyle's DNA had fallen into the wrong hands. Now that J.R. is safe, however, and we are all together again, we should return the young man to his mother, get him back to his life and get back to our own lives."

It felt good in some ways (his father still loved his mother; years and miles apart had only strengthened their marriage) but mostly he felt ashamed of himself. And even more angry with Parker. His father was right- Jarod knew it, knew that he couldn't continue to wait for her.

There were so many lives at stake. And there were so many variables.

Too many variables.

Jarod didn't know how exactly he intended to make everyone happy: J.R. was rather anxious to return to his mother, basketball and some semblance of normality.

Edward and Maggie longed for security, for their family to go underground. Together. Emily, however, wanted to continue with her career in journalism- even if meant venturing out on her own again.

Similarly, Troy wanted to study medicine, have a real life- the sort of life that J.R. spoke of incessantly, the kind of life Miss Parker had discussed with him all those years ago. He wanted the kind of life other people had, normal people. I'm tired of hiding, of running.

Kyle agreed, ingratiatingly. He wasn't keen on the prospect of going underground either, and insisted that everyone would be satisfied if they simply moved forward with his plan. With the Parkers out of the picture, they'd be safe to live the lives of their choosing and Maggie and Edward wouldn't have to worry.

"Out of the picture?" Ethan exclaimed in protest. "That's my half brother and sister you're talking about!"

Ah, Joie de Vivre! Jarod thought they might strangle one another, and long before they decided how best to proceed. He made no attempt to referee the battles and he certainly couldn't fault Ethan for being furious, for defending Miss Parker, for wanting to go to her, protect her- it's what brothers are supposed to do, after all.

Maggie and Edward once again refused to give their blessing. The former wept and finally became hysterical and once again, a sulking Ethan remained with his family. Safe.

Safety all costs.

The only cost was his happiness.

To further complicate matters, Sydney couldn't return to his home yet, couldn't simply be deposited at the steps of the Centre either. And it would raise suspicions if the shrink were discovered recuperating in Miss Parker's home.

Miss Parker.

Every conservation, every journey, every road, every argument, every thought and dream brought Jarod right back to Miss Parker.

He didn't want her caught in the crossfire, didn't want her to be a patsy, serve a life sentence for criminal activities she hadn't even been aware of and wouldn't have condoned had she been aware. She'd already served a life sentence. They both had. And he didn't want to be move on without her. Not again.

She was intractable, haughty. Jarod couldn't force her to leave the Centre- although a quick and tidy abduction did cross his mind on occasion. He wasn't above throwing himself at her feet and begging.

"Jarod," Ethan advised gently, "I know her. Look: there is nothing you can do or say to change her mind."

Jarod agreed, and then stormed off in a rage and locked himself in the tiny den for several days. When he emerged, he conferred with his brothers and J.R. for several hours and then sought out his father and inquired about a plane.

"Taking a trip?"

"Let's just say that I have some unfinished business."

"Don't do anything hasty, Jarod."

"I won't, Dad."

"Are you sure about that?"

"Positive." Jarod answered softly. "I've considered every contingency, and," Jarod grinned toothily and jerked a thumb over his shoulder to indicate Kyle, Ethan, his clone Troy, and J.R., "I won't be alone."

The Major smiled and nodded and assisted Jarod and Kyle with the pre-flight. "What, exactly are you going to do, Jarod?"

"I'm going to make it impossible for her to ignore me."

Had Parker heard those words, she would have (later) deemed them the understatement of the millennium.

But she had not heard his impassioned vow, and wasn't given an opportunity to brace herself for what- - or more specifically who- - was coming.

Presently, she was in her new office sitting upright, with her eyes closed. Meditating. Breathing in positivity, breathing out the stress.

The stress of yet another disastrous break up- this time with a plastic surgeon. Three dates. It wasn't even a relationship. Yet. Michael (the aforementioned surgeon), however, believed otherwise. There was apparently some secret third date rule she wasn't privy to; things moved faster in the land of scalpels and syringes. A kiss on the first date somehow implied a promise of intercourse on the third date- had she known that, she would've sent him on his way after the second date.

Men weren't nearly as important in the lives of women as they believed themselves to be and furthermore, none of them were Thomas. And unlike the surgeon (Doctor Receding-hair-line), she didn't have to be impatient. She wasn't interested in having a passel of miniature Doctor Receding-hair-lines tottering about underfoot. She could afford to be discriminating. And why not?

She wouldn't dine out just anywhere, was mindful of the food she ingested, which cosmetics were allowed to touch her skin; she believed that her vagina (and the rest of her) deserved the same consideration. If she needed a release, and sometimes she did, she was quite capable of of satisfying herself- no batteries necessary.

She dated for companionship, for conversation, for the remote possibility that one day someone, anyone, would touch her the way Thomas had.

Oh, Thomas. I'd still trade everything for one chance to-

The intercom buzzed just then.

Parker frowned, pressed a button.

"What."

"Mr. Lyle is here to see you, ma'am."

Again?

"Send him in, Jane."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Sis." Lyle nodded.

"Twice in one day, Bobby." Parker purred. "You know," she said, "when I looked over the personnel records this morning, brown-nosing had not yet been added to your dossier."

Parker observed his quirk of lips. He was furious. And- and on the verge on soiling his Armani briefs.

He shifted uncomfortably, and glanced over his shoulder suddenly; Parker followed his gaze. Sweepers?

No. Those were not Centre sweepers.

Triumvirate.

"I'm here on business, sis."

Parker bristled. "And just what business do you have with the Triumvirate, Bobby?"

"I'm just the messenger."

"Oh?"

"An emergency meeting has been called. Another T-board. It appears the recent breach is a greater security concern than-"

Baby brother's explanation was cut short when the smallest of the Triumvirate goons stepped forward stealthily and brought the pistol down in one swift fluid motion. Bobby emitted a single pained grunt and crumpled to the floor.

Parker, of course, referred to Daddy's advice. Survival. At any cost, Angel. She remained aloof, neither praised nor admonished the violence she'd just witnessed. One mustn't choose sides too early in the game- when the game is survival.

She studied the droplets of blood and simply said: "one of us should call house-keeping- and preferably before that stains the floor."

Her words were ignored.

"I'm to escort you to the tribunal." The larger of the men informed her.

Raines. But who else? It's just like the sleazy son of a bitch to go behind my back like this. I will kill him this time. Painfully. A neat Colombian neck-tie. If he doesn't kill me first.

"Under whose authorization?" She inquired through clenched teeth. As if I don't know. The men simply stared. Waited. She frowned at the approaching footfalls, felt fear- - raw and nascent- - slip beneath her skin. She imagined Raines taking aim, murdering her in cold blood just as he'd murdered Catherine. It cannot end like this.

"Under whose authorization?" She yelled authoritatively and hoped- no, she prayed the urgency and rage that textured her voice would galvanize the men into some sort of action that she could use to her advantage. But neither men so much as flinched at her outburst.

And time was up. She imagined the grandfather clock, a final tick. A concluding toll. For her.

No. Not yet.

Not inside the Centre.

She reached behind her to retrieve the gun- that last ditch effort died a quick death. Parker found herself looking down the business end of a Glock 38, and was supremely displeased. Irate. She stilled her moments, brought her hands up slowly and swung her gaze towards the corridor.

There were murmurs outside. Raines- he was probably giving one of his pet idiots last minute instructions.

She observed as both Triumvirate goons stepped aside and bowed graciously, obsequiously at the newcomer, Mr. Persona Non Grata.

Parker gasped.

Gasped. Audibly.

She noted the black shirt and tie that paired perfectly with the black Caraceni suit that had set him back at least twenty grand, and the matching black shoes polished to a high shine. Her brows knitted, her eyes narrowed. Her jaw nearly unhinged.

Instead, her lips formed a perfect circle. O.

O!

O, indeed.

She observed as Jarod waved the two men away and closed the door. He then pivoted and casually slipped his hands into the pockets of his pants and answered simply (although Parker had forgotten the question at that juncture):

"Mine."

܀