Title:  Requiem IV: Fields of Gold Author: Eva Parker Email:  eva_parker@yahoo.com Rating: R Disclaimer:  Author’s Notes:  Please begin with Part 1: Requiem.  My apologies for the delay in posting.  Big move, big doings out in the real world.  Of course, my sympathies are with the victims of the terrorist attacks of 9/11/01, and my hopes with the American government.  See the rating?  It's important; keep the little ones away from this one unless they have strong stomachs.  Angst alert. P.S.  The secret to all these quotes?  It isn’t a photographic memory.   Shh, I have a copy of Bartlett’s Familiar Quotations on CD.  My little secret… Enjoy— --- For what is a man profited, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? -Matthew 16:26 What is a friend? A single soul dwelling in two bodies.     -Aristotle ---    It was raining, a gentle wash which trailed down the windows of the small private airplane Jarod had picked up from his Nairobi contact.  Miss Parker pressed her shoulder into the gray cushion of the passenger seat, lying sideways in order to keep her gun from digging into her back.    And the better to watch Jarod, as he piloted the airplane with unheard of skill.  He glided through bumps which would normally have been jarring, and the rain, far from being frightening, was merely peaceful.  It helped, perhaps, that physical and emotional exhaustion were beginning to overtake her.  She was overcome with too many emotions to curl up and enjoy the release of sleep—unlike Jarod, her feelings overtook the rational response.  Always had, always would, and they wouldn’t give up just because she was tired of them.    She watched Jarod’s utterly confident moves through a warm haze, but even now, on the threshold of sleep, there was a cold leaden feeling in her chest.  She would not rest peacefully until Nate was safe.  Until she saw his smiling face and knew he was unharmed.  It was more than fear of his mother’s retribution.  It was just what had to happen.    Fortunately, Jarod seemed to know instinctively not to fill up the silence between them with chatter.  He never so much as glanced at her; he probably assumed she was asleep, and she could stare freely.    He was wearing a short-sleeved red shirt, with small black buttons up the front, and black jeans.  His worn black leather jacket was in the back, along with a few choice weapons.  He had suffered no terrible loss of physical strength as he aged, and his biceps still bunched pleasantly as he guided the airplane.  She wondered what about his simulations required him to stay conditioned, but then, she couldn’t throw stones, either.  She was not, perhaps, in her prime physically, but neither had she let it slip.  She could handle herself in a fight as well as anyone.    They were both overdressed for a safari.    It was in Nairobi that she had noticed that Jarod had changed as much as he remained the same.  This, Jarod’s business life, was something she had no experience with at all.  There was a quiet dignity in the way he walked, a closed, bastion-of-sanity expression which gave little away and, at the same time, drew people in.  He gave orders to the people handling their equipment as if he was used to it, accustomed to their obedience and comfortable with their obvious respect.    She had stood at his side like a lieutenant, or, God forbid, a girlfriend, amazed.  What the hell had Jarod been up to?  Who the hell was he, now?  Of course, she hadn’t gone deeply into the details of her own life, either.     On the other hand, she hadn’t had a little birdie whispering into her ear about every aspect of Jarod’s doings since he’d disappeared.  Broots had been Jarod’s birdie.  Not so very long ago, she would have been pissed.  She would have kicked Broots’ ass six ways to Sunday.  Now, she didn’t really care.  Oh, Broots would hear a thing or two from her when—if—she came home, but really, she had driven all that anger toward Lyle, toward the rescue.  You couldn’t be worried about the angels at your back when you were off to slay the demon.    Which was what it all came down to.  Jarod, Mr. Secret Information, was in charge of this escapade, but could she count on him when it came down to the grand finale?    Parker had practical skills in infiltration, in moving quietly and undetected through a place and, when she was in full business mode, like now, killing every little fucker who stood in her way.  She had no doubts about her ability to pull the trigger when it counted.  It had been years since she had personally shot anyone—had the last person really been Lyle?—but even now, she did the re-qualification every three months just like the FBI.  She could still hit a dime from the hip at a dead run.    As skilled as Jarod might be at the practical aspects of using a firearm, at calculating the direction and influence of the wind, the range, the kick of the weapon, there was no way to tell if he could really kill someone.  Wound, probably.  But kill?  That wasn’t the Jarod she knew.  But it was the kind of person they were both going to need for this.  Someone who could blow Lyle’s head off without a second thought.    Or in spite of second thoughts.    Parker sighed and tried to blink some of the sleep from her eyes.  Every time she closed them, she thought of Nate.  And she thought of Lyle.  What was Lyle doing to him?  Nate was fourteen, and though growing up without a father had put an adult strength into him years too early, for such a loss of innocence, he was still just a child.  Still influenced by the adults around him.