Nothing to indicate that any child here had been harmed.    That, she guessed, made it worse.  For some reason, thinking about the small empty rooms with elephant wallpaper or circus posters made her feel physically ill, solidified and channeled her anger.  This was the Triumvirate.  This was Lyle.  It wasn’t exactly Disneyland.  So why the façade?  What in God’s name was going on?    Low noises echoed in her ears.  Voices.  For a moment she tensed and drew the small black rod away from the vent—but it wasn’t the dormitory.  It was the next room, a few hundred feet away, barely visible from where she was crouched.     She tucked the small device back into her pack and pulled herself toward the noise, more careful than ever to keep silent.     Moving without noise was a cleaner skill, but when she did it, she always thought of elementary school.  The cafeteria was up a flight of stairs, where the older students’ classrooms were.  It was against the rules to go clomping up and down the stairs, disrespectful to disturb the sixth-graders’ studies.  Marshmallow feet, Miss Kerr would murmur, as they walked back to class.  Pretend you have marshmallows on the bottoms of your shoes.    Marshmallow feet.    She held her breath as she moved, until she felt dizzy.    And she peeked through the vent.    There was a boy standing just below her; a bit back, so she could see his face.  Not more than four or five.  A perfect little boy, with blond hair and bright blue eyes and skin that almost glowed.    He was wearing blue shorts, a white T-shirt, and a big nametag that had PATRICK written on in big, easy-to-read letters.  Just as if his mommy had dressed him, kissed him on the cheek before sending him off to school.  Parker had dreamt about having children once.  She’d always wanted boys.    The only thing that didn’t fit was the fierce expression on his face.  Children didn’t carry that in their eyes.  He had an expression like—like his personal demon was just around the corner, and he was going to fucking kill it when it appeared.  It was finely honed terror.    It was a recognizable look.  It was an expression Kyle, Jarod’s brother, had held in his eyes even as an adult.  It was something she’d seen on Jarod’s face from time to time, as if he was a little boy again and the monsters were coming to get him.    Patrick was holding something in his chubby little hand.    All of a sudden, Parker was drenched in cold sweat.    “What do you want, Patrick?”  It was the voice she’d heard just moments ago, now discernable.  A quiet voice, utterly without emotion, yet somehow compelling.    Her brother’s voice.    Lyle carried the mark of the Centre on his face, too.  He was lucky she couldn’t see his face, that she couldn’t get a shot off at this angle, that even if she could, she would never do it in front of this little boy.  Some things you never recover from.    Seeing someone’s head blown off when you were four might be one of them.    So might growing up with Lyle.    The boy jumped at the sound of Lyle’s voice, stood at attention.  “I want to go to bed, sir.”  The voice was young, but not imprecise.  No stumbles around the r’s, no cutting off the t’s.    “You want to go to bed.”    “Yes, Mr. Lyle.”    “Then do it, and you can go to sleep.”    “No.”    Do what? Miss Parker wanted to shout.  Do fucking what, you bastard? Terror was turning into panic.  She should go.  She should move.  She had to move, or she was going to do something they might all regret.  She didn’t want to see what the boy would be required to do.  She had a feeling she knew already.    “Why not?”    “I can’t, Mr. Lyle.”    “I asked you a question.”    “It’s bad, sir.”    “It’s not bad.  As a matter of fact, it will be good for you.  This person deserves it.  Now.”    A long pause.  “Fine.”    The little boy lifted up his hands.  And now Miss Parker could see for sure what he clutched.    A gun.  With a laser sight.    Miss Parker closed her eyes.  She would not run.  Running was for innocent bystanders, and she was neither.  But she couldn’t watch, either.    Though she listened with her heart and soul, and she felt and heard it with her heart and soul when one, two, six, a clip was emptied into what sounded like a paper target.  She wondered whose face was on it.    It was a long moment before the ringing in her ears subsided.    “—at wasn’t so bad, was it, Patrick?  You get cake tomorrow.  Now off to bed.”    “Of course, sir.”  But as Parker blinked back the flash, she could see the boy tremble as he walked away.    Son of a bitch.  Son of a bitch.  Parker mouthed the words, trying to calm herself down.  She’d seen kids shoot people before.  She’d seen the video of Kyle, emptying a weapon into a picture of Parker’s mother.  It wasn’t—it wasn’t—    “Miss Parker?”    She very nearly screamed at the sound of Jarod’s voice in her ear.  Just the headset.    She pressed the talk button at her waist.  “Okay,” she choked, then cleared her throat.  “I’m okay,” she whispered.    “You stopped moving.”  There was anxiety in his voice.    “I know, I know, sorry, Jarod.  Just—”  She had no words.  She was clutching her own gun now.     She’d pulled it from her holster without thinking, just something to hold on to.  Something to make her feel safe.    She pressed the cool flat of the barrel against her head and remembered to lift her finger from the radio button.     Jarod had seen this.  She heard it in the sharp weight of his voice.  He’d been here for things just like this.  He’d seen it and it terrified him and he called her.  First time in fifteen years.  Now she knew why.       “We’ll get them out of there, Miss Parker.”     Yeah, they would.     Like the fucking special forces, they’d get them out.  And Lyle would never see it coming.  The question was whether or not things could be rebuilt after that.       “I’ll be fine,” she said weakly, and was surprised to discover that it was true.     “I know,” Jarod said, and then she was alone again.     Good.  Parker needed to be quiet; she only wished she could talk with someone, with anyone, touch base with something familiar.  Plenty of time for a nervous breakdown after the rescue.  Plenty of time to bond with Jarod after they’d gotten their pint of blood and pound of flesh.    Besides, the show wasn’t over.  She hadn’t seen Nate alive and healthy.  He was tough, she thought.  This wouldn’t work for him.  He wasn’t a four-year-old.  Lyle wasn’t making him into a complacent little assassin.  That was what she told herself as she kept moving.