Broots had…well, Broots had Debbie.  And, of course, the career; the Centre paid well, even if the simple act of obtaining a job here then put your life, to one degree or another, at risk.    He was smart, and reasonable, and good, in both senses of the word, qualities she had come to value and admire in a treacherous place like the Centre.  He’d been a better friend, and closer to a brother, than Lyle had ever been.  Despite herself, she cared about him then, and gave him hell about it, and she still cared about him now.   And she still gave him hell.   He smiled wearily at her.  He looked sharp enough, for pulling an all-nighter.  Probably better than she did.    Parker glanced around, looking for Jarod.  He was examining Broots’ only potted plant with scientific concentration, a furrow between his eyebrows.  If they were children, she would have been able to guess what he was doing, what he was thinking, or would have been brave enough to ask him.  “You can do some things with your security,” he murmured.   “What are you talking about?” This from Parker.  Broots had gone back to work and wasn’t paying attention—at least, not seeming to.  Parker knew that Broots’ ears were some of the best in the Centre.  It was always the invisible employee who heard the most. “As far as I’m concerned, we have better security than the NSA.”   “The retinal scan isn’t really a recommended security feature.  It serves a theatrical function but other than that…anybody who can obtain a retinal picture, or, for that matter, get you, can get in here.”   She glanced at Broots, looking for some kind of support.  He was in techno-oblivion.  “I don’t let people take pictures of my retinas,” she stated.   “Unless they’re overwhelmingly…convincing,” Jarod replied ominously.  “Now, what you could do is set up a keypad code system where the code—twelve-digit numerical—changed, say, every four minutes.  You would hold onto a digital card which displayed the code.”   Silly.  “Then all they’d have to do was steal the card.”   “No.  I made a card, once, which was able to pick up minor chemical changes in the bloodstream through the skin.  If it wasn't you, or your heart wasn’t beating—or your adrenaline was too high—the card wouldn’t work.”     Why do you care, Jarod?  Want a challenge? What neat trick had he worked out to overcome the card system?   “How would we work that into our system?”  Broots didn’t look up, and his voice was distant.   “Well…you’d have to do an overhaul of course…”   “A total overhaul would take years.”   There was a light tone in Jarod’s words.  “It’ll give us something to do.”   “Us?” Miss Parker said.  “Where, exactly, does us fit into the equation?”  Especially, she appended silently, in the context of years?  But neither of the men in her life was listening.  They were firing jargon at a hundred miles an hour.  It was dizzying.   Whatever.  She had work to do anyway.  She turned and walked out the door, around the corner, into her own office.   The air tasted familiar.  She took a breath and looked around.  It took a moment for the lights to sense her body heat and turn on.  Us.  Years.  She pursed her lips.  Jarod knew exactly what he was doing, the smart little bastard, but even now she couldn’t think the words without some fondness.  What was wrong with her, anyway?  This was her life.  Her refuge.  And Jarod was—dammit, part of that life, in his own, twisted little way.  She sat down on her black leather swivel chair and cradled the picture of her family.   I hated you Jarod.  Understand me? I hated you and I still don’t like you very much, though sometimes you use that brilliant mind of yours to trick me into thinking I do…   But…but part of her had always thought his face was missing in the only photograph of the Parkers that was of value to her which did not include her mother.  It would have clicked, if only because of the brutal irony.  She had loved Jarod once and cared about him still.   God, she was exhausted.  She could use a drink, too.   She lifted the headset from its small hangar on the desk and called up Sam’s voice mailbox, left him a cryptic message, transferred half a million into the sweeper expense account.  Though it would be obvious if money from that account was used, it would be quite difficult for even the most skilled computer hacker to determine exactly how it was used, especially if the sum was transferred into cash.   Broots had made sure of that, and Sam would make sure to transfer it into cash dollars.  You didn’t cling on in the Centre for years and years unless you had at least half a brain.    She should go to the little reception parlor that connected to this office and try to get some sleep on the couch.  In just a little over twenty-four hours, they’d be walking right into enemy territory, and she had the sneaking suspicion that she wouldn’t sleep the same or as well as long as she thought that Lyle might be actively hunting her.   Of course, he was probably already actively hunting her anyway.  She hadn’t exactly concealed her short leave from the Centre to go meet Jarod in New York.  She ran the Centre and was the most powerful person she knew—what reason was there to think she had to?  She hadn’t taken a day off of work since her father had been diagnosed; such an erratic and sudden trip would certainly be a huge red flag for anyone keeping tabs on Director Parker.   And an even bigger one if they hadn’t been able to discover where she’d gone.  An innocuous business trip might have been ignored.  But dropping off the face of the planet certainly would not. Stupid, stupid, stupid! And far stupider that the thought hadn’t even occurred to her until now.  She may very well have already gotten all of them killed.  Right now, they could be breaking her security system, or worse, Lyle would just send his armies through; windows shattering, the clatter of gunfire, the horrible noise as people were killed and all the things she’d built were destroyed, all unheard because of the beautiful soundproof structure they’d put in when this place was built.   Then, they would stomp up the stairs, into the elevators, killing everyone in their way, bang, bang, bang.  The gentle click as a faked retinal scan unlocked her office door, or the sharp crack of an explosives, or the terrible sound of the door simply shattering.  They wouldn’t care about Broots.  He’d be dead before they ever touched her.  But they’d want to kill Jarod in front of her, drag him in kicking and begging and--Bang!  My fault, she’d realize.  And then they’d kill her.