Don't get excited! This isn't a 'real' chapter, I'm sorry :') Unfortunately, due to a combination of having lots of work and struggling with my mental health again, I haven't been able to finish the epilogue for Serquel. However, several people requested some more Elena, so I wrote a little separate epilogue for her :) It's very short, just over 2000 words, and it's not integral to the story, so if you're not interested in Elena, you can skip it :) The real, Serquel epilogue will be posted next week (I hope). I'm sorry if you're disappointed! On the other hand, I'm also a little relieved that I won't have to say goodbye to this story for another week :')

My apologies again! I hope the chapter next week can make up for the wait :)

Elena was pacing back and forth in her living room, wishing with all her might that she could be at the station right now. It had been three days since her colleagues had gotten her out of that hangar, three days since they'd questioned her and she'd been able to contribute something useful to the investigation. Then, she'd been sent home for a week of leave to 'recover' from her 'ordeal', no matter how much she'd protested that she was fine. To cope with her 'trauma', there had been a mandatory session with a psychologist, who had asked her a lot of personal questions, all of which she'd refused to answer because she was fine. When he remarked that this was a mandatory session, she'd pointed out that her attendance might be mandatory, but her cooperation sure wasn't, and he'd written in his report that she was stubborn and difficult – which she was sure wouldn't come as a surprise to her boss – but she didn't have to come back.

Four more days… Four more days of sitting at home while the investigation was being conducted without her, four days of losing precious time while the band of robbers got further and further away from them. She should be running things, she was the best person for the job: she knew Sergio better than anyone, she knew the way his mind worked. She also wanted to coordinate contact with Interpol, because Matisse over there was an idiot, and was probably botching things at this very minute. Why, why was she being kept at home when they needed her? She wondered if she was being punished for choosing to save Raquel's life over escaping from the hangar and exposing the Professor's center of operations. If that was the case, she thought, raising her chin, she still didn't regret her actions.

She kept pacing, her mind running through the things she wanted to set in motion once she was allowed to go back to her job, until the doorbell interrupted her train of thought. She went to open the door to see a young man in a uniform standing there with a large box in his arms.

"Delivery for Elena González", he said.

"A delivery?" she said, surprised.

"Please sign here."

She signed his form, then took the heavy box from him, mystified as to what it could be. When she took it inside and opened it, her eyes went wide: the entire box was filled with crisp, clean notes of fifty euros. Raquel. She felt an immediate stab of annoyance: it offended her deeply that Raquel would think she'd accept a bribe like that. Then she noticed that there was a note on top of the money.

Don't be offended, this isn't a bribe. I know you won't keep it, but I thought you might like to give it to a charity of your choosing.

She felt slightly mollified as she turned the note over. It wasn't signed, but it didn't have to be – who else would send her a box full of money? She examined the box, but of course there was no information about the sender. Still – deliveries like this left a trace – the box must have been dropped off at the delivery service somewhere. She was fairly confident that the robbers would have left Europe by boat, so if she could trace this box back to its source, she might be able to find out what harbor they left from, giving her a starting point for her investigation. She felt a clear sense of focus and purpose settle over her for the first time in days as she picked up her phone and called the delivery company.

Half an hour later, she was in her car, an overnight bag in the trunk, to drive the six hours to a small harbor town in Portugal, close to Lisbon. It would be a long drive, but she knew the thrill of the chase would keep her going. On her way out of Madrid, she made one stop: at a shelter for victims of domestic abuse. She walked inside and put the box of money on the front desk, walking out again without giving a name, not even waiting for them to open the box and find out what was inside. Then she was on her way again. When she got to the village outside of Lisbon, late in the evening, the office of the delivery service was already closed, so she booked into a hotel and went to the office first thing in the morning to confirm that the package had indeed been dropped off there.

The clerk looked at the registration number she'd written down and shook his head.

"No, this wasn't dropped off here." He typed something into his computer. "It arrived here through the mail, with instructions for further delivery."

She nodded. Just as she'd suspected: they had been careful. Still, the box must have originated somewhere. She called the post office, but they told her all postal information was protected by privacy laws, and she would have to go to a post office with a warrant if she wanted that information. So she drove down to the local police station first, put on her most charming smile and went in to try and persuade her Portuguese colleagues to give her a warrant.

"Good morning", she said in Portuguese to the officer behind the front desk, flashing her badge. "I am Inspector Elena González of the Madrid police. I'm here on an investigation, and I'd like to request your help."

The young woman behind the desk looked up, and her eyes went wide.

"Are you… are you the Inspector González?"

Elena frowned – what was that supposed to mean?

"Yes?"

"But I've seen you on the news! You were involved in that massive heist at the Mint! You were caught by the robbers and kept as a prisoner for six days!"

"Yes", Elena said drily. "I know all of that. Now what I wanted to ask…"

But the officer wasn't listening – she got up and yelled to the rest of the station:

"Guys! Guys, come and see who's here!"

A minute later, to her utter confusion, Elena was surrounded by wide-eyed police officers bombarding her with questions.

"Were you really with those robbers for six days?"

"Well… yes."

"And you survived?"

"Clearly."

"Did they torture you?"

She snorted. "No."

"What was the Professor like?"

"Not nearly as impressive as you'd think."

The questions went on, the officers leaving her no room to say what she was actually there for. Just when she'd had about enough, the Captain of the precinct came out of his office.

"What's all this?"

"Inspector Elena González is here, Captain! From Madrid!"

He frowned. "That's no reason to cause such a ruckus. Go back to your stations, now."

The officers dispersed, and the Captain waved a relieved Elena into his office and motioned for her to sit down.

"Thank you", she said.

"You'll have to excuse them", the Captain said apologetically. "This is a very quiet village. You walking in here is the most exciting thing that's happened to them all year."

"It's alright."

"What can I help you with?"

"I'm tracing the robbers – it looks like they might have left Europe from this village."

His eyebrows shot up. "Really? That's interesting."

"To be sure, I need information about a package from the post office. And for that…"

"You need a warrant."

"Yes."

"Why didn't you just call your superiors in Madrid?"

She hesitated. "Well, I'm… not technically supposed to be working right now."

"Ah", he said. "You were placed on leave because of what you went through."

She nodded. "I'm resting."

He chuckled. "I see that."

"So will you help me?"

He gave her a long, considering look, then said:

"Well… I shouldn't give you a warrant while you're on leave… but maybe I don't know you're on leave. Maybe you haven't told me."

"Maybe I haven't", she agreed.

"Then I think I can accommodate you", he said. "If I can ask you a question."

"Of course."

He glanced towards the door, then leaned forward and said: "What was it like when you were captured?"

She suppressed a smile and started talking.

…

An hour later, she was finally at the post office, her warrant safely in her pocket. When she asked about the package, however, the employee behind the desk informed her that it hadn't been dropped off there, but that it had been brought to a post office in a village on the other side of Lisbon by a delivery service. She swore, got back into her car, and drove to the other village, where she got the name of the delivery service. When she called them, they told her the box had arrived to them by mail, with instructions. And so it went on: the box had gone back and forth between delivery services and the postal system, which was very clever, because it meant the tracking number of the package changed continually and couldn't be traced all the way back to its source. And for every new tracking number, she had to show up at the post office with her warrant.

Over the next three days, the trail led her all over Portugal, along scenic routes along the coast and through mountains, leading her from one tiny village to the next, each seemingly more picturesque than the last. At first she was frustrated – this infinite rerouting had 'Sergio' written all over it – but she realized that he was counting on her giving up at some point, and she decided that that was not going to happen. So she patiently settled into the chase and after a while she actually started enjoying herself. She stopped for lunch on cobbled village squares and dinner at seaside restaurants, watching the sun set spectacularly into the ocean. She regularly got out of the car to stretch her legs, going for short walks along the mountainsides or the beach, talking to the people she met on the way. The weather was very nice for the fall, and she got more sunshine than she usually got in a year. Madrid seemed very far away.

Finally, it was the last day before she had to return to her job, and she started worrying that she might not reach the end of the trail on time. How many post offices had this box gone through? She arrived around noon in yet another quiet village, lying on one of the nicest beaches she'd ever seen. She got out of her car and a mild sea breeze caught her hair, and for just one fleeting moment, she considered not going straight to the post office, but to take off her shoes and walk along the azure water and get some ice cream. Then she shook herself – being away from her job for this long clearly wasn't good for her – and stepped into the cool shade of the post office.

"Inspector González", she said to the young clerk, flashing her warrant, as she'd done at a dozen post offices before. "We spoke on the phone. I need to trace a package with this number."

The clerk typed it into the computer, then he said: "That package was dropped off here, a week ago."

She felt a stab of excitement. Had she finally found the place? Had they left Europe from this harbor? Her thoughts started racing, but then the young clerk said:

"You said your name was González, right?"

"Right."

"Elena González?"

She frowned. "Yes."

He held out an envelope to her. It had her name on the front.

"This was dropped off here together with the box. He said someone would come by and pick it up in about a week."

"Who said?" she asked sharply. Sergio?

"A man full of tattoos, with a heavy Eastern European accent."

"With a beard?" she said, thinking of Oslo and Helsinki.

"No."

She felt the excitement leave her. Not someone from the gang, then – a hireling, untraceable. If they'd been that careful, it seemed unlikely that they'd led her to the village their ship had left from. Who knew where that hireling had come from with that box? She hesitated for a moment, then accepted the envelope and walked outside. She sat down on a bench in the sun and opened the envelope.

Hi Elena. No, we didn't leave from this village, but we hope you enjoyed your trip – we tried to pick out the nicest routes and villages. Portugal is lovely, isn't it? Apologies for giving you the runaround, but we felt like you deserved a bit of a holiday. Now hopefully you'll feel rested and ready to come after us. We expect you to give it your best shot. Good luck!

She stared down at the paper for a while, not sure how to feel. She considered getting angry, but then she started laughing instead, and she couldn't stop for a long time. Yes – she had a feeling that chasing Raquel and Sergio was going to be an… interesting experience.

She glanced at the post office down the street, wondering if she should go question the clerk further – but then her eyes were drawn to the beach and the wonderfully blue water of the ocean, and she hesitated. It was a lovely day. She still had a few hours left before she had to drive back to Madrid. She got up, took a deep breath, and smiled. She might as well get some ice cream.