)()()()(

You would think that the best time to break into a building – an unfinished condo development, for example – would be after dark. But you would be wrong. People are fearful and suspicious at night, and there is such a thing as security lighting, you know. Since Nate identified the East side of the building as the preferred point of access, Parker has selected the best time as 4:30 pm, when the shadows are deepest.

Now she is leaning against the brick building. Nobody has seen her yet. It is very quiet.

For a moment she wavers, then simply reaches for the windowsill of the first story and pulls herself up, free climbing up the vertical face. With nothing in her hands she makes quick progress up - no ropes, no tools, just her clever feet finding small places in the brick, and her strong fingers searching out the hand-holds and gripping on. It hurts a little because one of her fingers is still healing, but Parker decides it is classier to climb this way, with her pinkie sticking out.

At the third story she spares a moment to glance down between her feet at the cement sidewalk far below. Probably not high enough to kill her, if she fell (you have to be surprisingly high for that to work). But it's actually the fourth floor that's her entry point, so she climbs, nimble and fearless, following Nate's blue-marked suggestions as though he is directing her through the comms.

Be careful at the third-floor corridor, Parker, there are clear sightlines out the window. And mind the security cameras on the Southeast corner. Can you see the window? You'll have to force it, it leads to the fourth-floor bathroom; nicely done. Now be very quiet, they could be right below you – they could be anywhere – don't make a sound.

I know, Nate, be quiet, I'm trying to concentrate.

Parker creeps down the hallway as though she's stepping on fog, running through the blueprints in her mind: there is a private gym on this floor, unfinished of course, which Nate flagged as a likely spot to keep a prisoner because the walls are thick and the door has a good lock. Down two doors on the right – not that one – there!

Cautiously, Parker holds her breath as she leans against the door and listens. There is no way to know which parts of the security system are operational, so she has to assume it is all working, including, unfortunately, they key-card lock on the door of the workout room. For which she has no key card.

She can't hear anything inside, so after a moment's hesitation she extracts her kit from her tool belt. There are a number of options for a lock like this; she could hack it with a computer, like Hardison would do, using a duplicate-key card device. She could disconnect the lock from the door with little more than a screwdriver, which would be Nate's preferred option. But fortunately Parker isn't working with a team any more, so she gets to use her favorite approach: stuffing the lock with just a little plastic explosive, which she then detonates with a teeny-tiny blasting cap. It makes such a great fizz of smoke and the most satisfying crack as it blows the lock . . .

Parker starts the stopwatch in her head.

She pushes open the door . . . five, six, seven . . . prepared to meet anything on the other side: armed men, vicious dogs, even an empty room (this, she understands, is the reason Nate would not break into the condo development this way. But it's kind of fun, too, right?).

Instead she finds Eliot, slumped on the floor beside a weight rack. Nate is a genius.

Fourteen seconds, fifteen, sixteen . . .

He appears to be unconscious; his face is bruised and his bottom lip is crusted over with dried blood. She hurries to his side and shakes him roughly, keeping an eye on the door. This has been too easy. They wouldn't leave him alone, unrestrained, for long. They will be back any minute. Twenty-two, twenty-three . . .

"Eliot! Get up!"

Very slowly, he shakes his head; then his eyes open to stare at her blankly. "Parker?"

"C'mon, hurry." She grabs his arm, tries to tug him. Her heart is hammering against her chest. Thirty, thirty-one, thirty-two . . . "Now, Eliot!"

"Parker, you shouldn't be here," says Eliot thickly. "They'll kill you, you gotta get out of here."

"That's what I'm trying to do," explains Parker desperately, "Come on." She hauls him to his feet and slings his arm around her shoulders, staggering under his weight. It had not occurred to her that Eliot might not be able to walk out with her. She should have brought a rollie-chair. "We've still got to figure a way out of here." Thirty nine. Forty.

"You're insane," says Eliot, his voice hoarse. "You don't know . . . how we're getting out? What the hell does - Nate say?"

Okay, so Eliot is still mean to her. That's okay. Parker puts her hand to her ear. "Nate? What's the plan?" If Eliot were able to see clearly, he might notice that she isn't actually wearing a comm.

There is a pause as Parker listens to the buzzing in her head. "Okay," she whispers. "Got it." She turns to Eliot. Fifty-two, fifty-three. "We've got to go out the back," she tells him, "are you up for it?"

Eliot stretches slowly and painfully, and starts to cough. "Sure."

"C'mon, hurry." She tries to tow him towards the door. "Ok, guys, we're going out the ground floor," Parker announces. "I've got Eliot with me, he seems like he's okay."

Great, now she is lying to the imaginary people.

"Parker – " he says, dazedly – "Parker, I've got to tell you something."

Come on, come on, she chants, while he works to keep his feet under him. "So tell me," she says, playing for time as she struggles to open the door without dropping him. Fifty-seven, fifty-eight.

"I can't remember what," he whispers.

"S'okay," says Parker, "that's cool, tell me later – hey, how about we just get out of here, okay?"

Eliot leans on her heavily, and Parker is afraid she will be crushed under his weight. It's hard to keep moving but they hobble down the hallway to the back staircase, where Parker braces them against the railing and mostly lets gravity carry them down. This is not the good kind of adrenaline, the kind that comes with jumping off a building; that's fun, while this is the worst feeling in the world: any second now someone is going to come, men with guns and dogs, and she will get Eliot (not to mention herself) killed.

Eliot is coughing and trying to keep upright, cursing vicious swear words (some of which she has never even heard of) under his breath. After a while she can't tell if he has switched into another language of if he's just slurring nonsense. It doesn't matter – she has pushed through the exterior doors and set off all the alarms, so there are lights flashing and a siren droning and, God knows, a thousand computer alerts being simultaneously tripped. It doesn't matter – stealth was the key to getting in, but getting out is pure hatchetry.

She can see her stolen car, waiting in the parking lot – she knows that the door is unlocked, the keys are in the ignition, that it is a straight shot out through the security gates and onto the open road -

"Hey, you there – stop!"

They're so close!

Next to her Eliot gives a bubbling groan of disappointment, and Parker turns without thinking and in the next second is firing Nate's gun, right into the man's chest, which blossoms into a spreading red stain. He falls back with a horrible sucking sound and she doesn't even know who he was – maybe one of the men who hurt Eliot, but maybe somebody else, somebody who doesn't even like dogs. Parker has never hurt anyone before.

There are still people coming behind him so she keeps firing at the entrance, her aim level, until the gun clicks, empty. Then Parker turns and drags Eliot to the car and stuffs him into the front seat, climbing over his lap in to the driver's side. Although she can't remember starting the car or hitting the gas – had Eliot pulled the passenger side door closed? - the next minute they are hurtling across the parking lot and the windows are shattering, somebody is shooting, but Parker only thinks drive drive drive and in the next instant they're crashing through the gates (poorly reinforced, she notes) and thundering down the main road, with Parker hooting like a madwoman and Eliot slumped unconscious in the front seat.