Melikes. So interested in what happens next!!

Oh, wow, so I'm re reading some of your one shots and thinking I don't want them to be one shots. You're really good at keeping my attention with the long stories too and no one else has ever done that. You could continue this you know? It won't hurt. Please. Please? I love this.

LOVE that there is really a haunted Island and that Parker went there and it was her way of letting Jarod know she was still alive. So in character and your dialogue and descriptive work are all beautifully and professionally done. I want more. Please?

More please?! I love this.

I have to get to work after this chapter. I said that two chapters ago.

You dash it with comedy here and there but you also show that Jarod is in pain emotionally and physically and ... ouch. I feel for him. It's so realistic and like being there.

"Ethan frowned in disappointment. "Don't you think you're being a bit hard on her?" He asked, and then after an interval of silence, said, "You know, you were on Sydney's sofa bed when I finally showed up. It couldn't have been easy for her to get you onto that bed—funny story, actually: she decided it would be best to leave you in the chair, and move the chair—with you sitting unconscious in it—from the kitchen to the sitting room."

"I suppose she'll want a medal for that," Jarod said with a measure of distaste.

"I still can't believe that you slept through it all, being rotated this way and rotated that—"

"Enough rotating," groused Jarod.

"Oh, right. Ha. Sorry about that."

"I think the last time I experienced vertigo I was running simulations for NASA."

Ethan bent at the waist and assisted Jarod with untangling the IV. "There we go. Now, let's see if we can get you on your feet," he said and then observed as his brother sat up, only to pitch forward suddenly. "NASA, hmm?" Ethan said, conversationally. "That sounds interesting."

"Yes, yes," sang Jarod dryly, "puking your guts out is nothing if not interesting. Silly me—I couldn't imagine optimized nutritional supplement tasting any worse than it did going down."

"Ah," Ethan said, grasping Jarod around the waist. "I take it the flavor didn't improve on its way back up then."

"Ethan. Ethan, I can't do this. I can't do this," Jarod cried wretchedly, staggering backwards."

Stupid Rachel. Rachel shot him not Parker. He's really still hurt from Carthis and .... oooh why aren't you writing the novels?

Ohh I love this part too and I love all of the parts lol.

"Nothing," Broots said with a small, dismissive wave. "She asked me to tell you to reconsider and stay on as long as you need to, and don't do anything—uh hasty."

"Hasty?" Jarod repeated with a frown of skepticism.

"Stupid," amended Broots. "Tell geniusboy not to do anything stupid—those were her exact words."

Jarod answered with a curt nod. "That's more like it. Where is she? Renewal wing? T-board?"

"Jarod, she specifically—" Broots clamped his mouth closed, grimaced; his words hung in the air, heavy and suggestive. Jarod's eyes grew wide, dangerous.

"Where is she?" Jarod repeated, the knot of dread expanding, twisting his intestines.

"Jarod," stammered Broots.

"Where is she?" The Pretender shouted.

"KwaZulu-Natal," Broots answered sharply, and observed Jarod's harsh intake of breath, the dark eyes snapping close.

Jarod's head dropped heavily, miserably to his chest. He dragged a hand over his face. "Oh, my God," he exhaled the words."

Jarod shouting... at Broots... cos he loves Parker.

Whoop!

I love!!

You really like Broots don't you?  You have him so protective of her just like he was on the show oh Mirage so much nostalgia here. It's like watching an episode being there. I love the new upgrades. They are the Centre. There should be high tech instruments. Excellente!

Pens dipping in company ink get snapped in half. Parker is incredible isn't she? I love these characters in your capable hands.

"VHS is unreliable by the way, not to mention obsolete."

"Mm, yes, well," she murmured dryly, "I have to admit, this gives a whole new meaning to 'eyes-only info."

"And it just screams intrigue and mystery, doesn't it?"

"Mm," purred Parker, "in a thousand languages."

I LOVE THAT.

This too.

"Indiscriminate rampaging," said Parker with a snort of disdain. "It's just Bobby's style," she murmured, expecting to see her twin's smug face in the next instant —that wouldn't have surprised her. He was a sociopath, after all, and he'd pulled the stunt before.

She'd cautioned the Director, to no avail, and could only shake her head in disgust when her twin was boosted to the tower where he'd no doubt take his havoc-wreaking to a whole new level and inflict systematic damage. Parker was looking forward to the I-told-you-so debriefing.

The smile disappeared from her lips, however— or rather was chased away. She drew a sharp breath when the surveillance feed began playing; it commenced unceremoniously at the precise moment of attack.

There were no wasted seconds watching live and unsuspecting employees doing their jobs, snapshots of life and death in lurid juxtaposition."

You're one of those authors who after reading I have to sit and have thoughts about. I have so many thoughts and ideas that I can't put in words. You make these scenes so vivid, it's all plausible.

You get your hooks in deep and don't let go.

Back at the Centre it's all just so Centre-y and I get giddy reading it and so much nostalgia flooding me right now.

Parker's snark is spot on

""I've reviewed his plan," Raines continued in a laudatory tone, meeting Lyle's gaze, "and it's brilliant."

"Oh, yes," sang Parker bitterly, "it's a screaming success if the goal was multiple causalities," she said reproachfully.

She and Sydney exchanged glances. His expression was grave, oddly tender. He turned to Raines, said, "Jarod had the forethought to gain entrance to the adjunct, to target Centre-contracted personnel, to confiscate damning evidence. He was successful. You forget that this is Jarod we're talking about, Raines," reminded Sydney. "It would be rather unwise of you, of any one among us," he amended, alluding no doubt to the ever ambitious Lyle, "to equate his return to the Centre's radar with victory."

Lyle always thinks he's smarter doesn't he?

Lyle waved dismissively. "Meh. Doesn't matter. He's going to make a mistake and when he does—"

"Excuse me," a voice called from the open door. "You're going to want to switch on the television."

Lyle frowned, reached for the remote. "Which channel?" Inquired Lyle.

"Any channel, Sir," the sweeper returned.

"Mm, must be juicy," Lyle murmured, reclining in the leather chair to absorb the news:

"...gruesome scene early this morning. Randi Mann, from our sister affiliate, is live with the very latest on the heinous attack that has rocked the small community of Jupiter Bay, Virginia."

"Thank you, Jill. Authorities are saying very little until the families of the victims are notified. The police are, however, releasing several images of this man and they are asking anyone who sees him to please call 911 immediately and to use extreme caution as he is believed to be heavily armed and extremely dangerous. Back to you, Jill."

"It appears that Jarod isn't the only one making mistakes," taunted Parker when an agitated Lyle switched off the television. "That antique shoppe is a front for one of our annexes. The police take one look at the information we house there and—"

EVERY Channel. Every freaking channel I love it. Plus that last bit:

"When the room righted itself, Parker was staring at three lifeless bodies. She arranged her features carefully, retained her stolid self-possession. She displayed neither pleasure nor anger. Cox observed her for several moments, and then returned his gun to its holster.

She lifted a brow, observed the grins of satisfaction on both Cox and Mikalle's faces when she said coolly, matter of factly,

"I suggest someone call housekeeping before that stains the floor."

Holy hell!

This is freaking amazing. Everything you write it seems is freaking amazing.

"Sydney," cried Jarod, desperately. "Sydney, open the door."

Please. Sydney.

Refuge.

He put the toe of his black leather shoe into the door (in lieu of using his fist). Once, twice. The door flew opened on the third kick, and Jarod, still pressed against it, literally stumbled into the darkened kitchen with a shriek of surprise; the olive drab duffel skidded across hardwood flooring that had been polished to a high shine.

Regaining his balance, Jarod pressed himself against a bare burgundy wall trimmed with polished mahogany wainscoting. He heard the door close behind him, said raggedly, "Lock it, Sydney. I'm going to be here for a while."

"Don't be so certain of that, Jarod."

Jarod stiffened, and then heaved a dispirited sigh. I don't have the energy for this. For her. For her petulance and intransigence.

"Miss Parker," he panted in a voice tight with fatigue, and at last swung his gaze at her."

But Jarod gets an award for best line EVA here

"She wore a black pantsuit whose hip length jacket was unbuttoned, a burgundy camisole, and a sneer of unequivocal malevolence upon her face. She shuddered. Angrily.

"Sydney said you would come."

"Did he?" Said Jarod, intrigued. He brightened, briefly. Dark eyes glimmered with something that was entirely foreign to Parker.

"Mhm. I didn't believe him," she murmured, and then narrowed her eyes at him, and said, crisply, "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you."

He advanced on her with surprising alacrity, obliterated her personal space, and with a grunt of exertion, sagged against the recently installed walnut butcher's block.

"Because, Miss Parker," he answered in a tight, grave voice, "someone may have beaten you to it." 

SOMEONE MAY HAVE BEATEN YOU TO IT.

That's a good reason I think.

"He hated feeling vulnerable, relying on anyone, let alone her. And he detested the weapon in his hand almost as much as he detested Parker in that moment—that, however, did not prevent him from employing the weapon, fondling it obscenely in an attempt to gain her cooperation.

Hypocrisy. The new black.

"I am not asking you," he snarled at her.

"You won't shoot me," she returned, disinterestedly, dismissively.

"Won't I?" Jarod hissed. "I can't think of a single reason why I shouldn't. Can you?"

Hypocrisy. The new black.

I can't even begin to write like that.

"It's," she began hesitantly, "it looks like a—a tangential laceration."

"Subcutaneous then?" He inquired with a measure of relief in his voice.

"Looks like it," she answered brusquely, and then added hastily, "Across the shoulder," she said, her eyes intently following the bullet's path. "Reentry at the upper right arm." Here her voice dropped lower, incrementally. Jarod had to strain to hear, but ascertained that the bullet had tunneled a two inch subcutaneous circuit though his arm.

Parker, however, imagined the bullet wreaking havoc on the brachial plexus, perhaps severing the subclavian artery. She was thinking of death, of Thomas.

The gunman (gunwoman, in this case) could have fired at closer range, could have been packing higher caliber heat, could have aimed a few inches to the left. The bullet could have struck Jarod in the left shoulder, penetrated deep tissue, wreaked havoc on all sorts of nerves, muscles, and bones that he might have spent years in misery (and in and out of various operating rooms, not to mention physical therapy) recovering from.

The bullet could have entered his chest, collapsed a lung, shredded his aorta, taken a piece of his heart with it as it bid his lifeless body adieu and exited.

Jarod could be dead.

Dead like Thomas."

You blow me away every single freaking time Mirage.

"Don't move," Parker cautioned.

Jarod started. Grimaced. Terror sharpened his eyes, hardened his features, intensified his anger. "Because you'll kill me?" He snarled at her.

"Because," she corrected frothily, "those sheets you're lying between, geniusboy, are a hundred percent Egyptian Cotton, ten hundred twenty thread count per square inch. I found them in Italy and paid nearly two-thousand dollars for them."

Realization touched his features as he struggled (but failed) to raise himself up on bruised and abraded elbows. With a sigh of exasperation, he abandoned his efforts, returned his head to the pillow.

Her house.

She doesn't want blood spilled in her sanctuary. More blood.

Her precious sheets.

Her sanctum sanctorum.

His gaze dropped to the odd tugging at his arm; he frowned at the IV line, the bruising. Dots of dried blood were evidence of failed attempts to start a line. He studied the clear bag hanging from a coat rack, read the label. It was a broad spectrum antibiotic. He'd forgotten to steal antibiotics, had been too preoccupied with an overwhelming fear of hemorrhaging to death at the time. Somehow, he was too angry and too afraid to express, or even feel, any sort of gratitude.

"I've often wondered," he murmured, "how it is that you're able to sleep at night, Miss Parker. Two thousand dollars, huh?" He inquired, lifting a cynical brow. His eyes danced across the room, met hers. He regarded her narrowly. His jaw tightened, his dark, probing eyes narrowed. "Well," he drawled, "I suppose it takes what it takes. Although," he added cruelly with a snort of disdain, "you're probably out cold before you even touch your precious sheets—it is still scotch, isn't it, Miss Parker?"

Two perfectly defined brows lifted over gray-blue eyes that maintained an expression of cool indifference. She straightened, fashioned a smile (a false smile that, quite literally, hurt her face).

Ah, the whiplash invective continues. Well! Fuck him. Him and his sanctimonious song and dance. The bastard.

The motherfucking bastard.

It's true: no good deed."

I love what he says. You give him some good zingers.

"Two thousand dollars. I suppose it take what it takes" he's talking about how she's able to sleep  and then says "but you're probably out cold it's still scotch isn't it?" WOW. Just WOW.

my heart breaks for Parker and for Broots who has to witness more pain. His response is priceless classic Broots. you rnotes are hilarious. Jarod's mother ending up in namus was a punch I didn't see coming. Poor Jarod.

Boom.

Parker was so right about that.

I'm so addicted to your writing.

"I just discovered that my mother is dead, for Chrissake."
 
"I didn't kill her," Came Parker's simple rebuttal.
 
"No, you didn't, but the Centre, and you- you killed her hopes of ever finding me. Had you not interfered in Carthis—"
 
Suddenly dyspeptic, she whirled around, regarded him narrowly.

"Don't you dare blame me for that, Mister-first-one-to-find-the-answers-wins," she hissed with wide accusing eyes. "Mhm," she hummed with a nod. "You could afford to be smug when you thought you were going to win, and you always expected to win. Hell, I bet you were thrilled when you learned I was on the pursuit team. How convenient mm? You already had all the ammunition you needed and you knew exactly where to strike and when."
 
"Ammunition?"
 
"My mother," she answered.
 
"I would never use your mother to hurt you," he said with equal measures of solemnity and disgust. "I only wanted to help you find the truth."
 
"The truth," she repeated with a curt nod, dropping her voice to a low sing-song taunt, "about what makes me sad," she mocked him. "Score one for genius boy. I think you realize now, finally, that there are never any winners where the Centre is concerned and if you must know: it does make me sad. Every. Single. Day,"

You do an amazing job maturing them and growing them as characters. Sydney still has to help Jarod realize some things. So many good memories and so many good new ones.