And we're back. Sorry. I hope you'll forgive me for the long delay . . .

At this point, I can't promise it won't happen again—life, right?—but I've never left a story unfinished and I'm not starting now.

So please stay tuned!

Nate and Sophie had come running while Eliot was shouting, but seemed more concerned that he'd stopped.

"Eliot?" asked Nate. "What's going on?"

"Hardison . . ." He stared at the hacker, who stared back, wary but unrepentant. "Hardison sent Parker that bunny of hers."

Nate frowned "How did you—?"

He pointed to his ear. "Jo."

The three of them glanced at the huge bed in the middle of the warehouse floor. By silent agreement, no one had used it last night—they'd made do with air mattresses and sleeping bags—and no one had noticed the stuffed animal was missing.

Eliot told himself there was no reason to feel guilty about that. It wasn't easy to spot white on white, especially when nothing moved. And he wasn't about to apologize for yelling.

Sophie brushed at her eyes. "Hardison, that's so . . . You sent her the one thing . . ." She went to him and kissed his cheek, murmuring something in his ear that made him smile briefly before swiveling his chair to face Parker's computer.

"Good thought, Hardison," said Nate. He cleared his throat. "Anything on the guy Mike dropped last night?"

"I've got to go," said Jo. "The nurses are supposed to be here soon. Keep me posted. And don't be too hard on him, Spencer—he's hurting, too."

Hardison's fingers flew over the keyboard for a moment. "Scott Falk. Forty-one years old, blood type B-positive, not an organ donor, admitted for a possible myocardial infarction—that's hospital lingo for an expensive heart attack," he added. "Works as a 'tax consultant,' employed and insured by the Nagel Corporation." He leaned back in his seat. "Which, far as I can tell, is an answering machine in an empty room in Cambridge."

"Find out who's paying the rent on that room," said Nate.

"Way ahead of you. Building's owned by the Aldershott Company, a subsidiary of MacklinCorp , which is owned by the Remingford Group, etcetera, etcetera, and one more etcetera until we get to Granger LLC . . . which is owned lock, stock, and smoking barrel by the Weston Family Foundation, which is headed . . . " He hit a key. "By one Patricia Weston."

"Patricia Weston?" asked Sophie, staring at the image of the expensively-dressed old lady on the screen. "The Patricia Weston?"

"Who's Patricia Weston?" asked Nate.

"Who is . . ?" Sophie shook her head. "She's only the queen of philanthropic fundraisers in Boston!"

"Her Autumn Gala keeps half the shelters and food pantries in Massachusetts open during the winter," said Eliot.

Sophie nodded. "And she must be nearly ninety years old—look at her. She can't possibly be involved."

"Maybe," said Nate. "But stranger things have happened—"

"That's for damn sure," said Eliot.

"—so let's keep an open mind. Someone between the Aldershott Company and the Weston Family Foundation wants us out of their hair. Since we aren't actually in their hair . . . we aren't, right?"

Hardison shook his head. "We—meaning we as individual members of the criminal classes and we as in, you know, us—never touched the Foundation or any of their subsidiaries. I think. There's a ton of 'em and y'all don't tell me everything."

Nate tapped his chin. "Interesting. Map out as many subsidiaries as you can—local ones, first. When is the Autumn Gala?"

"The last weekend of October," said Sophie.

"And they start prepping it . . . ?"

"The day after the last one," she said. "It's only three months away, Nate. Everything from the décor and theme to the catering will be set in stone by now."

"Really."

"Yes, really, barring accidents." Her eyes widened. "Nate, no. It's for charity."

"Charity begins at home," he said in a thoughtful voice.

"It is home, Nate," said Eliot. "Maya's shelters depend on that fundraiser. So do a lot of the places Jo used to go for a decent meal when she was on the streets." He knew Jo and Maya were worried about keeping the domestic abuse shelters going. The tanking economy meant less money and more victims—a lot of people liked to take their money frustrations out on their families.

"State cut their funding to nothing last year," said Hardison. "They lose the Weston money, they close. Even with that money, it's gonna be tight—the Gala isn't bringing in what it was five years ago. Guess even millionaires are feeling the economic crunch."

Eliot folded his arms. "So unless you're planning on using what's left of your assets to make up the difference, we ain't gonna risk that. Not even to take these people down."

"Find another way, Nate," said Sophie.

Nate blinked at them. "Don't worry—we won't stop the Gala, just . . . disrupt things a little along the way. And while we're at it, maybe we can figure out how to improve the take. Okay? Okay. Now, does Mrs. Weston come up with the theme and so on herself?"

"That's what event planners are for," said Sophie. "It was UltraEvents last year. . . but she never uses the same ones twice in a row and they did a Pumpkin Disco thing that frankly would have knocked them out of the running, anyway."

"Occasions to Remember," said Hardison.

"Ooo, they're very good," said Sophie. "They did the wedding for the Governors niece a few years ago. Very classy."

"I'm glad you approve—you'll start Monday as liaison to Mrs. Weston from Occasions—and vice versa."

But Nate," she said. "We don't know who knows what we look like."

"True," he said. "But remember that time in Cairo? You did the thing with the, ah—"

"That wasn't Cairo," she said. "It was Marrakesh. And believe me, it was a one-off."

"Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure—it absolutely ruined my favorite pair of—"

"No, about Marrakesh."

"Nathan Ford, only you could mistake Marrakesh for Cairo . . . No, wait a minute . . . Was I after Cleopatra's cup, or her hair combs?"

He raised his eyebrows. "You don't remember?"

Eliot stepped up to Hardison as their voices rose. "Listen," he said quietly, "You did a good thing, but you did it the wrong way." The younger man started to speak, and Eliot clamped down on his shoulder. "How do you think Parker would take it, if the three of us were hurt because of her bunny?"

Hardison froze.

"So the next time you want to send her a care package, you run it by me first, and we'll find a way—without compromising our location. You got me?"

Hardison nodded.

Eliot let go. "Good."

Hardison rubbed his shoulder and glanced at Nate and Sophie, whose argument had just jumped continents . "You notice how they always end up in Paris, shooting each other?"

"City of Love," said Eliot. "One of these days, they'll stop dancing around."

"Hope it's soon, 'cause this is getting repetitive. And loud."

"They'd better hold off until we get out of these close quarters," said Eliot. "Don't know about you, but some things should remain a mystery."

Hardison made a face. "Yeah, that would be kind of—"

The computer shrilled. Hardison dove for the keyboard, fingers flying. "Jo? Jo!"

Her breathless voice came through the speakers. "I'm a little . . .busy right now, Hardison. Get down!" she shouted.

"Parker's EKG went off!" shouted Hardison. "Is she—what's going on?"

"That was me—" There was a thud and a crash. "Back up would be nice right about—no, you don't!" There was another crash.

Hardison jabbed a key. "Mike! Mike! Get to Parker's room! Jo's got company!"

Mike's voice said a rude word over the speakers. "On my way."

"I wasn't expecting you," said a familiar male voice.

"Good," said Jo, sounding out of breath. "Wish I could say the same, Mr. Victor."

"You know who I am?"

"I know what you are," she said.

"That's unfortunate."

"You're telling me," she said—then gave a strangled choking cry.

Sophie clutched Nate's arm.

"And you'll tell me," said Victor. "Everything you know. Now stay down like a good girl while I take care of business."

"Jo?" said Hardison.

Eliot closed his eyes, his fists clenched so hard he felt the skin on his palms break. There was nothing he could do—his worst nightmare.

Then . . . "The hell I will, you son of a bi—"

Her voice cut off.

"Jo's earbud is offline," said Hardison.

"Mike," said Eliot, through his teeth.

"Working on it," said Mike, with a sharp grunt. "Door . . .ungh! Won't . . . open."

"Hardison," said Nate.

"I can amplify Parker's earbud mike, but Jo won't know—"

"What on earth happened in here?" said a strange voice.

Jo's voice came through. "That man came in, knocked me down and went after my patient."

Eliot exhaled .

"Thank God," said Sophie, sagging in Nate's arms.

"You're gonna have a shiner," said Mike. "You okay?"

"Fine," said Jo. "Dougie? Are you okay?"

"Under here. Ow!"

"I got ya," said Mike.

"What happened to him?" said a male voice. "These look like contact burns."

"Maybe the crash cart?" said Jo, with just the right amount of doubt. "I tripped him, and he fell into it."

Eliot grinned. Jo couldn't lie worth a damn, but she was an expert at telling the selective truth.

"It zapped him by itself?"

"I don't know. It was on. The EKG went off, so I prepped it—"

"Jeez, how high did you set it?"

"High enough to short out her earbud," said Hardison. "Must've got a jolt, too."

"What is this?" said Mike. "Look at her—you think she attacked him? We gotta get this guy out of here before he wakes up."

"He's right. You two, take him to the ER, and inform security," said a female voice that brooked no nonsense. "Let's get this young man back into bed."

"He's not the patient, said Jo. "My patient is Alice White . . . " There was a pause.

"Well?" asked the voice. "Where is she?"

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