Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Now, this isn't our usual type of job,” Nate Ford warned the crew as they gathered around his living room, “but it's an important one. Hardison, run it.”

The collage of television sets at the front of the room had been displaying the same few seconds of a stop motion dinosaur battle—a Tyrannosaurus rex against a massive pterosaur—but with a single click of his remote, Hardison activated his briefing slideshow. It displayed a rotating view of a lush and mountainous tropical landscape, surrounded by water on all sides. 

“This is Montserrat, a tiny British territory in the Caribbean nestled between Antigua and Guadeloupe,” Hardison explained. “And I mean tiny. Whole place is 40 square miles, population of less than 5,000. Folks call it ‘The Emerald of the Caribbean.’”

Only Hardison was watching Parker closely enough to see the glint of excitement in her eyes and the wry smile that crossed her lips at the mention of the precious gem. Now, he could correct her, but for the moment, he didn't dare burst her bubble.

“Now that's strange,” Sophie chimed in. “St. Maarten’s about the same size, in the same archipelago, but they've got six times as many people. A beautiful, green vacation locale like that should be bustling with travelers.”

“That's the thing,” Hardison said, clicking the remote yet again. The sights of verdant cliffs and mountaintops gave way to images of ghost towns with sparse buildings strewn across the flat, desolate land. “Place was hit hard by Hurricane Hugo in ‘89. Lost their water, telephone, and power grids in one fell swoop, not to mention their primary hospital and sea port. And that wasn't even the worst of it.”

Click. New shots overtook the screens, displaying  great plumes of ash and flowing liquid-hot lava.

“Six years later, the Soufrière Hills began to erupt. I say ‘began,’ because it's been active as recently as last year. Most of what they rebuilt after the hurricane was leveled—again. The capital, Plymouth, basically got wiped off the map. About 7,000 residents evacuated permanently, seeking refuge in the U.K. and neighboring islands. To this day, thanks to a perfect storm of quakes, tsunamis, hurricanes, and volcanic activity, everything but the northern tip of the island remains an exclusion zone—the only natural disaster E.Z. in the world.”

Sophie and Eliot considered the weight of it all quietly as Parker’s eyes went wide with wonder.

“Ooh!” she exclaimed. “It's cursed, right? The emerald is cursed? And if we steal it, and return it to its proper resting place, it'll stop the eruptions?”

“Parker…” Eliot started to scold her before trailing off, not even sure where to begin.

“Stopping a six-layer cake of natural disasters? Not even I am that good,” Hardison answered. 

“No,” Nate answered. “Our job’s to stop the people of Montserrat from being exploited any more than they already have.”

Hardison tossed Nate the remote as he took over the briefing, revealing the next slide of an older man with greying hair at his temples and striking, angular features.

“Ohhh.” Sophie let out a sound.

“Sophie? Have something to share?” Nate said, glaring. 

Only now that the relationship between the two had been revealed to the rest of the team could his comment seem so pointed.

“That's Maxwell Easton, a very wealthy, very ruthless English property developer,” she shared. “We've been… acquainted.”

“Acq… acquainted?” Nate repeated.

“Not with me, exactly,” Sophie elucidated, “but with a favorite alias of mine—one Colette de Gaulle.”

“Colette de Gaulle?” Nate said again in disbelief. “One of the nine daughters of Bernard de Gaulle? Billionaire chairman of one of the largest luxury goods companies in history?”

“The very same,” Sophie said. “Though, dear Papa has long since passed…”

Nate simply shook his head before continuing.

“Maxwell Easton has arrived in Montserrat promising its people a miracle. According to his team's research, the exclusion zone is safe enough to begin scaling back, and eventually, be decommissioned altogether. He claims he can revitalize the abandoned towns and bring the island back to its former glory. Meanwhile, he's vying to buy his way into becoming the new head of their Ministry of Agriculture, Lands, Housing, and Environment.”

“Rewriting the rules so he can make even more money off the people,” Eliot chimed in, wearing a pensive look of disgust.

“Building himself up into some kind of savior,” Hardison added.

“And to make matters worse,” Nate went on, “those safety studies have been completely falsified. The Soufrière Hills remain just as active—and deadly—as ever. Two scientists who attempted to blow the whistle have already been fired, publicly discredited, and falsely linked to bribes from a fringe political faction built on rejecting any means of modernization. Our client is the sole remaining researcher who’s kept quiet to keep an eye on things. She's our woman on the inside. Now, our job is to convince the public that Easton’s deal is too good to be true—to expose his greed and his willingness to do harm, by whatever means necessary.”

“Small population like that, with so much of the place off-limits, it shouldn't be hard to navigate the exclusion zone if we need to,” Eliot suggested, his wheels already turning.

“The Caribbean in mid-August, and the chance to expose a wicked old flame?” Sophie said. “Sounds like a holiday to me.”

“Those emeralds…” Parker muttered, wearing a devious grin, and drawing the gaze of the rest of her party.

“So it's agreed,” Nate declared. “Let's go steal an island.”

And as the seated team members rose, and Nate disappeared upstairs as both Sophie and Eliot exited the apartment, Parker followed Hardison over to the dining table where he'd had been fixated on his latest creative endeavor.

“I'm guessing this job will mean you have to take a break from your dioramas,” she said to him, sympathetically.

“Dioramas?” Hardison repeated indignantly over his small models in their sprawling, intricately detailed forest. “Woman, this is stop-motion animation and it's an art form, all right? The very same techniques employed by Ray Harryhausen and perfected in Empire Strikes Back, The Terminator, and countless other classics. Don't… don't even insult me with your ‘dioramas…’”

Shaking his head, he collected his laptop and followed the others, leaving the apartment.

Parker wasn't quite sure what she'd done wrong, but she'd clearly struck a nerve. She helped herself to a few minutes of toying with the well-articulated dinosaurs in front of her before letting herself out.

Chapter Text

The team had a long and arduous trip ahead of them, beginning with the red eye from Boston to Miami. It would be just the first leg of many.

They boarded just after 11 p.m. While “heiress” Sophie luxuriated, stretching out comfortably and snoozing by herself up in first class, the rest were scattered throughout coach. Nate and Eliot did what they could with their time, reading, and note-taking, and honing their focus between cat naps.

Hardison, meanwhile, was struggling. He’d always been a nervous flyer, but his travel anxiety had gotten even worse in the wake of the Genogrow incident a few years prior. He’d barely managed to remotely orchestrate the events that prevented the 1209 to the Caymans from nosediving into the sea—with his whole crew onboard. While that crisis had been narrowly averted, it didn’t stop him from considering how things might have gone differently if he were slightly less competent, or worse, hadn’t been present to assist at all.

The fact that their volcanologist on the inside had gone radio silent since their afternoon briefing certainly didn't help matters. He wasn't sure what he would've done with himself if he hadn't strategically booked his seat right next to Parker’s.

With the big job ahead of them, he was grateful she was in a learning mood tonight. For the course of this mission, she would pose as Dr. Amy Barnes, an American-born, Cambridge-trained petrologist and geochemist. Soon, she'd be interviewing to potentially replace the fired researchers on Montserrat’s Scientific Advisory Committee.

This wasn't a job she could step into unprepared, and though the two were already “in character,” their somewhat isolated seats and the loud whirring of the engines and airflow around the plane meant they could communicate rather freely, so long as they whispered in a chit-chatty cadence.

Despite his escalating motion sickness, Hardison spent the first hour of the flight carefully walking Parker through the names of the different types of relevant measuring equipment, and how to read gas volumes using a correlation spectrometer, and how you could assess eruption risk using geogammetry to calculate changes to the geology of volcanic domes.

Parker wasn't exactly enthusiastic about the material, but she was invested enough to pick it all up, seemingly effortlessly. She passed all of Hardison’s impromptu quizzes with flying colors.

“And remember,” he reminded her, “I'll be in your ear the whole time walking you through this stuff, but…”

“But it's good for me to build up a base knowledge if I want to be convincing,” she finished, with a smile. “I know.”

After all, this role demanded more than just brains. As if a job interview wasn't enough out of Parker’s wheelhouse, she would also have to walk a very fine line between being an expert in her field and a somewhat desperate prospective employee, willingly going along with what she was told.

Sophie would've been much better equipped for this, if the mark weren't already a bit too familiar with her. But Hardison believed in Parker. They might actually be able to pull this one off.

“And when we're done with the job,” Parker mused, stretching as she yawned, “maybe we can steal something.”

Before Hardison could even protest, Parker was out cold. It took only another few seconds for gravity to pull her toward him, nestling against his shoulder like a pillow. He didn't mind in the slightest—drool, snoring, and mumbling about glimmering green gems included.

For a while, Hardison just felt peace. A little piece of home.

In that moment, he could forget about the urge to expel the contents of his stomach every time the plane hit a pocket of turbulence, and the urgency of the mission ahead of them. If only he could've made that sensation drag on for longer. 

One layover and another flight later, more than 10 hours after their initial takeoff, the crew finally touched down at Antigua’s V.C. Bird International Airport.

Sophie had dutifully schooled them on the island's pronunciation—An-tee-gah, rather than An-tee-gwuh (the latter was reserved for the city of the same name in Guatemala)—but it proved truly unnecessary, thanks to countless intercom announcements on the plane and in the airport making this perfectly clear.

Hardison tried not to glare at her as she stepped ahead in line, confidently toting the documents that identified her as Colette de Gaulle. He, personally, thought her fake French passport was a bit shoddy—the watermarks weren’t quite holographic enough, while her photo was just a bit too glamorous to be the real deal—but she insisted on using it, instead of allowing him to forge her something more authentic.

At least the others hadn't objected. He'd built their latest identities from scratch just for this job. Of course, he’d prepared their passports, but to avoid any inconsistencies, he also filled out everyone’s immigration and customs forms—both to and from their destination—in advance. He'd learned the hard way that certain members of his team couldn't be bothered with avoiding clerical issues, and wasn't about to repeat that mistake.

Bleary-eyed, they all made it through customs without a hitch before grabbing their luggage from the baggage carousel and heading outside to catch their shuttle to the next destination.

For Nate in particular, this trip seemed a bit more real the second they’d escaped the familiar, air-conditioned liminal space of the airport’s very conventional minimalist interior. His dark sunglasses hardly helped. The glaring sunshine, in combination with the many tiny bottles of vodka he'd downed on both flights, made his head throb and the hot, humid summer air seem even stickier. The surrounding hills, green with tree canopies and dotted with homes and towers, made it even clearer they weren’t in Boston anymore.

He was surprised, too, by the ever-growing lines for the port shuttle. He'd understood the mild tropical winter to be peak tourist season for most of the Caribbean, but it stood to reason that travelers would take time off when they could get it. Now, in the dead of August, the late morning was already blazing hot and intensely sunny, and it would only get even hotter as the day went on.

And once it came time to board, the team was shuffled into three separate, equally packed, buses toward the coast. Parker was the first to be divided from the others and corralled into the first shuttle, futilely resisting the flow of the lines.

“Hardison!” Parker hissed into her comms as the travel coordinators led her away.

“We're all good, Parker,” he reassured her in a whisper. “Just follow along with the tourists. We'll regroup at the port.”

“Eliot, can we confirm these are just tourists?” Nate asked, peering around at the shifting crowds.

“No red flags here,” Eliot answered, without a moment's hesitation.

He'd been carefully keeping watch for anyone or anything out of the ordinary since Boston—that was his job—and at least so far, he hadn't identified anything he'd consider a threat.

That somewhat calmed Parker’s nerves as she boarded, easily stealing herself a window seat. During the drive, she tuned out the loud chatter of the other passengers, soaking in the morning sights of Antigua.

Once the bus had made it out past the airport’s perimeter, mostly surrounded by palm trees and grassy hills, the surrounding countryside seemed quite rural, featuring long roads occasionally beset with small houses and rusted-out shacks.

As her shuttle approached the coast and the port at Heritage Quay, the place was already bustling. The streets were lined with tidy and colorful boutiques, and the buildings that weren’t a pristine white were painted in a blend of vibrant oranges and yellows and soft pink, green, and blue pastels. It wasn’t long before the Caribbean Sea came into view, the calm, clear waters tinted in a gorgeous blue-green. Across the water, she spied another, even greener, island. That must have been their destination.

Parker's bus arrived first, and she did as she was told, following the flow of the sea of vacationers toward a massive and imposing cruise ship terminal at the end of the dock.

“Wrong way, Parker,” Hardison’s voice resonated in her ear.

“But, you said…!” she argued back, sheepishly looping back around, against the current of pedestrians.

“I know what I said,” he answered. “I don't think any of us realized how unpopular our trip would be. You want the ferry to Montserrat, all right?”

Luckily, there were plenty of signs to point Parker in the right direction. When she got there, she found the small ferry much less impressive than the cruise vessel. Could this really be it?

Once they were all reunited, the team made up five of the dozen passengers queued up to cross. They were joined by two youthful, glowy honeymooners, two pairs of retired couples, and a middle-aged solo traveler who looked ready for a good time in a loud, multi-colored Hawaiian shirt.

Perhaps “Colette” was looking a bit too glamorous, because immediately, Sophie drew this man's attention like a moth to the flame.

As he made his way toward her, launching into obnoxious small talk, Sophie cleared her throat, pretending not to notice him as she snagged a travel brochure from the kiosk. She buried her face in it as Nate quickly jumped to her rescue.

“Name’s Ed Fox,” Nate lied, butting between the two with his hand outstretched. “You like to party?”

The stranger instinctively went to shake it, revealing that he was Bert, from Vegas. He seemed to find a like-minded soul in “Ed,” starting with his straw fedora and linen suit.

But once Nate had gotten Bert off Sophie’s back, he couldn’t shake him, despite multiple attempts to do so. The two continued chatting as everyone boarded.

The ferry would have accommodated about 100 passengers, giving the crew plenty of room to roam, though whether they decided to stay inside or head upstairs to the second, open-air, level of the ferry, they rarely had enough privacy to speak freely. Perhaps it was the fatigue, but the 90-minute ride felt much longer with everyone having to pretend they were strangers. For now, with the others nearby, it was best they continued to communicate via comms, whether in code or under their breath, as if talking to themselves.

Nate and his new friend parked themselves in front of the wheelhouse as Bert blabbed on and on about his yo-yo-ing finances and gambling debts. Nate hardly paid him any attention, responding only here and there to speak with Sophie, who sat solo toward the ferry’s stern.

“You know, you're right,” Nate said at one point, not quite responding to Bert’s latest droning tale of his travels. “When you're basically delirious from getting moved around in taxis, and planes, and buses, and boats for a day straight, nothing can bring you back to life like mingling with new people…”

“Oh, no,” Sophie shot back at him. “I’m busy brushing up on my French in preparation for my big role. This is a very important reunion, you know. Tedious banter will just wear me out. We can’t have that if I’m to woo Easton again. Especially after what happened between us last time…”

“Last time?” Nate repeated, incredulous.

“Oh!” Bert answered, with no reason to think Nate wasn’t speaking to him. “Last time I was here I got some lovely peeks at the ladies on the beach. Did you know that Montserrat doesn't have any laws against public nudity? Not that I’d suggest a naked volcano tour or nothin’...”

“Nude beaches, eh?” Sophie said, hearing Bert through her earpiece.

She turned her attention back to the points of interest on her travel brochure.

“Maybe once the job is done, the two of us can share a bit of a getaway?” she suggested. “We have our volcano tour, and there are the thousand-year-old petroglyphs on the Soldier Ghaut Trail. Or, like your new friend recommended, we could luxuriate on the white sands of Rendezvous Beach…”

“No, I don't think so,” Nate said. “I think I'd prefer to spend this time focusing on myself. A romantic rendezvous would just get in the way of… my mission.”

“Fine,” Sophie pouted.

“I respect that,” answered Bert.

Meanwhile, as they drew nearer to the island, Eliot rolled his eyes, wishing he didn't have to overhear the latest development in Nate and Sophie’s “relationship” woes. He crossed his arms, leaning against the upper deck’s guardrail as the breeze whipped through his long hair.

Hardison was also upstairs, seated comfortably toward the center of the ship, with a big grin on his face. That was because inside, Parker had captivated a very sweet elderly couple with her volcano knowledge. He couldn't be prouder.

Suddenly, a strong, familiar sense hit Eliot. He sniffed twice deeply to confirm his suspicions.

“Hardison,” he whispered. “Do you smell that?”

Hardison took a deep breath through his nose, and then a couple more.

“The crisp ocean breeze?” he wondered, not getting a whiff of anything.

“No,” Eliot answered gruffly. “Sulfur.”

The scent would only get stronger as the barge pulled into the dock at Deep Water Harbour—enough that the others couldn't help but notice it as well. Finally, the crew would be setting foot on the island of Montserrat. Now, the job would truly begin.

Chapter Text

“I got a three-leaf clover!” Parker announced proudly, like she’d won a game of bingo. She splayed her phony passport out for all to see, revealing the only authentic stamp inside.

Nate’s new pal Bert jumped, startled by her sudden presence outside the Customs and Immigration office.

As the sole member of the party “seeking employment” in Montserrat, it took her just a bit longer to get her logistical affairs settled once they'd touched down in Little Bay. Save the eldest couple, who snagged the first available taxi out, the rest of the ferry travelers still awaited rides to their next destinations. Finding little respite in the pink stuccoed building’s shade from the wet heat and searing sun, they kicked around the beach sand that sat in a thin layer over the concrete and asphalt cul-de-sac leading toward the center of the island.

“Settle down,” Eliot said, unfazed, as he flashed his own identical stamp back at her. “None of us got pots of gold or rainbows. This ain’t a box of Lucky Charms.”

That wasn't exactly what she'd had in mind, but close. She liked his line of thinking.

Rather, she’d imagined that certain travelers might randomly be assigned a four-leaf clover. Extra lucky. And they might win a free sucker or an all-expenses paid trip or whatever. She wasn't entirely clear on the details yet. They hadn’t won this time, but that didn't mean they couldn't in the future.Then, she'd discover the true nature of this hidden prize.

Regardless of the number of leaves, Parker admired her stamp. The green ink created the thin outline of a shamrock, as well as lines in the center for listing the arrival and departure dates. Today's date had carefully been penned in by the immigration agent in elegant, swoopy numerals.

The others were less excited by their stamps and had their focus turned to other matters—namely, the staggering humidity.

It was the rainy season here on Montserrat, though the weather forecast anticipated nothing but blazing sun for the next several days. This made the air feel unbearably hot, damp, and sticky. Nate removed his hat, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, and Sophie fanned herself aggressively with her travel brochure. Parker appeared to be the only one among them who could avoid taking on the shiny gleam of perspiration.

On any other trip, this would have been just the time to head to their lodgings to decompress and regain their bearings—Nate and Sophie in their swanky hotel in St. John’s and Hardison, Eliot, and Parker in their own quaint cottage inns in Old Town—but circumstances had forced them to move up the timeline.

The sooner they could get back in touch with Hardison’s contact, the better. Bonus points if they could get their hands on any dirt on Easton in the process. An island tour would be the perfect excuse for the team to stick close and get a lay of the land—including areas that were typically off-limits—with an almost too convenient stop along the way.

Lucky for them, they didn't have to stew there for too long. Their ride—or Dr. Barnes’ ride, if they were being technical—had shown up promptly at the assigned time.

It was a seven-seater open-top Jeep with a roll bar and no doors. The driver wasted no time leaping from his seat (the front right seat, as Montserrat was a left-hand traffic country) and theatrically announcing his arrival.

“Who dares journey into the famous buried city of Plymouth?” the man inquired in a lilting Caribbean accent, flashing a wide, bright grin that looked even whiter against his deep, warmly toned skin. “Who’s willing to tempt fate for a glimpse at Montserrat’s tarnished crown jewel?”

At that, Parker couldn't help but match his smile.

Still, while he put on quite a show, he couldn't distract everyone from the white SUV that rolled in behind him, labeled on the sides as a vehicle of the Royal Montserrat Police Service. Nate glanced at Eliot, watching him as he sized up the situation. He'd be two steps ahead and speak up if anything were amiss.

Parker approached first, waving her printed ticket for the driver.

“Ah, Ms. Barnes!” he said. “Thank you very much for booking online. My name is Saul and I will be your humble tour guide today.”

“That's Dr. Barnes,” she corrected him, maybe a hint too aggressively. She thought it felt right for the character, but when Saul laughed a bit, she lightened up and followed it up with, “Amy.”

“My sincerest apologies, Doctor Amy,” Saul said, warmly.

He met Parker to collect her luggage and load it into the back of the Jeep and then offered his hand to help her into the front passenger’s seat before launching further into his sales pitch.

“You've all traveled hours, by sky and sea, to visit our beautiful nation of Montserrat, known not just as the Emerald Isle of the Caribbean, but the Pompeii of the Caribbean as well,” he went on. “You've come so far to only have entry to one third of the island, but with my certification…” he flashed a document on thick paper, finalized with another pretty green stamp, “I have clearance to take you into the other two thirds, deep into Montserrat’s deadly volcanic exclusion zone. So what do you say? Join us for three unforgettable hours for just $540 East Caribbean Dollars, or $200 U.S. No credit, please…”

As Saul spoke, the rest of the crew approached, one at a time, and Saul handed them each their own information pamphlets, with waiver forms attached by a staple. To go on this trek, they'd all have to sign them, agreeing Saul would not be held responsible in the case of any injury, death, or property damage, by act of God or otherwise. Pretty standard, really, and posing as eager tourists, each member affixed their fake signatures to the documents and handed over their cash—a mix of green American bills and the Caribbean’s more colorful notes, donning images of Queen Elizabeth and sea turtles.

None of them could have anticipated that Bert would also be so swayed by Saul’s charisma and promise of adventure, resulting in a packed tour. Sophie and Hardison took the middle row, while Nate begrudgingly sat sandwiched between Eliot and Bert in the back.

“I haven't had a full house all summer,” Saul announced with a chuckle, turning the key in the ignition to begin their drive. “What a lovely coincidence, ah?”

Parker joined in to laugh with him. She second-guessed herself, wondering if it was too much, but he ate up her enthusiasm.

“I love my job!” Saul said, grinning.

Meanwhile, Eliot wasted no time scoping out the place with a pair of heavy binoculars. Playing tourist meant he could do as much scouting as necessary without arousing any suspicions, including closely inspecting the police vehicle that trailed them, and the gangly ginger officer behind the wheel.

“What's with the police detail?” Nate whispered to him as Saul detailed their route.

Quickly, the landscape surrounding the irregular dirt road had changed from sandy beach to tall, green grass and rolling hills dense with shrubbery. The sound of gentle waves lapping the shore had given way to rustling leaves and cheery bird calls.

“We're dumb American tourists sightseeing in a highly restricted exclusion zone,” he said with a shrug. “Stands to reason they'd want to keep an eye on us. But I'm not worried about this guy. He’s just going through the motions. Dudn’t see us as a threat. And Montserrat police don't carry firearms except for extreme circumstances…”

“What are you two whispering about?” Bert chimed in after unsuccessfully attempting to eavesdrop.

“Montserrat orioles,” Eliot answered without hesitation. He placed the binoculars in front of Bert’s eyes and angled his perspective toward the tree line, meanwhile pointing out their general direction with two fingers. Sure enough, Bert spotted the unusual flock of bumblebee-colored birds immediately.

“They're the national bird of Montserrat, found nowhere else on the planet,” Eliot continued. “The males are the ones with black heads and chests and yellow bellies. The females are the duller yellow all over.”

Nate shot him a perplexed look, while Bert continued to stare at the birds, mesmerized.

“You're a birder, right?” Bert asked. “I've always been curious but I don't have the patience or the attention for detail…”

“Something like that,” Eliot answered, pretending he didn't notice the way Nate rolled his eyes at him.

In the row in front of them, while Sophie played the role of cool and disinterested millionaire, Hardison had decided to lean harder into the Bajan accent he'd been using so lightly on this job that the others had barely picked up on it. Hearing Saul’s playful confidence had emboldened him, while also providing a useful template. And then there was the way he was making Parker giggle…

“Emmit, is it?” Saul called Hardison by his fake name. “I'd recognize those syllables anywhere. You come here from Barbados.”

“Yes, yes I do,” Hardison answered, pleased with himself. “You have a keen ear.”

“Did you, by any chance, study at Cave Hill?”

Hardison was taken aback. That was precisely where this alias, Emmit Reese, had received his bachelors in education. At least, that was the story he'd developed for him on the plane ride here.

“You got me,” Hardison answered, unnerved but doing his best to conceal it.

“You must know Markus Gittens, then?” Saul said. “He’s a close friend, about your age. Class of ‘08, Department of Education?”

Now, things were getting a bit too close for comfort. What would he guess correctly next, that Emmit’s carbonated drink of choice was Tiger Malt?

“I'm familiar with him, yes,” Hardison lied, “but we don't really know each other…”

And when a sudden whirring, whooshing noise erupted from the sky, interrupting his unimpressive explanation, Hardison was relieved for a moment before a sense of overwhelming dread sank within his gut. The sound only grew louder, and more raucous, combining the shriek of an approaching fire truck siren with the deep blaring urgency of an alarm clock. The crew searched around, panicked, while Saul looked completely unbothered and Bert, while covering his ears, seemed only slightly annoyed.

“I'm sorry about the rude surprise,” Saul apologized, his clear voice cutting through the awful noise. “We were having such a wonderful conversation I lost track of the time to warn you. It's noon, which means you're hearing the daily Emergency Alert System alarm test. It must be loud enough to be heard island-wide, and jarring enough to ensure we spring to action in the event of a volcano. Rest assured there is no danger today.”

As he finished speaking, the siren also wound down until it went totally quiet. The resulting silence was eerie, feeling too still to be natural, even as the Jeep moved them deeper and deeper into the tropical rainforest.

Sophie was the first to speak up, breaking the lingering spell.

“Is it just a rumor, then,” she wondered, in her soft French accent, “that the island’s been declared safe? I hear they're opening it all up to build the most beautiful resort in the whole Caribbean.”

“That would be great,” Bert marveled. “Not that I could afford it, but I wouldn't mind feeling safer here—and not ever hearing that lousy siren again…”

Saul’s usually wide smile faded, and he shook his head.

“I'll believe it when I see it,” he answered. “When you see what’s become of our former capital, you might not be so quick to dream of such things.”

Chapter Text

Nothing—not the sign reading “Entry Beyond This Point Is Strictly Prohibited,” nor the 20-minute documentary Saul had played for them on a little Windows tablet, nor the vivid descriptions of his family’s evacuation to the north of the island when he was 10—could have actually prepared the team for what they experienced upon entering the abandoned city of Plymouth.

There was a very clear boundary where the majestic hills of the rainforest immediately gave way to desolate, rocky earth, tinged an ashy brown. Only scarce brush could grow here. As Saul pointed out various buildings—a secondary school here, a shopping mall there, and the world-famous Montserrat Springs Hotel there—he had Parker swipe through the imagery in a slideshow on the device, showcasing the almost impossibly stark contrast between each location's glory days, before the destruction caused by the hurricane and volcanic eruption, and now.

Any buildings that still stood wore a dull grey, as if robbed of all color. They looked hollow, nearly false, and ripped open, with collapsed ceilings stripped back to nothing but bleached wooden support beams. Elsewhere, molten steel and glass left completely unrecognizable shapes poking out of crumbling cement structures.

Parker couldn't quite place the sensations bubbling up within her. She knew what Saul was saying was true. She could see what Plymouth had been, and what it was now. It was a tragedy, that was certain, but she couldn't quite make herself internalize that connection. It was too strange that the two places were one and the same. Too surreal. Somehow, that made it feel like fiction. Were they sure a curse wasn't responsible for this?

But based on the tears welling in Sophie’s eyes, and the grave looks on the others' faces, she might have been alone in that.

She put on a very serious expression. That felt like the respectful thing to do.

It didn't help that the quiet stillness of the valley gave it a haunting, almost otherworldly atmosphere. Not a hint of wind stirred the tepid air, and that silence only seemed amplified once Saul parked and everyone left the Jeep to further explore the land on foot, followed closely by their assigned cop.

The ambiance was eerie, like stepping back in time, and only made even stranger when Parker considered that it had been fewer than 15 years since thousands of people had called this place their home. They had lived, worked, and played here. Now, it seemed like an empty, lifeless place.

But that wasn't entirely true, she soon realized. Saul’s tour took them into what remained of St. Anthony's Church, where stone arches and a raised pulpit had managed to survive, surrounded by rotting wooden pews, all caked in a thick layer of silt. There, the strong stink of ammonia and the dropping-covered ground led to the discovery of big-eyed bats in the still-standing rafters in the ceiling. Sophie and Hardison had immediately excused themselves outside, but Parker looked up at them in wonder.

Exploration of the old bank and the hotel, too, revealed apocalyptic visuals like something out of a zombie movie, with dense green and yellow bushes attempting to reclaim the buildings from the outside in. They seemed to attract the local orioles as well as Plymouth anoles—little long-legged lizards in brown, green, and rust who scurried along the ground between hidden crevices in the rubble.

Hardison did his best to remain in character, but he couldn’t help but be entranced by the way Parker moved through these unusual spaces with grace and curiosity. Her focus moved from object to object, as if hunting for something spectacular hidden amongst the grime. He’d catch himself watching her, and cough before pretending to redirect his attention elsewhere.

They also navigated the dilapidated rooms of what was once AIR Studios Montserrat, opened by legendary producer George Martin in 1979. Signs of its former opulence still stood, from the wrought iron fence and swampy, mosquito-infested swimming pool to the grand cobblestone fireplace within. Otherwise, the place was in shambles.

“Today, the studio is home to many wasps’ nests and swarms of moths,” Saul said in a stage whisper as they moved through the building. “But at one time, it also received occasional visits from Beatles—or at least Paul McCartney.”

He got small chuckles from Eliot and Nate. They were interested to learn that “Ebony & Ivory” had been recorded there, under much different circumstances. Hardison nudged Eliot, like they should do an impromptu performance, but was shrugged away. Now was not the time for that.

“And Bert,” Saul singled out the team’s surprise companion, “I think you will like to know that Jimmy Buffett’s Volcano was also brought to life here.”

Bert’s face lit up—clearly a fan—until a moment later, when a frown replaced his smile.

“That's in bad taste, Jimmy,” Saul said, shaking his head.

“Yes, it is!” Saul agreed jovially.

As outsiders, it was hard for the others to share his good humor about the state of things. The atmosphere was stifling, and they could see what he'd meant about doubting Easton’s plans. It was difficult to imagine starting from scratch and attempting to transform this land into something viable and thriving once again. He had to be stopped before history could repeat itself.

They were all relieved when time came to get back in the Jeep and continue on to their next destination.

Once they’d made it back into the rainforest, it felt as if they could breathe again. The damp air was cooler and more enlivening, and the breeze had continued, filling the space with the meditative music of rustling foliage and chattering tropical birds.

They enjoyed the drive, while it lasted, and very soon, they could spy Montserrat Volcano Observatory sitting quaintly, high up in the hills. The off-white building, made up of connected cylinders, was smaller than they'd imagined, but perfectly situated to keep an eye on the buried city below, and the volcano responsible for its barrenness.

This was the real purpose of their tour. Before Parker showed up for her important job interview the following day, she'd check out the observatory as a visitor. Given the size of the place, it wouldn't take long at all to scope it out. It was a simple recon mission, and if there was a weird room full of messed up data or their contact, Dr. Bodkin, tied to a chair, she'd find it.

Once they’d parked, she stretched lithely, cracking her knuckles with both arms raised straight above her head, as they approached the observatory. She was beginning to get a bit restless at this point, eager to disappear into the first available yet out-of-sight vent.

Before they reached the entrance, however, four men emerged from the building. The one leading them was none other than Maxwell Easton.

He was flanked by three tough-looking grunts, all armed and dangerous. Eliot eyed them carefully, measuring them up, and calculating, before looking to the officer on duty. He seemed completely unworried about their presence. They were expected here. Lawful. That was what worried him most.

“E aí?” Eliot asked, casually—basically Portuguese for “What’s up?”—and the gunmen all squinted in recognition. Despite their understanding, however, they remained silent.

Unfortunately for them all, Easton also had no trouble picking Parker out from the crowd.

“Dr. Barnes,” he acknowledged her in a nasally tone, the false charm radiating off him like cheap cologne. “It's so lovely to meet you. And you're early! That's very lucky. We can use all the help we can get at the moment. Now…”

He stopped suddenly, as if forgetting how to speak, upon spying Sophie in the back of the group. She wasn't afraid to take her time, sauntering over to Easton in long but deliberate strides. Like she could turn it on at a moment's notice, she suddenly appeared even more irresistibly stylish, in spite of the climate working against her.

“C-Coco?” he coughed out. “Fancy that! What a remarkable coincidence…”

Parker watched on as the others pretended not to eavesdrop.

“Not a coincidence at all, Wellsy,” Sophie answered in her sing-songy French accent, allowing most of the consonants in his nickname to roll into a rounded-out vowel sound. “I heard news you had important business in this area and wanted to see it for myself. May be worth an investment, no?”

Easton's eyes went wide, and while Sophie wasn't a mindreader per se, she could guess that he believed a number of his deepest wishes were all manifesting together, here, in this moment.

“Oh, I think you'll find this project very worthy,” he assured her. “An extension of the De Gaulle brand and legacy, shall we say.”

“You'll need to get me caught up,” Sophie flirted. “It's been far too long.”

“Are you free this evening, perhaps?” he wondered. “You know, the sunset at Lover’s Bay is quite sensational…”

No one else was watching Nate, so they didn't notice that his lower left eyelid had begun to twitch. Quietly, he gritted his teeth and clenched his fists, willing the spasm to cease.

“Why wait?” Sophie asked. “For you my… schedule is wide open.”

Nate didn't enjoy any of this, but he had to focus on the job at hand. Really, this was good, he convinced himself.

Coaxing Easton—had she really called him Wellsy?—away from the observatory now, along with his handlers, would give them all the chance to conduct a thorough internal sweep. If anything damning remained within the research data on the MVO servers, Hardison would find it—especially once he could get a helping hand from their client. With a little luck, this investigation would reveal her whereabouts as well.

“I'm sorry, mon chou,” Easton answered quietly, appearing genuinely torn about the response he had to give.

Nate pitied himself over the relief he felt for an instant before dutifully replacing the sensation with one of irritation.

“I'd love nothing more than to shirk my duties and expedite our reunion,” Easton continued, “but we have a delicate matter to attend to first. I can't get into the specifics, but we're relocating our base of research operations to a more secure location and we need to onboard our newest recruit. But where are you staying? I'll have my driver come collect you at 5.”

“The Harbourfront,” Sophie answered promptly, pretending to eat up his sense of self-importance. “J’ai hâte de te voir ce soir.”

Nate did his best to remind himself that Sophie was a grifter—she was grifting!—so why did it make him queasy to hear that she couldn't wait to see the mark this evening?

But he had to snap himself out of that line of thinking immediately, because as soon as Easton had excused himself, kissing the back of Sophie's fingers to bid her farewell, he'd turned to Parker and requested that she follow him.

Parker froze in place, unsure, while both Eliot and Hardison tensed, ready to spring to action and stop this by whatever means necessary. This wasn't part of the plan.

“Nate, just say the word and I take all these guys out,” Eliot said pointedly, his gaze flitting between the gunmen, keeping his voice low but ensuring it'd carry in their comms.

“No,” Nate answered in a whisper. “Parker, go with him. Let Easton lead us to this second location. If it's safe, do your recon mission there. Something isn't adding up here.”

Parker did as she was told, joining Easton, and his guards surrounded the duo until they reached a flashy black sedan parked at one end of the observatory. Everyone watched as the car left, driving off down the hill, and then deeper into the exclusion zone.

“I don't like this,” Hardison muttered, pulling his cell phone out of his pocket. “We don't know where they're taking you, Parker, but we're here for you. Right in your ear, like I promised. Whatever you do, do not take out your comm.”

She didn't respond as he watched a tiny red dot, following the tracker embedded in Parker's shoe, move across the map of the island on his screen. He imagined she couldn't speak freely now, and his heart sank further.

“Dammit, Hardis… Reese!” Eliot corrected himself. “You made her application way too thorough. Use a crappier photo next time.”

“Okay, one,” Hardison stopped him, “there are no crappy photos of Parker, and two, I am the master of the resume, you got me? I do not turn in half-assed work…”

At that point, Saul, who had been too far from the group to overhear the content of their squabble, politely made his way over to the two to break it up.

“I see there is some… tension around Dr. Amy leaving our party,” he said, “but I assure you, she's in safe hands with Mr. Easton there. They are under the close watch of the best protection money can buy, in these parts.”

“I'm guessing money can also buy you free reign of the exclusion zone?” Eliot asked him, pointedly.

“It can make it easier to get your hands on permits,” Saul said, with a slight shrug. “Which may be the same thing, depending on who you ask. Now, why don't we begin our tour of the observatory?”

“Tough luck for both of us, eh?” Bert muttered to Nate as they all shuffled inside the white building. “That Maxwell guy’s really got it. First, his date with the European broad, and now he's stolen away the cute doc, too…”

“Okay, that's enough,” Nate snapped at him. “You know, you're giving me a huge migraine right now? It'd be best for both of us if you just don't speak to me again.”

Bert paused in place, stunned for a moment as his eyes began to water. He opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, and then stomped over to Saul, closely trailing their guide with his tail between his legs. Saul pretended not to notice, continuing his speech and pointing out signage that would have been highly educational if any of the team were still listening.

Nate signaled to Hardison, who pretended to trail behind. If Parker were here, they could do a much more thorough sweep, but as it wasn't too big, and hearing Easton’s little speech about security, chances were slim that either the research or Dr. Bodkin were still here.

Eliot considered telling Nate he'd been harsh, but they had something more urgent to discuss as they ignored the finer points of Saul's walkthrough.

“By the way, Easton’s security detail is ex-GRUMEC,” Eliot informed Nate.

Nate simply stared back at him, awaiting clarification.

“Grupamento de Mergulhadores de Combat,” Eliot said. “Elite spec ops combat divers for the Brazilian Navy.”

The explanation only prompted further blank stares—this time, not regarding what he knew, but how he knew it.

“It's the tan lines around the eyes and mouth, all right?” he continued, growing impatient. “Only specialized diving hoods, like the ones they wear, create that pattern. They also carry their weapons—9MM mini Uzis—in a specific way. Plus, they understand Portuguese. Point is, I've tussled with these guys before, all right, and we need to take them seriously.”

“Well that explains it,” Sophie said. “I was wondering why their hair was wet.”

“Wet hair?” Nate repeated. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Not only wet,” she went on, “but rapidly drying and brittle from saltwater exposure. They've been diving. Today. And they could certainly learn a thing or two about how to avoid that pesky hair damage…”

Nate took this all in. The pieces didn't fit together just yet, but it was becoming more and more clear that whatever Easton had going on, it was bigger than just a scheme to profit off of cheap, unused land.

It was at that point that the tour led them all outside to a large observation deck overlooking the ruins of Plymouth. From this vantage point, they had a remarkable view of the entire valley, allowing them to fully appreciate the scope of the destruction below—a former paradise, now hidden below meters of ashy mud. The bleak grey volcano seemed to loom threateningly, jutting out behind the lush green hills against the cloudless blue sky.

Hardison reunited with them there, simply shaking his head. The monitoring equipment remained, but none of it was in use, and not a single report had been left on-site. They'd cleaned the place out. He hadn't found squat.

“Parker, when you can, sneak us whatever details you gather while you're with Easton, and keep an eye out for Dr. Bodkin’s whereabouts,” he said. “Hardison, keep us posted on Parker’s coordinates, and Eliot, once this tour is over, you're on retrieval duty.”

“You hear that, Parker?” Eliot reiterated. “Hardison’s gonna figure out exactly where you're at, and I'm coming to get you out of there in one piece. That's a promise.”

He looked at Hardison, who gave him a solemn nod. They both wished Parker could say something—anything—to confirm she'd heard him.

And as their attention turned back to the Soufrière Hills, they watched as a smokey white plume drifted from the volcano’s crater.

Chapter Text

Parker didn't dare speak a word as she was further separated from her team, the SUV moving ever deeper into the rainforests skirting the volcano. Her captors remained equally lock-lipped, with Easton up front in the passenger's seat, one of his guards driving, and the other two lumbering men sat at either side, trapping her in the middle back seat.

The circumstances were not ideal, but she couldn't help but crack a smile as she listened in on the others hashing out her rescue plan in real time. She trusted them, just as much as she could trust herself, and even if this island was cursed, she had a hard time imagining a scenario they couldn't get themselves out of.

Even so, on rare occasions like these, she wished she could briefly borrow her teammates’ talents—in this case, the skill of doublespeak. Nate and Sophie were masters of confidently keeping a conversation flowing with whomever was in their immediate vicinity while secretly feeding important details to the rest of the team via comms. Parker, however, preferred more straightforward communication, without any guesswork and interpretation involved. Often, she relied on Hardison and Eliot’s translations to keep up. She would have never said she was jealous of them, exactly, preferring her own laundry list of more relevant (and more fun) abilities, but that little party trick would have been extremely useful at the moment.

And as the drive continued, with the view of the towering volcano taking up the entirety of her periphery on the left, something fully overtook her senses—the pervasive and pungent stink of rotten eggs.

“Phew,” Parker finally broke her silence, dramatically fanning the air in front of her nose with the waggling fingers of one hand. “Who cut the cheese? Was that you, Mr. Easton?”

He twisted his neck to glare at her from the front seat.

“Quem se queixa, é quem larga a ameixa,” the guard to Parker's right said, sneering.

She translated the Portuguese roughly in her head: “Whoever complains is the one who let go of the plum.” She wasn’t sure what that had to do with anything.

“I didn't…” Easton stammered, “That slight smell is just the island’s sulfur release.”

“Slight?” Parker repeated, incredulous. The eye-watering stench was anything but.

“And it's merely a byproduct of the dormant volcano,” Easton continued. “You, Dr. Barnes, should know that better than anyone.”

“Dormant, hmmm,” Parker said, with a close-lipped smile. “We'll see about that.”

Parker may have only been playing a volcano expert, but if Hardison's flash cards had taught her anything, it was that high volumes of odorous hydrogen sulfide output signaled potential volcanic activity. And that wasn't exactly something Easton and his people could hide. What were they getting at?

She was grateful that as they moved beyond the Soufrière Hills, the flatulent fragrance quickly dissipated. Soon, the sound of the earth under their rolling tires shifted from the rumble of rocky dirt to the crunch of sand, and then the shoreline came into view.

And there, just a couple hundred meters into the warm and gentle blue water, was an unexpected sight: a drillship. After the Baron Oil job they'd done a year back, there was no mistaking it, though this ship was a fraction of the size, and much, much closer to land than she would have expected.

It also looked positively ancient, with a bare-bones construction and an uneven coating of rust breaking through grey paint and extending up the 100-foot drilling platform. Against the side of the ship, the word TREVO had been stenciled in green, the letters looking much fresher than the rest of the peeling paint job.

“Oh, that's a drillship all right,” Parker mused, rambling aloud as she was led outside of the vehicle, in a way she hoped was inconspicuous. “Though she's a lot punier than I'm used to. ‘Trevo’ means clover, right? That's cute. And what's this beach called, anyway? Maybe Black Sands Beach, given all of the pretty black sand? And based on the angle of the sun and the time of day… yep, we're facing southwest by west.”

“Good work, Parker,” Eliot's praise came through her earpiece. He'd taught her that little directional trick, and she was proud it'd stuck.

“So that's what this is about?” Nate said. Even through the staticky comms she could hear the bewilderment in his voice. “Natural resource drilling? Huh…”

“Looks like he's got you near Sugar Bay in maritime exclusion zone E,” Hardison added. “Supposed to be completely off-limits to boats after dark, but I doubt that drillship’s going anywhere. Guess the rules haven't ever applied to guys like Easton, have they?”

“Probably a slap on the wrist and an inconsequential fine if they do get caught,” Sophie lamented.

“But even with that piece of the puzzle,” Nate continued, “something here is off…”

“Yes, right,” Easton said in the meantime, dismissing Parker's observations as he gestured for her to follow.

They trudged through the fine dark sands of the beach to a makeshift dock, and then boarded the rigid-hulled inflatable boat moored there. Easton directed the largest of the men, whom he called Alves, to take the helm, and so he did. Once they were off, it took no time at all for the engine-powered skiff to cut over the water between the shore and the ship.

Soon, it brought them to a tall rope ladder that went up the side of the ship, all the way to the deck. Easton went first, huffing and stumbling a little as he made his way up the rungs. He was followed by the other two men, Oliveira and Silva, who proved to be much more agile climbers, and then Parker, ascending quickly without a second thought. Alves rose last after attaching the smaller boat to the ship, and though he was slower than his fellow ex-soldiers, he seemed no less resilient.

But Parker didn't get to enjoy the open air of the Caribbean Sea for too much longer, because next, they funneled her below deck into a stark corridor. It appeared to be constructed entirely of the same dull grey metal, with dozens of equally spaced doors on each side, and as the guards marched her deeper into the interior, with Maxwell Easton leading the way, the piercing sounds of layered feedback screeched in her earpiece. With the grace of the world's greatest thief, she removed it, slipping it into her pocket in one fluid motion. That would mean no communication with the others, for now—but she’d have to sort that out later.

Because even once she was off comms, the ship around her continued to give off the persistent, high-frequency squeal of pervasive electronics. As Parker suspected, a quick glance around the hall revealed tiny security cameras at regular intervals. No doubt, listening devices had been planted, too. They'd make snooping around more challenging, but not impossible. In fact, this job was shaping up to be kind of fun.

Parker was pondering her next steps when Easton finally paused ahead of her, gesturing toward a door along the left wall.

“Your quarters,” he said, calling for Oliveira to come and unlock the door.

Oliveira unzipped a pouch on his vest to retrieve a ring of huge brass keys. He searched for the correct one before slotting it into the keyhole and pushing open the heavy, groaning door, and then corralled Parker inside.

Within, the sparse interior featured more of the same cold grey metal under buzzy fluorescent lights. Where a regular ship cabin might have had a window, an unevenly cut sheet of metal had been welded over to close it off, and the room featured the same security measures as the space outside. To the right, there was another door, and against the left wall stood a steel bunk bed, fitted with stiff white sheets. Between them, a woman with a smooth, dark complexion was sitting in a computer chair at a fold-up table. She'd turned toward the door, away from the hefty book she was reading, at the commotion.

“Dr. Bodkin, this is Dr. Barnes,” Easton said, his tone a bit too chipper for the circumstances. “Dr. Barnes, Dr. Bodkin. You'll be working very closely together, so please do try to get along. We'll see you at supper.”

With that, Oliveira forcefully shut the door behind Parker, and the sound of metal tumblers clanking within its frame soon followed.

“Looks like I passed the interview…” Parker muttered to herself, running over the doorway with her open palms.

On their side, the door was completely smooth—not even a handle to grasp—which meant breaking out of here might be tougher than she'd anticipated.

“There's no way out,” Dr. Bodkin said, her words gently accented with a familiar Caribbean lilt, as she rose to commiserate with Parker. “Believe me, I've checked. Mr. Easton has assured me it's a temporary measure, but it's not exactly comfortable, you know? I'll try not to make things worse, but I've never been great with roommates…”

There were clearly things that Dr. Bodkin was keeping to herself at the moment. She was the client, after all, and Parker wished she could just come out and say so without blowing this whole thing. Now Parker knew why she'd gone offline and wasn't able to get a thorough briefing on the job. Instead, she had no reason to trust Parker, and though Parker had a million questions for her, disconnected from her team, she wasn't sure what good most of them would do her now. Not that she could even ask them freely, given the heavy surveillance.

She just knew she had to start somewhere.

“So what are we doing all the way out here in the exclusion zone?” Parker parroted one of Hardison's concerns. “Isn't it off limits to be here after dark?”

“There are exceptions when it comes to scientific monitoring,” Dr. Bodkin explained.

“And they're using a drillship for this monitoring? Instead of, you know, the observatory built specifically for that job?”

“That's what I've been told, yes. Though I'm trying to get a better grasp on that myself.”

Dr. Bodkin raised the book she'd been perusing, detailing the ins and outs of the ship.

“They wouldn't have given me this reference if it weren't relevant, right?” Dr. Bodkin asked.

“Are there observation reports we can read and analyze?” Parker continued. “Would they be printed out in folders, or maybe kept on a server somewhere?”

Her questions weren't subtle, but it's not like they were huge red flags, either. People with science PhD’s should be inquisitive types, after all.

“Can't help you there,” she said, apologetically. “You know, you're not what I expected. Not one of them. Old and stuffy and money-obsessed. You're not afraid to question things. I think we're going to get along just fine.”

Parker immediately liked her. She had a warmth about her, with a friendly smile, and a casual cleverness. Her densely coiled hair was slicked back at the scalp and gathered together at the back of her head in a small, fluffy bun.

“Thanks, Dr. Bodkin,” Parker said. “I think so, too.”

“Call me Althea,” she insisted.

“I'm Amy,” Parker lied. She didn't like it. “But I also go by Parker. Anyway, I need to use the bathroom.”

Althea gestured toward the door on the right side of the room.

“Do we have… privacy in there?” Parker wondered.

Her gaze darted to the camera and listening devices in the walls.

“Yes, thankfully,” Althea assured her.

Parker wasted no time making her way into the bathroom which, indeed, was free of bugs and cams, and even had a lock on the door. Even better than the toilet and shower was the fact that it was well-ventilated—and said vent might be their ticket out of this place.

Parker carefully popped the grate off the entrance and hoisted herself up, climbing inside. She was feeling more optimistic about this job already.