Standing in the middle of McGill Accounting's main room, Tim judged the distance to the safe -- a good thirty feet. Most of the room's belongings were piled on the east side where the last sway left them, but the built-in vault remained along the outside southern wall. Only two medium-sized heaps of rubble blocked a direct path. He estimated the best way around, considered the sturdiness of the floor and quickly glanced back at Jenna. Then he shrugged his shoulders, "I'm probably going to die anyway."

With thin red lines marking the multitude of glass cuts on his face and the wind ruffling his short, red hair, he quickly dashed across the room and side-stepped the first, then the second heap. He reached the vault, pounded in the five-digit zip code and pulled on the handle. But his hand met cold, hard resistance. "Crap, no electricity."

Tim turned around, marched back to the kitchenette and started down the hall, "Come on Jenna, this is definitely not my lucky day."

Jackie was exhausted. The window washer, securely strapped into the first passenger seat, still hadn't said a word. Seely's heart rate held steady on the monitor, but the images of her bruised and swollen face were hard to look at. And just now, camera three was trained on a news chopper giving chase.

In the aft bubble, Michael released his seat belt and climbed into the copilot's seat to hide his face behind tinted windows, "Looks like we've been discovered, Jackie. You got our ID up?"