Lisbeth woke up and looked over at the clock projection. The iridescent 5:05 AM floated over the bedside table, accompanied by a continuous double beeping. Outside the glass walls of the landmark Watergate Apartments, it was still dark.

As she swiped her hand across the luminescent field, both time and chime disappeared.

She sloughed the covers off her body and grabbed her underwear on the floor, dropped there from last night's romp. She gazed at the mound under covers on the right side of the bed with indifference. This was risky behavior, she knew. But it was what normal people did, no? They date to find the right animal pair bonding. It was downright National Geographic. STD tested, FDIC insured, MD or JD certified, these pretentious Fednik peacocks were like emergency tampons, good for one night only. By the next day, their freshness was gone.

This new bird she'd brought home had agreed to leave once they were done, but he lingered, always with a promise of five more minutes. Then she fell asleep, woke, and he was still here.

She went into her bathroom and faced the full-length mirror. She was proud of her mature body -- long legs, athletic frame, breasts that were neither small nor cumbersome. Her skin was smooth and glowing, not a trace of cellulite or imperfection anywhere, the result of regular expensive mineral wrap sessions. Her hair, shiny and luscious, fell to her shoulders. She tried to eat well and exercise regularly. Lately, however, her routines had become impossible. And it showed too. There were bags under her eyes due to the lack of sleep and mounting tension. Harry DeWitt's warning lingered, haunting her every minute of her waking hours. Would she run? Could she? She returned to the same answer -- where? DeWitt offered protection -- but he lied as he was meant to. No fief would assume the risk of giving sanctuary to someone like her, a whistleblower for starters. Then there was also federal property tampering and passing state secrets. She was an open sore that needed closing. Just as Balkan had purged Cerberus, someone would purge her. And running would just make her die tired.

She stepped into the shower and let the hot water strum against her shoulders for a time. Enjoy the delicious heat -- one last day, Lisbeth. She was going to miss these simple little pleasures. The security apparatus had gone on high alert. Crackdowns and investigations revved up. Balkan's Praetorians were stepping up their searches and seizures, turning over every suspect and every rock, in every agency. They knew there was a traitor. It's only a matter of time. Everything was bugged and eyes everywhere. Even in her bedroom, she assumed.

Run, Beth! Get off the continent, while you still can.

She stepped out of the steamy glass box feeling refreshed, but the euphoria didn't last long. She quickly fell into worry, thinking of the coming day and the looming arrest.

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The body dryer lapped up excess water and applied a mist of skin protectant made of collagen-vitamin. She leaned over the sink, closed her eyes, and applied her makeup -- a topo-laser scrolled across measuring the area around the eyes and sprayed the right proportion of mascara and shadow in one quick swipe.

Satisfied with her appearance, she returned to the dark bedroom, ignored the sleeping interloper, and went into her preset walk-in closet. After donning fresh panties and bra, she selected a digital ensemble – business attire No. 7 -- a silk blouse, designer suit, and matching to-die-for pumps, the separates rolling out on circular racks before her. The smashing outfit lent her strength; it was perfect for the coming walk to the gallows.

"Federal News Network," she commanded as the wall facing the bed illuminated with this morning items.

"Jesus, come back to bed," a deep voice muffled under the blanket. "It's not even six."

"Get up. Get dressed. Get out."

"Don't be like that, sweetheart."

"I'm not your sweetheart, and I have a long day ahead."

"You really want me out?" he said propping himself upon the pillow. He smiled at her and patted the bed. "I thought we fit well last night."

"Look, I'm trying to be nice --"

"It's Cliff."

"Time to leave, Clifford."

"I'll leave, but not just yet." He rolled onto his back.

"You either leave on your two feet or get dragged out on your back. All I have to do is call security."

"You're bitchy in the morning, aren't you?"

"It's for your own good, trust me. I'm doing you a favor. Now!"

"Alright, goddamn bitch. Let me get my things."

She escorted him to the door after he got dressed. Had he shown an iota of obedience, she might have offered him some breakfast -- to go. She slammed the door after him.

Alone, at last, she went into the kitchen, grabbed her espresso and bagel, and headed toward the balcony. The glass door slid aside as chilled air, unimpeded by any climate screen, rushed in. Docked on the newly constructed roof terrace, her personal PAV sat in its covered alcove. This prestigious building had a unique feature that validated the residence's upward mobile status – every penthouse suite had access to a terraced garage.

Sensing the RFID chip in her arm, the passenger door of the Hum-bird swung up. She climbed in and issued an order. "Navcom," she prompted the flight controls. "Initiate."

"Navcom ready. Standby for engine power-up sequence . . . Nominal. Please state destination."

She sat there for a moment, her chest heaving frantically in a panic attack. Tears streamed from her eyes. Can you do it?

Instead of saying 'Office', she said, "Reagan." The instant she made her decision, she felt free and light, her soul unburdened. Yet a new terror had gripped her, now that she'd made her choice. Was she too late? She had hard cash stashed elsewhere. She needed nothing else. Get out. Get out, her mind screamed at her, her heart in her throat.

The aeroflyer revved up, its turbocharged nacelles gyrating faster. It lifted off smoothly to a hundred feet, banking over the Potomac. As soon as it passed the Kennedy Center on its left and over the Theodore Roosevelt Bridge, four robust drone interceptors swooped in. They boxed in her aerocar, their Vehicle Capture System hacked her nav controls, slaving its computer to lock down the passenger compartment and to proceed to a new destination -- Oz-Reston.

Her hands splayed against the windscreen, she screamed in panic, trapped and sealed inside. She tried pushing all the dials, and even cutting power to the PAV. All systems locked down. The aeroflyer and its escorts continued toward Oz.