It was a stolen moment. The snow flurried around her Thursday night as she set foot down a familiar alley then turned onto a small city street, far enough from the hotel where Bea Boschelli could have some privacy -- and a much needed reprieve from her fellow mercenaries.

The electric lamps blazed in the front of the Church of the Sacred Heart, the place where Bea had been stolen away and placed in the care of the man who would be her foster father. He'd be busy soon enough with Christmas mass, packed with all the part-time parishioners.

Bea might not believe in the church's teachings but she had a strong emotional attachment to this place; it encompassed her family and her schooling, the parishioners that would be her first clients, and the nativity scene across the yard that she would help her father set up every year. When the job required them to go to Chicago, a knot had tightened in her chest. She held off as long as she could before her feet brought her back here.

The wind kicked up and she pulled up her hood, her hair whipping from the sides as she looked up at the church. She thought about how warm it would be inside, how easy it should be to walk through those front doors. Instead she stood for a long few minutes, the cold air filling her lungs and the dryness of her cheeks. It was the sound of a car driving by that brought her back to reality. One last look at the colorful windows and the nativity scene, she headed back the way she came. She and the others had a busy day waiting for them.