Jaime Salazar dealt with only the most pressing emails on his laptop before drifting out to the balcony of the guest suite, a crystal tumbler of Yamazaki Mizunara whiskey in hand.

Leaning on the railing, he contemplated the lights of the city stretched out before him, savouring the silken spice of the golden liquor as the implications of the night's events revolved in his mind.

Who was this intruder? More importantly, on whose behalf was he acting? A decade of besting rivals in the shipping industry ensured no lack of business enemies, but he couldn't imagine any of them were behind this violation. He was far too careful for any of those dried-up capullos to discover his extra-curricular business dealings.

No, he suspected the source of this trouble was a little closer to home.

While the Syndicate of Second Sons (although now inclusive of more than one third son, and even several daughters, the name had persisted) had been established for mutual benefit, Jaime knew precisely the value its members would place on that 'mutual benefit' if presented with the slightest opportunity for 'individual gain.' Or, for that matter, 'the ruthless double-crossing of your supposed partners.'

However, as every member shared this knowledge and the benefits of cooperation usually did outweigh those of treachery, the Syndicate had managed to overcome the operational handicaps of universal suspicion and mistrust.

At least, for the most part. In any organisation with shoulders so chip-laden, rivalry and ambition were as inevitable as breathing and the occasional act of discipline or—even more rarely—expulsion was required to keep the internecine treachery and squabbling to manageable levels. On more than one occasion Jaime himself had been the architect of such punitive measures.

But never before had he been the victim of betrayal—of an attack so clearly targeted at him. Mica was a trifle, a pawn of no significant value to any Syndicate member but himself; her abduction could therefore be nothing but a vindictive and personal message, a message designed to challenge his pre-eminence in the organisation.

And to demonstrate, beyond any doubt, its author did not fear the consequences of crossing Jaime Salazar.

Such a message required a suitable response. And that response would begin with the capture and interrogation of tonight's uninvited guest. Presumably a mercenary, some sort of black-market gun-for-hire, the intruder may prove a tough nut to crack, but Jaime held no fears on that score. He would reveal all he knew, in time. And even if—as was quite possible—this knowledge did not include the identity of his employer, it would doubtless provide further leads to follow.

And if the questioning was somewhat...robust, well then, so much the better. Messages could be sent as well as received.

He took another sip of whiskey as he strolled back into the suite, once again regretting his failure to purchase a few more cases of the 2017 release. It was superb.

Abandoning the lifts, too panicked to take the time to try for the stairs, Nick and Mica bolted. Without conscious direction, they ran across the fitness centre, through one door and then another, to find themselves at an apparent dead-end—a large change-room, with rows of bench seats and more lockers to one side, and to the other, a sauna, darkened and cool at this late hour.

They exchanged a glance, each reading the same indecision in the other's face—stay and hide in a trap with no way out, or leave and run but risk being seen?

The night's exertions were taking their toll on Nick, so it was with relief—and instant agreement—that he greeted Mica's silent indication they should investigate the locker end of the room.

Which they did, to find a conspicuous lack of hiding places.

"It's no good," she whispered. "We'll have to make a run for it."

Wondering—not for the first time that night—how being fired from his dream job had somehow become the high point of the evening, Nick was saved from having to muster up a good argument for not making a run for it, by the sound of footsteps.

"Shit," he gasped, as he and Mica scrambled for cover, noticing—even in the extremity of the moment—how he never stuttered when he cursed. Not when he really meant it, anyway.

Which he did now. The footsteps growing steadily closer, for lack of any better options they each squeezed themselves into the narrow aperture between the end of each row of lockers and the wall, opposite one other. Eyes wide, neither breathed as the door to the change-room swung open.

To admit a gun. A gleaming silver handgun, at the end of a pair of dark-clad arms, followed in short order by the dark-suited man to which they were attached. And then by his colleague, a woman dressed—and armed—in identical fashion.

This much Nick saw, and then no more, as he pressed himself as far back into his inadequate sanctuary as he could squeeze, while Mica did the same. Their only hope lay in their hunters not searching all the way to end of the room.

Which Mica knew was no hope at all. In her experience, Syndicate people were not sloppy or careless, and if these two were answerable to Salazar, they would leave no stone unturned in their search.

Which left her only one option. Keeping her movement slow, stilling the tremor in her hands with a conscious effort, she reached back and drew the gun. And, staring at the weapon's muted gleam, remembered that in fact it provided two options. Two potential means by which she could avoid a return to the penthouse—and to him.

The only question was whether she was brave enough to act on either of them.

Or at least, it was the only question until Nick shook his head at her and pulled his phone from his pocket. Risking a brief peep around the corner of his sanctuary, he tossed the phone squarely into the darkened maw of the sauna's doorway.

The question now was whether her newfound partner had somehow lost his mind.

The resulting clatter, shocking in the silence, electrified the two dark-suited figures. Darting towards the sauna, each paused on either side of the doorway, before—with a mutual nod—slipping inside, guns at the ready.

Almost falling over in his haste, Nick burst from his bolthole, sprinted the length of the room and slammed the sauna door shut, before hauling the nearest bench across the doorway. Expression manic, he glanced up at the slack-jawed Mica as he started to drag a second bench. "Help me," he gasped, just as the door began to shake and rattle under the blows of the two trapped within.

After a dazed moment of incomprehension, she at last realised what he was about, and with her assistance they soon had the second bench positioned across the doorway, with another piled on top for good measure.

A little breathless, Mica couldn't resist a grin—an expression so unfamiliar it felt strange on her face. "What is it with you and chairs, anyway?"

Any answer Nick may have given was cut short by the cracking report of a gunshot, tearing a splintered hole in the sturdy cedar of the door.

"Cease firing, you fools!" Grimacing at the unmistakable crackle of gunfire in her earpiece, Zima glared up at the screen displaying the fitness centre, cursing the lack of a camera in the change room. There had been no such squeamishness in her FSB days, back in Russia. "This is a workplace, not a warzone. What the hell are you playing at?"

Expression stony, she listened to the frantic squawking in her ear.

"Trapped? In a sauna?" The pause that followed was far more eloquent than even her excellent English might have been. "Holster your weapons and wait—quietly." As she watched, the doors to the private lift slid open, to emit the hulking figure of Hugo, with the man she had sent to fetch him—the little weasel called Diaz—trailing in his wake.

"Help is on the way." Shaking her head, she switched off her earpiece. "Vezde debily."

With the gunshots proving an efficacious antidote for his fatigue, Nick was right on Mica's heels as the two of them bolted away from the sauna door, their back muscles tensing in anticipation of further fire.

And although it didn't come, their flight nevertheless continued, powered by fear, by adrenaline and even—at least in Mica's case—an element of exultation.

Yes, she may be on the run, and yes, she was still a long way from safety, but for the first time since her abduction, for the very first time since the fateful day when she was taken, the day when with surgical brutality her life had been cleaved into two distinct pieces—the safety and promise of the then, forever severed from the humiliation and terror of the now—for the very first time since that moment, she had regained at least a degree of control over the course of her life.

And even better, she was using that control to stick it right up the Syndicate's...well, to stick it right to them. She uttered a silent prayer of forgiveness for the near-obscenity but refused to suppress the fierce jubilation bubbling up inside her. After being a victim for so long, if felt good to fight back. She had earned a little exultation.

And she gloried in the feeling, right up until the moment, several seconds later, when she looked up to be greeted by the sight of a grinning Hugo, striding towards her.

Heart in her mouth, she skidded to a halt, barely managing a breathless, "Nick, look out!" before the big man was upon her, snatching her from her feet and tucking her under his arm as if she were no more than a ragdoll. With the other hand, he took aim at a pale-faced Nick, who had also staggered to a stop, and stood panting several feet away.

"Hola, bitch." He turned and handed his kicking and squirming parcel over to the smaller man standing a little behind him. "Hold her, but don't hurt her—nothing that shows, anyway. And give me that piece she's got stuffed down the back of her jeans. The fucking thing's mine."

With his stolen gun restored and Mica secured—if not quieted—Hugo turned his full attention back to Nick.

"Well, well, well, Mr Deckchair. We meet again. I've been looking forward to us having a nice chat. I think we should get to know each other a little better. Now, before my fists get acquainted with your face, how about you start by telling me just who the fuck you are?"

Nick swallowed but didn't reply. The sight of Hugo had elicited in him the strangest combination of feelings—a weird admixture of relief and fear. Relief because the foul-mouthed goon was alive and Nick therefore hadn't committed murder, and fear because, well...the big man was bloody scary, and Nick had dropped a deckchair on his head.

So, relief and fear, but also—overpowering them both—shame. Shame, and the most intense, painful sense of inadequacy. His plan to help Mica had seemed so glorious and worthy in his head—the desperate man with nothing to lose, the unknown factor, the algebraic X thrown into the equation—a life of no worth sacrificed on the altar of a worthy cause.

And all of it a joke. His intervention, his so-called rescue, his noble intentions, all that shit, had bought Mica one hundred percent of nothing. He'd gambled his life, and beyond the almost certain worsening of her situation, and the possible minor annoyance of some evil bastards, he'd won squat.

How much more could one guy fail?

So lost was he in self-damnation, he almost forgot the life he'd been prepared to lose was still to be taken away—until Hugo provided a reminder, in the form of a vicious open-handed slap across his face.

"Hey! Wakey-wakey, fuckwit. I asked you a question."

Eyes watering, cheek on fire, Nick blinked up at the glowering expression of the musclebound thug—so vicious and arrogant, so convinced of his unchallenged primacy. Of the dominance of his muscles, his weapons and his brutality.

Which he demonstrated with another savage slap, even harder than the first.

"You're starting to piss me off, sunshine." He pushed Nick in the chest, making him stumble. "Now, talk!"

"Leave him alone," cried Mica, striving to break free. "He doesn't know anything, he's no—" Any further protestations were cut short by Diaz's hand over mouth.

"Letting your girlfriend speak for you, huh?" Hugo pushed him again. "Fucking pathetic." Another push. "Cat got your fucking tongue?" And again. "The strong and silent type, huh? Is that it? Well, we'll see about that." He raised his hand. "Now, open your fucking mouth and speak!"

Nick was not particularly brave. He'd realised that fact, long ago. Not that he was a coward—negotiating a life where every single utterance was a challenge took at least a degree of intestinal fortitude—but he knew all too well that in general, when the crunch came, when the rubber hit the road and it was time to put up or shut up, Nicholas Devine was going to shut up, every single time.

And, he reflected, watching as Hugo's raised hand formed into a mallet-like fist, now was hardly the time to break the habit.

"Last chance, motherfucker. Let's hear those dulcet tones."

Because, while he may have screwed up pretty much everything he'd ever attempted in his life, including the woeful escapades of that very evening, he'd be damned to hell if his last act on this Earth would be giving this psychopathic nutjob the satisfaction of making him stutter.

So, given his pain tolerance was approaching its limit and his face already hurt like a son-of-a-bitch, he did the only reasonable thing he could in the circumstances. Swivelling out of the way of Hugo's piston-like punch, he kicked him squarely in the balls, and when the big man staggered, sent him crashing to the ground with a sweeping kick to his legs, before snatching his gun and—in the fervent and sincere hope the musclebound meathead had sufficient brainpower to know when to stay down— shooting him in the leg.