"Hello?"

The muted background noise of the crowded basement facility continued unabated. Mica realised a little more volume may be required.

"Hello, anybody?" Still nothing. She gave the wall of her cubicle a tentative knock. "Is there anybody there?"

The response, when it came, was so soft she wondered whether she might have imagined it.

"Yes."

She directed her voice at the open roof of her cell. "Hello there. My name is Mica. What's yours?"

"I...I'm Eva."

The uncertainty—the fear—in the voice was clear, despite its lack of volume. "What a lovely name. Nice to meet you, Eva." Mica considered what to say next, sensing the slightest misstep could spook her new acquaintance. "Where are you from?"

"Me? I'm from Caracas."

Venezuela? Mica at once realised how foolish it was to have assumed her fellow inmates would be Filipino, as she was. If anyone knew just how large a shadow the Syndicate cast, it was her. Doubtless there were many nations represented among the lost souls gathered in this place. A half-stifled sob came from next-door before the voice went on.

"But I left there many weeks ago."

Mica waited, however Eva seemed disinclined to continue. "Yes?" she encouraged. "How was it you came to leave your home?"

"There was a man." Her unseen neighbour paused to sniff. "He spoke of work. Of a good job, in hospitality, with training and travel and good money—enough that I could send some back to my family. I...I wanted to believe him. I know it was foolish, but there was nothing for me there. So I went with him. There were other girls, so at first I thought he must be telling the truth, but...but he wasn't. Other men came. They...they took us...and..." The soft words faded away.

"Oh, Eva." It will be alright, Mica longed to say. You will be alright. Soon you will be free of this place, of these people, free to return home to your life and to your family. The world is not all lies and deception, not all darkness and pain. There are good people out there—people you can trust, people who can help you. There is hope.

But she couldn't. She couldn't say that, at least not without adding to the lies already inflicted upon this poor girl. Not so long ago, she would have counted herself among those who could help, and yet here she was—just one more victim, one more name to add to the numberless list of the lost, grist to the ever-hungry mill of the human-traffickers. Her only solace lay in the belief that for her at least, it would soon be over.

For her, but not for Eva. Who knew what horrors lay in wait for the young Venezuelan, to add to those she had already endured? And there was not a single thing Mica could do to help her. Not her, nor any of the hundreds of others incarcerated in this concrete netherworld. For a time, she had clung to the hope that Nick may have escaped, that help could be on its way—and yet, here she was. Another hope dashed.

All of her determination, her good intentions, all her years of education were now as nothing, all rendered valueless by the four grey walls that surrounded her, and the thugs with guns who patrolled above.

No longer a saviour, no longer a crusader for the rights of the exploited, no longer anybody other than just another female, weak and defenceless, waiting for the next indignity to be inflicted upon her, the next cruelty, waiting—hoping—for the end.

Nameless, faceless, just one more nobody among a multitude.

No. She rose from the low, bare bunk that was the only furniture her cell contained. No. She was not nobody. She moved to the centre of the small area. She looked up.

"I am Mica!"

At her shout, the background noise faded away.

"I am Mica," she repeated. "Next to me there is Eva. Who else is here?"

For a few seconds more, silence reigned—until it was broken by the clanging of footsteps from the gantry above. Torres' angry face glared down at her.

"Shut your mouth."

Mica ignored him. "Who is here? Tell me your name. You have a name, they cannot take that from you."

The Syndicate man raised his gun. "Don't make me come down there."

"What is your name?" she cried, desperate now, crushed to realise even this one small act of defiance seemed doomed to fail. "Please!"

"I warned you." More clanging, as Torres stomped towards the stairs to her cell. Tears welling, Mica collapsed back onto the bunk.

"I am Zara." Tremulous yet clear, the single voice rang out.

"I am Imani."

"I am Katyushka."

"I am Simona."

From all directions the cries came, growing in volume as their number increased.

"Mbali"

"I am Odelia."

"Inessa."

"I am Eva." This from next door, audible even over the swelling chorus of names filling the basement. Triumphant, Mica stood and raised her arms, glorying in the sound of her fellow inmates' resistance, in the waves of defiance crashing against the concrete bulwarks of their shared prison—pointless, maybe, yet no less glorious for it. In fact, perhaps even more so.

So enraptured was she, she failed to notice the door of her cell opening, or the entry of Torres. The 5000 volts of the cattle prod he wielded, however, could not be ignored.

"Right, bitch." Raising his voice to be heard over the ever-increasing tumult of the prisoners, he hauled her twitching figure from the floor. "You're coming with me."

"Is he dead?"

Crouched by Nick's still, sodden figure, lying by the pool's edge in its own spreading expanse of water, Zima released his wrist and looked up at the man she had stationed to watch the penthouse level.

"No—merely unconscious. His pulse is quite strong. It would appear he is a man of some resilience." Not to mention persistence, she failed to add. In a single, fluid motion, she stood. "Tell me again what happened. Leave nothing out."

With an expression of mild distaste, the guard nudged Nick's prone form with the toe of his shoe. "What's to leave out? There was a hell of a splash, and when I ran up here to check it out, I saw this guy floating in the pool. So, I jumped in and dragged his sorry ass out. Then I called you. End of story."

Zima gazed down at the unconscious figure. End of story? If only. She turned to regard the mist-shrouded rooftop of the Libretec building, several storeys above where she now stood. Instinctively, at some deep, atavistic level, her intuition—her reason—wanted to reject what the evidence suggested.

And yet, there was no other explanation. They had found no trace of the intruder's method of entry—no sign of rappelling gear or any other indication as to how he had somehow managed to breach the Syndicate's defences and magically gain entrance to the supposedly secure Salazar building. And the reason they hadn't appeared to be very simple—there was none.

Because he had jumped. Without a harness, without a parachute, without a safety net or a backup of any kind, it seemed this mysterious person had voluntarily and— judging by the distance involved—enthusiastically flung himself from the roof of a forty-storey skyscraper.

Twice.

What kind of crazed fanatik was this?

"Take him inside," she instructed. "Carefully. For all we know, there may be internal injuries, and we don't want him dying on us just yet. Be sure to check him for weapons, first."

"Yeah, did that." The guard pulled a dripping gun from his jacket. "He had this stuffed down the back of his pants. And you know the crazy thing? Well, the crazier thing? It's empty. The bastard brought a gun to a gun-fight—but didn't bring any bullets."

Zima merely nodded. She was becoming immune to surprises. "Very well. Take him in." She watched as the man bent to his task, considered for a moment—and then pulled out her phone.

"Natalya. I trust you have chosen to disturb me with good news?"

"The girl has been secured, Mr Salazar. She is in the holding area and awaits your...attention."

"I see. So you have managed to achieve what Hugo could not. Good." Frowning, he glanced down at the woman who lay sobbing in the bed beside him, and seized a handful of her blonde hair. "Be silent," he ordered, before returning his attention to his phone.

"Have her taken to the bedroom in the penthouse, at once. And, Natalya?"

"Yes, Mr Salazar?"

"I want her well guarded. Alone in the bedroom, but with reliable personnel stationed outside. I have been very much looking forward to our reunion, and would not be pleased should anything interrupt it. I will join her shortly."

"As you wish. Sir, there is one other thing."

Salazar frowned. "Unless it is important, Natalya, it can wait."

"We also have the intruder."

"What?" In a rare loss of composure, Salazar blinked, as his thought processes were forced into an abrupt change of direction. "I...I see. And has he revealed who is behind this brazen affront?"

"I have not yet had the opportunity to conduct an interrogation. However, I am about to do so, and if I discover anything of value, I will of course let you know."

The mogul thought for a moment, before landing a resounding slap on the woman's bare buttocks.

"Get out," he commanded. "No, leave your things. Go, now." Expression dispassionate, he watched as she hobbled naked from the room.

"You will wait for me, Natalya. I want to be there for this interrogation. I want to take the measure of the man who dared to enter my private domain, to steal my personal property, and to enact violence on one of my valued employees. I want to look into the eyes of the scum who chose to cross a Salazar—and I want see the moment when he realises the magnitude of his mistake. I want to hear what he has to say. I want him to know just what this girl for whom he risked so much has in store. And then, I want to watch him die."

There was a pause. "Mr Salazar, may I suggest—?"

"No, you may not. Natalya, please do not make the mistake of overestimating the extent of your new powers. Or their permanence. You have done well thus far, but this night is not yet over."

"No, of course not, Mr Salazar. My apologies. I merely thought to spare you any unpleasantness."

"Spare me? Oh, Natalya. For all your undoubted abilities, you have much to learn. I wonder whether you can even begin to imagine the...unpleasantness I have enacted in the course of attaining my current position. Unpleasantness is no more than one of the tools of my trade. In fact, at times such as these, one might even consider it a perk."

"Yes, Mr Salazar. I have the intruder under guard in the penthouse. I will await your arrival."

"Thank you, Natalya. Oh, and one more thing."

"Yes, Mr Salazar?"

"Let us have Mica attend the interrogation. I suspect her presence may add some spice to our little get-together."

In what was an undoubted improvement on the last couple of times, Nick returned to consciousness to find himself seated on a plush couch, surrounded by designer furniture and tasteful artwork. In further good news, he even knew where he was.

On the downside, while he recognised the luxurious surrounds of the penthouse, he had no idea as to the identity of the woman seated in the armchair opposite him. Nor why she was staring at him as though he were a stain on the upholstery.

Although, on further reflection, he decided he could take a pretty good guess.

The woman stood and approached him. "Welcome back." She smiled, although Nick couldn't help but notice the expression did not touch her eyes. "In more than one sense of the phrase."

He sat and blinked up at her. Even had he been the chatty type, Nick's current situation and state-of-mind weren't conducive to sparkling conversation. Plus, silence had served him well thus far this evening. He could see no reason to change tack now.

"Ah yes, of course. El Silencioso. The man of few words. Well, I suspect we will find your tongue, in due course." For a few seconds longer they regarded each other, before she turned to the guard who stood slowly dripping by the windows Nick had shattered with the deckchair, what felt like a lifetime ago.

"Lock him in the master bedroom until Mr Salazar and the girl get here. And then go and find yourself some dry clothing, before you ruin any more of his carpet."

Having watched him lead the unresisting and still groggy intruder away, she sank back into the armchair. It had been some time since she had conducted an interrogation by force, nonetheless, she was determined to not only obtain the required information, but to also put on a good show in doing so. Jaime Salazar's reminder about the ease with which he could remove her new authority had chilled her to the bone. She had come too far and sacrificed too much to stumble now. As she would not have access to her usual tools of persuasion, she was pondering a range of suitable substitutes when the sound of the elevator doors opening drew her attention.

Two middle-aged men emerged. Both wore suits, although it was clear their cut and quality were inferior to those sported by the Syndicate goons. They approached, and Zima tensed as one of them reached into his jacket—to produce a badge. A badge which he flashed at her.

"Natalya Zima? I'm Detective Summers, San Diego PD. This is my colleague, Detective Ashe. I'm told you're in charge of security here." He put away the badge, revealing a pistol in a shoulder holster. "We need to talk."