"Not a word." Diaz turned to look at the two men standing beside him in the lift. "He didn't say a single fucking word. Dodged Hugo's best shot like it was nothin', dropped the big guy with a kick to the nuts, and then kneecapped him with his own gun. His own fucking gun! And the whole time, not a word."

The older of the two men—a grizzled veteran called Higgs—nudged the other with his elbow. "Hey, Torres—I betcha Hugo said a word. Maybe even two."

His companion, a hard-faced Latino, grinned. "Hell, yeah. And I can guess what they were."

Diaz glared at them. "Shows how much you fucktards know. The second Hugo opened his mouth that silent bastard went and shoved a gun in it, didn't he? Just stood there with one gun planted in Hugo's face, and the other one pointed at me, while that Filipino bitch gave me a working over."

"The other one?" Higgs raised an eyebrow. "You're telling us he had two guns?"

The glare wilted. "Yeah. Don't ask. But listen, I'm telling you, this guy is...is...something else. Weird, crazy—I don't know. But when we find 'em, whatever you do, stay on your toes. I don't know what his deal is, but I know trouble when I see it. And that silent prick is trouble."

His two companions exchanged a glance. "Don't worry, Diaz," said Torres. "We'll protect you from the big, bad bitch, you yellow piece of chicken-shit. And as for el silencioso—this 'silent one' of yours? We'll make him sing like a fucking canary."

"Damn straight," confirmed Higgs, cracking his knuckles. "Where the fuck we going, anyway?"

"To the top," replied Diaz. "The penthouse. Zima saw them hit the stairs, and nobody's seen 'em come out yet. She's got no cameras in there, but it stands to reason they gotta be in the stairwell, somewhere. And I don't know about you clowns, but I ain't walking up thirty-something flights of fucking stairs, so we're gonna ride to the top, and then work our way down. It's not like there's anywhere for 'em to hide."

"I can...can make this right, boss. I can still bring the...fuckers in."

Drawn and pale, his low forehead beaded with sweat, the unforgiving glare of the gym level's fluorescent lights gave the lie to Hugo's faltering assertion. Propped against a treadmill, wounded hand cradled to his chest, he looked like a man who was going precisely nowhere.

"Peace, my friend." His smile warm, Jaime Salazar bent to rest a hand on his stricken employee's shoulder. "I am grateful for your service—for your zeal. But you have had enough for one night. Time to rest."

"But, boss—"

"Ah-ah," admonished Salazar, holding up a finger. "Not another word. Be still while Natalya administers a painkiller, before we patch you up. An ambulance is on the way, my old friend. You will receive the care you deserve."

Hugo glared up at Zima, not bothering to mask the dislike on his features. "That's okay, boss," he growled. "I'm...good. I can wait."

"Nonsense, man. You must be in great pain. Natalya, the morphine please."

Kneeling down, Zima raised the syringe in her hand in silent inquiry. For a few more seconds Hugo held his ground—and then grudgingly shrugged out of his jacket and presented his massive bicep. She retrieved a silver switchblade from her jacket and in a swift, smooth motion—testament to endless repetition—flicked open the vicious little weapon before slashing a rift in the straining shirtsleeve. Without hesitation, she slipped the needle in.

"Thank you, Natalya." Once again, Salazar leant down to give the big man's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "Rest now, Hugo. You have earned it."

Already the lines etched across the pain-streaked face were fading, and the lids beginning to droop. "I'm...I'm sorry, boss. I..." Hoarse voice trailing away, the heavy lids fell shut—and then snapped open, bloodshot eyes bulging and the dark slash of a mouth working soundlessly as the great chest heaved in a vain attempt to draw breath.

The gesture slow and tender, Salazar brushed a dark, sweat-soaked lock back from the pale forehead. "I'm the one who is sorry, my old friend. But you must understand, this is for the best. I don't doubt your loyalty—your abilities, however, are a different matter. I'm afraid tonight has not shown them in the best light. It's time for a change, Hugo—for new blood. And we both know the retired life is not for you. Please, don't fight it. I realise it is not your way, but you must accept your fate. It will go easier for you."

The only reply was an incoherent gargle.

Straightening, Salazar rubbed his hand on his jacket, a look of mild regret on his face as he regarded the immobile man. "How long?" he asked.

"Not long," replied Zima. "A minute. Maybe two for someone his size."

He nodded, and then—once again business-like—turned and made for the lifts. "I trust you will make sure no trace remains."

"Of course, Mr Salazar."

"Good. And, Natalya?"

"Yes, Mr Salazar?"

He glanced back over his shoulder. "Find them."

"Do you think he'll be alright?"

Seated beside Mica in the gloom, Nick turned to look at her, his battered head regretting the move. "Ow," he replied. Then, realising that wasn't particularly helpful, "Who?"

"Hugo, of course. I can't believe I shot him. I can't believe we shot him. I mean, I know he wasn't a good man, but surely he didn't deserve that. Did he? Oh Nick, I so hope he's okay."

Feeling a little more indifferent on the issue, Nick pondered an appropriate response. "I d-doubt g-g-gunshots to the hand are f-f-f-fatal. Or the leg."

"I suppose."

They sat in silence for a time, both relishing the modicum of calm after what had been a frenetic night, although Nick couldn't help but wish their cramped and dark sanctuary might have come equipped with some aspirin, a comfortable bed, and—above all else—a sturdy lock on the door. Or, for that matter, any lock at all.

"Nick?"

Having learned his lesson, this time he kept his head still. "Yeah?"

"Is it true?"

"Is what t-true?"

"You."

He frowned—and then winced. Even frowning hurt. "Mica, what are you t-t-t-talking about?"

It was a moment before she answered. "Are you really who you say you are? Did you really jump into that pool? You have to admit, it's pretty hard to believe. Just like it's hard to believe a simple office-worker could win a fight against a monster like Hugo. Who are you, really? I need to know. I need to know I can trust you. So, tell me the truth, please. Who are you?"

Nick considered the question, while he gathered the willpower to vocalise a response. Who was he? Did he even know anymore? A simple office-worker? He wasn't even that, thanks to Jayden. A country hick, then? An unemployed loser? An inveterate stutterer? A formerly suicidal and quite possibly concussed idiot who was in way over his head?

Maybe all of the above?

Pondering the 'formerly' that had inserted itself into his considerations, he realised it was true. For proof, he need look no further than his staggering, semi-conscious flight from the gym level and into the stairwell—from the wounded, enraged Hugo they'd left behind and from the Syndicate goons who must be on their way. Not to mention his current location, huddled beside Mica in the maintenance cupboard they'd stumbled across, situated on a landing a couple of flights down.

If he still wanted to die, if he still craved the violent and bloody death his earlier rooftop leap had been intended to achieve, then he wouldn't be doing his very best to avoid the ruthless pursuers who would no doubt be all too happy to provide it.

When it came to curing suicidal tendencies, it seemed psychotherapy and selective serotonin re-uptake inhibitors had nothing on having the shit beaten out of you and being chased by bloodthirsty mobsters. Maybe, he speculated, shrinks with particularly tough cases should give it a try.

Although he wasn't naive enough to think his 'cure' permanent—there was still a world of hurt waiting for him out there, should he survive long enough to get back to it—he'd take remission, for the moment. He was going to be too busy trying to keep both Mica and himself alive to waste time with trifles like offing himself.

Realising she was still waiting for an answer, he settled for, "I'm Nick," as he gave his eyes a weary (and careful) rub. "Just N-n-nick. N-nobody, really. Just the wrong g-guy at the wrong p-p-place at the wrong t-time."

Ignoring the protests of his battered head, he once again turned to face his fellow fugitive. "I d-d-did jump in that p-pool. I am just an office stiff. And the Hugo thing? I used to d-d-d-do a b-bit of t-t-taekwondo." Plus, I didn't think it mattered if I lived or died, he failed to add. That probably didn't hurt.

Mica considered this. "So, you can fight?"

Nick looked at her shadowed face in the gloom as he pondered how to answer the question. Yes, he knew the mechanics of how to fight. Well, he used to. It had been a long time, but he suspected the knowledge, the muscle-memories, were ingrained deep. Would still be there, if called upon. The incident with Hugo certainly suggested so.

But that was only part of the equation. Maybe not even the most important part. Making a fist was one thing. Deciding to swing it was entirely another.

A bit of a nerd, making good grades, somewhat shy—and a stutterer. Back in grade school, even the bullied kids bullied little Nicky. And in high school the language just got bluer and the bruises bigger.

Scared and scarred, tired and traumatised, out of options, he'd at last turned to martial arts. He'd found a solution. An effective solution, once he got the hang of it. The bruises began to be delivered rather than received. But in the end—when it went beyond bruises—it proved to be a solution he couldn't live with.

So, could he fight? Maybe. Would he? Not if he could help it.

"Nah," he replied. "B-but I'm g-g-good at staying out of t-trouble." He managed a grin. "Usually."

Low and throaty, her laughter took Nick by surprise. It was the first time he could recall hearing her laugh and he found himself hoping it wouldn't be the last.

"How ab-b-bout you?" he asked. "What's your st-st-st-story?"

It was a few seconds before she answered, any trace of laughter gone from her voice. "Apart from being kidnapped and kept as a pet, you mean?"

He looked away. "Sorry—I d-d-didn't mean...you d-d-don't have to...to...t-tell..."

"No," she interrupted. "I'm sorry. You didn't deserve that. And really, there isn't much more to tell. I'm just a post-grad student, over here on a scholarship. I'd nearly finished my PhD, when...well, you know what came next."

"Wow. What were you st-st-studying?"

She did laugh again, but this time without humour. "Oh, that's the best part. I have a masters in criminal justice. And do you know what my thesis is on? Do you know what I've dedicated the last three years of my life to studying? To investigating? To understanding, inside out and back to front? You'll never guess."

Sensing he wasn't supposed to, Nick waited.

"He thinks it's a joke, you know." Mica's voice was bitter. "He thinks I'm a joke. All a big, fat joke, a hilarious way to have a little fun and to prove just how superior he is, to the world in general and to me in particular. I think he enjoys the irony." She fell silent.

"You m-m-mean Salazar?" nudged Nick.

"Yes. Jaime Salazar. The president of the US division of Salazar Shipping. The younger son of Paco Salazar, owner of the third largest shipping company in the world. And the man who secretly heads the international criminal network known as the Syndicate of Second Sons, the organisation responsible for something like half of the global slave-trade."

Slave-trade? "You mean Salazar Sh-shipping isn't legit? B-b-but there's all"—he made a vague sweeping gesture, intended to indicate the modern, gleaming skyscraper that surrounded their current, less-than-gleaming surrounds—"this."

"Oh, they're legitimate. They carry an enormous amount of international shipping. In fact, I don't think Paco and the rest of the board even know about the illegal side of the business. That's something I suspect Jaime keeps to himself."

Nick absorbed this in silence for a few seconds, before the obvious question occurred to him. "How d-d-do you know all this?"

"Well, for one thing, Salazar loves to boast. When he was staying in the penthouse, he would talk endlessly. That man loves the sound of his own voice. There were times...sometimes he would force me to...to have dinner with him. These ridiculous dinners, with candles and champagne and music, as if we were on some sort of sick date."

She paused, and in the dim light Nick could just make out a glisten in her eyes. She went on, her voice soft.

"And at the end of the meal, I always thought...always wondered if...that night..." She sniffed and dashed away her tears. "Anyway, after a few wines, he tended to talk about the...darker side of his business dealings. My hopes of him letting me go shrank with every one of those little conversations. He never thought I'd have the chance to tell anyone what I knew."

Nick shifted position, uncomfortable with this reminder of the ordeal Mica had been through. He couldn't begin to imagine how traumatic the past few weeks had been for this diminutive, smart and courageous young woman.

"For one th-thing?" he prompted, as much to change the subject as gain more information.

"Yes," she replied. "There's another very good why reason I know quite a bit about the Syndicate. The subject of my PhD is human trafficking. I'd spent years studying the slave-trade, before I even met Jaime Salazar. In fact"—she gave a little snort—"my studies were the reason why I met him. In the course of my research, I kept coming across snippets of information, little bits and pieces that hinted, ever so obliquely, at Salazar Shipping in general and at Jaime Salazar in particular. Nothing definitive, nothing solid and certainly nothing I could take to the authorities. In fact it was all so vague I sometimes wondered if I was imagining things.

"But I persisted. And eventually I thought to myself, why not go directly to the top? Why not follow the trail of rumours and half-truths to see where they lead? After all, Salazar is a public figure, a respected businessman. What danger could there possibly be? So, I contacted his office on the pretext of doing some research, and a little to my surprise, he agreed to see me.

"In the end, it was a complete waste of time, of course. We danced around each other, with me hinting at what I thought I knew and him not taking the bait. After half an hour or so, I gave up and left. I didn't give Jaime Salazar another thought until a couple of nights later, when two of his men snatched me from the university carpark and brought me here."

Ignoring the complaints of his growing list of aches and pains, Nick got to his feet. "C'mon."

She blinked up at him in surprise. "Where are we going?"

"Away." They were going to be found if they lingered too long. And if the best way to bring down the evil bastard behind this whole sick operation was to get Mica—and her knowledge—out of here, then there was no time to be hanging around in cupboards. Or feeling bad about taking out bad guys. Perhaps the solution he'd found back in high school hadn't been the wrong one, after all. Maybe he just needed to find the right problem. He held out his hand.

"Let's g-g-g-go."