There were times, usually after a herbero or two, when he missed the land of his birth. The baking heat of the Mediterranean sun in summer, the narrow alleyways of the Barrio del Carman, the tapas and the paella and the pinchos and coffee such as the Americans could only dream of.

How easy it would have been to stay there. Back where it all began, in the heart of the empire his father had built. Power, privilege and a corner office in a Valencia highrise, with a grandstand view of the port and its endless tide of freighters and cargo ships and all the riches they delivered.

Ah, yes. So easy. And if he had the slightest interest in 'easy' no doubt he would be wasting away in that office, pushing papers and growing fat while outside a world of opportunities went begging.

Easy, he reflected, as his limousine pulled up alongside him, was for the lazy and the fools. Opportunity—and its rewards—came to those prepared to pursue it. While he might miss the old country from time to time, there would be no return. For America, despite its innumerable flaws, its idiosyncrasies and its frequent sheer, bloody-minded illogicalities, was the land of opportunity.

"A dare?" Shaking her head, Mica glanced up at the neighbouring skyscraper, from the lofty heights of which her rescuer claimed to have jumped to her building. Without a rope. Or a parachute. Or, as far as she could tell, any good reason. "Are you crazy?"

"W-w-w-well, I-I-I—" laboured Nick, in a manner that didn't help to refute the possibility. He swallowed. Why he cared what this woman he'd only just met thought, he wasn't sure, but in any case, there was no easy way to say, "Nah, I'm not crazy—just finding the whole being alive thing a bit of a challenge." Particularly if you were him.

He settled for, "Office p-p-party. Few too many d-d-drinks. You kn-kn-know how it is."

As a good Catholic Filipino girl with the strictest of upbringings, Mica very much didn't know how it was. But she knew now wasn't the time to find out. And regardless of whether this strange, inarticulate man was some kind of reckless idiot (and the verdict on that seemed clear), right now he was all she had. She'd hoped for a police detective or a federal agent or somebody with at least a gun and a clue, but in the absence of any of the above she'd just have to make the best of what fate had provided.

"Okay, fine. Now, we need to find a way off this rooftop."

Nick shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "Uh...there k-k-kind of isn't one." It dawned on him he hadn't thought this whole help-the-mystery-lady thing through.

Mica became very still. "What do you mean?"

Nick swallowed. "I've looked. No f-f-fire-escape." He pointed at the door on which he'd made his abortive shoulder charge. "Locked." He shrugged. "Th-th-that's it."

"That's it?" Mica advanced on him. "That's it?" she repeated, jabbing him in the breastbone. "If you didn't have a way for us to get out of here, then why on Earth did you break that window?"

Not a little daunted, Nick took a step back. "I...um. You said you were t-t-t-trapped."

"Yes," exploded Mica, "but I assumed somebody who appeared on the rooftop of a skyscraper would have some way of getting back off it!"

"Sorry," was the best Nick could manage, eyes downcast.

"Sorry?" echoed Mica. "Sorry's not going to do us much good when some Syndicate thug comes charging out of the lift, waving his gun around and demanding to know why there's broken glass everywhere, not to mention a soggy idiot who likes jumping off buildings. Sorry's not going to help when...when..."—the fire dying in her eyes, she hugged her robe around herself—"when Jaime Salazar gets here."

Syndicate? Salazar? While Nick didn't have a clue who this woman was talking about, it seemed clear that rather than helping her out of a bad situation, he'd made it worse. Not to mention inserting himself into that selfsame situation.

He forced himself to think. While he may not be big on the whole talking thing, he was very much a thinker—sucking at verbal communication tended to lend itself to a rich internal monologue.

The option of jumping to another building seemed even more ridiculous now someone else's life depended on it. Climbing down wasn't an option, as his earlier, lengthy perusal of the sheer side of the building had revealed. And he doubted there were enough sheets, curtains, towels or even toilet paper in the penthouse to make abseiling a viable option. Even if he knew how to abseil—or make rope out of toilet paper. Inspiration struck. Or possibly desperation, he wasn't quite sure.

"The door!" he blurted, once again gesturing at the sturdy, deadlocked barrier to their escape, his idea in such a rush to get out that it bypassed his stutter. While it may be sturdy, surely it wasn't unbreakable. Particularly not when hit by a high-speed deckchair.

Mica turned to look. "What about it? You said it was locked."

Given time was short and any attempt at an explanation wouldn't be, Nick opted to let his actions do the talking. Running into the penthouse, he skidded to a halt by the deckchair, and with a great surge of adrenaline, utilising reserves of strength he hadn't known he possessed, heaved the bulky object clean over his head.

Teetering a little, heart-pumping, he had time for a single, unsteady step before a cheery ding from the gleaming, stainless-steel lift situated in the centre of the penthouse froze him in his tracks. With slow, careful deliberation, he turned, as the silent doors slid open to admit a black-haired, burly man, squeezed into a dark-grey suit.

His look of astonishment when confronted with the sight of a damp, deckchair-wielding stranger would have been almost comical, if not for the fact—just as Mica had predicted—he was brandishing a gun. A gun which he directed at Nick, as he stomped towards him.

"What the unholy fuck is going on? Who the fuck are you?"

Unable to come up with an answer that could conceivably do his situation any good, Nick remained silent. Plus, the deckchair was very heavy and he wasn't sure he could spare the energy required to speak.

"I asked you a question, cocksucker." Nick found himself looking down the barrel of the pistol, as the newcomer stopped a couple of paces away. "And if I don't like the answer, you're fucking well fucked."

It had long been a source of frustration and wonder to Nick how those gifted with the ability to speak—to properly speak, to spout effortless words willy-nilly, with fluency and sans stutter—so often wasted their opportunities. "Fucking well fucked?" he wanted to protest. "Really? A functional larynx, and that's the best you can do?"

In the circumstances, however, all he could manage was a whimper, as his arms trembled with the strain of keeping a substantial piece of poolside furniture suspended above his head. He badly needed to put it down, but wasn't quite sure how to do so in the controlled and slow manner the gun pointed at his face suggested would be a good idea.

"He's nobody, Hugo."

Nick managed to turn his head just enough to see Mica sweep into the penthouse, eyes wide but movements brisk. "Just some drunken office-boy from the building next door. He says he jumped into the pool, if you can believe that. Take him away, please, before he breaks anything else. I'm sure if you let him go, he won't—"

"Who asked you, bitch?" snarled the thug. "You're in enough trouble as it is, without running your fucking mouth off. Look at this fucking mess. Shut your face and get in that bedroom, while I deal with Mr Silent-Type here. The boss arrived in town today"—the brutish features broke into a lascivious grin—"and he's on his way."

Although the young woman blanched, she nevertheless held her ground as Hugo turned his attention back to Nick.

"Now, spill the beans, before I spill your fucking guts all over the floor. And put down that ridiculous fucking chair."

For a pregnant moment, the tableau held, as Nick's brain raced. "Thought you'd never ask," is what the action-movie hero type would no doubt say in this kind of situation, before flinging the deckchair at the evil henchman, gathering up the girl and making a heroic getaway.

But he wasn't the action-movie hero type and didn't think his arms would hold out long enough for him to say much of anything at all. So, without the benefit of any pithy one-liners, or even being sure he meant to do it, he simply toppled forward, half-throwing and half-dropping the deckchair—right onto Hugo's cannon-ball-like, wide-eyed head. Clearly also no master of the one-liner, the big man squeaked a solitary, final "Fuck!" before being driven to the floor and—after a few spasmodic twitches—moving no more.

Silence reigned in the penthouse. Stunned and a little nauseous, Nick stared at the immobile body of the man he may have just killed. He wondered whether action-heroes felt like throwing up after taking down a bad guy.

Also stunned, Mica stood motionless as she struggled to process the implications of Nick's actions. The sudden rekindling of hope when all had seemed lost threatened to make her head swim.

But she couldn't let that happen. Not when the window of opportunity to escape, to flee from the monsters who had imprisoned her and made her existence a living hell, had opened just a crack.

She was under no illusions as to just how tiny that crack was, but the fact it existed it all was enough to buoy her up and to fill her with a fierce resolve to not let the chance slip away. She doubted there would be another.

She was also surprised by the unexpected spunk and usefulness of her pool-jumping, tongue-tied rescuer. Neither talking nor acting in a rational manner appeared to be strong points, but if he could take out a monster like Hugo with a piece of furniture, he might just be handy to have around.

Once he stopped dry retching, that is.

"Pull yourself together," she ordered, covering the distance to Hugo in a few quick strides, before bending over to snatch the pistol from his limp hand, convinced at any moment the fallen man would spring back to life, seize her by the arm and drag her kicking and screaming to Salazar. He didn't move.

This was the first time in her young life Mica had held a gun, and although its feel was strange and a little unsettling, there was something reassuring in the weight and cool solidity—in the dose of security it offered in a world full of dangers.

"More will come," she said. "We have to go."

More? Hands on his knees, Nick sucked in deep draughts of the night air, as he fought to keep down the contents of his stomach. He wasn't sure he could handle any more. In fact, he was bloody certain he couldn't. He was having trouble handling the one he'd already handled. She was right, they had to get out of there.

Gritting his teeth, he grasped his trusty deckchair—the real hero of the night, having so far accomplished both a breakout and a comprehensive, possibly lethal KO—and hauled it off the insensate body of its latest victim. Too shaken to repeat his earlier overhead feat, he lifted the bulky item to waist-height and at an awkward stagger, set off outside.

"What are you doing?" asked Mica, watching on with genuine bafflement.

As his hands were occupied, Nick pointed with his chin. "D-d-door. Gonna br-br-bray-bray-br-bray..." He swallowed. "Gonna br-bray-br-br-br-bray...smash it."

With the first hint he had seen of what might be a smile, Mica once again bent down to Hugo's prone form and rummaged through his jacket's pockets, straightening after a moment to reveal something held in her hand. Something small and rectangular, which reflected the penthouse's light with a dull sheen.

A keycard.

"Well, good luck with that. Although, if you'd rather, you're welcome to join me in the lift."