Silence followed the cracking report of the gunshot. Shock and silence.

Mouth a soundless 'O', eyes fixed on the gun clutched in Nick's grasp, Diaz released Mica and stepped back with his hands raised.

Heedless of her freed state, Mica stayed where she was, staring at Nick as shock and confusion warred on her face.

And Hugo—Hugo lay where he fell, mouth working soundlessly as his features contorted into an almost inhuman mix of rage and pain.

Meanwhile—field of view narrowed, but vision hyperacute—Nick watched the blood blossom from the fallen man's leg, black as tar in the dim half-light, as the slow pulse in his ears confirmed that time was indeed still moving. Any doubts on the matter were put to rest as Hugo regained his breath.

"You mother-fucker! I'm gonna rip your head off, you piece of—"

The gun-barrel inserted into his mouth ended the tirade as abruptly as it had begun.

Breathing deeply—a little nauseous, a little light-headed but with an odd sense of detachment—Nick stared down into the big man's bulging eyes. He was aware of being afraid, but strangely, felt no anger or hatred—just a longing to be done with this situation, with this thug and with this endless night.

Longing, but also regret. Remorse, even. It was a long time since he'd hurt someone. Since he'd made the conscious decision to inflict pain and injury on another human being. But not nearly as long as he would have wished. Despite his best efforts, it seemed there would be no escape from the discovery he had made all those years ago—that when words failed, there were other ways to make yourself heard.

Eyes locked with his adversary, Nick leaned down to retrieve the gun the wounded man had taken back from Mica, in the process discovering the third weapon—Diaz's—tucked into Hugo's belt. He slid one gun over to Mica, before pointing the other at the smaller Syndicate man, still standing few steps behind his former captive, hands in the air. Eyes widening, Diaz took another step back.

"I w-wasn't gonna hurt the b-bitch...uh, the girl—I swear it. Look, I just work here, man. I just d-do as I'm told. You're n-not gonna shoot me, are you?"

For a moment, Nick was tempted to tease out a little more of the fear-induced stutter with a warning round over his head, just for the simple pleasure of for once not being the sole speech-impaired loser in the room. But only for a moment. Given his spectacular earlier failure to miss the pool, he wasn't at all confident in his aiming ability—or lack thereof.

Instead, he dismissed Diaz with a peremptory wave of the gun, directing him back towards the elevators. The less thugs he had to deal with, the better. In no need of a second invitation, the frightened man turned tail and fled—but not for long.

"Stop!" Mica's command tore through the silence, freezing him on the spot. "Wait right there." Clutching the gun in a fierce, two-handed grip, willing it not to tremble, she advanced on her quarry. "Turn around."

Slowly, Diaz complied.

Squaring her shoulders, she forced herself to look him in the eyes. "Before you go, I want to know something."

Dragging his gaze from the gun pointed at his midriff, Diaz gave Mica a sickly grin.

"Don't worry, baby. I won't tell no-one where you are, I s-swear. You can count on good old Diaz. You're don't w-wanna do anything c-crazy, do you? After all, I never did you no harm."

"No harm?" She spat the words. "No harm? You locked me up. You took away my rights. You took away my dignity. You took me away from my friends and my family. And you took away my life! You, and your damned Syndicate cronies, you trapped me in that godforsaken penthouse and then you stood around checking your hair and talking about football while your boss kept me at his beck and call, treated me as his own personal plaything, mocked and taunted me one minute and then pretended to be charming and polite the next, while I knew all along just what he had planned for me. No harm?"

Diaz swallowed. "That was just business, is all. It's not like I get a say in what the boss does. I'm just earnin' my paycheck, you know? A man's gotta eat. It wasn't nothing personal."

Any trace of a tremor gone, Mica aimed the gun between the sweating man's eyes. "And how about the groping you were giving me just now? Those roaming hands of yours? I suppose that was nothing personal?"

There was the flash of a grin, at once replaced by a look of abject contrition. "No, c-course not. Look, baby, you're a fine piece of...uh, a pretty girl. It's only natural a man might want a feel. It's practically a c-compliment, if you think about it."

Face impassive, Mica considered this—before covering the distance between them in two quick strides and kicking the unsuspecting man squarely in the crotch. With a strangled groan, he fell to his knees, as she jammed the barrel of her gun between his watering eyes.

"You can keep your compliments and your hands to yourself, you lowlife scum. And you can keep your poison words and your feeble excuses. All I want to know"—she leaned down to glare into Diaz's face—"is whether you're sorry."

A healthy dose of confusion joined the pain and fear in his expression. "What?"

"Are you sorry?" she repeated, grinding the gun into his flesh. "Are you sorry for what you did? Or, more to the point, about what you didn't do?"

In different circumstances the look of pained bafflement on Diaz's face might have been comical. "Whaddya mean? I told you, baby, I—"

He was cut off by the barrel of the gun giving him a smart rap on the head. Eyes narrowed, Mica leaned in a little closer. "Call me baby, one more time—I dare you."

Watching on in silence, Nick and Hugo shared a glance, which—despite their antipathy, despite the physical awkwardness of their relative positions and despite the vast gulf that separated them in personalities, in morals and in their life-choices—very clearly communicated a mutual 'holy shit' vibe.

"S-sorry, bab..." gasped Diaz, eradicating any doubts that may have lingered as to his intelligence level, before realising his near-mistake. "Sorry, miss. I won't say it again. But I don't know what you mean."

"No? It's very simple. I just want to know whether you're sorry for not helping me. Whether you're sorry that you stood by and did nothing while an innocent young girl was kidnapped, held against her will and groomed by a monster. While no doubt countless other girls suffered far worse. Whether somewhere in your black heart there might be the tiniest grain of contrition for helping to facilitate the evil that goes on in this place. Whether maybe, just maybe, there might be a thinking, feeling, actual human being buried somewhere in there. Someone who has enough of a soul left to feel bad about what they've done." She gave him another rap. "Well?"

Despite himself, Nick couldn't help but feel a pang of sympathy for Diaz. The look on the kneeling man's face suggested he'd well and truly exceeded his daily quota of words with more than two syllables, and was struggling to work out what the correct answer was supposed to be. Not to mention the consequences of getting it wrong. Plus, he had just copped a hefty kick to the cojones.

"Y-yes?" he hazarded.

"Yes, what?" demanded Mica.

"Yes, I'm sorry."

For several long seconds she glared down at him—and then raised the gun. "Good. I forgive you. And perhaps, if you ask him, God will forgive you too. You can go."

He blinked up at her. "What?"

Mica rolled her eyes. "For goodness' sake. Are you evil and deaf? I said you can go. Go, now"—she made a shooing gesture—"before I change my mind."

Expression wary, Diaz got to his feet. "You mean it? No tricks? H-how do I know you're not gonna shoot me in the back, or n-nothing like that?"

"You don't. You'll just have to trust me. You'll have to believe there are some decent people in the world—the kind who keep their word." A little troubled by the tingle of pleasure this unfamiliar sense of power provided, Mica fought back the urge to smile. "Besides, if I wanted to shoot you, what makes you think it would be in the back?"

While Diaz did not seem to find this line of reasoning at all reassuring, there was only a moment's more hesitation before he once again turned on his heel and took off in a mad dash, the frantic nature of his flight rendered somewhat ludicrous by the wait for the elevator to arrive. But eventually, with a ding and a final desperate glance, he was gone.

"Sorry," said Nick, as Mica turned back towards him.

She blinked. "What for?"

"Anything...everything. Just thought I b-b-better ap-p-p-pologise in advance."

"Hugo. Hugo!" Frustrated, Zima looked for any sign the fallen man could hear her. The gun in his mouth ruled out a spoken reply, but surely the great idiot could give her some kind of signal.

"Listen to me. I have people on the way, but as I've had to summon them from the facility in the basement, they will be a few minutes. So you must find a way to keep our fugitives there. I don't care how you do it, but you must keep them there until reinforcements arrive."

For a moment she considered ordering Diaz to return, but soon dismissed the idea. The wretch was of limited use even when not disarmed and scared out of his alleged wits. He'd be one of the first for the chopping block when Mr Salazar put her in charge.

Mind racing, she stared at their mystery intruder on the screen, trying to read his intentions, his thoughts, his story in the grainy, pixelated image of his face. There was something not right here. Something that did not quite fit.

Hugo's takedown had dispelled any lingering doubts Zima may have had as to the stranger's professional status. She had more than enough hand-to-hand combat experience to recognise a fellow practitioner of the arts when she saw one. For all his size and bluster, Hugo wasn't much of a challenge, but there was no mistaking the practiced efficiency with which he'd been disabled. Yet that only deepened the mystery.

Why had the intruder not killed Hugo, when he had the chance? Why simply wound him? It didn't make any sense. Just as it made no sense for him to linger so close to the big man—why would a mercenary, a trained soldier, put himself in such unnecessary danger? For that matter, why let Diaz go? Even if the intruder hadn't realised he and the girl were under camera surveillance, he must know Diaz would report their location at the first opportunity.

Zima was certain she was missing something—some X-factor, some unknown part of the equation. It was a mystery, and if there was one thing she abhorred, it was a mystery. She needed answers, and for those, she needed the intruder.

"Hugo! Can you hear me? If you can hear me, give me a sign."

With furious intent, she stared at the screen—and saw movement, slight, but unmistakable. Slowly, by Hugo's side, his right hand turned over. And then—directed straight at the hidden camera—he extended his middle finger.

Zima smiled. The big man might be a cretin, but there was no denying he had balls.