"Please, make yourselves comfortable, detectives. Mr Salazar will be here shortly, and I'm sure we'll be able to clear up this little misunderstanding."

Having shepherded the two police officers into the penthouse's spacious office, it was a worried Zima who closed its door and strode back into the living area, there to await her employer's imminent arrival. Jaime Salazar's response to her call regarding the SDPD's arrival had been unsurprisingly brusque, and with the detectives' unsmiling faces looking on, the details she could provide him with had been sparse.

Already on edge, and bereft of ideas as how to retrieve a situation that appeared to be spiralling out of her control, she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or angry when, rather than the tanned features of her employer, the lift doors slid open to reveal a much less appealing face. She opted for the latter.

"Diaz," she growled.

The diminutive man greeted her with a sickly smile, as Zima saw he was escorting somebody at gunpoint—a wide-eyed and trembling Mica. Her expression darkened.

"What idiot put you in charge of the girl? We both know how that ended last time."

The gangster shoved his captive out of the lift. "Don't you worry, baby...er, ma'am. I've learned my lesson. I won't be taking any shit off this little troublemaker. You can rely on good old Diaz."

"I doubt that. Where's Torres?"

"He's, ah...a little busy. There's some drama down in the holding area. The ladies are a bit restless, so he's helping to settle 'em down."

Zima glared at him, refusing to let her consternation show. What now? "Restless? What do you mean? What has made them restless?"

Diaz jerked his chin at Mica. "It was her. Stirred those bitches right up, she did."

The Russian woman absorbed this, and then dismissed the problem from her mind. She had enough to deal with and, irrespective of how 'restless' they might become, a collection of unarmed, incarcerated women were well within the capabilities of the security people in the basement.

"Fine. Put her in the master bedroom with her erstwhile benefactor, until Mr Salazar gets here."

"Sure thing. Put the bitch in the bedroom with her..."—Diaz frowned at her—"with her, er..."

Zima stifled a sigh. It would be so easy to break the little weasel's nose. To crush his windpipe or fracture his diaphragm or pulverise his testicles. Maybe all of the above. So easy and so very tempting. She fought down the urge. Given how stretched her resources were becoming, even a cretin like Diaz had to be utilised.

"I'm referring to the mystery man, fool—your El Silencioso. He's in the master bedroom. If your tiny brain is up to the task, I want you to take Miss Aquino there to join him. Now."

Diaz's eyes widened. "You actually got the prick back?" He gave a low whistle. "Man, that fucker is so dead."

"Indeed. As will you be, should this simple task prove too much. The master bedroom has no external windows and a secure lock on the door. I assume even someone of your questionable competence should be able to prevent our guests from escaping." Zima leaned forward, to give emphasis to her next words. "Do not prove me wrong."

It was an uncomfortable Nick who stood waiting in the bedroom—for what exactly, he didn't know.

At first he'd sat perched on the edge of the massive bed which dominated the room—until the thought entered his still somewhat dazed mind that this was no doubt the very same bed in which Jaime Salazar had planned to rape Mica. So, despite the protests of his weary legs, he'd decided to stand.

Then there was the fact a second dousing hadn't done his chafing problem any favours. For a time, he cast wistful looks at the extensive built-in wardrobes that lined one wall of the room, longing for the feel of dry clothing—until it dawned on him that in the grand scheme of things, on a night where he'd stolen Salazar's unwilling houseguest, shot one of his goons and stirred up a force 10 shit-storm, the pilfering of a shirt and some undies could hardly get him any deeper in trouble.

Warm and dry in a Ralph Lauren polo and immaculately pressed Zegna pants, he wasn't sure whether to be pleased or disappointed to find the clothing a good fit. Comfort was great and all, but he'd have preferred not to have anything in common with the monster who lay at the heart of this endless night's drama—even something so innocuous as his pants size.

While it was impossible to deny his second incursion into the Syndicate's realm had been less successful than his first—to a degree bordering on spectacular—Nick took solace in the knowledge the police's arrival must be imminent.

Jaime Salazar, the Syndicate, this whole nightmarish sex-slavery/gun-wielding psychos/human-trafficking house-of-cards was about to come tumbling down, and Nick's satisfaction at the idea would have been both fierce and complete, if not for one complicating factor—Mica.

He had no idea how long he'd been out following his second swan-dive, but his non-drowned state suggested it couldn't have been too long. Nevertheless, regardless of how brief the time since he last saw Mica's wide-eyed face, when she was snatched from the shattered window above the alleyway, he knew it was long enough for the young woman to have been subjected to any one of the atrocities his fevered imagination was all too ready to supply.

And as satisfying and worthy as taking down the Syndicate might be, he couldn't help but feel the achievement would be hollow—the victory Pyrrhic—if it came without saving the life of a certain young Filipino woman, in whose welfare he'd become very invested.

Thus, it was with a healthy dose of disbelief and also an unfamiliar, all-but-forgotten sensation—which it took him a moment to recognise as joy—that he he turned at the sound of the door opening to find himself staring into the very face he'd just been picturing in his mind's eye.

Mica. Features drawn, shadows beneath her dark eyes, but very much alive, intact—and here. His shock mirrored in her expression, the young woman took a single, stumbling step into the room, before the door slammed shut behind her, the sound of the lock sliding home audible in the silence that followed.

He should say something. He wanted to say something, which was not an urge Nick often experienced. There were things he needed to tell her. That he was glad she was alive. That he was glad she was safe.

Above all, that he was glad they were together again.

And those were just the words at the forefront of his mind—the few simple sentences that were the best his inadequate articulacy could come up with to represent the roiling tumult of emotion engendered by the reappearance of this young woman, at the end of this very long, strange and traumatic night.

But even they were beyond him. His vocal cords—ever-recalcitrant, of limited use even at the best of times—managed to wring out a hoarse "Mica" before locking up and refusing to produce a single syllable more.

So, bruised and battered, dressed in another man's clothes, unemployed and guilty of a whole host of exciting felonies and misdemeanours, Nick Devine just stood there like the semi-mute idiot he knew himself to be and looked at her—until something buried deep in his psyche, some lingering spark he'd thought long extinguished, flared into life, and in three swift, unthinking steps he covered the space between them and crushed her to his chest.

Her mind in no less of a turmoil, Mica stiffened in his arms. This room, the bed, the sights surrounding her were all so much a part of the nightmare she had been living—and anticipating—for these past few months that when Diaz had shoved her through the doorway, it had been all she could do to draw her next breath. The additional shock of Nick's presence—dressed in Jaime's clothes, at that—followed by his sudden embrace were almost more than she could process.

The physical touch, the scent on the clothing, set her heart racing in an instinctive fight-or-flight response, adrenaline surging through her as she tensed to bite and kick and claw and gouge, to struggle and resist as she always would, regardless of how fruitless it might be.

But there was something in the touch that gave her pause. Or, to be more precise, something lacking. There was no violence. There was no compulsion. There was strength, no doubt, but it was not the strength of domination.

And beneath the scent, beneath the superficial fragrance of whatever expensive products Jaime's staff used to launder his clothing, there was another. She was pretty sure it was chlorine, but beneath that was the warm and welcome scent of the healthy young man who had set her free and then saved her life and who was now holding her in his arms for the pure and very simple reason he was happy to see her.

Heart-rate slowing, the tension eased from Mica's body—and she hugged Nick right back.

"What are you doing here?" Face pressed to his chest, her voice was muffled. "Have they hurt you? How did you get caught?"

Cheek resting on top of her head, it was a moment before Nick replied. "I d-didn't. I'm fine."

Without breaking their embrace, she pulled back to look up at him. "What do you mean you didn't? If you didn't get caught, then what are you doing here?"

Nick returned her look, at a complete loss as to how to answer. What was he doing here? Trying to end a life? Trying to save one? Maybe a little of both?

"It d-d-doesn't matter."

Mica stepped away. "It doesn't matter? What does that mean? Nick, you jumped out that window. I saw you in the alley. You were out." She frowned up at him. "How did you wind up back here?"

When the only response she received was a sheepish smile, realisation finally struck. "You came back," she breathed. "You stupid, stupid man, you came back." She shook her head. "But how? How did you get back in, when there must have been...? Eyes widening, she stared at him. "You didn't. Please tell me you didn't."

A hint of mischief crept into his smile. "Well, it w-w-worked the first t-t-time."

Any further remonstrations Mica may have had to offer were cut short by the abrupt opening of the bedroom door, to admit a grim-faced Zima.

"You two—come with me."

Despite her long weeks in the penthouse, Mica had never been in its office, as in Jaime's absence the door had always been securely locked—and she had never had the slightest desire to enter the room while he was there.

Although she had expected his presence tonight, the sight of his serene, olive-skinned face, regarding her from behind his imposing desk, still set her heart racing. She would have very much liked to take Nick's hand for reassurance but sensed it would be unwise to reveal the bond between them— a potential weakness she knew Jaime would be all too ready to exploit.

Nick had never before laid eyes on Jaime Salazar, but was nonetheless quite sure who he was looking at. Although he wasn't so foolish as to have expected horns or slitted pupils, he found the sheer normality of the man a little shocking. Rapist, human-trafficker, dealer in human misery he may be, but tonight in his silk pyjamas and robe Salazar simply looked like an ordinary middle-aged man, albeit a fit and trim one, with exceptional grooming.

The other two guys, standing beside the desk? While he'd never seen them before either, his heart began to thud with hope.

"Welcome." Jaime greeted them with the briefest of smiles, before indicating a couch opposite the desk. "Please, make yourselves comfortable. These are Detectives Summers and Ashe, from the SDPD. They're investigating the allegation of a crime taking place, here in the Salazar building. As I'm sure you can appreciate, I'm anxious to have this matter cleared up as soon as possible, so I've brought you both here to help with their enquiries. Please, answer all their questions fully and truthfully." He turned to the police officers. "Detectives?"

The shorter and stouter of the two men, the one called Summers, approached the couch and perched on the arm closest to Nick. He smiled.

"Hey there, folks. It's late, so let's make this nice and quick, so we can all get home to bed, huh? Now, the alleged offence Mr Salazar mentioned is the crime of rape—a very serious crime indeed. The report of this crime was phoned in to 911, but damned if the caller didn't go and forget to give us his name. I wonder if maybe either of you folks might know anything about that?"

Making sure to look Salazar right in the eyes as he did so, Nick nodded.

"Excellent," enthused Summers. "That's just great. Now we're really getting somewhere. Sounds like you're just the man we need. Let me ask you another question. What I'd really like to know, if you'd be so kind to tell me"—smiling all the while, his movements unhurried, the detective reached into his jacket, drew a gun and placed it against the side of Nick's head—"is what the fuck a little pissant like you thinks he's doing, sticking his nose into business that's none of his concern."