Stark and minimalist, buried deep within the bowels of the building, the control room was dominated by a wall of black and white monitors, their ranks of silent screens revealing offices, cubicle farms, a gymnasium, cafeterias, and—in the upper left corner—multiple views of the penthouse suite, shards of broken glass sparkling softly on its floor. While most of the scenes were low-lit and still, with the lack of activity one might expect at such a late hour, a handful showed signs of movement.

On one, an unsteady and aggrieved Hugo raged, storming through the penthouse, gun in hand.

On another, a limousine, all gleaming chrome and tinted windows, eased down a ramp into the basement carpark.

And on a third, two people—a slight woman dressed only in a robe and a young man in rumpled business attire—stood before the closing doors of a lift, in soundless conversation.

The dark-suited woman seated at the desk positioned before the monitors reached up and activated the radio nestled in her ear.

"Hugo. Hugo! Calm down, you fool. Listen to me—since you were so kind as to donate your keycard to our escapees, I have Diaz on his way up to rescue you. The girl and the stranger are on the gym level, by the way. I've sent two of our people to collect them."

"What? Fuck that!"

The woman winced at the volume of the bellowing in her ear.

"Zima, once those pricks grab the girl and her new boyfriend, you have them sit tight until I get there, you fucking hear me? I'm the one who's gonna bring the boss his bitch back. Not to mention break every fucking bone in Mr Fucking Deckchair's body."

A smile tugged at the corner of the woman's mouth, as on yet another screen the limousine slid into a park and a tuxedo-clad man emerged from its rear.

"Very well, have it your way. But you'd best be quick. Mr Salazar has just arrived."

"Why didn't you just say so?"

Having endured Nick's laboured explanation for their abrupt exit from the lift, Mica realised the answer even as she asked the question; it was becoming clear Nick didn't 'just say' anything. Feeling a little sheepish about her reaction, she held the gun behind her back.

"Never mind. I wasn't planning to try for the lobby anyway—I should have told you. And you should have given me some kind of warning before pushing that button. Even though we were both thinking the same thing, it almost ended badly. Look, I realise you have...that you're not a big talker, but from now on let's agree to be clear and open with each other, okay? It's going to be enough of a challenge staying out of the Syndicate's hands, without misunderstandings getting in the way.

Having not at all enjoyed the experience of a gun to his head, Nick very much shared her sentiments, if not her eloquence. He responded with a thumbs up.

Mica nodded in satisfaction. "Good. Now, let's find a way out of here."

"W-w-wait."

It was all she could do to not stamp her foot. "We can't wait. We have to go!" She turned away, intent on doing just that, until—with a start—she was stopped by the touch of Nick's hand on her shoulder.

And it was only as she turned back to him, expression like ice, that he seemed to realise what he had done. After staring at the offending hand for a moment, he jerked it away as if scalded and took a half-step back.

"Sorry. I...I...d-d-didn't...it's j-j-just...um..." He pointed. "Look."

Anxious to be away, Mica had paid little heed to the floor on which they had alighted but saw now it was a gymnasium or fitness centre of some kind; steppers and treadmills and racks of weights loomed in the shadows, indistinct but unmistakable in the dim glow of the after-hours lighting.

On more than one occasion, Jaime had arrived at the penthouse kitted out in designer exercise gear and lathered in sweat—occasions for which she had learned to be grateful, as at least some of his time would then would be spent in showering and grooming, rather than with her. She wondered if she had this place to thank for that small mercy.

Shaking off the unwelcome memory, she frowned up at Nick. "Yes, it's a gym. But this is hardly the time for a workout. Now, let's go."

Impatient, Nick shook his head. "No. Th-there are l-l-lockers." At the look of incomprehension on her face, he pointed at her. "There might be c-c-c-clothes. For you."

It took a moment longer for understanding to dawn, simply because it had been so long since anyone shown even the slightest interest in her welfare—since she had experienced any act not driven by malice or duplicity. She swallowed.

There was no time for this. The Syndicate was closing in. They should go, right now.

But as hard as her heart may have become, as scarred as she may be by the relentless trauma of her recent life, she could not find it in herself to spurn the first kindness she had been shown in a very long time.

Plus, the prospect of some actual, real, everyday clothes sounded wonderful.

Having listened without a word to Zima's update on the situation, Jaime Salazar stood in the control room and stared at the screens displaying the wreckage of his penthouse. His empty penthouse.

"And you are quite sure they cannot leave the building?"

The Russian woman did not hesitate. "Yes, Mr Salazar. All exits are secured and guarded and we have disabled the telephone system. The building is secure."

"So you say. And yet, despite this, a stranger appears from nowhere, wreaks havoc in my penthouse and then absconds with my property. How can this be, Natalya? Where did this mystery man come from?"

"We do not know, Mr Salazar." She knew better than to try to sugar-coat the situation. "All approaches to the penthouse are under surveillance. He appeared from nowhere."

Her employer snorted. "Are you telling me he flew to the rooftop?"

"We do not know," she repeated. "He may have rappelled from a nearby building. I will have the rooftop searched for any sign of equipment, and guarded, so as to prevent any more surprise guests. But as to how this whole debacle happened, you need look no further than the head of your security for the answer."

"Hugo?" The dark eyes turned to look at her. "You think he is behind this?"

This time it was the Russian woman's turn to scoff. "The buffoon hasn't the wit to hatch a scheme such as this. Besides, what could he possibly hope to gain? No, the fault lies with his incompetence: not posting a guard in the penthouse, attending the break-in without backup and then allowing himself to be bested by a man armed with nothing but furniture."

Salazar regarded her for a moment longer, before turning back to the screen. "Hugo has been a loyal servant for many years. He has never let me down."

"Until now," persisted Zima. "Loyalty is no substitute for competence. You know this, or you would not have sought my services. I say to you now, as I said to you then, put me in charge of security. Allow me to make the best use of my abilities. Only a foolish man hobbles his fastest horse."

When he made no reply, she thought she may have gone too far, but at length he turned back to her, his features unreadable.

"There may be something in what you say. I will think on the matter. Now, as the penthouse is not in a fit state, I shall retire to the guest suite. Have Hugo bring Mica and our troublesome visitor to me there."

"Yes, Mr Salazar."

"And perhaps it might be best if you personally check on our guests downstairs. I am not in the mood for more surprises."

This was the Salazar building. Somehow, despite walking past the stylised 'S' logo above its front entrance every day for the past nine months, and the obvious fact the pool he'd spent so many hours mooning over was clearly atop the building next door to Libretec's, Nick had never made the connection between the two. It might have been the incongruity—the clash of the clearly private and the overtly corporate. Or maybe, despite supposedly being a smart guy, he was just a bit slow on the uptake.

Whatever the reason, he hadn't realised where they were—until now. Until he saw the very same 'S', emblazoned on the locker they were about to break into. He shook his head. How could he have been so obtuse?

Nick wasn't sure what the implications of an illegal prison atop a corporate bastion were, but their location did mean one possible escape route was off the table. If they weren't able to leave the building, he'd hoped they could simply find someone's apartment, knock on their door, ask to borrow a phone, and call the police.

Given corporate towers were somewhat lacking in private dwellings, that wasn't going to happen. And the phones at the gym's reception desk were dead. So, looked like it was escape or...

It had to be escape.

"You took your sweet fucking time."

The lift door had no sooner opened than Hugo barged in, almost knocking over the diminutive man sent to collect him.

"The gym," he barked. "Now!"

"You got it, big guy." Regathering himself, Diaz fumbled for the appropriate button. "Whoa—that's a real gash you've got there. You're gonna need stitches."

The cannonball head turned to glower down at him. "Stitches? One more word and you're gonna need more than stitches. You're gonna need the fucking coroner. Now, give me your piece. I feel half-naked with just the one."

Working on the principle that speed trumped stealth, Nick broke into each locker by the crude but expedient method of bashing off the lock mechanism with a dumbbell. And while he felt pretty sure it was a sound principle, he was nevertheless relieved it only took three lockers to find what they were looking for.

His relief, however, was as nothing compared to Mica's. The shirt was too big, the jeans were too long and the bra laughable, but as Nick turned away to allow her some privacy, and she pulled on the ill-fitting garments, she was unprepared for the surge of emotion this simple act evoked.

Simple, yet normal. Simple, yet dignified. Simple, yet...human.

A few rolls of the sleeves, a few turns of the jeans' legs, a good, firm tightening of the belt, and she felt more like the old Mica than she had since she was taken. Scrunching the hated robe into a ball, she flung it away into the darkness, before tucking the pistol into the back of her jeans.

"Okay, I'm ready. Let's go."

Turning back to her, Nick smiled his approval. "Looks g-good." And then—to Mica's surprise—he blushed. "Er, I mean b-b-better. Y-y-you know—for you. Um."

Nick cursed internally. The poor girl must already think all men were bastards, and now he'd gone and touched her without asking and then commented on how she looked. While he didn't really know what Mica had been through, the implications were clear, and the last thing he wanted to do was add to her trauma. The sooner he got her out and to some help—and went back to only screwing up and/or cutting short his own life—the better.

"Let's g-g-go."

Reasoning both the stairs and public lifts would most likely be somewhere near the private one, they set off in that direction—to find their reasoning sound. Just around the corner from where they had alighted, three sets of stainless-steel doors gleamed softly in the subdued light, with a couple of plain wooden ones a little further along. One of those had to be the stairs.

Mica looked at him. "We're still quite high up. We could take the lift down a little further and then switch to the stairs?"

Nick considered his assorted aches and pains and nodded. The less walking the better. "Yeah. Surely they d-d-don't have c-c-c-cameras in the stairwell."

"Let's hope not. Okay—" Startled, Mica broke off as Nick grabbed her finger, which had been about to press the down-button. "What is it?"

He pointed at the display above the left-hand set of lift-doors—a row of numbers indicating the floor on which the lift was currently located. Climbing rapidly towards their own, the illuminated number was only a couple of floors away.

"Someone's c-c-coming. Run."