"You let him get away." Zima's words contained no accusation—merely a statement of fact.

Standing beside her at the entrance to the alleyway, along with the three other thwarted pursuers, Higgs turned his head and spat a stream of blood-streaked saliva onto the pavement.

"Yeah." He looked up at the building in which Nick had taken refuge. "We did."

Zima didn't miss the use of the collective pronoun—nor the pointed rebuke it contained—but didn't rise to the bait. "Explain."

Higgs raised an eyebrow. "Explain? How do you explain a freak like that? Either the guy's stone-cold crazy or he's making plays from a playbook I've never seen. Maybe a bit of both. I could've cut him in half, you know, more than once, but you wanted him alive. And you know what? I think the bastard knew it. I think he knew I wasn't going to shoot him. Why else would he pull a popgun on a man with an Uzi? Although, I guess there is the crazy thing. Anyway, once he knocked me on my ass and I dropped my piece, it was pretty much game over. You pay pretty good, Zima, but not good enough to get a bullet between the eyes."

Zima didn't press the issue. Irrespective of any failings on Higgs' part, the responsibility—the blame—for lapses in security now stopped with her. And they had at least retrieved the girl.

"Did he give any indication as to the reasons for his actions tonight? Any hints as to his plans or motivations, or his employers?"

Wiggling a loose tooth, Higgs muttered a curse under his breath before replying. "Nope."

With an effort, the Russian woman fought down the urge to knock the tooth clean out. "Think, Higgs, think. Anything he said could be useful—anything at all."

He grinned at her. "Well then, shame he's not much of a talker."

"What do you mean?"

"Exactly what I said. Your gate-crasher is a man of few words. In fact, he's a man of no fucking words. He didn't say a single thing."

"El Silencioso." The murmuring came from the others, huddled a few yards away. Zima turned on them.

"Enough," she snapped. The last thing she needed was these morons bestowing the interloper with some sort of supernatural aura, never mind a title. She glared at them for several long seconds, before speaking again.

"You're quite sure he inputted a code prior to entering the building?"

The tallest of the three nodded. "Yeah, I saw it myself. And the door wouldn't budge for us. We were gonna shoot our way in, but then we thought it might draw a bit too much attention."

Thankful for small mercies, Zima turned away to ponder the significance of this development. If the intruder had a code for the building, then that code meant a connection. A connection meant a trail and trails were something she was good at. She now had a starting point to find out more about their erstwhile guest.

Which did not alter the galling fact he had slipped through her fingers. This stranger, this mystery man who had materialised from nowhere, had somehow crashed his way into her domain, leaving a trail of havoc and confusion in his wake, while at the same time thwarting her every attempt to stop him. It was maddening—failure was not an experience to which Zima was accustomed.

Although, she supposed, from a purely objective point of view, she hadn't really failed. While the stranger may have escaped, he'd done so with his tail between his legs, bruised, battered and—most importantly—alone. He'd been forced to run away, to flee the scene of his transgressions empty handed, without the human prize for which he'd dared so much. In that respect the failure was his.

"Higgs, go and get yourself cleaned up. You others, I want one of you watching that front door, while the other two look for alternate exits and watch those. The second our ex-guest shows his face, I want to know about it. I'll send backup shortly. Go."

She watched them disperse, before turning to look up at the towering structure which now harboured one of the few men who had dared to cross Natalya Zima and lived to tell the tale—at least, so far. While he may not have the girl, he did now have access to communications and whatever other resources the building may offer. Did that mean he was still a threat?

A moment's consideration was all she needed to dismiss the thought. While undoubtedly a bold play, his incursion had been a failure—a failure that would send a clear message to his employers, whoever they may be. Chastened and chased away, beaten and defeated, there was little more he could do, particularly tonight. Not with the Syndicate's resources—her resources, now—roused and on high alert.

Zima smiled. After all, it wasn't as though a breaking-and-entering, gun-toting, grievous-bodily-harming mercenary was about to call the police.

"911, what's your emergency?"

Standing by his former desk, bare now but for a monitor and the telephone whose handset he held pressed to the less bruised of his ears, Nick took a deep breath and willed his recalcitrant larynx to behave itself for once.

"Y-y-yeah, hi. I need the p-p-p-p-p...the p-p-p-p-p-p..."—screwing up his eyes, he paused to silently rap the handset on his forehead several times—"the c-cops."

"Transferring you now."

As the ringtone burbled in his ear, his mind churned through the possible words he might use to inform the police of Mica's plight—ideally something combining maximum efficiency with minimum opportunity for sounding like an inarticulate idiot.

"San Diego PD. State your name, location and the nature of your emergency."

"Huh?" Idiocy one, efficiency zip.

Fortunately, idiocy appeared to be all in a day's work for the police operator. "I have your location as 442 Seventh Avenue. Is that correct?"

"What? Uh, I g-g-guess. B-b-b-but that's n-n-not where...it's not wh-wh-wh—"

"Sir, I am to understand you're not calling from the scene of the incident?"

"Y-y-yes. No. N-n-next-d-d-door."

"The incident is next-door? 440 or 444?"

Nick stood speechless for a moment, horribly aware he hadn't known the address of his own workplace, never mind the building next door. Inspiration struck. "S-s-salazar."

There was a pause before the operator spoke again. "Sir, as your responses are somewhat...garbled, I need to ask, are you under the influence of drugs or alcohol?"

"What? What?" After the night he'd had, Nick was stung by this accusation. "You go lose your job, jump off a couple of skyscrapers, get the crap beaten out of you and then see how much sense you make," he was tempted (if unable) to retort. Or maybe even the more manageable and succinct, "Bite me."

With a significant effort and another deep breath, he managed to restrict himself to, "Of c-c-c-c-course n-not. I mean the S-salazar b-b-b-b-b-building!"

The sound of rapid keystrokes was audible down the line. "Okay, got it. 440 Seventh Avenue. Now, sir—the nature of the emergency?"

What a choice. Abduction? Assault? Human trafficking? The list was long and not at all distinguished—or easy to enunciate. What he needed was something simple—something big on impact and light on syllables. It came to him.

"Rape."

It was clear what Jaime Salazar had in mind for Mica, even though he hadn't quite gotten around to it—yet. And Nick was more than happy to bend the truth a touch if it got him a faster response time. To tell the whitest of little white lies. However, if he'd expected shock, or even the slightest trace of emotion from the operator, he was sorely disappointed.

"Is the assault over or ongoing?"

He blinked. "Wh-what?"

"Is the assault over or ongoing?"

What the hell kind of a question was that? "It's coming up, you asshole," replied inner Nick, "unless you get some fucking squad cars down here right now and stop wasting my time with your stupid-ass questions."

Real Nick went with, "I d-d-don't know."

"Sir—"

"Nick? What the hell?"

Startled, he whirled to face the source of the voice, standing at the entrance to his cubicle. "Jayden!"

"Sir," squawked the phone. "Sir, are you there?"

Without another word, Nick hung up. He doubted his stammering was going to add much more of value. The police should be on their way soon, regardless.

"Hey, J-j-jay-jay..." He swallowed. "Hey."

His former boss stalked up to him. "What's the deal, bro? I seem to recall I fired your sorry ass. You should be long gone. You're history, you're dust, you're..." He frowned. "Dude, what the hell happened to your face?"

Nick just stared at him. Even with a functional voicebox, where would he start?

"You got hammered, didn't you?" Jayden's frown became a knowing grin. "You went off and drowned your sorrows. And then what? Let me guess. You tried to pick a fight? Yeah, that's it, isn't it? Trying to prove you're not a pussy? The truth hurt a little too much, bro?"

Barely registering the words, Nick frowned at him. What the hell was Jayden doing here at this time of night?

"And now you're back," his ex-boss continued, prodding Nick in the chest. "To what? Ask for your old job back? Yeah, I don't think so. In fact, you'd better get your ass out of here before I call the cops."

Eyes narrowed, Nick took in the smudge of white powder on Jayden's upper lip, the mis-buttoned shirt, and—most telling of all—the ever-so-slightly mussed hair. From the direction of his office, faint strains of music could be heard. Whatever Jayden was doing at work in the early hours of a Saturday morning, it wasn't overtime—and he was unlikely to be calling the cops.

"I mean it, bro. Hit the road. Otherwise, I might just have to kick your ass myself."

Just as clear to Nick was what a waste of time this conversation was. Without taking his eyes from Jayden's face, he drew the gun from the back of his pants and placed it between his ex-boss' bulging eyes.

"Fuck off, Jayden."

A minute or so later, with Jayden—whimpering and pants wet—having run off and locked himself in his office, Nick once again emerged onto the roof of the building. Onto the open, windswept concrete plain where his little adventure had begun, what now seemed liked eons ago.

His archive box was still where he'd left it. Within that unassuming little cardboard cube lay his wallet, cash, his Compass card—all the various means by which he could make the much-delayed and longed-for trip to his apartment, to his bed, to the sweet, deep and oblivious release of sleep.

Within lay the means by which he could extricate himself from this nightmare, from the hidden world he'd never dreamed lay just below the surface of the everyday one, from the hellish underworld existence where life was cheap and sex was power and might was all.

Within that box lay the path back to his old life. All he had to do was take it. Only, of course, it wasn't quite that easy. It never was.

Once again taking in the vast sweep of the city by night, he thought back over the unlikely steps that had led him here. The convoluted path which had brought him to this strangest of situations.

Growing up, he'd never even been that interested in finance. Although good with numbers, he never really cared whether they had dollar signs in front of them. But, as with most things in his life, his vocal abilities—or lack thereof—had dictated his choice of career. Stress exacerbated his stutter, therefore, ipso facto, he'd needed a low-stress job.

Hello, accountancy.

And it had been low-stress, earning his degree online and then doing the books in the office of his uncle's transport company, back home. Low-stress, safe and secure, with minimal opportunities for speech-related social disasters.

Low stress, but unfulfilling. Uninspiring. Lacking in even a modicum of satisfaction. Even at his young age he'd felt the ominous weight of forever looming over him, the years and decades stretching out ahead in an endless cycle of small-town life, work and weekends, rinse-and-repeat, forever and ever, amen.

Already restless, the incident in the bar—and its aftermath—had been the final straw. Although they must have suspected something was coming, he could still see the astonishment on his parents' faces at his announcement. That he was off to the bright lights of the big city, to help wrangle the finances of one of those start-ups with more venture capital than they knew what to do with. To make a clean break. A fresh start.

Turns out, that wasn't quite as easy as he'd hoped.

He couldn't go back. His old life was gone. Even more so after the events of this night. The old Nick was gone—unmissed and unmourned, as far as he was concerned. Not that the new Nick felt showroom fresh at the moment, but even so, if somehow the opportunity was to present itself, he knew he wouldn't go back.

What was there to go back to?

Besides which, he had a little unfinished business to attend to. Yes, the police should be on their way, and yes, they should be here soon. But those Syndicate goons and Jaime Salazar—the slimeball CEO who got his jollies from rape and psychological torture and his pocket-money from trafficking in human misery—had Mica right now. Who the hell knew what he was doing to her, at this very moment?

Unable to bear the thought a moment longer, Nick came to a decision—one he now realised he'd made about two seconds after he'd seen Mica snatched from that broken window.

It was stupid. It could get him killed. And with the police on the way, it may not even be necessary. But 'may not' just didn't cut it.

When he'd stood balanced on the edge of the Salazar building's roof, wavering between jumping to his death or returning to help the then-unknown woman in the penthouse, he'd realised he was a disposable asset. And like a good accountant, he'd decided to liquidate that asset. Well, despite his best efforts, he wasn't quite liquidated yet. A little shop-worn maybe, a little rough around the edges and deprecated in value, but still standing. Still worth something.

He may not be able to rescue Mica. He probably wouldn't get anywhere near her. But perhaps he could create enough commotion to draw their attention away from her, just for long enough to allow the cavalry to arrive.

Whatever happened, at least he knew the jig was up for Jaime Salazar and the Syndicate. The police were coming. Those assholes were going down.

And so, he was distressed to admit, was he. There was no way he was going to be able to waltz into the front door of the Salazar building—at least not without an unhealthy and sudden case of lead poisoning—and he didn't know what other entries there might be.

Which left only one option.