"Come, Natalya." Salazar smiled at the expression on his employee's face. "No need to look so shocked. I simply haven't yet had the chance to acquaint you with the very special relationship enjoyed by the Syndicate and our friends in the SDPD."

Mind reeling, Zima took the suggestion to heart, and with an effort, reassembled her features into their usual composed state. "Yes, Mr Salazar. I trust you will brief me on this relationship, at your earliest convenience? Along with any other...details that may assist in my service to you?"

Salazar chuckled. "Of course, Natalya—of course. Naturally, you will be made aware of precisely the information you need to know. Now, Detective Summers—please, put away your gun. That is no way to treat our guest."

Pushing back his chair, the businessman rose and made his way over to the couch. "I hope our mysterious visitor will share his story"—smile never wavering, he looked down at Nick—"without the need for any unpleasantness."

As the pressure of the gun on the side of his head ceased, and Summers holstered his weapon, Nick stared back up at Salazar, while his battered brain laboured to process this sudden reversal of fortune. The switch from what he was sure would be the Syndicate's downfall, to the sobering realisation the illicit organisation was more powerful than he could have ever imagined, was almost incomprehensible—a stomach-lurching, vertiginous tumble from the heady heights of victory, right down to the darkest depths of defeat.

He was tired. He ached. He was stunned and disappointed beyond words—even more so than usual. And he very, very much wanted to wipe the smug, arrogant smile off this smug, arrogant asshole's face. He'd been quite prepared to hate Jaime Salazar's guts in absentia; the actual presence of the cologned and immaculate bastard just sealed the deal.

He sensed this was one of those occasions—the kind you saw in the movies—where the plucky hero should probably respond to the arrogant villain's interrogation by the time-honoured (and conveniently wordless) method of spitting in his face. However, weighing up the range and the angle, Nick couldn't help but feel he probably wasn't that good a spitter. Plus—the extremity of the situation, and the spit-onnability of the target notwithstanding—he really didn't want to spit in anyone's face. It was gross.

Which left him with the dilemma of how—or indeed, whether—to respond to Salazar. In the end, Summers saved him the trouble.

"His story?" The detective snorted in derision. "Ha—some story. Allow me to fill you in. The sorry sack of shit seated before you is one Mr Nicholas Devine, accountant. Or should I say, ex-accountant. Little Nicky here was a cube-farmer right next door at the Libretec corporation, until they fired his ass, just this evening."

Nick gaped up at Summers. How the hell...? And then it hit him—Jayden. Of course it was Jayden. After running off to hide in his office, stashing his coke somewhere and changing into some dry pants, his ex-boss must have called the cops, to tell them all about the encounter with Nick and his gun.

And in further evidence of just how deeply the Syndicate's tentacles had infiltrated the SDPD, these crooked cops must have gotten wind of both that call, and Nick's, put two and two together—and come up with ka-ching. Fired or not, the moneyman in Nick couldn't help but wonder what corrupting a senior police officer cost these days.

"An accountant?" Zima was mortified. She'd been chasing her tail all evening, trying to bring down an accountant? "Are you sure?"

"Oh, yeah," said Ashe. "He matches the description we got from his boss—right down to the bruises." The detective shook his head. "Breaking and entering, firearm offences, kidnapping, wasting police time with fake 911 calls—Little Nicky has been a busy monkey."

"Indeed he has," said Salazar. "So, we have the 'who' of Mr Devine, here. What we still need are the 'why' and the 'how'. Why would an unemployed accountant—a nobody—want to break into my building and steal my property? And perhaps just as perplexingly, how did he do it? You are something of an enigma, young man—a puzzle. And I do so love a good puzzle. They're such fun to crack."

"I can tell you the 'how'." Grim-faced, Zima moved to stand beside Salazar—accountant or not, she wasn't comfortable with her employer's proximity to the intruder. "He jumped."

Salazar frowned at her. "He jumped? What do you mean, Natalya? Jumped from where?"

The Russian woman gave Nick an appraising look. He seemed so ordinary. So harmless. So very far from being a person of any consequence, whatsoever. Which meant one of two things. Either he was all of those things—or was very good at looking that way. She hadn't yet decided which.

"From the building next door—the Libretec building. He jumped from their rooftop and into your pool, Mr Salazar."

Her employer stared at her. "Impossible. Only a madman would make such an attempt. It's insane."

You could be onto something there, Nick decided not to say.

"And yet it is so." Realising the futility of trying to hide Nick's escape any longer, Zima elected to come clean. "He jumped—not once, but twice. There was his initial incursion, and then his...the next one. That is how we came to capture him. He was found floating unconscious in the pool, after he"—she swallowed—"chose to return."

The long look Salazar gave her suggested that particular subject was not closed, however the businessman chose to focus on the matter at hand.

"To return? And in such a foolhardy manner?" He shook his head. "My my, there must have been a compelling reason behind such a decision, Mr Devine. A powerful motivation, indeed. I wonder"—smile becoming crafty, he turned his gaze on Mica—"what that motivation might have been?"

To the surprise of no-one, Nick said nothing.

"I wonder, could it have been a certain young lady?" continued Salazar. "A certain young Filipino lady of both our acquaintances? I suspect it may well have been. Although I have yet to sample her wares—an omission soon to be rectified—I can certainly understand the appeal. She is a special one, our Mica. What do you think, Mr Devine?"

"What do I think?" replied inner Nick. "I'll tell you what I think. I think you can go fuck yourself, you smug-faced, silk-clad, human-trafficking rapist piece of shit. You and all your dumbass, overdressed Syndicate goons, you can all pucker up and kiss my unemployed accountant butt. That's what I think."

Real Nick? Real Nick sat there, seethed for a moment—and then, without rational thought, fuelled by equal measures of rage and despair, launched himself at Salazar.

Only to be met by Zima's fist, in a lightning blow to his throat. As fast as he had risen, Nick collapsed back on to the couch, clutching his neck while a stricken-faced Mica looked on. Despite her earlier resolution, she grasped his hand, squeezing it in a compulsive grip as he wheezed and fought for breath. "Oh, Nick."

"Thank you, Natalya." For a moment longer, Salazar gazed down at his captives—and then turned away, once again all business. He strode back to his desk. "Detectives, my thanks for your assistance tonight. As ever, it is appreciated. You have my gratitude."

"Your gratitude?" Summers rose from the arm of the couch. "We're gonna need a little more than that, Salazar. Do you have any fucking idea just how hard it is to keep a lid on shit like this? I mean, your everyday Syndicate stuff, that's one thing—at least that runs to some kind of a schedule. That we can cover for. But crazy-assed, base-jumping accountants, calling in rapes in the middle of the night? That's a whole other kettle of cover-up."

"Yeah," added Ashe, moving to stand beside his partner. "And it comes with a whole new price-tag. Otherwise the Syndicate might just suddenly find itself on the wrong side of the SDPD."

Once again seated, Salazar regarded the detectives for a moment, before reaching into a drawer of his desk, and—without bothering to check what he had retrieved—tossing each of them a wad of banknotes.

"I trust you will each find that to be adequate recompense for this night's endeavours. And of course you will both receive the usual weekly sum in your offshore accounts."

Ashe riffled through the notes in his wad. "Yeah, that should do it. But no more surprises, Salazar—otherwise the deal is off."

The businessman steepled his fingers. "Mr Salazar, please."

Ashe didn't look up from his money. "What?"

"I will thank you to address me as Mr Salazar. And to keep a civil tongue in your heads. Detectives, I can't help but feel you are labouring under the delusion that you have some sort of power in this relationship. Perhaps even the upper hand. The fact I find myself compelled to disabuse you of this notion once again confirms my long-established view on the intelligence of San Diego's so-called finest. Or, perhaps more to the point, the lack thereof."

Scowling, Summers slipped a hand into his jacket. "Watch yourself, Salazar."

"Mister, Detective Summers. Mister, please. Manners are so important in relationships such as ours, don't you agree? After all, just think how impolite it would be of me to arrange for your wife to find incriminating photos of you with your mistress in her inbox, when next she checks her email. Or for one of my people to perhaps pay a little visit to that lovely kindergarten your daughter attends.

"And Detective Ashe—on the subject of visits, can you imagine jut how rude it would be for me to have someone pop in unannounced on your dear old mother, in her nursing home? It's Sunnydale, isn't it? Room 302? Or if I was to perhaps orchestrate an introduction between your two boyfriends? The consequences simply don't bear thinking about, do they? How fortunate then that we are all on such good terms."

Summers removed his hand. "Don't think for a second this means you own us—Mr Salazar."

With what appeared to be genuine delight, the businessman threw back his head and laughed. "Oh, Detective Summers. You do so amuse me. While I'm all for being polite, let's not allow our manners to obscure the truth. Of course I own you. You are completely, 100% my property, bought and paid for. You are my—what is that charming expression? Ah, yes—you are my bitches. You and Ashe and more of your colleagues—and superiors—than you could possibly imagine. With nothing more than a click of my fingers, I could have you demoted, disgraced, killed, or quite possibly all three.

"While you are of use, you are of value. The moment you cease to be of use, you become a liability. You will both do well to remember that. Now, get out."

The two detectives exchanged a glance, but it was clear the fight had gone out of them. Without another word, maintaining what little dignity they had left, both strode from the room.

"Natalya, please have someone escort our police friends from the building." Putting a hand to her ear, the Russian turned away to carry out his instructions, while Salazar looked over to Diaz, skulking in a corner of the office. "You there. Kindly take Mr Devine and Mica out to the pool deck. I suspect our upcoming discussions may become quite vigorous, and my poor carpets have already taken quite enough abuse for one night."

He watched, as at Diaz's prodding, Mica and a still-wheezing Nick rose and were shepherded from the room, before turning back to Zima, just as she finished her murmured radio conversation. He frowned at her expression.

"Is something amiss? Something more, I mean?"

"Merely some unrest among our guests in the basement. The situation is being resolved."

It was a few seconds before Salazar spoke. "Let us hope so. It has been an eventful night, has it not? A night of surprises."

"Yes, Mr Salazar."

"I am not fond of surprises, Natalya. Surprises are not a good foundation upon which to build an enterprise—or a relationship. Let us hope that for the remainder of your tenure"—he let that phrase hang for a moment—"there are considerably fewer."

Zima had long since learned the futility of railing against fate, yet even so, she was stung by the injustice of this. "Mr Salazar, I—"

"Not now, Natalya. Let us not dwell on those things we cannot change. We must focus on the matters at hand. Firstly, we must help Mr Devine to find his tongue—there must be more to his story, and I for one would like to hear it. Let us discuss the most efficient means of extracting this story—and which motivational tools you feel would work best. I'm looking forward to observing the artistry of a professional such as yourself. Perhaps I may even pick up a few tips."