Hunched low, gun-barrel sweeping left and right, Higgs crossed the atrium floor at a steady run, before pausing behind a marble statue—some buff guy with his junk out. He shook his head. Salazar was supposed to be a ladies' man, but if this was the kind of shit he wasted his money on, you had to wonder.

With the shot-out window now just yards away and still no sign of Diaz or the girl, he had to consider the possibility they'd beaten him to it. It just didn't figure, given the way he'd hustled his ass. With a quick scan of the immediate surrounds, he broke from cover, dashed over to the gaping hole and risked a cautious glance over the edge. Nothing.

"Well, shit." Sighing, he holstered the Uzi. Time for more dumpster-diving.

"Hey there, Higgs."

He whirled, reaching for the gun—and froze at the sight of Diaz. Or, to be more precise, at the sight of the Uzi pointing at his face. The little prick holding it stood beside another sculpture; some new-age, abstract, hippy bullshit Higgs had dismissed as being too small to conceal anybody.

"Diaz. Trust you to make being a fucking midget work in your favour. Put the gun away before you hurt somebody, dipshit."

"You know"—the smaller man grinned—"you might wanna think about a more respectful tone there, big guy. Speaking of tiny things, you need to wrap your brain around the fact I got the drop on you."

"Yeah, yeah, you got me good. Congratu-fucking-lations. So, where's the girl?"

"She's gone, Higgs. She's history. Just like I'm gonna be, after you slide your piece over to me and then fuck off, as fast as those long legs of yours can carry you."

Higgs' expression showed genuine puzzlement. "Wait—you expect me to believe you stayed behind to help her get away? You?"

"Yes, me. Little chicken-shit Diaz actually took a stand for once in his life. And do you wanna know why, asshole? I did it because it's the last thing anyone would expect. Because I was never more than a fucking joke to any of you clowns. Well, who's laughing now, Higgs? Huh?" Scowling, his voice rising in pitch, Diaz took a step forward. "Who's laughing now?"

Instinctively, Higgs made to retreat but found himself teetering on the brink of the broken window. "Hey, now—we can talk about this, amigo. It was never anything personal. All those things we called you, they were just—you know—guy talk. We're all buddies here. How about—?"

"Shut the fuck up. I may be short, but I ain't stupid. You guys don't show me no respect, Zima's got it in for me, and I'm pretty sure the bitch killed Hugo. So, I'm out of here. Now, slide that piece over."

"Hold on a second." Higgs held up his hands in placation. "You got it all wrong, bud. We all like you, honest. Zima? She fucking loves you. Just the other day she was telling me what a great job you're doing. She's just a hard read, is all. You know those Russians and their poker faces. This is all a big misunderstanding. How about I give her a call and we get things straightened out?"

"Like hell. Nobody's calling no-one."

"Relax, Diaz. One call and you're golden. Trust me."

The smaller man shook his head. "You don't wanna make me impatient, Higgs. I get twitchy when I'm impatient."

"Look, Diaz, you dumbass. Wake up and smell the fucking flowers at your funeral. This is the Syndicate your screwing with. How long do you think you're going to last out there, with your name on Jaime Salazar's shit-list?"

"Longer than you, if you don't hand over that Uzi."

Higgs edged away from the window. "Just listen to me. It's not too late to save your skinny ass. I was right on your tail, so the girl can't have got far. Help me get her back and Zima and Salazar might just forget about tonight's little fuck-up. You can go from zero to hero."

"Higgs, I've been dying to try out one of these Uzis ever since I got my hands on one, so if you don't shut your face, I'm gonna fill it full of bullets. And I told you, the girl's gone. Now, for the last time—your piece."

"I dunno, some people just don't appreciate good advice. Fine, have it your way." With a look of mock exasperation, Higgs pulled aside his jacket lapel, reached for the Uzi—and then dropped in a sudden lunge to his right, drawing the gun as he did so.

Already overwrought and on edge, with his trigger-finger half-pressed in anticipation, Diaz opened fire, but just as Higgs had anticipated, the gun's vicious recoil combined with the shooter's inexperience to drive the barrel upwards, directing most of the deadly hail of bullets over his diving body.

Most, but not all. The gamble had been solid, the odds good, but Higgs' luck was out. Three bullets found their mark, three bullets that stitched a ragged line across his torso, piercing organs, smashing bone, rending flesh—and severing his aorta. Seconds after he crashed to the floor, Higgs was dead.

Speechless, Diaz stared at his handiwork. At the lifeless figure sprawled before him. Despite his years of bravado—a lifetime of big-noting and tough-talking and gun-toting—he was looking at his first kill. The Uzi fell from his nerveless fingers.

Taking great care to avoid the spreading pool of blood, he stepped around the corpse he had created and stood at the lip of the window, before turning back for a last look at the life he was leaving behind. For the first time in more years he could remember—almost without conscious volition—he crossed himself. And then—pausing only to go back for his gun, and Higgs' for good measure—he jumped.

The safety—Diaz had left the safety on. Of all the people Nick had encountered this night, the little gangster was the last he would have expected to be a stickler for proper gun etiquette. Yet, when Nick squeezed the trigger and nothing happened, that was the inescapable conclusion with which he was faced.

So, attempted rather than actual murder got chalked up on Nick's growing rap-sheet, and instead of disintegrating into a bloody mess, Salazar's smooth features remained intact, registering, in quick succession, shock, triumph—and then rage.

"You would dare?" He strode up the steps, as Nick stared in a daze at the gun, realising he didn't even know where the safety was. "You! You nobody, you worthless piece of garbage. You would actually dare to take the life of a Salazar?"

Frantic now, Nick turned the gun one way and the other in the dim light—it had to be here, somewhere—and then the enraged crime-lord was upon him, hitting him in a crunching tackle that drove them both to the unforgiving tiles.

Winded, Nick tried to scuttle away, but Salazar was too fast, seizing him by the belt and hauling him back with irresistible strength. For just the briefest moment, he was relieved to find he still held the gun, until it dawned on him that if his opponent were to take it off him, it was pretty damn likely the head of an international crime syndicate would know where the safety was. With all the strength he could muster, he flung the weapon away into the darkness, before lashing out behind him with a blind, desperate kick.

A kick which struck home. There was a grunt, and the grip on his belt loosened enough for Nick to break free and scramble to his feet, before turning to face his adversary, who glared up at him from all fours, blood trickling from a split lip. Salazar wiped it away and examined his bloodied hand.

"You worthless scum. You will pay for that." And with murder in his eyes, he leapt back to the attack.

Shocked at this ferocity—at the wild, animal fury where just moments ago there had been polished talk and smooth urbanity—Nick retreated before the assault, catching a heavy hit to his ribs and a glancing but agonising knock to his battered face, barely managing to avoid a knockout blow. Stunned by the strength behind those piston-like fists, battling to keep his feet, he stumbled backwards—until he found himself hard up against the wall of a small wooden structure, presumably a storage place for gardening equipment or pool cleaning supplies.

Salazar smiled in savage triumph. It had been years since he'd killed with his bare hands—he now had employees for that, after all—and he'd almost forgotten the intensity of the experience. The vivid reality of physically—by sheer strength, skill and force of will—removing the life essence from a lesser person, to watch the realisation of death dawn in their eyes, even as the light in them faded away. There was no thrill quite like it.

This nobody had invaded his home. Stolen his property. Dared to threaten his life. And, most galling of all, frightened the absolute living hell out of him. For those transgressions, Nicholas Devine was going to pay with his life.

Yes, it had been far too long. He was going to enjoy this.

"You pathetic incompetent," he snarled. "You pitiful idiot. How on Earth you have survived this night and managed to come this far, I have no idea. If there is a God up there, it's quite evident he loves a fool, because here you are. You actually had the chance to kill me. But of course, you screwed it up. Sound familiar, Nicholas? Somehow I doubt this is a first for you. I suspect screwing up is something you've become quite used to. A recurring theme throughout the pathetic existence you choose to call a life. A life I'm going to enjoy ending. A life I—"

"For fuck's sake, d-d-don't you ever shut up?" Breathing heavily, Nick glared at Salazar. He'd had enough. He thought he'd had enough several hours, a sacking, multiple shootings, a couple of beatings and several million stairs ago—but that was before he'd gotten this sleazy, evil bastard in his sights, and somehow, through an apparent infinite capacity for incompetence, managed to not blow his immaculate face off. Salazar was right—screwing up was clearly his forte.

But no more. The screw-ups ended, right here, right now. Only one of them was leaving this rooftop alive. Either Salazar would die, and Nick would have finally done something worthwhile with his life—or Nick would meet his end, and the world would be spared his incompetence forevermore. Basically, win-win.

Such were the thoughts that flashed through his tired mind as the crime-lord advanced, with fists raised and death in his eyes. The asset that was Nick Devine—that much-maligned commodity, of both questionable and diminishing value—had proven remarkably difficult to liquidate. It was time to rectify that.

Besides, if he could take out a big-ass security lug like Hugo, how much tougher could a middle-aged CEO be? Forcing his tired limbs into a fighting stance, he stepped away from the wall.

"What's this, Nicholas?" Salazar grinned at him with bloodied lips. "An accountant who knows how to fight? Or perhaps one who has watched The Karate Kid too many times. Let's find out which it is, shall we?"

Aware he didn't have a lot of fight left in him, Nick didn't wait to be asked twice and went all in with a roundhouse kick—a kick which Salazar met with a smooth two-armed block, seizing Nick's leg in the process.

"Nicholas, Nicholas, Nicholas. Is that really the best you can do?"

Teetering on one leg, Nick tried with desperate strength to haul his other free from Salazar's grasp, but to no avail.

"Taekwondo, I believe? Sloppy, but recognisable, nonetheless. Some suburban dojang, I assume. One of those sad little places with cheap dragon prints on the walls and training floors full of red-faced, pudgy children. Dens of mediocrity and unfulfilled dreams. At any rate, not the kind of place where they teach strikes such as this."

With vicious force, Salazar jammed his elbow down into the side of Nick's knee, before hooking his leg around his opponent's and sending him crashing to the tiles with a savage shove to the chest.

His leg ablaze with agony, only having the wind knocked out of him by the fall prevented Nick from screaming in pain. Wheezing, battling to draw breath, he dragged himself away from Salazar in an undignified squirm, as fast as his battered body would allow.

His pace unhurried, Salazar followed. "I spoke the truth about my beatings at the hands of my brother, Nicholas. Ten years older, he was of course much larger and stronger than I. As a child, I had little choice but to accept his abuse. And accept it I did. I still bear scars of those beatings.

"What I failed to mention was what I decided to do about them. You see, as I grew, I made a vow. I promised myself that I would one day give as good as I had received. That I would repay my sibling for his brotherly love.

"As befits a Salazar, I attended only the finest boarding schools. And naturally the finest boarding schools have the finest instructors. Or at least are prepared to provide access to them, for their gifted students. And I was gifted, Nicholas. Gifted in the field of hand-to-hand combat. In the martial arts. It's remarkable just how gifted one can become, with the right degree of motivation.

"Muay Thai, Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Krav Maga and yes, even a little Taekwondo. I trained in them all, Nicholas. I excelled in them all. And at length, after some two years or so away, I returned home to Valencia, just in time for my 16th birthday. My father was away, off on some business trip or another, so it fell to my brother to organise the celebrations. And after a glass of Tempranillo or two, he decided to renew the physical side of our relationship. To remind me of my place in the pecking order. To ensure my advanced age did not give me ideas above my station."

Salazar smiled. "I beat the brute to within an inch of his life, Nicholas. I broke his nose, punctured a lung and ruptured his spleen. He spent two weeks in hospital and has never attempted to lay a hand on me since.

"I proved my physical dominance, Nicholas. And at the head of the Syndicate, I have since proven my dominance in business acumen, in power and in wealth. While the fool may be my technical superior at Salazar Shipping, his power is but a shadow of my own, in real terms. By any measure that matters."

He shook his head at Nick, as he continued to writhe away. "Oh, Nicholas. Don't be such a baby. I've torn some of your cartilage, but not yet broken any bones. Well, perhaps a fractured rib or two from the fall, but nothing too serious. Back on your feet, please, so we can continue our bout. What would your Mica think?"

Nick's laboured progress slowed—and then stopped. Each movement slow and pain-wracked, he did as Salazar bid. He got up, reminded by the mention of Mica just what he was there for. Swaying a little, he stood in the moonlight.

It was time to end this. One way or another.