Twenty-Four
"Zima, you copy? I've got 'em. Second floor, the atrium—they're going for the shot-out window and the dumpsters. And guess what? That lowlife Diaz is leading the way. Looks like the little asswipe has gone rogue."
Poised on yet another landing, about to descend the next flight of stairs, the dark-clad woman froze. "Copy that."
The information regarding Diaz barely registered—his death warrant was signed, either way. Her focus was on Devine and the girl. Mind racing, she debated her options. Eighteen stories to go—did she exit the stairwell and take a lift, or would it be quicker to stick with the stairs? A moment was all it took to decide—it had to be the latter. She'd rely on speed and stamina to do what had to be done, just as she had more times than she cared to remember over the past decade.
Plus, the thought of standing immobile, waiting for a piece of machinery to arrive, was more than she could bear. She needed the release of action and she needed it now.
"You want I should come help out? Otherwise it's two to one."
"Negative. You stay right where you are. Keep monitoring, and keep leaning on Torres for that backup. I've got this cov—" Her heart lurched, and she felt the bloom of a cold sweat break out on her forehead. "Wait—you mean three to one."
"Uh...nope. All I see is Diaz and the girl. I thought Captain Quiet must've been bringing up the rear, but he hasn't come out of the stairwell. Dunno where he could be. Although, I guess...oh, shit—the boss. I'll get up there, stat."
"No!" More snarl than command, the word was torn from her throat. Once again she'd been left flat-footed and made to look foolish. Well, Natalya Zima was nobody's fool. It was time to make that clear. "You go after Diaz and the girl. El Silencioso is mine."
"You may find it hard to believe," said Salazar, "but you and I are not so different, Nicholas. You are not the only one to have faced adversity in your youth. You would think the life of a Salazar, born into wealth and privilege, would be blessed from birth, would you not? That I would have been assured of safe passage through the assorted trials and tribulations of childhood.
"Far from it, Nicholas. In fact, anything but. When I was seven, my mother passed away, you see. Even at the best of times, my father could not be accused of being the most affectionate or attentive of parents, and after her death, I'm afraid he threw himself into his work, to the exclusion of all else. In his absence, my older brother took it upon himself to see to my parenting, such as it was. His particular focus—his passion, it would be fair to say—was my discipline. Discipline which took the the form of regular beatings. At times, when he grew tired of the sport, he would invite his friends to participate. My younger years were a brutal time, bereft of warmth or care.
"I too have known dark days, Nicholas. I can well understand your despair. You consider me evil but in truth I am nothing more than the end result of my upbringing. Aren't we all? I would not have survived those years without the strength and brutality I was forced to acquire. And I know all too well the cost to my humanity.
"That is a cost you can be spared, Nicholas. A price I am willing to pay, on your behalf. $800,000 or so—something in that order. I suppose slightly less, after the deduction of the good detectives' little bonuses tonight. But well in excess of half-a-million dollars, at any rate. All sitting in the top drawer of my desk, and all yours, Nicholas. And in the second drawer you will find the keys to my Aston Martin DB11—also yours.
"This very night—this very hour—you can drive away from here, and leave the failures of your old life far behind you. You can make a fresh start, with money in your pocket and with Mica at your side. You can choose to spare the life of the immoral man standing before you, and in doing so, avoid becoming another just like him. All you have to do is say the word. And, of course, ensure that both the Syndicate's and my business activities here remain our little secret. I trust you have seen enough evidence of our reach and power to understand the need for that."
Salazar gave an impish smile. "In fact, you don't even have to say a word. A simple nod will suffice. Come now, Nicholas—you know the right choice to make. The only choice."
Nick stared at him, as his fatigued mind laboured to process the implications and the consequences—practical, financial, ethical and more—of this diabolical offer. And of its refusal.
Could he do it? Could he take what was, regardless of how you spun it, a massive wad of blood money from this human trash, and simply walk away? Drive away, for that matter, in a fucking Aston Martin, like some delusional, morally bankrupt James Bond wannabe? Except, in this twisted plotline, it was the super-villain who got the last laugh?
Of course he could. Nick tried to live a good life, to do the right thing and to keep his nose clean, but it wasn't like he was some paragon of virtue. He wasn't immune to the lure of a quick buck and a quicker ride and a potential pathway out of the steaming pile that was his life. Of course he could take the money and run. Especially if it would keep Mica safe. Even if Salazar was lying his silk-clad ass off and Syndicate goons would be on their tail the moment they left the building, at least they'd be out. She'd be out. Out of this hellhole of a building, out on the open road, out of the clutches of these monsters and in with a fighting chance of staying that way.
And then, on the flipside, there was the other big question—if the answer was no, could he face the consequences of that decision? Could he stand before another human being, and with intent and malice aforethought, raise his gun, look him in the eye and squeeze the trigger? Even if he deserved it? Even if it was beyond doubt just what an evil, arrogant, mysogynistic lowlife bastard he was? Despite his catalogue of evident and undeniable character flaws, Salazar was still a living, breathing person, a person who no doubt had family and friends and a life beyond his wrongdoings. Surely, being a black-hearted prick didn't preclude those things. Could Nick really become judge, jury and executioner, and make the conscious decision to take away that life? He may be ready to die, but was he prepared to kill?
It had been easy to think so when the idea had first occurred to him, standing in the harsh light of the stairwell with Mica and Diaz, not so very long ago. It was somewhat less easy with the person he'd decided to murder—for, regardless of the justification, that was what the act would be—standing before him. Smiling at him, for fuck's sake.
And, of course, there was always the third option. He owed gravity a mounting debt, and thirty-seven storeys below the pavement waited as patiently as ever for him to pay it back. Fifteen or twenty steps away, sweet oblivion—the end of all cares—still beckoned.
What was it to be?
Looking on, Salazar stifled a sigh as he felt his respect for—and apprehension of—this young interloper fading away. Yes, he'd achieved some impressive feats this night, but it was becoming clear to the crime-lord just what a substantial role luck must have played in those feats. Luck, and the recklessness of a fool who no longer valued his life. A fool who, when offered the deal of his miserable existence, could only waver in hopeless indecision. He was almost disappointed. The thrill of encountering an adversary worthy of the title had been undeniable, yet it was now obvious just how out of his league this pitiful excuse for a so-called killer was. Well, if the cretin couldn't make up his mind, he'd have to do it for him. The undisputed head of the Syndicate of Second Sons had more important issues on which to spend his valuable time.
Without waiting for his consent, Salazar swept past Nick and made his way to the head of the stairs leading down to the penthouse. "Come along, Nicholas. Let's get your new life under way."
Caught unawares, Nick lurched to his feet. "W-w-wait."
"Wait? For what? Your destiny calls, Nicholas—the well-deserved reward for your endeavours this night. You have but to seize it. Follow me." And he started down the stairs.
"B-b-but, I-I..." Disconcerted, still torn, Nick took one halting step after Salazar—and another. Then another. And with each unsteady step, it became more clear his decision had been made for him. Ever the vacillator, his will had once more been subsumed by that of someone more decisive than he.
He hated when that happened.
Given his destination was a mere couple of floors away, Higgs didn't even consider the lift. Snatching up his Uzi, he barrelled out of the control room and into the stairwell, sprinting up the stairs and pausing only when he reached the door to the second floor. Despite his contempt for Diaz, he wasn't about to burst through and storm out into the wide open spaces of the atrium, where he'd be a sitting duck if the little weasel had decided to grow a spine and set up an ambush for the pursuers he must know were coming.
Taking care to minimise any noise, he pushed open the door and squeezed through, before scuttling to the nearest cover—a freestanding fernery. With a muttered curse, he lamented his lack of backup. Zima may be happy to go it solo, but he was a big fan of having at least one other gun covering his ass. He was fond of his ass and didn't want it acquiring any new holes.
Still, he wasn't getting paid the big bucks to sit behind a pot plant. And every second he lingered increased the chances of his quarry getting clean away. While it wasn't long since he'd spotted them exiting the stairwell, they still had a lead on him—a lead that would prove crucial, if he didn't close it, ASAP.
He debated his approach. Slow and stealthy and ass-preserving—but maybe too late? Or gung-ho and gun-blazing, with the increased chance of both success and unwanted holes? And, of course, the possibility of a big fat bonus.
Fuck it. It was only Diaz after all, and a slip of a girl who looked like she'd blow away in a stiff breeze. Gung-ho it was.
Seemingly powerless to resist, Nick trailed behind Salazar as the silk-clad man made his stately way down the stairs, his very bearing radiating control of all he surveyed. Overhead the serene half-moon still sailed through the mist, while from far below the muted sounds of the early morning traffic could be heard, the faint echo of a foreign world, a world in which this little drama, this playact for two, had no part.
His head throbbed. The night air was damp. The marble steps beneath his feet were hard and unforgiving. In the soft light of the penthouse, the shards of the broken window gleamed, a million gems sparkling in its gentle glow. And among them, lying lost and discarded, lay a white oblong. An oblong it took him a moment to recognise as Mica's sketchpad. And upon the sketchpad's uppermost page, stark white against the tiles, her simple, impassioned plea, spelt out in broad, black strokes, was still clear to see.
Help.
"Stop."
Stutter-free, the command emerged from his mouth before he realised he'd made the decision to say it.
And Salazar did. Halfway down the stairs, he stopped, and with slow deliberation, turned—to find himself staring up into the rock-steady barrel of a gun.
"My new life?" From his position at the top of the stairs, it was now Nick who looked down on his adversary. "My d-d-d-d-d-"—he swallowed and took a deep breath, before spitting out the word—"destiny? Who the fuck are y-you to say what my d-d-d-destiny is?"
The faintest trace of uncertainty showed in Salazar's expression. "Forgive me, Nicholas. Of course, I did not mean to imply your fate was not in your hands. Clearly you are your own man, and at liberty to make your own decisions. Having said that, it would be remiss of me not to remind you that another fate besides yours hangs in the balance."
Nick stared at him. "You think I don't know that?" replied his inner voice. "You think one or the other of us wouldn't be dead by now, if I didn't have that fact lodged in the forefront of my aching head? I didn't come here to be a hero. I didn't come here to fight for good or to save a life or be some kind of lame-ass vigilante. Hell, I didn't even mean to come here at all. It was just a mistake, like most of the rest of my screwed-up excuse for a life.
"But here I am. And here you are. And somewhere in this building is the one person in this world whose life I still give a shit about. And as much as I care about that life, as desperate as I may be to save it, as tempting as it may be to take your dirty money and drive away and never look back, I know now that I can't—not like that, anyway.
"I don't even believe in destiny or fate or any of that 'everything has been pre-ordained' bullshit. We make our own decisions. Oh, sure—blind luck, chance, coincidence—they all play their part. But at the end of the day, when push comes to shove, it's all on us. Right now, it's on me. And I know what I have to do."
Real Nick? Real Nick took careful aim at Jaime Salazar's face, and—after taking a moment to reflect that given what a long-winded son-of-a-bitch his inner self was, maybe the stutter wasn't such a bad thing—squeezed the trigger.
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