A dog barking—faint but unmistakable. And also...a lawnmower. It was, without question, a lawnmower droning away somewhere off in the distance.

The sounds were so mundane—so normal—it took some time for Mica to accept they might be real. That they weren't the figments of some fevered dream, and she wouldn't at any moment wake to find herself back in the penthouse, back in the Syndicate's clutches—back in hell.

Still in hell.

However, when she opened her eyes, the sounds continued. The Art Deco panels above her were not the penthouse's ceiling. And the small but comfortable bed in which she lay was nothing like pretentious enough to belong to Jaime Salazar.

A soft ticking alerted her to the presence of an old-style analogue clock on the bedside table. It was just after 1.30. To the accompaniment of its soothing, metronomic pulse, her memory sifted through the events that had brought her here.

Her struggle to get Nick on his feet and moving. His insistence on paying Jaime's office a visit before they fled. Their miraculous, unhindered elevator ride to the garage and even more miraculous escape in Jaime's own car.

Their dilemma as to where to flee, and her last-ditch idea to call the Philippines consulate, in the desperate hope the Syndicate's taint may not have reached that far. The hurried purchase of a cheap phone from an all-night convenience store and the anxious wait outside the locked consular offices, as the rising sun burned away the mist to reveal, nestled among the buildings towering above, a sky of aching blue.

The explanations to the consul, standing in the street with his half-tucked shirt and his wayward hair and his astonished face, a tearful goodbye to Nick after the disbelief at his refusal to accompany them, and the surreal ride into the suburbs, doing her very best to stay awake as the consul's endless stream of small-talk washed over her.

Her recollections were interrupted by a soft knock on the door.

She sat up, pulling the covers over her chest, even though she was attired in what must be the most sensible nightdress she'd worn in her entire life. And given her upbringing, it had some stiff competition.

"Come in."

The smiling, grandmotherly face of the consul's wife appeared around the edge of the door. "Ah, you are awake. You must be hungry. I am afraid you have missed breakfast and lunch, but I'm sure I can arrange a little something for you."

Mica smiled back. "Thank you. You're very kind."

"Nonsense. It's like having my daughter back home again. It will just be a few minutes. Now, in the meantime"—entering the room, she held out a small package—"I have something for you."

Mica stared at the object. "What...what is it?"

"Come, my dear—how on Earth would I know that? A courier just delivered it for you." She placed the item on the end of the bed. "You'll find toiletries in the ensuite, and after you've eaten we'll see what we can do about some clothes. Don't be long." Her smile became sympathetic, and just a little troubled. "I'm afraid you may be in for a long day."

Unable to take her eyes from the package, Mica heard the door gently close behind the grey-haired woman. Heart pounding, she racked her brain for an innocent explanation. For some non-sinister reason why a package addressed to her should be delivered to an address where nobody knew she was.

She could think of none.

When, just a few hours ago, she'd stood wavering before the elevator in the atrium, clutching the keycard Diaz had given her and trying to summon the courage to step through those steel doors and take the ride back up to the penthouse that had been her prison for so long, she'd thought she may never face a harder decision in her life.

And she was probably right. But choosing to open the package came a close second.

It turned out to be a phone. A cheap smartphone, in an opened box, with a post-it note stuck to its screen.

Passcode = our unexpected (and short) friend.

Mica stared at it, feeling her anxiety ebb away, to be replaced by a tingle of...something else. What exactly, she wasn't sure. She hit the home button, typed in D-i-a-z and was greeted by a message icon, reading '1'. Holding her breath, she tapped it.

Hey. Sorry about the whole courier and package thing. I worried it might give you a scare, but then I remembered you don't scare easy.

It's funny, there's a bunch of things I want to say, but now I've started to write this, sitting on the squeaky bed in this cheap-ass hotel room, I'm a little lost for words. I guess some things never change.

Firstly—thank you. For coming back for me, of course. But not just for that. Thank you for showing me that a little adversity is no reason to give up. Thank you for showing me what a powerful thing courage can be. And thank you for helping a down-on-his-luck, unemployed accountant find his mojo and kick a little ass, even if it involved him getting his ass kicked along the way. And my ass feels kicked, believe me.

I'll hole up here for a few days, until I can walk and breathe and think without it hurting. And after that? Well, I've got time on my hands now, not to mention some cash—although I really wish you'd taken half, like I wanted. I'm an accountant, I could have made it untraceable. But as for me, I think I'll go freelance for a bit. You know, do my own thing. I've tried the whole nine to five scene and it didn't really work out for me.

It's time for a change, Mica. I'm done trying to blend into a world where I just don't fit. I'm done trying to shape myself to meet the expectations of others. And I'm done with the whole speech therapy, counselling, trying to fix myself thing.

I'm not broken. I'm just me.

My plan is to go underground for a while. I'm not exactly sure what that means, but I'll figure it out. I'm going to take a little time to think things through. To process the events of last night.

To come to terms with being a killer.

Salazar was evil. He would have killed me if I hadn't killed him first. And there's not a shred of doubt in my mind that the world is a far better place without him. You'd think that would make it easier, wouldn't you? But it doesn't—not really. The worth of the life you take doesn't alter the fact you took it.

I'll be fine. Eventually, in time, I'm sure I'll be able to close my eyes at night and not see Salazar's face staring back up at me as he falls away. Us accountants are good at rationalising stuff.

And, the things is, I've had some practice. When it comes to guilt trips, this is not my first rodeo. I came to the city in the hope of a better future but I also had some history to leave behind. And I'm not just talking about the stutter.

Her name was Chloe. She came to work in the front office of my uncle's company. Being new in town, she didn't know me as the loner who talked funny, the one you were supposed to either make fun of or stay away from. She took me as I was. She listened to me without judgement and didn't finish my sentences or avoid conversations with me or give me the hidden eye-rolls I tend to get from even the most polite and patient of people.

We got along. Eventually, we had dinner. Pretty much my first ever real date. It was lovely, Mica. No, my stutter didn't magically disappear for the evening and yes, I stumbled over the small talk, but we laughed and we had some drinks and we got along.

So well, in fact, that we didn't want the evening to end. She suggested a few more drinks at the bar. Now, bars are not my scene. I find communication enough of a challenge, without adding in alcohol and music and background noise. And, potentially, people from the past. People I would be happier to never lay eyes on again.

That night, it was a couple of guys. Two of the worst from my school days. I hadn't seen them for a few years, but they picked up right where they'd left off. Even more so because I was with a girl.

I tried to ignore them, Mica. I did ignore them. Burning with shame, embarrassed and wishing the floor would open up and swallow me, I did my utmost to pay them no mind.

But they wouldn't let up. With our night ruined, we decided to leave. And that's when one of them shoved me. Shoved me so hard that I stumbled into Chloe and knocked her over.

And they laughed. I stood there in that bar, with the only girl who'd ever shown the slightest interest in me crying on the floor, while two of the guys who'd made my childhood hell laughed their asses off.

I hit the guy who shoved me, Mica. I hit him hard. So hard that he went down like a tree. So hard that he hit his head on the floor.

So hard that he died.

Not straight away. They took him to hospital and did surgery and tried their best to save him. But he went into a coma and died three days later. I'm not much of a one for prayer, but I've never prayed so hard as I did for those three days.

So, you see, I was a killer even before Salazar. First, I killed by accident. Then I shot someone. Now, I've killed on purpose. There seems to be a pattern, doesn't there? A trajectory. I just don't know if it's a ride I want to take. Or whether I even have a choice.

But here's one thing I do know. If the people around me are going to get hurt, then those people should deserve it. The thing with that guy in the bar was stupid and pointless and wasteful and sad. But shooting Hugo saved you. And throwing Salazar off that building might just save a whole lot more.

Last night, for the first time in a long time, I achieved something. Something worthwhile. It's been the longest time since I achieved anything beyond just getting through the day. So, as crazy as it sounds, I'm going go after the Syndicate. By 'unofficial' means, if you get my drift. You know, a bit of digging here, some careful observations there, perhaps the odd unobtrusive glance through the finances of certain shell corporations and offshore companies. That kind of stuff. Beware my accountancy powers!

And not just accountancy powers. There was a time when I knew how to handle myself in a fight. I thought I still did, until Salazar handed my ass to me last night. But I gave it all away after the bar thing and I'm rusty and out of shape. That will have to change. I've run out of cheeks to turn.

What can one clueless guy achieve against a global crime organisation? Maybe not much. But I'm going to try. El Silencioso that Russian woman called me. Well, El Silencioso is not done yet. With you going after them through official channels and me doing my thing, perhaps between the two of us we can make a difference.

The two of us. I don't know about you, but I like the sound of that.

And as much as it hurts to say, that's a problem.

I didn't really survive the jump off that building, you know. Oh sure, I'm walking around and breathing and taking down bad guys and getting punched in the face and all that. But the guy doing those things is not the same Nick Devine as the one who jumped. That Nick did die. And quite frankly, good riddance.

Because the one who survived learned what it means to not be afraid. Or at least, to not let fear dictate every moment of his life, to shape every action and taint every opportunity.

The new Nick learned when you have nothing left to lose, it's not so hard to risk everything.

And there's the catch.

There can't be a two of us, Mica. Because if there's an us, there's a you, and if there's a you, then I have something to lose. And if I'm going to have any chance against the Syndicate, I need to be that Nick who's prepared to chance it all.

I'm writing this on a burner phone, and will have already destroyed it by the time you finish reading. Please delete this message, or better yet, destroy your phone too. I suspect when it comes to the Syndicate, too much caution is never enough.

That was quite some night we had, wasn't it? I can't say I'd do it all again, but I wouldn't take any of it back. There's nobody else I'd rather have gone through hell with. You're the most resilient and courageous person I've ever known, and I have no doubt you'll hit the Syndicate hard and where it hurts—just like you did with Diaz and that Russian woman. But watch your back, okay? There won't always be an idiot falling from the sky to rescue you.

Take care.

Nick.

For a moment longer she sat and stared at the screen. The Syndicate had taken her freedom. They had taken her innocence. They had very nearly taken her life. And now it seemed they would take Nick from her, too.

Because, as much as she may not want to admit it, he was right. There was both a freedom and a power in having so little left. And just like Nick, she would need that power in the struggles to come. Neither of them could risk the vulnerability—the weakness—that came with a friendship or a relationship or whatever kind of ship they may have had, regardless of how much they wished it otherwise. At least, not in a world in which the Syndicate held sway.

But then, what kind of a way to live was that? What was the point of a life in which you were afraid to feel? After her recent trauma, it was hard to know what she wanted from Nick, or how much she could offer him in return, but those determinations should be hers and his alone, free from the influence of the looming, multi-tentacled menace that was the Syndicate.

And the thing was, she could now do something about that. With her hard-won freedom, she was no longer powerless—no longer a mere victim. So, tossing back the covers, she swung her feet to the floor, and stood. There was a global human-trafficking network to take down, and the day was already half-over.

She was under no illusions as to the magnitude of the task, nor the dangers it entailed. Few knew better than her the reach and ruthlessness of the Syndicate of Second Sons. Even fewer had experienced them and lived to tell the tale.

Alone and afraid, she had been plunged into a living nightmare, transformed into nothing more than the plaything of a monster, used and abused and traumatised. But she had endured. She had survived. In the crucible of her imprisonment, innocence had been burned away, to be replaced with resilience. A new strength had been forged and tempered. It was time to put that strength to use.

The risks in confronting the Syndicate were great, but then, so were the rewards—countless innocent victims could be spared a fate far worse than hers. That was all the motivation she needed. But, if along the way, she could save a certain reckless young man from throwing himself in the deep end once too often—not to mention make the world a place in which love was a risk worth taking—where was the harm in that?

She would show Nick he wasn't the only one who could be fearless.