Back to the wall of the stairwell, well-worn Glock 19 held at the ready, Zima paused in her descent to check in with Higgs. "Anything?"

"Well, the party's still swinging down in the basement, but other than that—zip."

Stifling a curse, she darted around the corner, swept the stairs and ran lightly down to the next landing. With no idea how big a lead the fugitives had, every ounce of her being yearned to barrel down the stairwell in full pursuit, but she was far too savvy an operator to give in to that temptation. Diaz had been armed, which meant her prey was now armed, and while she thought the odds of an ambush unlikely, she'd had too many surprises tonight to bet her life on it.

"Tell Torres I want backup the instant he can spare it. We need someone on every exit and a couple of guns in the penthouse, stat."

"Well, he was pretty busy last I checked—they'd just cracked out the tear gas—but I'll let him know. And I'll tell him you said, 'Hi'."

She found the levity irritating, but let it slide—now was not the time. "Fine. Keep me posted." And with a deep breath, she descended once more.

He had—if only for a moment—wiped the smug, arrogant look of self-satisfaction from Jaime Salazar's face. No matter how this night might turn out, Nick took a grim pleasure in at least achieving that.

It was, however, only for a moment. All too soon, the handsome features reassembled themselves into their usual composed state.

"Mr Devine." Still halfway up the stairs, Salazar looked down at him, and Nick couldn't escape the uncomfortable sensation it wasn't just in the physical sense. "How pleasant to have you back. I was concerned you may have tired of my hospitality. Tell me, what can I do for you?"

Nick had expected trouble in convincing Diaz to part with his pistol, but in the end the process had been quite painless. The little man had just grinned and pulled open both sides of his jacket, revealing the twin reasons for the cheerful donation of his handgun.

"The popgun's all yours, big man. I found where they keep the Uzis."

Thus, in response to Salazar's query, Nick was able to go full Sopranos, pulling the gun from the back of his pants, aiming it at his nemesis' head and growling, "You can die, you son-of-a-bitch."

In his dreams. What actually happened was he dropped the gun, scrabbled to pick it up and only managed a squeaky, "You c-c-c-can d-d-d-d-d-d..." before giving up and deciding Salazar could damn well figure it out for himself. He'd let the gun do the talking.

Or at least, that was the theory. He'd returned to the rooftop a few minutes earlier to find it still deserted—so, feeling very much the undercover assassin, had hidden himself in a garden to await his mark. Fortunately, given his weary legs' protests at being asked to squat behind an opportune shrub, he hadn't had long to wait before Salazar emerged from the penthouse, accompanied by the Russian woman, along with a man he recognised as his pursuer from the alley.

Their consternation at finding the prisoners gone quite clear, none of the three had their guard up and Nick had been sure even a marksman of his limited skill and experience could hit any one of them.

Only he hadn't. His plan, such as it was, hadn't gone beyond the simple hope of catching Jaime Salazar unawares and then killing him; confronted with three targets, he'd found himself at a loss. Could he take down all three? Should he just shoot Salazar? What if he only wounded him? Should he wait and see if the woman or the alley-guy left?

Or should he maybe stick the gun in his own mouth, pull the trigger and just put an end to the indecisive, vacillating, non-heroic mess of a man that was Nick Devine?

As tempting as that was, he'd decided against it. Given his record with suicide attempts, he'd probably just miss or somehow mess it up. He was going to die alright, but it would be at the hands of the Syndicate, rather than his own. He suspected they were rather better at the whole killing thing.

There was only one person he wanted to kill. Well, that he wanted dead, at least. He didn't want to kill anybody, but given killing was an unfortunate and unavoidable byproduct of the whole 'making someone dead' thing, it was something he'd have to live with—even if only briefly.

And as much as he loathed his tendency to vacillate, on this occasion it worked in his favour, for as he wavered in indecision, Salazar's companions did indeed turn and make their way back into the penthouse—resulting in his and the mogul's current mano a mano situation.

Salazar, for his part, was thinking fast. Despite his calm facade, he was all too aware of just how vulnerable his situation was—unarmed and alone, faced with an unpredictable, gun-wielding man. It was not often he berated himself for a fool, but there was no denying that was what he'd been in ignoring Natalya's advice to lock himself in the office. He'd judged the odds of the intruder returning to be almost zero—and been wrong. Points to the Russian woman, in that regard. She climbed in his estimation.

Yet, despite his current peril, he found himself buoyed by Nick's obvious ineptitude. His suspicions regarding the origins of this young man were rapidly hardening into certainty.

"C'mon, move it, bit—...lady. The shit-show downstairs is not gonna keep 'em tied up forever—we need to get out of here while the going is good."

Mica knew Diaz was right, but that didn't make their flight down the stairs—and away from Nick—any more palatable. She also couldn't help but feel guilty about the plight of the women in the basement.

"They won't be too hard on them, will they? I mean, they just wanted to be heard. They were only shouting their names and...and..."

Leading the way, Diaz turned to grin back at her. "And smashing stuff and throwing shit and raising hell?"

"Well, yes. But they're only girls—hardly more than children. And they're valuable to the Syndicate, aren't they? So, they won't hurt them...surely."

Diaz's only reply was a snort. You'd think a girl who'd been kidnapped, held prisoner for weeks and nearly had her skinny ass raped would have a slightly firmer fucking grasp on reality. Especially when she had all those diplomas and shit. Although, he supposed, being trapped in a penthouse rather than a dungeon probably tended to give you a pretty fucked-up view of things.

"Look, just move it. If Zima gets a hold of us, those bitches downstairs are gonna be the least of your worries. 'Specially if that wackjob boyfriend of yours manages to off the boss." Diaz didn't see that happening, but given how batshit bonkers the night had been, he wasn't ruling anything out. Either way, the sooner he put a lot miles between himself and that psycho Russian piece-of-work, the happier he'd be.

Her reluctance clear in every movement, Mica did as she was bid and followed the Syndicate outcast down the next flight of stairs. She knew what Nick had told her was true—her job was to escape. She had to tell the world of all she knew, and to find somebody in power untainted by the Syndicate's touch—the FBI, Homeland Security, a local senator, anybody—who could help her bring them down.

He was 100% right, of that she had no doubt. That didn't make it feel any less wrong to leave him behind.

"Hey—st-st-stay r-right where y-y-y-you are."

Salazar continued to walk back up the steps. "Oh, come now, Mr Devine. Where on Earth do you think I'm going to escape to? You have a gun, and we're thirty-seven storeys above street-level. Unlike yourself, I'm somewhat averse to throwing myself from the top of tall buildings. I merely thought we might make use of the deckchairs and sit like civilised men while we talk."

"Forget it. I'm not t-t-t-t-t-talking t-t-t-to you."

"Very well. I'll do the talking and you can listen. Come along."

Nick knew he should shoot him right now. After all, that was his sole reason for being there, and the silk-clad back ascending towards the pool-deck was probably as good a target as he was likely to get. It would also be an effective way to disabuse the arrogant bastard of the notion he was in a position to call the shots.

But he didn't. He simply couldn't shoot an unarmed man in the back, regardless of how much he might deserve it. At least that was his justification, as—hating himself more with every meek step—he followed Salazar up the stairs.

He also couldn't suppress a tingle of curiosity as to what on Earth this human monster thought he could possibly say to squirm out of what he had coming. So, for that reason alone—not because of the sick feeling of apprehension growing in the pit of his belly—he'd hear him out. Then he would definitely shoot him. No question.

True to his word, the crime-lord made his way over to the nearest deckchair and perched on its edge. Quite how he managed to look elegant and composed while sitting on poolside furniture in his pyjamas with a gun pointed at him, Nick wasn't sure, but he managed it nonetheless. He gestured to the adjoining chair.

"Please, join me."

Nick shook his head. He was as close as he planned to get.

Salazar took this refusal with evident good grace. "As you wish. Now, forgive my candour, but it's come to my attention that you have quite a severe speech impediment, Nicholas."

As the opening gambit in his attempt to avoid impending execution at the hands of a stutterer, Nick couldn't help but feel Salazar was barking up the wrong tree with this approach. He said nothing.

"I imagine it must create all kinds of difficulties. Socially, in relationships, with your career—it must be quite challenging." He gave Nick an expectant look, and then smiled. "Ah, of course. I'm to do the talking. In any case, you silence is answer enough.

"You really are an accountant, aren't you, Nicholas? Or at least, you were. I must admit, for a time there—when I assumed you were a mercenary, sent against me by any one of my various rivals—I was puzzled by the both the complexity and the obscurity of your cover story. It really didn't make a great deal of sense. Unless, of course, it wasn't a cover story at all. And of course, it wasn't. It isn't. You really did lose your job tonight, didn't you?

"Was it the stutter? I'm guessing it was. Had it been something a little less fundamental—something less intractable—an issue such as a poor performance review, a failed workplace relationship, a clash with a superior, or some such, then your reaction would surely not have been quite so extreme."

Nick's blood ran cold. Despite his best intentions, he replied. "M-m-my reaction?"

"Yes, your reaction. Your solution, as I suppose you saw it."

He raised the gun a little higher. "Shut up."

"Oh, no need to be embarrassed, Nicholas. Every one of us has our dark times. Our days where it all seems too much. There's no shame in it."

"Shut the fuck up. I'll k-k-k-kill you."

"Oh, I doubt that. You're not a killer, Nicholas. I suspect if you were, I'd be dead by now. Having said that, there is always the possibility I'm mistaken. We've all had a trying night and it would be understandable if tempers were wearing a little thin. In situations such as these, rash decisions can be made, and I'm sure you agree that would benefit no-one.

"You're quite fond of the lovely Mica, aren't you? Oh, no need to answer—it's really quite obvious. No doubt you see my death as a means by which you can exact a measure of revenge for her recent experiences. And I suppose there would be a degree of justice in that. By any standards—moral, ethical, legal, what have you—I have done her wrong. Perhaps, on that basis, I do deserve to die.

"But what then, Nicholas? What will you have achieved, beyond an all-too-fleeting sense of personal vindication? Very little, that's what. Do you think the Syndicate will cease to be, without me at its head? As much as I would like that to be the case, I am not so arrogant. In the event of my death, someone will take my place, the Syndicate will go on, and its activities will continue. You cannot begin to imagine their range and scope.

"On a smaller, more personal level, what of Mica? Oh, no doubt she is currently trying to find her way out of the building—she may even be successful. After all, my people are stretched rather thin. But not so thin as to present no impediment. As we speak, my head-of-security—the charming lady you met in the penthouse—is on her trail. Each floor, every exit, is being monitored. There is a chance she may escape, Nicholas—but it is a very small chance.

"We can change that." He patted a pocket of his robe. "With a single phone call, I can call off the pursuit. I can have the exits cleared. I can provide her with a path to freedom." Salazar stood. "Not only that, I can offer a solution to your predicament as well. I can give you back your life. A life that, just maybe, if you both wish it, you can spend with Mica. Imagine that, Nicholas.

"You can't save the world, young man, as much as you may want to. But you can save yourself and you can save Mica. You can save the part of the world that matters to you."

Weary beyond words, aching all over and finding it an effort to keep the gun raised, Nick sank to his haunches. He glanced up at the half-moon, shrouded in sea-mist. As ready and willing to die as he may be, his was not the only life at stake. He looked back to Salazar.

"I'm l-l-listening."