Dumbstruck. It was an English term Zima had always considered ridiculous. What kind of fool could find themselves so surprised they lost the power to speak? It was a concept she had never quite believed in. Until now.

For the intruder's leap through the window left her without words, never mind the first clue as to what to do about it. In open-mouthed wonder she sat and stared at the screen, at the silent little drama to which she had been both audience and director—a drama suddenly stripped of one of its key players.

She had no cameras outside the building. She had no Syndicate people outside the building. And now—somehow, against all logic and reason—the intruder was outside the building. Her instantaneous transition from virtual omnipotence to near-impotence was breathtaking. And, she realised, as her shocked brain began to once again function, potentially fatal—at least from a career point of view.

Whether or not he'd survived the fall was largely a moot point. Alive or dead, the stranger—this mysterious man whose actions continued to confound her every expectation—was now an X-factor at large in the outside world, a rogue element beyond her control. Even as a corpse he was likely to cause trouble and trouble was precisely what Jaime Salazar and the Syndicate were paying her very well to avoid.

Cursing herself for a fool, shrugging off her shock like an unwelcome cloak in an overheated room, she got to her feet as she marshalled her thoughts, prioritising the commands she needed to make, the chain of events to be set in motion to retrieve the situation.

And as she barked the first of her orders, she was already halfway through the door. Enough of this remote govnó. It was time to get her hands dirty.

Waiting was not something to which Jaime Salazar was accustomed. Particularly not when the outcome for which he waited was largely beyond his control. While aware patience was allegedly a virtue, it was not one he'd ever felt compelled to acquire.

He discarded the idea of another whisky; although not seriously concerned about the strange events of this night, he sensed it would be wise to keep his wits at their peak. Work held no appeal and even his well-worn copy of One Hundred Years of Solitude—usually a surefire source of solace when his mind was unsettled—hadn't held his attention for more than a half-dozen pages.

Restless, he rose from the enveloping softness of the leather lounge and wandered through the guest suite, at an uncharacteristic loss as to how to spend this unexpected sliver of free time. Although the hour was late, the thought of retiring didn't cross his mind—the prospect of leaving the current problems to be resolved without him was inconceivable; in any case, he seldom slept more than four hours a night.

A wry smile formed on his face as he considered the irony of his situation. Only in Mica's absence was he realising how much he had come to rely on his time with her as a means of release—as a delightful and intriguing distraction from the stresses that inevitably arose when managing the largest division of a legitimate Fortune 500 company, while at the same time orchestrating a global crime network.

And now, far from providing solace, Mica herself had become a problem—a problem he was very much looking forward to resolving. He was determined that the troublesome young woman's much anticipated presence in his bed would provide him with the means to restore his equanimity.

His loins stirred at the prospect. Smile now anything but wry, he picked up a handset from a side table and dialled an inside line.

"Yes, Mr Salazar?"

"Has this morning's delivery been processed?"

"Yes, sir. They're in the holding area, awaiting dispatch."

"Excellent. There was a blonde girl among them. Have her brought to the guest suite."

"Yes, Mr Salazar. And would you like the, uh...usual preparations?"

"Hmm...I seem to recall she was quite a strapping young lady. Let us increase the dosage by 10%."

"Yes, Mr Salazar. Right away, Mr Salazar."

Although fond of the spice a little preliminary struggling provided, Jaime was conscious of conserving himself for Mica—someone whose delicious fire he would never dream of dulling with pharmacology. But when it came to the entrée, some drug-assisted compliance would serve to enhance the main course.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit—"

"Diaz!" hissed Higgs. The diminutive man—lying facedown with his arms over his head—failed to respond. "Diaz, pull yourself together—you're okay, you dipshit. But if you wanna stay that way, you'd better get some cover. Get your ass over here."

The cursing stopped, a wide-eyed face emerged, and after the briefest of precautionary scans, the terrified man made his way to safety in a frantic, worm-like crawl. "What the fuck j-just happened?"

The other shrugged. "Beats me. I got my head down as soon as the shooting started. Seems they didn't like your sweet talk. We shoulda known better than to send a whiny bitch to do a man's job." He called to Torres, crouched a few yards ahead. "Can you see 'em?"

"Nah," the other replied. "I think they might have jumped out the window."

There was a moment of silence. "They did what?"

"You heard me. I saw one of 'em running and shooting and then there was a whole shitload of glass breaking and then it went quiet. So I figure maybe they jumped out the window."

"You figure?" blurted Diaz. "You figure? You mean you don't know?"

"Yeah, that's exactly what I mean, you weaselly little prick. And if you keep up that tone, I figure I just might throw you out after them. So, shut your dickhole. It was dark, there was gunfire and it happened fast. Maybe they both jumped, maybe just one, maybe none. I don't know and Zima's offline, for some reason. Do you wanna go and check?"

"Me?" Even in the half-light, the horror was as clear on Diaz's face as it was in his voice. "No w-way!"

"Yeah, didn't think so. So shut the fuck up, and stay out of the way while the real men get to work." And with a mutual nod, he and Higgs resumed the cautious advance towards their prey's last known position.

She was alone. Just like that, Nick had gotten up and run at the window like a madman, jumped clean through it—and left her alone.

The space, the vacuum—the gulf—created by his sudden and brutal departure left Mica stunned. While she'd thought herself frightened before, while she'd felt hunted and overwhelmed even in his company, those sensations were as nothing when compared to the bereft feeling of utter abandonment that now enveloped her.

"Follow me," he'd said. Just those two simple words. "Follow me." And she would have. Had he made a break towards the stairs, or tried to sneak away to find another means of escape, or even elected for a desperate charge back at their pursuers, a death or glory bid for freedom, she would have mustered up the last dregs of her courage and set off in his wake. For despite her earlier misgivings about Nick, her ignorance of his history, his motivations and even the real reasons behind his abrupt entry into her life, she now accepted his intentions were good. Mysterious, a little crazy, but fundamentally good. While she may not know much about him, she no longer doubted the enigmatic young man was on her side.

But no longer by her side. "Follow me," he'd said—and then proceeded to go where she could not.

Or could she? Perhaps there was method to Nick's madness. They were after all only on the second floor, only a solitary story above street level. How far down could it be? Doubtless further than any person of a rational nature would be prepared to leap, but then Nick hadn't seemed in a particularly rational state-of-mind, this last little while.

And when it came down to it, given her position, rationality was hardly a luxury she could afford, either. Given she would choose death over recapture, why should a single-story jump hold any fear?

Hunched low, she crept away from the shelter of the statue. "Follow me?" she muttered, as at a slow, wary pace, she began to retrace Nick's path towards the window. "Fine, I'll follow you. Two can play at this whole jumping off a building thing. See you soon, Nick—one way or another."

Pain. Confusion. Light.

Nick groaned. Not this crap again.

Although this time, there was a difference—this time the light had a halo. Was that a good thing? He supposed that depended on your personal take on the whole Judeo-Christian belief system thing. And while he'd been meaning to get around to developing a take on that at some point, he couldn't help but feel now wasn't the time.

The pain and confusion? Underdeveloped personal belief system notwithstanding, he was confident in filing those under 'bad things'. Pleased with this definitive conclusion, he decided to ignore them, in the fervent hope they might go away.

Which left the light. The light, which under continued examination, resolved itself into...a streetlight. An everyday streetlight with no angelic or afterlife-related overtones whatsoever. Well, it did have the halo, but Nick could now see that was the effect of the sea-mist that must have rolled in over the city sometime in the last few hours.

Unsure whether to be relieved or disappointed, he felt perhaps a short nap might be the best way to resolve the issue—if only he could find a more comfortable position. His current location was just a little lumpy and—he searched his dazed mind for the right word—um...jagged for his liking.

Sadly, a little wriggling did not improve his situation. In fact, just the opposite. Every movement only reinforced the sharp and pointy nature of wherever the hell he was.

Which, he realised in a sudden flash of revelation, was a dumpster. While he couldn't recall ever having been in one before, there was no mistaking the four-metal-walls-and-full-of-rubbish vibe. He was in a dumpster. Huh. That had to be a bad thing, surely. No matter what kind of fucked-up belief system you might subscribe to, dumpsters were definitely at the not cool end of the spectrum. Unless...unless...

In a crunch of broken glass, he sat bolt upright. Unless, that is, you were trying to jump into said dumpster in a demented, pissed-off and couldn't-give-a-shit-if-you-lived-or-died attempt to thwart the machinations of a bunch of human-trafficking, gun-toting gangsters who wanted you and that nice girl you'd just met, the one who'd been a human pet these last few months, dead.

If you looked at it that way—in that particular, admittedly pretty specific case—dumpsters were awesome. Apparently a repository for cardboard boxes and shredded paper, this one didn't even reek. How much better could it get?

When—what seemed like a lifetime ago—he'd stood wavering on the precipice of the pool-level, torn between returning to help Mica or a second attempt at a swan-dive into the pavement, some remote, automaton-like part of his mind had registered the row of diminutive dumpsters, lined in their neat rank along the edge of the building. While the bulk of his brain wrestled with the bigger picture, the stark life-or-death choice yawning before him, this at-the-time irrelevant nugget of information had been filed away, most likely to be forgotten, to fade away to nothing and to no purpose.

Only it hadn't. With the Syndicate closing in, with nowhere left to run, out of time and out of options, it had resurfaced from somewhere in the depths of his battered head, just in time to present him with the perfect, last-ditch escape option.

Well, perfect was overstating things, just a bit.

But it had worked. For the second time that night he'd thrown himself off a building and hit his target, the only difference being this time he'd meant to. Judging by the exciting new lump he could feel swelling on the side of his head, his somewhat groggy mental state, and the fact his left arm didn't seem to work so well, he'd probably collected a good part of the side of the dumpster on his way in, but given he was outside the building, he was out of the Syndicate's clutches and he was alive, he was fully prepared to call the situation a win. Except...except...

Mica! Ignoring the pain in his arm and the throb in his head, he hauled himself over the side, landing in an awkward heap on the pavement before scrabbling to his unsteady feet. He looked up.

Gleaming in the mist-softened city light, the smooth, unblemished cliffside of the Salazar building soared above him, its upper stories lost in the haze. Unblemished, that is, but for a single dark maw marring the otherwise flawless wall of glass, several yards above where he now stood.

"Come on, Mica," he muttered. "Come on. You can do it. We're so close."

And, as if by his command, she appeared. Face anxious, wisps of dark hair fluttering in the breeze, her small figure crept into view, clutching the side of the opening for support.

"Mica!" he called. "Mica, d-d-down here."

"Nick!" The relief and pure joy on her face warmed his heart, way down deep, down at some long-dormant level he'd almost forgotten he possessed. Which was all well and good, but for the moment his heart was just gonna have to suck it up and take a cold shower. Now was hardly the time.

"You have to jump—into the d-dumpster."

Her smile faded. "I...I'm not sure I can."

"You c-c-can, Mica. T-trust me. You have to. Jump, now."

He could see the transformation as she steeled herself. "Okay. Okay, Nick. I—"

And she was gone. Just like that. Without words, without warning. Blinking, Nick stood and stared slack-jawed at the empty space she'd occupied, just moments ago. "Mica," he called. "Mica!"

"Yeah, sorry." A stranger stepped into the space, a man Nick had never seen before. "Mica can't come out and play. She's a little busy." He raised what looked, to Nick's untutored eyes, very much like a machine gun. "Me, on the other hand? Good news—my schedule just opened right up."