Fearless

Six

Heart still hammering, it took a moment for Nick to comprehend Mica's words—after the night he'd had, something so mundane as taking a lift didn't quite compute. As understanding sank in, he dropped the deckchair and collapsed onto it with a thankful sigh, not at all sure his legs could have faced thirty-odd flights of stairs anyway.

"Lift sounds g-g-ood," he gasped. "Just n-n-need a sec."

Any hint of a smile vanished from Mica's face. "We don't have a second. We have to go, right now."

As the flood of adrenaline coursing through him ebbed just a little, Nick regarded the determined, diminutive woman staring back at him and considered just how little he knew about her, or the situation she was in—the situation of which he was now an inextricable part.

It had been easy to assume she was the victim here, but really, what did he have to base that on? For all he knew she could be some major felon, held in protective custody after a plea-bargain to turn state's witness, or something. The foul-mouthed and possibly dead Hugo might actually be a foul-mouthed and possibly dead plain-clothes police officer or federal agent, or who-knew-what.

What if rather than helping out a woman in distress, he was aiding and abetting a criminal mastermind?

A criminal mastermind who now no longer needed him?

And had a gun?

The thought brought a wry smile—people who threw themselves off buildings had no right to be worrying about guns. And this was hardly the time to start speculating on possibilities—in for a penny, in for a pound, as his grandmother used to say. His mind turned to the practical.

"Shouldn't you maybe g-g-get d-d-dressed first? You know, in some p-p-p-p-p-p-"—man, he really hated Ps—"p-p-proper clothes?"

The woman's resolute expression wavered—but only for a moment. "Clothes? These...these...people"—the word dripped loathing—"took away my clothes. And they haven't given me any more. The reason I'm being kept here doesn't require clothes. Now, are you coming or not?"

Nick swallowed, as his reservations about the merits of what he was doing crumbled away—he doubted any kind of protective custody meant being denied clothes. He stood up.

"Let's g-g-go."

He was about half-way to the lift before new doubts hit.

"Wait. What if the l-l-lift st-stops at a f-f-floor with more of...them?"

Stride never faltering, Mica raised her gun in an emphatic answer. "We have this. And you can bring your deckchair, if you like."

For all her bravado, she had no idea how she would respond if confronted with more of her captors—with the prospect of being dragged back to the penthouse, to subjugation, to...Salazar and what he had in store for her. As loathsome as that prospect may be, could she really shoot somebody—gun down a living person—to stop it from coming to pass? Could she take a life, when all her upbringing, her education and her beliefs compelled her to hold life as sacred?

As she entered the lift, with Nick trailing behind, she prayed she wouldn't need to find out. In any case, there was very little sacred about her current predicament.

Seeking a distraction from these thoughts, she turned to her rescuer and deliberately away from the sight of the plush killing floor—the immaculate abattoir—where her innocence had been sent to die.

"Tell me, what's your name?"

He turned wide eyes on her. "Me? I'm N-n-nick."

She held out her hand. "I'm Mica. Nice to meet you, N-n-nick."