Fearless

Nine

Silence followed the cracking report of the gunshot. Shock and silence.

Mouth a soundless 'O', eyes fixed on the gun clutched in Nick's grasp, Diaz released Mica and stepped back with his hands raised.

Heedless of her freed state, Mica stayed where she was, staring at Nick as shock and confusion warred on her face.

And Hugo—Hugo lay where he fell, mouth working soundlessly as his features contorted into an almost inhuman mix of rage and pain.

Meanwhile—field of view narrowed, but vision hyperacute—Nick watched the blood blossom from the fallen man's leg, black as tar in the dim half-light, as the slow pulse in his ears confirmed that time was indeed still moving. Any doubts on the matter were put to rest as Hugo regained his breath.

"You mother-fucker! I'm gonna rip your head off, you piece of—"

The gun-barrel inserted into his mouth ended the tirade as abruptly as it had begun.

Breathing deeply—a little nauseous, a little light-headed but with an odd sense of detachment—Nick stared down into the big man's bulging eyes. He was aware of being afraid, but strangely, felt no anger or hatred—just a longing to be done with this situation, with this thug and with this endless night.

Longing, but also regret. Remorse, even. It was a long time since he'd hurt someone. Since he'd made the conscious decision to inflict pain and injury on another human being. But not nearly as long as he would have wished. Despite his best efforts, it seemed there would be no escape from the discovery he had made all those years ago—that when words failed, there were other ways to make yourself heard.

Eyes locked with his adversary, Nick leaned down to retrieve the gun the wounded man had taken back from Mica, in the process discovering the third weapon—Diaz's—tucked into Hugo's belt. He slid one gun over to Mica, before pointing the other at the smaller Syndicate man, still standing few steps behind his former captive, hands in the air. Eyes widening, Diaz took another step back.

"I w-wasn't gonna hurt the b-bitch...uh, the girl—I swear it. Look, I just work here, man. I just d-do as I'm told. You're n-not gonna shoot me, are you?"

For a moment, Nick was tempted to tease out a little more of the fear-induced stutter with a warning round over his head, just for the simple pleasure of for once not being the sole speech-impaired loser in the room. But only for a moment. Given his spectacular earlier failure to miss the pool, he wasn't at all confident in his aiming ability—or lack thereof.

Instead, he dismissed Diaz with a peremptory wave of the gun, directing him back towards the elevators. The less thugs he had to deal with, the better. In no need of a second invitation, the frightened man turned tail and fled—but not for long.

"Stop!" Mica's command tore through the silence, freezing him on the spot. "Wait right there." Clutching the gun in a fierce, two-handed grip, willing it not to tremble, she advanced on her quarry. "Turn around."

Slowly, Diaz complied.

Squaring her shoulders, she forced herself to look him in the eyes. "Before you go, I want to know something."

Dragging his gaze from the gun pointed at his midriff, Diaz gave Mica a sickly grin.

"Don't worry, baby. I won't tell no-one where you are, I s-swear. You can count on good old Diaz. You're don't w-wanna do anything c-crazy, do you? After all, I never did you no harm."

"No harm?" She spat the words. "No harm? You locked me up. You took away my rights. You took away my dignity. You took me away from my friends and my family. And you took away my life! You, and your damned Syndicate cronies, you trapped me in that godforsaken penthouse and then you stood around checking your hair and talking about football while your boss kept me at his beck and call, treated me as his own personal plaything, mocked and taunted me one minute and then pretended to be charming and polite the next, while I knew all along just what he had planned for me. No harm?"