What if you threw your life away and the world threw it back? If you found yourself in credit to the value of one life? Would you spend that credit on a worthy cause, if fate offered up the chance?
...
For just a moment, the man Zima had tasked to monitor the security screens in her absence looked as though he might object to her peremptory tone—but then saw her expression.
"Yes, ma'am." Eyes downcast, he hurried from the room.
Taking a seat, she muttered a curse as she glanced up at the dozens of scenes arrayed before her—not one of which showed any trace of the fugitives. Cameras in the stairwell were just the latest addition to the ever-growing list of changes she would make at the first opportunity. That, and a polite but firm recommendation to her employer that in future he might like to refrain from keeping his playthings at the office. When it came to the Syndicate, the stakes were far too high for business to risk being compromised by pleasure.
She had suppressed the fierce satisfaction her implied—but so far, unspoken—promotion to head of security had engendered, all too aware this night's work was only half done. Removing her oaf of a predecessor was all well and good, but the task of making amends for his failures now fell onto her toned and capable shoulders.
And make amends she would. She had men in the stairwell and every exit was monitored. The girl and the mystery man had proven remarkably slippery, but the net around them was tightening fast.
Very soon now—within minutes—they would be hers.
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Blinking in the bright, fluorescent light of the stairwell, dazzling after the gloom of the cupboard, Mica couldn't prevent a sharp intake of breath at the sight of Nick's battered face. She hoped it looked worse than it felt.
The puffy lips managed a grin. "That b-b-bad, huh?"
"What? Um, no. You look...fine."
He would have cocked an eyebrow, if he wasn't convinced it would hurt. "Really?"
"Well...no. You look terrible. Oh Nick, you poor thing. Are you sure you can manage all these stairs?"
He wasn't sure of any such thing. He had some experience with beatings, but while his previous assailants may have shared Hugo's enthusiasm, he suspected none had his brutal strength. Given their lack of alternatives, however, he couldn't see much point in sharing his doubts.
"I'll b-be fine. B-b-besides—you should see the other g-g-guy."
She stared at him for a moment, before shaking her head. "You know, I still haven't figured out whether you're a good man—or just a crazy one."
Lady, you don't know the half of it, he refrained from saying. Mica was hardly the first person to face that dilemma. To try to figure out which box to put him in. Being labelled was a familiar—and unwelcome—experience.
For all that this city, this place he'd tried to call home, couldn't care less whether he lived or died, for all that a good proportion of its population wouldn't spit on him if he was on fire, for all that he was a complete and utter nobody, the tiniest, most microscopic of plankton in an ocean-sized pond, that was actually part of its appeal.
