Fearless

Nineteen

"Please, make yourselves comfortable, detectives. Mr Salazar will be here shortly, and I'm sure we'll be able to clear up this little misunderstanding."

Having shepherded the two police officers into the penthouse's spacious office, it was a worried Zima who closed its door and strode back into the living area, there to await her employer's imminent arrival. Jaime Salazar's response to her call regarding the SDPD's arrival had been unsurprisingly brusque, and with the detectives' unsmiling faces looking on, the details she could provide him with had been sparse.

Already on edge, and bereft of ideas as how to retrieve a situation that appeared to be spiralling out of her control, she wasn't sure whether to be relieved or angry when, rather than the tanned features of her employer, the lift doors slid open to reveal a much less appealing face. She opted for the latter.

"Diaz," she growled.

The diminutive man greeted her with a sickly smile, as Zima saw he was escorting somebody at gunpoint—a wide-eyed and trembling Mica. Her expression darkened.

"What idiot put you in charge of the girl? We both know how that ended last time."

The gangster shoved his captive out of the lift. "Don't you worry, baby...er, ma'am. I've learned my lesson. I won't be taking any shit off this little troublemaker. You can rely on good old Diaz."

"I doubt that. Where's Torres?"

"He's, ah...a little busy. There's some drama down in the holding area. The ladies are a bit restless, so he's helping to settle 'em down."

Zima glared at him, refusing to let her consternation show. What now? "Restless? What do you mean? What has made them restless?"

Diaz jerked his chin at Mica. "It was her. Stirred those bitches right up, she did."

The Russian woman absorbed this, and then dismissed the problem from her mind. She had enough to deal with and, irrespective of how 'restless' they might become, a collection of unarmed, incarcerated women were well within the capabilities of the security people in the basement.

"Fine. Put her in the master bedroom with her erstwhile benefactor, until Mr Salazar gets here."

"Sure thing. Put the bitch in the bedroom with her..."—Diaz frowned at her—"with her, er..."

Zima stifled a sigh. It would be so easy to break the little weasel's nose. To crush his windpipe or fracture his diaphragm or pulverise his testicles. Maybe all of the above. So easy and so very tempting. She fought down the urge. Given how stretched her resources were becoming, even a cretin like Diaz had to be utilised.

"I'm referring to the mystery man, fool—your El Silencioso. He's in the master bedroom. If your tiny brain is up to the task, I want you to take Miss Aquino there to join him. Now."

Diaz's eyes widened. "You actually got the prick back?" He gave a low whistle. "Man, that fucker is so dead."

"Indeed. As will you be, should this simple task prove too much. The master bedroom has no external windows and a secure lock on the door. I assume even someone of your questionable competence should be able to prevent our guests from escaping." Zima leaned forward, to give emphasis to her next words. "Do not prove me wrong."