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?
...
Back to the wall of the stairwell, well-worn Glock 19 held at the ready, Zima paused in her descent to check in with Higgs. "Anything?"
"Well, the party's still swinging down in the basement, but other than that—zip."
Stifling a curse, she darted around the corner, swept the stairs and ran lightly down to the next landing. With no idea how big a lead the fugitives had, every ounce of her being yearned to barrel down the stairwell in full pursuit, but she was far too savvy an operator to give in to that temptation. Diaz had been armed, which meant her prey was now armed, and while she thought the odds of an ambush unlikely, she'd had too many surprises tonight to bet her life on it.
"Tell Torres I want backup the instant he can spare it. We need someone on every exit and a couple of guns in the penthouse, stat."
"Well, he was pretty busy last I checked—they'd just cracked out the tear gas—but I'll let him know. And I'll tell him you said, 'Hi'."
She found the levity irritating, but let it slide—now was not the time. "Fine. Keep me posted." And with a deep breath, she descended once more.
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He had—if only for a moment—wiped the smug, arrogant look of self-satisfaction from Jaime Salazar's face. No matter how this night might turn out, Nick took a grim pleasure in at least achieving that.
It was, however, only for a moment. All too soon, the handsome features reassembled themselves into their usual composed state.
"Mr Devine." Still halfway up the stairs, Salazar looked down at him, and Nick couldn't escape the uncomfortable sensation it wasn't just in the physical sense. "How pleasant to have you back. I was concerned you may have tired of my hospitality. Tell me, what can I do for you?"
Nick had expected trouble in convincing Diaz to part with his pistol, but in the end the process had been quite painless. The little man had just grinned and pulled open both sides of his jacket, revealing the twin reasons for the cheerful donation of his handgun.
"The popgun's all yours, big man. I found where they keep the Uzis."
Thus, in response to Salazar's query, Nick was able to go full Sopranos, pulling the gun from the back of his pants, aiming it at his nemesis' head and growling, "You can die, you son-of-a-bitch."
In his dreams. What actually happened was he dropped the gun, scrabbled to pick it up and only managed a squeaky, "You c-c-c-can d-d-d-d-d-d..." before giving up and deciding Salazar could damn well figure it out for himself. He'd let the gun do the talking.
Or at least, that was the theory. He'd returned to the rooftop a few minutes earlier to find it still deserted—so, feeling very much the undercover assassin, had hidden himself in a garden to await his mark. Fortunately, given his weary legs' protests at being asked to squat behind an opportune shrub, he hadn't had long to wait before Salazar emerged from the penthouse, accompanied by the Russian woman, along with a man he recognised as his pursuer from the alley.
