"So," he said, having drained the cup anyway, "which one of us gets murdered first?"

"You, you Yankee bastard," said the Australian cheerily.

"It's just, I'm getting a whole Agatha Christie vibe from this," Ramsay continued, pointedly disregarding the other man's comment. "Twelve folks gathered in a room together. Cut off from the mainland. Brought here by a complete stranger. Where's Miss Marple when you need her?"

"Not cut off," said a woman, another American, lighter-skinned than Ramsay, most likely mixed-race. She held up a mobile phone. "Not as long as we've got our cells."

"Reception?"

The woman checked. "Oh. Nuh-uh."

"Didn't think so, underground. Cut off, then. N'awlins?"

"Just outside. Chalmette. Chicago?"

"South Side born and raised."

"Kayla," said the woman. "Kayla Sparks."

"I'm Rick," said Ramsay. "And the lovely redhead with me is Sam. She's English, so she doesn't talk much."

"Prefers not to," said Sam.

"Same difference," said Ramsay. "But seeing as the two of us are the newcomers, and even though the rest of you have been here a whiles and probably already know a bit about one another, would you mind filling us in about yourselves? So we're up to speed? Then we can maybe figure out what the twelve of us have in common, other than being invited here, and try and make sense of this thing. How about that?"

"Did I miss the voting?" challenged the Australian. "Did you just put yourself in charge, septic?"

"No, Crocodile Dundee, I haven't put myself in charge of anything. But if you'd like me to…?"

"No way, mate. Spent thirteen years of my life taking orders. I'm done with it now."

"I doubt you ever did take orders, not really."

"Too right!"

"No, all I was doing was making a straightforward request, not a leadership bid," said Ramsay. "Like I said, to get Sam and me up to speed. Would that be OK?"