Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend not copyright infringement.

A/N: This is a counterpiece to chapter 11 of oldandnewfirm's fantastic collection of one-shots "A Little Off Center". You've got to check them out, they're outstanding! Chapter eleven is a piece called "Dying of the Light" and it's one of the saddest stories I've ever read. In fact it made me so sad that I needed to write this here to somehow make things "right" again. Sort of. Thank you, oldandnewfirm, for giving me permission to play with your idea! I start right where she leaves off.

Unbeknownst to Ames, Winston had made it. There was a large splinter of jagged wood stuck deep in his left thigh, causing him to drag his leg like one of the zombies in The Walking Dead, but he figured as long as he didn't remove it, he'd be fine. At least for the moment there were more urgent problems at hand.

The explosion had pretty much reduced the building to rubble. No sign of Chance. His last transmission had come from the north side. There was no north side anymore.

But Ames and Guerrero he had seen. They were outside. Ames looked okay. Guerrero not so much. She was holding him like this special type of Madonna, what was the name… his wife had mentioned it to him, ages ago… or a client?

Winston shook his head, trying to order his thoughts. As he reached up to wipe the sweat off his face, he discovered it was blood.

In the distance, sirens wailed. Winston calculated they'd be on site in approximately five minutes.

Too long.

Noise caught his attention. Voices. One sounded familiar, but he didn't dare let his hopes go up. His mind could be playing tricks on him.

As he scuffled towards the voices, he remembered the name of the Madonna type.

Pietà. With Guerrero's head on her lap, Ames looked like a goddamn pietà.

In hearing distance now, the voices became discernible.

"If I help this one here, his chances of survival are around seventy percent. Your friend's chances of survival are fifteen percent to begin with. If I help your friend first, this one's chances of survival will go down to forty or fifty percent. I'm sorry but it's a rational decision."

Winston recognized the voice of the surgeon who had been among the hostages. A second later he could see him, too. He was treating another hostage, a young man, Winston had heard him talking about his upcoming wedding shortly before all hell had broken loose.

The surgeon and the young man weren't alone. Chance was standing by their side, half his shirt was missing as well as his shoes.

"But if you don't help him, he'll definitely die", Chance just told the surgeon. "The ambulances won't be here in time."

"As I said, I'm sorry, but I've got to make a rational decision here."

Winston watched Chance's reaction and knew that what the exploding building hadn't managed, the doctor's words did: They were killing Chance. Guerrero would die and there was nothing he could do. Nothing. He was totally helpless.

That was a blow Chance wouldn't be able to take.

He'd lose him.

Two friends in one evening?

Maybe it was because his thigh was hurting more by the second, but suddenly Winston became aware of the gun he was still carrying in his holster.

So useless against the explosives-carrying bastard who had done this to all of them…

But maybe now…?

The idea was like a tiny dark flame, Winston tried to extinguish it, tried to concentrate on the young man talking about his wedding, his wife, his plans… but like a spark from hell it licked away at Winston's resolution, his ethics, his idea of right and wrong…

Turned everything to ashes.

Winston walked over to the surgeon on the ground, aimed the weapon point blank at the back of his head, audibly released the safety catch and ordered him to walk over to Guerrero and make sure he'd live through the next four minutes.

Chance didn't interfere. He just watched, let the images slide past him like a picture show. The surgeon reviving Guerrero. The ambulances, finally arriving. The young man, dying on a stretcher from sudden lung collapse. Later, in the hospital, Ilsa making the surgeon an offer he couldn't resist. He'd keep his mouth shut.

Much later, another surgeon, telling them Guerrero would make it.

The nurse informing them that Winston's bed was empty finally woke him from his trance.

They found him at the office, drunk.

Together they maneuvered him into a more comfortable position, called in a doctor to check his thigh wound. Without actually discussing it, they took turns watching over him that night.

When Guerrero returned from the hospital two weeks later, the nightly shifts of watches had become a routine.

Had they lost one of their own in the explosion after all?