Well, I guess it was only a matter of time before Human Target infiltrated my every thought and forced me to write something. (Those silly operatives.) Does anyone else find it weird that Guerrero is undoubtedly sexy? For some reason—some really, really bizarre reason—I can't help but want to write stories centering on the allusive cleaner. Anyway, I guess the addiction became too strong, so here I am.

The character opposite Guerrero is just an OC that I've created for this purpose alone and any relation to anyone alive or dead is purely coincidental.

(I don't own Human Target. That honor is Mr. Steinberg's and his alone. Trust me, I'd only mess it up.)

—

Why It Is

—

When my head is strong,
But my heart is weak.
I'm full of arrogance and uncertainty.
When I can't find the words,
You teach my heart to speak.
You make it real for me.

"Are you sure you're not gay?"

"Dude, what are you talking about?"

"Well," a considered pause, "I've never seen you with a woman."

A scoff and then, "What makes you think I'd bring her around here?"

"Why not? I mean, I told you about Alejandro—"

"Not that I asked."

"—and it's not like you ever show interest."

"Excuse me?"

"I mean, look at Chance."

From the back room, "Hey!"

Chuckling mingled with a hurried apology.

"You know what I mean."

"I'm pretty sure your snooping through my stuff told you I had a son."

"And?"

"Ames, please tell me you know how babies are made."

"Of course I do!"

"Glad that's settled."

And with that, Guerrero rose from his seat and grabbed his coat. Seconds later, the door closed and Ames was left sitting in confusion.

"What is that guy's problem?"

Ilsa and Chance looked on as Winston sat himself opposite Ames. He gazed at her with interest before turning his attention to Chance.

"It's up to you."

"He'd kill me."

"Yeah, probably would."

A laugh and then, "Serves him right."

Ames' brows furrowed in confusion and when Winston rested his forearms on his thighs, she realized she was in store for long tale on Guerrero that probably few had ever heard.

—
—

It was several months after the renegade mission against the Old Man and Guerrero and Chance had been on the move. They had decided to separate for a while; make off in different directions—different countries—where they could lie low.

Chance had bounced around Eastern Europe for seven or so months before settling in Asia, his extensive knowledge of the Japanese culture and language helping him find his footing.

Guerrero, a man of few languages, headed toward South America before deciding to catch a flight to England. He and South America had never truly been friends, no matter what anyone said. (It might have had something to do with a near-death experience on a rather unstable plane and a stretch of air known simply as the Devil's Mouth.)

Once he hit London, he began his search for a new crash pad. It only took the Old Man's agents six weeks to find him. Apparently, the cabbies in the English city were rather talkative when given the right leverage.

Up and out in a matter of hours, Guerrero flew southwest to Portimão, a relatively peaceful town in Portugal. The miles of coastline and whitewashed walls of centuries old cathedrals weren't really his style, but given the circumstances, he couldn't complain.

He stuck out, with his paler complexion and sandy hair, but due to the tourists that flocked to the beaches like moths to a flame, no one ever said otherwise. That was, until one woman, a bartender in darkened corner of Portimão, asked a simple question.

"Quem são você?"

Those three words were all it took for obvious to be noted: Guerrero wasn't really a connoisseur of foreign languages.

As he quickly flipped through the various phrases (mostly swears and demands) he'd locked away for keeping, the woman leaned forward and smiled.

"It's okay. Your secret is safe."

Which one? That he was an assassin—ex-assassin actually—who was on the run? Or maybe the fact that he could kill the man sitting next to him with the toothpick in his martini?

His confusion caused her to laugh, a light and airy sound, and she cupped a hand around the side of her mouth as she whispered, "Tourist."

Guerrero had to admit, the bartender was an interesting woman, with dark, wavy hair and brilliantly bright, caramel eyes, but he wasn't a man to easily fold to the opposite sex. That was not to say he wasn't a red-blooded male, capable of having needs; he just refused to quench those needs with the bartender.

Those thoughts changed, however, as days turned to weeks and weeks to months.

He found himself confiding in her when times seemed bleak. (Not important information, mind you, just thoughts of vague topics.)

"How can you be angry?"

"Please, you didn't see them."

She laughed and set the bottle down. "They're just kids."

Guerrero snorted, his emotions (mostly joy and humor) for once not faked. "But they could have put forth so much more effort."

The bartender grinned at him, swatting his hand in mock-discipline. "Maybe you should coach them."

Normally, Guerrero would have done something rash to express his disdain at being touched, but he couldn't find it in him to do so.

"Kids and I don't mix."

Someone yelled for her and as she left, she offhandedly commented, "I think you'd make a wonderful father."

He sat, shocked, until he finally realized that she was no one to him—she had no idea what she was talking about. She had no idea that he was an ex-assassin and that being a "family man" wasn't at the top of his priorities. It was odd though, that suddenly, he could see that maybe, somewhere really, really far down the line, there was the possibility of a kid.

And so began Guerrero's innocent interest in the bartender.

—
—

"Her name is Sabela. Hurt her, and I'll find you."

The towering man gazed down at Guerrero and nonchalantly cracked the knuckles in his left hand. Finding nothing else to do, Guerrero nodded. Under different circumstances, Guerrero would have pointed out that the large man would be little competition, but decided against it.

Several nights later, a letter came to him, coded and sent through four other countries before reaching Portugal.

Someone had made contact with Chance about the Old Man, but Chance had told them a lie that would have them chasing their own tracks for months. However, they'd have to change locations soon.

"Dammit."

—
—

The following evening, Guerrero found himself at the bar, not really caring if Sabela was there or not, as he drowned his frustrations in whiskey.

His fingers were cold and he kept turning the dirty glass longer after the alcohol was gone. His emotions were a jumble—something that rarely happened—and he couldn't pinpoint which one he hated the most. It could have been the anger at the Old Man for Chance and Katherine's sake; it could have been that he was finally settling in and reaching back out to his old contacts, only to have it ripped away.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

Guerrero looked up at the sound of the light voice and was met with a pair of concerned eyes. He shook his head and tore his gaze away before he said something he shouldn't.

Golden liquid rushed in the glass and Guerrero raised it to his lips. The burning sensation momentarily took away his anger, but it was replaced seconds later.

"Really, what's wrong?"

"Nothing I care to share."

"I doubt that."

Guerrero down the rest of the whiskey and shooed away the bottle as Sabela made to refill the glass. He'd never been one to lose a sense of center under alcohol's influence, and he stuck to his guns as he shook his head again.

"Trust me, you don't want to know."

The bartender gazed tenderly at him and opened her mouth to respond, but was cut off by a demand for more tequila at the end of the bar. She dismissed herself leaving Guerrero to ponder his next move.

Russia? There were so man operatives in Russia they'd never be able to pick him out. Australia? No one ever looked there. He mentally mapped his plans, his mind drifting from Portimão and the beautiful woman behind the counter.

Then, she returned.

"You do not deserve this stress."

"Dude, I really do." He answered back so quickly—practically by instinct—that he clamped his mouth shut immediately.

"You do not." Sabela made a jerky motion with her hand and another woman appeared to take her place.

"Don't bother."

"Please."

Somehow, he found himself walking down a cracked sidewalk with the dark-haired woman and listening to her speaking gently.

As they slowly meandered about, Sabela touched his arm and added to her previous comment, "You're a good man."

Guerrero scoffed, the breeze rushing past his ears like a train. "You don't know that."

"Yes," she repeated adamantly, "you are."

"Whatever you say."

The woman clutched tighter to his bicep forcing him to stop.

"I don't know much about you—"

"You don't know anything."

"—but I can feel it."

Was she serious?

"You can feel it?"

Sabela nodded.

"You're ridiculous."

"I'm not."

"If you only knew the things I did."

The tide was quiet and rhythmic in the background and the bartender stepped before him.

"It doesn't matter the things you've done."

"If you even begin to say that you want to talk to me about Jesus, I swear…"

She laughed—the same breathy sound as when he first met her. "I would never do that to you."

"Good."

"Just know that you are a good person."

"You're crazy."

"Ah, but you enjoy it."

"I wouldn't go that far."

Most women annoyed them with their incessant chatter and questions, but for some reason, this woman's simplicity and straightforward nature kept him on his toes. He found himself intrigued.

—
—

Three days after the letter from Chance, Guerrero was packing the little he brought with him and headed off to the docks to catch a boat out to the airport.

Slinging the backpack over his shoulder, Guerrero peered down at the forged passport in his hand.

Timothy Harris. 46, widower.

Someone somewhere liked irony. A lot.

The sky was clear and the air was warm and Guerrero found himself scared at the fact that he felt something for this place.

He picked up the pace, his strides long and determined to get out of the city. With the docks in sight, he sighed.

"Hey!"

His head snapped over his shoulder to see a head of long, dark hair moving through a crowd of tourists.

"What are you—?"

She paused before him to catch her breath before looking up into his eyes. "You're leaving?"

Damn women and their emotional instincts...and the fact that they always grew attached to people who weren't attached to them.

"Sorry, lady."

"Sabela."

He was quick to correct himself as he almost replied, "I know."

"Why?"

Guerrero rushed through a list of excuses before settling on, "Duty calls."

"Your duty?"

Sabela took another step forward, her eyes confused and sad.

"Hey," he reached out and patted her arm, "it was great, but whatever was going on in your head…"

She stood straighter and snapped back, "There was nothing in my head."

He honestly felt terrible for doing this; it was always his plan, that if a woman grew close to him, he'd play the heartbreaker card when he split.

From the corner of his eye, Guerrero could see the ferrymen loading the last of the passengers and he knew his time was limited. These next few moments would define what would happen afterwards.

"I know we weren't the closest of acquaintances, but—"

Without thinking, Guerrero pulled a white card from his coat pocket and shoved it in her hands, stopping her midsentence. The ferry's horn sounded and the ex-assassin leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on her cheek.

"Ciao."

And then he was gone.

—
—

Things happened and it wasn't long before he received a letter from Sabela. She wrote to him on occasion and, when he was feeling particularly guilty for up and leaving, he'd call her from a burn phone.

In every scenario he ran, he never pictured himself becoming a pen pal with a woman he barely knew in a city he hardly remembered.

They spoke of whatever was on their mind, yet Guerrero always managed to skirt around the topic of his occupation; the less she knew, the better. And when they ended their calls (or letters), Sabela would always tell him the same thing:

"You are a good man, no matter what anyone says."

Why it mattered, he never understood, but for some reason, he found that she was the only person he'd ever been truthful with (as truthful as he could be). To hear that someone had faith in him—that someone cared about him—was something that kept him going.

Through botched assassinations and helping Chance stay on the run, Guerrero often found himself tired with the world. He began to find that he looked forward to the letters from Sabela.

The last phone call they shared would forever be ingrained in his mind and heart. (He'd always kept their conversations short to avoid be tracked, yet this time around, it seemed he forgot.)

"You know, you never told me your name."

"I'm just that mysterious."

"Ah, but I told you mine."

He laughed. "Yeah, I guess you did."

The line went quiet and just when she was about to speak, he quickly added, "Guerrero."

The ex-assassin could almost hear the smile in her voice. "It's been nice to speak with you, Guerrero."

He loved how she said his name and he found himself grinning.

"You too." God, he was such teenage girl.

"I…I should get going. I have to work tonight and there's a celebration going on so it'll be very busy."

Guerrero sighed. "Okay."

"Guerrero?"

"Yeah?"

"You're a good man."

"I know."

"No," she added, and this time, he could hear the insistence in her voice, "you are a good man. I'm so glad that I met you and was able to learn about you. I've never been subjected to such excitement."

"Glad to help."

A laugh. "You take good care of yourself. I'm not sure what it is you do, but it must be something dangerous if you're always on the run." (Whenever he had to change locations, he would send Sabela a new letter with a different P.O. Box.)

"Sabela…"

"Wait; listen. Whatever it is you do—whoever it is you work with—know that you are forgiven. I saw the burden you carried with yourself and you need to know that it will be lightened. I'm so blessed to have met such a fine man. Whoever you finally settle with will also be blessed. Remember, keep courage in your heart with all you do. Know right from wrong, but always protect others."

Guerrero smiled despite himself. Ever the man lacking in words, he eloquently responded with, "It was nice getting to know you."

"Take care, Guerrero. You are truly a good man."

And that was it.

Three weeks later, the Old Man tracked her down.

—
—

"What? What kind of story was that?"

Winston chuckled despite the situation. "That's a real story, missy."

Chance peered at Ilsa, a hand on the British woman's heart as she frowned. The blue-eyed man placed a comforting arm around her and she whimpered.

They could all see that Ames had been affected, and she rose from her chair to stand by the window.

"That's just stupid. I mean, if he even cared about her, why did he leave?"

Chance was quiet, "Sometimes, that's what you need to do."

"But—!"

"Miss Ames, I understand." If anyone had the right to understand, Ilsa did.

Suddenly, the thief felt terrible for every backhanded comment she threw at her mentor; had she known what had happened all those years ago, she might have reconsidered.

"That's just Guerrero," Winston offered.

"Yeah. He's just not a touchy-feely, emotional kind of guy."

"But still…"

"We all have skeletons; things we wished never happened, but did anyways."

"All we can do is be here for each other."

"…And never speak of this again."

"Agreed."

With that, Winston and Chance returned to the conference room where they had been planning on how they were going to infiltrate the Irish Mob before the whole thing had started. Ilsa patted Ames on the arm and left to finish the book she had been engrossed in.

Ames looked out into the foggy, San Francisco afternoon and sighed.

—
—

The sound of traffic disappeared the further he walked, and soon he found himself out at one of the warehouses he kept for back-up purposes. It was one of the only places that no one else knew about; not even Chance.

"Damn…"

He hadn't thought of her in years, and now the pain in his chest was back with a vengeance. After Portugal, Guerrero promised himself he'd never go back to Europe, but of course, cases had taken him there and he had fought the pain in silence.

Even looking at his son, his beautiful, precious son, had caused memories of her wide grin—the one with the almost perfect teeth, but the flaws adding to her beauty—to come flooding back. Yes, he cared for the mother of his child, but there had always been that thought of Portimão and Sabela and the fact that he'd never even thought of kids until she mentioned it.

Guerrero walked past the barbed wire fence and through the cement doorway to the second floor where a firebox sat, hidden away from prying eyes.

In seconds, he had it open. There were pictures of friends (more acquaintances than friends), most of them dead or mysteriously gone, mementos from missions past, and a SIM card from an old phone. He popped the back of his phone off and took out the current card, slipping the other in gingerly.

The phone powered on and with shaky hands, Guerrero pulled up a years old voice message.

"Remember, keep courage in your heart with all you do. Know right from wrong, but always protect others."

It was a crutch he leaned on when necessary. No one knew and no one would.

There were so many times that he longed to go back and bring her with him. But then, he realizes in that moment, if he did that, he would have ended up putting her in danger. It was a frustrating case of catch twenty-two.

Whenever a case grew almost unbearable, he would have her words, among many others, to keep him strong. It was why he did what he did. Yes, it was illegal and yes, people were killed, but those who were innocent—he never let the innocent be hurt. Pro her words, he always protected those he cared for.

He just wished he could have protected her when the time came. He knew she wouldn't want him wallowing in the past, but he couldn't help it some days. However, he'd keep pushing on, helping the helpless, and making sure everyone dear to him could sleep peacefully.

In a weird way, she had been his turning leaf; she helped him back onto the path he fell from years ago.

"Sabela…"

—
—

A riddle wrapped in an enigma, surrounded by mystery. An odd mixture of words, but when put together, were the only ways to describe Guerrero. No last name…or no first name. Whichever it was. There was hardly a living person who knew of Guerrero and his muddled past, but those who did were few and far between, and of that select few, not a one knew the same piece of information.

Guerrero, though a man who seemed easily succumbed by brute force, was calculating and precise; a dangerous combination. He didn't seem the obvious choice in hand-to-hand, which often gave him the unexpected upper hand. He never shied from necessary violence (even the unnecessary at times) and was loyal almost to a fault.

Maybe that was why it was so difficult to let her in; why it was so difficult to get rid of her once she'd made a permanent spot.

—
—

I guess there's so much more I have to learn,
But if you're here with me,
I know which way to turn.
You always give me somewhere,
Somewhere I can run,
You make it real for me.

And I'm running to you, baby.
You are the only one who saved me.
That's why I've been missing you lately.
'Cause make it real for me.
Yes, you do, you make it real for me.

You Make It Real|James Morrison

On that somber note, thanks for reading and let me know your thoughts. I'm off to watch Human Target from the beginning because I missed that little thing called the first season. Oops... :)

[And darn it, those silly lines aren't working...]