Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
Before his career move into the private security business a couple of months ago, Laverne Winston had been a cop for twenty years.
A good cop. Constantly at odds with his superiors, but damn good.
He did notice things.
His new business partner, however, hadn't been bad at his old job either. He knew something was up. Bright blue eyes studied Winston meticulously as he hovered on the threshold of the kitchen, unsure what to say.
"Spit it out already", Chance finally said, bracing himself for bad news. Maybe Winston was having second thoughts about their partnership? Considering the way their last job had gone down, with the improvised parachute jump, the slightly damaged mafia boss yacht, Winston in an aerobics trial lesson with twenty women, he couldn't even blame him…
"There's a man in your bed…" Winston mumbled.
Oh, that. Big sigh of relief.
Chance couldn't resist. "Well, I've been meaning to tell you…"
Winston almost immediately started sweating. Not because he was shocked or appalled, they were in San Francisco, for heaven's sake, if that was what made his partner's boat float then so be it. The much bigger problem was how to react properly on that kind of news. Tact had never been his strong suit, mildly put, what if he, unintentionally, said something that put Chance off? This was a sensitive issue and he really didn't….
The corner's of Chance's mouth were twitching.
Bastard.
"It's because we don't have a guest bed yet, right?"
"Couldn't put him on the sofa, it's good enough for a nap, but he's injured." Chance waited. Would Winston…?
"What kind of injury?"
Yes, he would.
"Gunshot."
Winston had a feeling his problems had just gotten a lot more complicated than merely finding a politically correct answer.
"Hospital no option?"
"Nope."
Winston understood.
… … …
Guerrero was fiercely determined to leave as soon as his condition allowed. He hadn't asked Junior for help and he sure as hell wasn't going to depend on him any longer than absolutely necessary.
Not "Junior". It's Chance now, Guerrero reminded himself with a contemptuous snort. Chance.
Truth be told, however, it was good seeing Junior again, alive and well. But they were standing on opposite sides of the river now and there was no going back to what they had had. Not with his cop buddy hanging around.
The door to Chance's bedroom opened quietly and somebody sneaked in. Well, as much as a walrus size ex-cop could sneak. Guerrero tensed. Thanks to the painkillers Junior had given him against his will he was hardly able to open his eyes, let alone move without assistance. If the cop pulled a gun on him now…
Just then he began to speak.
"I don't know who you are and I don't want to know. But from whatever hellhole you came crawling, I want you to go straight back there the minute you can walk, can you hear me? Don't you dare try and pull him back. He's changed now and I'm not going to let some amoral lowlife drag him into the old shit again. Try and you'll regret it."
And off he stomped, not sneaking anymore.
Guerrero almost would have laughed at the idea of the fat cop threatening him.
Almost.
Fat cop seemed to be hell-bent on protecting Junior.
Junior, who had, without hesitation, gotten him out of the situation with Thin Eddie. Although it had been absolutely crazy, highly dangerous and almost impossible to pull off.
Just like old times… only that he called himself Chance now.
Well, there were worse names in the world, weren't there? And the prospect of future opportunities to prod that walrus didn't sound too bad either.
On the other hand: The Old Man.
Guerrero felt himself drifting off to sleep.
Chance.
Junior.
Chance…
Well, for now he wasn't going anywhere. He'd think about this tomorrow.
... ... ...
A little later the door to the bedroom opened again, and this time someone came sneaking in who was really silent. He quietly sat down with a book, fully prepared to stay up all night. The fever still wasn't down completely, despite the medics. He was worried.
His approach hadn't gone unnoticed, though.
"Junior…", Guerrero muttered in his sleep.
"I'm here", came the whispered reply. "Don't worry. I'm here."
"Chance…"