Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
A man his size, people always thought, slept like a grizzly bear in hibernation. But actually Winston had a very light sleep. So light that the faintest of noises could wake him up. The soft click of his back door lock, for example, as it was being picked by expert hands.
At first he thought his hearing had deceived him, but then he perceived a couple of silent, silent, very silent steps down the corridor that led to his bedroom. Quickly he drew his 45er.
"Hold it." A familiar voice, surprisingly close, on the other side of the bed, by the window. The assassin.
"Don't shoot, it's us. I'm going to switch on a light now. Just keep your hands away from the trigger."
Us?
The thin beam of a flashlight revealed another hand holding a gun at close range to Winston, aiming straight at his forehead. It belonged to the gaunt, rather small man Winston had seen at the bar, the one the assassin had referred to as a friend. They were in a standoff position: Winston was pointing his gun straight at the stranger's chest.
"Not bad, dude", the stranger said.
"What the hell…?" Winston slowly tucked his gun away, so did the haggard-faced man. He reminded Winston of a ferret and his cold blue eyes gave him the creeps. Another assassin, that was for sure.
"Get up, we're going on a ride." The blond assassin threw a collection of clothes at him.
"What? Why?"
"Tonight's the night, dude."
Winston's heart felt as if suddenly something very cold had touched it. The precautionary measure… they wanted him to shoot someone to make sure he was really in it and not spying for his police buddies. A murder would chain him to their world, forever.
"Couldn't you have..?" Winston clumsily clambered out of bed.
"What, called ahead? So that you could set up surveillance and built a nice trap for us?" Calling the gaunt man's hostility "thinly veiled" would have been a major exaggeration. His voice was dripping with sarcasm.
"Why can't I wear my own clothes?" Winston was surprised to find they had chosen garment and shoes exactly his size.
"Just to be on the safe side. Hiding a tracker somewhere to catch me red-handed, that would be quite tempting, wouldn't it?" The blond assassin smiled at him just like he had at the bar, when they had first met and he had posed as Assistant DA.
A damn disarming smile. Put you at ease no matter how hard you tried to keep your guard up.
"I don't even know your name." Winston wasn't even sure why that suddenly mattered to him.
"We'll have a beer afterwards. Then we'll make the introductions." The assassin handed him a 45er, not his, and a silencer. "Leave your watch at home. You won't need it."
In the car the gaunt man received a telephone call. "This is all you came up with?", he snarled after listening for a moment.
His voice was so cold, Winston once again felt an icy shiver run down his spine.
What in the world was he doing with these people? He should arrest them, for heaven's sake!
So that they can get out on a technicality three hours later?, a sarcastic little voice in his head asked seemingly innocently.
Goddamnit. Winston had the feeling that wherever he turned, his next step would send him stumbling into an abyss.
"That's not what I'm paying you for, dude", gaunt man unemotionally informed the caller. A simple, short sentence, but the threat in it was unmistakable. "Dig harder." He cut the connection.
"Your mark", the blond man said and threw him a black and white photo. Winston's eyes widened as he recognized the person. Now, that was a surprise…
Blond man smiled.
They were going to visit his murder suspect. The one with the technicality. The one who had cut the witness' tongue out before…
Winston wasn't completely sure how he felt about this, but a part of him definitely couldn't wait to get his hands on the bastard.
They drove to a dilapidated apartment house in a run-down neighborhood and went in through the backdoor. It was late at night, the corridors were deserted. They could hear TVs blare behind the chipped wooden doors and through the paper thin walls, rap and hip hop music, here and there sickly sweet wafts of marijuana smoke… Winston had been to houses like these more often than he cared to remember. No one would hear the single shot of a gun with a silencer screwed on.
And it would only be a single shot. Winston had already decided on that. A single, well-placed bullet to the forehead, as painless as possible. He'd seen dozens of examples of that in the morgue and he was a good shot. He should be able to pull it off.
Too good for the monster? Maybe. But Winston wasn't planning to become a monster himself.
A very faint, timid voice somewhere in the back of his head asked him whom he was fooling here. Pull the trigger and you've crossed a line you can never come back from.
The ease with which the smaller assassin picked the lock of the apartment was frightening. They found the mark sitting in an armchair in front of the TV, watching football. He was half in the bag, an array of empty beer bottles was piled up next to his chair.
Winston drew the gun. Change of plans. He wouldn't shoot him in the forehead, the back of his head was a much easier target. The mark would never see it coming and Winston wouldn't have to look him into the eyes. He released the safety catch, aimed and…
He couldn't do it. This was against everything he had ever sworn, he had ever fought for. It was one thing to kill somebody in self-defense, during a struggle or to save a hostage. This here was a totally different story. This was cold-blooded murder.
No. This was not him.
He slowly let his hand with the weapon sink downwards.
The blond man suddenly looked very sad.
The gaunt man shrugged. "I warned you, dude", he told the blond one, drew his own weapon, and, with one fluid movement, aimed and shot Winston.
Right between the eyes.
Wordless scream on his lips, Winston jerked upright and lashed out at the hands that wanted to restrain him.
"Dude! Calm down! You're in a hospital, you've had an accident, you're a bit rattled, but you'll be okay. Now stop thrashing around, you'll fall out of bed and I don't think the hospital has a winch at hand strong enough to get you back in."
Guerrero expected a "wiseass" or some other reply in that direction, but instead Winston simply stared at him, eyes wide with terror.
"Winston?"
Winston's eyes found focus on Guerrero's right hand sleeve. It was sporting dark red spots. Guerrero smiled. "Had a little chat with the driver of the car that knocked you down… about speeding on dimly lit streets in the rain … don't think he'll do it again."
"Where's Chance?" Winston croaked.
As if on cue, the door opened and in stepped Chance. "Welcome back to the land of the living", he said, seeing that his friend was awake.
Winston struggled to get hold of his hand and squeezed it tight, making absolutely sure that it was real.
Frowning, Guerrero watched the scene. The smile on his face was gone, replaced by an expression of indifference.