Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.

~ archenemy ~

A hut somewhere in a South American jungle.

Chance gasped in short, clipped breaths. His lung felt like an iron cast, every intake was like weightlifting. Cold sweat covered his whole body. In an attempt to relieve him from his pain a little, someone had removed his drenched shirt and placed a wet washcloth on his forehead.

At least his constant shivering kept the flies at arm's length.

Somebody picked up the black bug that had landed on his abdomen, flicked it to the floor and squashed it.

Flames shot up his arm and set his whole upper body on fire. His muscles seized and a scream formed in his chest.

They would have heard him all the way to the hacienda, had someone not taken the washcloth and stuffed it into his mouth to muffle his outcry.

Chance jerked upright into a sitting position, convulsed, choked. Strong arms embraced him, held him firmly till the seizure subsided.

"You've got to take the cloth out, he'll suffocate from his vomit!"

They wrested it away just in time. He violently threw up into a rusty bucket.

Slowly, carefully, the strong arms lowered him onto the plank bed again. A bottle was pressed to his lips. His mouth filled with water that had a sharp, metallic tang.

"Don't swallow it, it's not boiled."

He bent over and spit the water on the floor.

Chance had lost orientation of time and place hours ago. He was whirling around in a sea of confusion, waves and waves of pain sluicing out his mind, turning his stream of consciousness into a thin trickle. Suddenly he got hold of a wrist and somewhere in the back of his mind he realized it was too thick to be Guerrero's.

Guerrero wasn't here.

He panicked, struggled, lashed out.

Someone caught his arms in mid-motion, stilled them.

"It's okay, Junior, it's okay."

Junior…

Chance jerked upright again. Where was he? In Mexico? Guatemala? Chile? But he had made it out of all these places, why was he back now? Or had he only dreamed he had made it out of these places?

"Lie down, mate." Sturdy hands slowly pushed him backwards once more.

A knock on the hut's door. The screeching of a door hinge. Their contact, finally.

"Ya estan los burros."

"Donkeys? Won't work, matey. We need a jeep."

"Un Jeep no es posible. Solo burros."

"He can't ride!"

"Pues botalo aquí."

Then dump him here.

A/N: A big thank you to Dreaming Sio who did the Spanish parts for me. You're great!