Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
Upstairs, above his subterranean "home office", Guerrero had an apartment, not the one he really lived in, but one that he could use as a hideout, should the need arise. And it was handy to have a bathroom and a kitchen at the ready. Despite the water hose and the drain, cleaning up downstairs could be an exhausting task. Some things just couldn't be released into the public sewage system…
Nothing better than a hot shower and some carbs afterwards to revitalize. Caffeine, however, was not that much of a necessity to Guerrero. He definitely preferred tea. Every now and then, though, one of his more cooperative guests in the cellar needed a little help to get his act together. For those occasions Guerrero kept a coffee machine and a small selection of coffee varieties in the upstairs kitchen.
Deciding that decaf surely wouldn't do the job for Winston, he climbed the stairs, entered his apartment through the secret door… and froze. A faint smell was in the air that didn't belong here. Guerrero sniffed. Sniffed some more.
Smiled.
Drew – better safe than sorry – his gun.
Proceeded to the kitchen as silently as a snake on desert ground, no noise except a vague rustle of air.
The kitchen door was open. The coffee machine was making happy bubbling noises. Judging from the smell, Ilsa had decided against decaf, too.
Guerrero put his gun away.
Then, in one fluid motion, he swung around the corner, grabbed her from behind, twisted her arm around and lightly encircled her throat with his free hand. "Breaking and entering is a crime, you know." His fingers applied just enough pressure to let her know he could do a lot more.
Ilsa didn't even flinch. She knew better than to fight back. "I figured not changing the door code after my last was some kind of invitation…?"
"How did you know I was here?", he asked, planting a kiss on her cheek and releasing her.
"Ames and I followed Winston's trail till we got to Louie's."
"He told you I had picked him up?" Guerrero raised his eyebrows and decided he and the bartender needed to have a serious talk.
"No, but the way he refused taking my money, growing paler by the second, it wasn't too difficult to figure out." Ilsa smiled at him.
"Where's Ames now?"
"Waiting at the office, getting ready for a long night of paperwork. When Chance said you were following a new lead, I had a feeling… You need every help you can get. Ames and I are both tired of sitting around. Michele is gone way too long now."
So Ames didn't know where his home office was. Ilsa had kept it to herself. Guerrero nodded appreciatively. Good girl. Nevertheless:
"Why didn't you just text me?"
"Winston, of course." The coffee machine had finished its task and Ilsa opened one of Guerrero's drawers. She elegantly rose on her tiptoes and managed to get her hands on a mug without getting cut by the machete being stashed there as a precautionary measure. "Let me guess, you just dumped him in your cellar, let him wake up all on his own, disorientated, hung over… and then hooked him to saline solution without warning."
"I gave him a blanket!"
Ilsa harrumphed, filled the coffee mug and proceeded towards the secret door. Guerrero didn't stop her.
… … …
Ames had just finished spreading out all documents they had regarding Michele's disappearance when the security alert notified her of a visitor coming. A quick glance at the monitors revealed Ash riding up the elevator. At first she thought it was the black and white display, but when he stepped into the lobby she saw that her eyes hadn't deceived her. He sported an impressive bruise on his left cheek and a swollen lower lip.
"Whoa, first ice-skating lesson that hard?"
"Didn't make it onto the ice", Ash grumbled. "Had a discussion with my team mates first. The finals thing…" He turned to walk up the stairs, but Ames beckoned him into the kitchen area.
"Looks like they believe in "actions speak louder than words"..."
He shrugged his shoulders. "You could say so."
Ames smiled and handed him a cold pack. "You're going to be expelled from the ice-rink next?"
"No, we're guys, we don't rat each other out. We've got a code." He put the pack on his cheek.
"One day we really need to work on your sensibility for political correctness…"
… … …
Ilsa didn't have to say anything. The look on her face spoke volumes. She crouched down beside Winston and handed him the coffee mug.
Silence stretched between them. Winston eyed his coffee, let its heat warm his fingers till the sensation became uncomfortable. When he looked up, Ilsa was still focused on him.
"I know it was idiotic", he said.
"Have you given up on us?"
Winston frowned. "What…?"
"Back when we first made contact… after Marshall's death… that night at the charity event, when someone opened fire and Chance told me that I should stay with him. One of the biggest mistakes I've ever made was not adhering to his advice. You all knew what you were doing and I should have just trusted you. Instead I ran off."
"I didn't run off!"
"Looks like an escape plan to me", Ilsa scoffed and tapped the IV bag. "And a bloody gormless one at that. We might not have found Michele yet, but one thing I'm pretty sure about, we won't find her at the bottom of a bottle."
Winston looked away.
"We've got your back, Winston. Always. Chance is already out on the street, per Guerrero's instructions. Tonight we'll go over everything we have. We'll find her." She took his hand and squeezed it. "We won't let you down."
He closed his eyes, hoping the tears he felt pooling behind his lids wouldn't crawl out.
… … …
Chance came back to the warehouse shortly after Ash's arrival. "The Rittberger jump a bit tricky?", he mockingly asked, seeing his son's face half-covered by a cold pack.
"Very funny, dad…" Ash threw the pack at him. His father stepped aside and it landed on the worktop table with a squish. Only now Chance had a complete view of the damage to his son's face.
"Another round with Christina?"
Ash bit his damaged lip.
"His ice-hockey buds aren't too happy he'll be AWOL at the finals." Ames handed the pack back to Ash. Protest lit up in his eyes, why had she told…? But on the other hand, he wanted his father to know. He just hadn't wanted to sound like a crybaby, running to daddy.
Chance rested his eyes on his son for a long moment. The bruise on his cheek, now covered by the cool pack again, was pretty huge and the scratches on his knuckles spoke of a tough fight. Everything in him wanted to hug his child, hold him tight and tell him he'd make it all alright again.
But this was about so much more than a couple of bruises.
"You can still back out. It is up to you." Chance tried to make it sound casual.
Ash put down the cool pack, turned it in his hands. He could feel his father's intense gaze resting on him. This was so tempting… he'd have his team back… participating in the finals, probably winning them… scouts from the big leagues always kept an eye on the Junior level, some would surely be present… the chance of a lifetime, the first step towards a professional career...
But…
"I promised", Ash mumbled, barely audible.
The elevator dinged and in came Guerrero, Ilsa and Winston. As Guerrero rounded the corner, Chance threw an envelope at him.
"Jennings is big in Girl trafficking", he said, acknowledging Winston's presence with a nod. "Any idea what a white slave trader would want from Michele?"
Guerrero handed Winston the envelope, still sealed. Winston opened it, looked at a couple of black and white photos.
"I have no idea."
"Well", Ilsa said, already setting the coffee machine in motion again and also switching on the electric kettle, "We've got all night to figure it out."
