Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.

A/N: Big thanks to veniceit, who helped with the toepick part, and, as always, to niagaraweasel, my wonderful betaweasel!

Direct ambushes were an art which Guerrero and Chance excelled in. Movies always make it look like "grab a couple of guns, as many explosives as you can carry, take a deep breath and storm in!"

In reality things like that take a little more planning.

The weather, for example. A big factor that always needs to be taken into consideration. Blizzard conditions require different clothes, equipment and concealment than rainy days, bright sunlight can be an advantage (when it blinds the opposite party), but can also easily help making one's position known (through shadows in odd places). Weapons react to temperature and humidity just like musical instruments. Moisture can cause guns to jam and makes explosives unpredictable.

And don't forget the time of day – attacks at noon are unorthodox but might surprise the targets. The classic time is the so-called "wolf's hour" between three and four o'clock in the morning when most children are born and most people die of natural causes. Those who are blessed with a regular daily routine and a nine-to-five job experience a significant reduction of bodily functions and thus enhanced vulnerability during that timeframe. Agents of German Nazi Gestapo and Russian KGB agents both used this hour to capture their victims and/or interrogate them.

The lay of the terrain is another very important factor. Inner-city ambushes are a totally different thing than attacks in a desert, a forest, a valley – witnesses-wise, transportation-wise, escape-wise. Of course it also makes a world of a difference whether the object of the assault is a vehicle, a campsite or a building.

With buildings the first things that need to be determined are the potential points of exit and entry. The question where most inhabitants might be gathered at any given time is of crucial importance, just like the question of how up-to-date the security system is and how many weapons might be stashed inside. Chance and Guerrero decided that in the case of Jennings' stash house a twofold attack would be best – Chance coming in from the roof, Guerrero and Winston coming in through the front door, Ilsa and Ames providing technical support from the van.

They had debated the use of explosives quite excessively, blasts draw cops like honey does ants, but in the end they decided they weren't planning to stick around that long anyway. So grenades and shotguns it would be.

At four in the morning they got ready to move. Getting over the fence was a piece of cake. Winston, as always, had a bit more trouble than the others, at one point even lightly scraped by a sensor, but thankfully nothing happened. Guerrero frowned at that, theoretically the premises' system was state of the art and should have reacted, but in the end he decided to put it down to lucky stars.

An already burst open front door, however, was a little too much to be attributed to plain luck. Not to mention the dead and injured thugs Chance discovered on his way downstairs. Like the pervert version of a trail of breadcrumbs, murdered and maimed bodies led them down to the cellar, where they found a prison cell.

An empty prison cell.

"Where is she? WHERE THE HELL IS SHE?", Winston roared into a dying man's face, shaking him by his shirt till Chance steadied his hand and Guerrero loosened his fingers.

… … …

Of course Ash would have never complained to his mom of all people how very badly his hands and knees hurt after his first time on the ice wearing figure-skating blades.

He did groan a bit, however, as he reached for a cooling pad from the fridge. That Philippa happened to hear it was purely unintentional, of course.

"Hard day at the rink?", she asked her son, got up, helped him roll up the leg of his trousers and took a look at his bruised skin.

"Damn toepicks", he grumbled.

Philippa couldn't help but smile. Ash wasn't used to the tiny little teeth curved around the front of the blade that skaters use to stick into the ice to get footing for a jump - hockey skates are smooth on the toes. He had surely experienced some VERY sudden stops…

"What are you doing?", he asked, nodding in the direction of the kitchen table where his mother had laid out several sheets of paper and a pen.

"Just work, nothing special", she replied, careful to sound casual. Ash didn't need to know that she wasn't willing to deepen the subject. Luckily he was way too busy appearing all manly and brave while she was treating his wounds.

Only when he had limped off to bed she returned to her place at the table. Chance's account of what made finding Michele so difficult, the fact that she had not used a computer but handwritten notes, had made her think. Ash was getting older and one day he'd see through their web of lies. When the time came to explain things, maybe it would be easier to hand over a letter… Or what if, for some reason, she couldn't be present to shed light on what happened in Whangamata so many years ago? He deserved to know.

Dear Ash, she wrote.

Noting everything down for Ash took hours, time and time again she burnt pages in the kitchen sink. Using the computer surely would have been easier, but handwritten documents could not be hacked and that was decisive here. Under no circumstances could this fall into the wrong hands. She had already gotten herself a safe deposit box.

When Philippa had finally finished her letter to Ash and was already in the process of carefully packing everything, another thought suddenly crossed her mind… a vague idea, a memory… She sat down again.

Dear Chance, she wrote.

… … …

Darkness.

Lack of air.

A hood over her head.

Michele had long run out of tears and her voice was hoarse from screaming.

"I'm going to tell you everything you want", she whispered as the hood was finally removed.

"Don't you dare. I have no intention of becoming a target myself. You're going to keep your mouth shut till I sell you to whoever wins the auction."

Michele starting sobbing.

"Don't cry." A calloused finger lifted her chin. "Nobody's going to harm you. Not today." Innokentij smiled, gold capped incisors gleaming at her.

She collapsed.