Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
The government-style, open-plan office, sometime past noon.
The elevator doors slid open, but Emma didn't move for a couple of seconds, till the doors started to slide shut again and she had no other choice but to exit unless she wanted to ride down to the ground floor again.
This was her workplace. These were her colleagues. That was her desk, her computer, her chair, her potted plant.
Not much longer.
All of it, not much longer.
Except the potted plant maybe. She'd probably be allowed to take it with her. But the rest?
Good bye.
She walked up to the mezzanine conference room section where her division chief's office was located.
"You're in late today, Agent Barnes", he greeted her, not overly upset, but expecting an explanation.
Emma swallowed nervously. A sudden feeling of dizziness overcame her and she had to grasp the back of the visitor's chair to keep her knees from buckling. "I'm sorry, sir", she croaked. Her voice was hoarse from crying too much.
The division chief watched her intensely. "Please take a seat, agent." He opened a file on his desk. "It has come to my notice that the operation at the airport ran a rather unorthodox course. Don't get me wrong, I'm well aware of the fact that unexpected complications can arise in a matter of seconds. Every operation contains elements that are beyond our control. But fellow agents have noticed a strange unrest and tenseness in you lately and seeing you now, late for work, hung over, I have to say I agree with them." He paused and his tone changed, became slightly less strict and more friendly. "If there's anything the Bureau can do, Emma…"
She took a deep breath. This was the moment.
"I'd like to officially apply for transfer to San Francisco, sir."
… … …
When Chance opened his eyes he was surprised to find himself staring at the ceiling of his own bedroom. Then he remembered the sudden, searing pain of a needle rammed into his upper arm and he wasn't so surprised anymore.
… … …
Downstairs in her office Ilsa glanced at her computer's clock and calculated that Chance should be waking up right about now. She was still weighing the pros and cons of checking on him – he'd surely want to know why he had slept so long, had probably already figured out that she must have slipped him something – when a soft signal sound alerted her to the arrival of a new e-mail.
Postponing the decision whether to talk to him or not, she accessed her account. A message from the Marshall Pucci Foundation's board of directors. In itself nothing unusual, she regularly received reports etc. from them, but there was something unsettling about the subject line she couldn't quite lay her hands on. Frowning, she opened the mail.
A second later, all her worries about a possible confrontation with Chance regarding sedative substances slipped to an unsuspecting ex-assassin vanished into thin air.
She stared at the computer screen and just couldn't believe it.
… … …
A soft rustling sound drew Chance's attention to the armchair by his bedroom window. There was Guerrero, reading a book, dozing Carmine by his side. "Don't move too fast", he told him. "That stuff's got nasty side effects."
"Care to explain?", Chance asked, settling back into his pillow.
Guerrero's smartphone landed on his chest with a thump. "Check out the latest news from Washington."
Chance did as he was told.
Blue Ridge Mountain killer strikes again
The notorious serial killer that terrorized the northern part of the USA for two years before suddenly ceasing all activity six months ago apparently merely took a hiatus. FBI Agent Dean Robinson was found dead this morning in his car, his body displaying clear signs of the Blue Ridge Mountain killer's trademark torture methods.
"FBI Agent Dean Robinson?", Chance asked.
"He had a very unhealthy taste for a certain type of photos…"
"Was that really necessary?"
Guerrero shrugged his shoulders. "You tell me."
For a long moment, silence reigned between them.
Finally Chance switched off the smartphone and threw it back to its owner. Case closed, said the gesture.
Guerrero tucked the phone away, then bent down to scratch Carmine behind the ears.
Chance knew his friend long enough to sense when something was off.
Granted, this hadn't worked so well when Guerrero had come to him with the syringe last night, but generally speaking…
"Spit it out", Chance said.
"There's something you might want to know…"
A/N: Thank you, another-all-nighter, for leaving a comment, it means a lot to me!