Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
The warehouse, kitchen area.
Baptiste eyed the food suspiciously. "You used to be a lousy cook."
"Picked up a thing or two since the canned tomato and spaghetti days. Still not great, but I'm learning." Chance distributed lasagna on their plates.
"I guess I should thank you for watching me personally instead of simply tying me up somewhere and drugging me." Baptiste cautiously took a mouthful.
"Guerrero's suggestion really hurt your feelings, huh?"
"I'm just wondering."
"My crew can work alone."
Baptiste shook his head and took another mouthful of the lasagna.
"What?"
"Your crew…" He stopped shaking his head. "You really don't get it, do you? You could have done so much better – the Old Man was about to hand everything over to you and you had nothing better to do than turn your back on him."
Chance's face turned into a mask of stone.
"Well, at least you treat everyone the same – turned your back on your crew, too, if I heard correctly."
"I didn't turn my back on them", Chance replied coldly. Unbidden, the look on Winston's face when they saw each other again after his stint in the ashram flashed up in his mind.
"Yes, I know, you protected them." Baptiste grimaced acidly. "Be honest, Junior, at least once. You leaving the Old Man and you leaving your crew was both about protecting nobody but yourself."
"Maybe drugging you wouldn't have been such a bad idea after all. Drink?"
"At the bottom of your heart, you're a selfish man, Junior. Selfish."
Chance folded his arms. "You're not going to provoke me into another fight, Baptiste."
For a moment, both men ate in silence, then:
"That's the worst lasagna I've ever eaten."
This time Chance put down his fork. "Now that was low."
"Too much bite to the noodles, no taste to the sauce and where did you get the cheese? Junior High laboratory?" Baptiste put down his fork, too.
"Don't you dare insult my lasagna. You're going to eat it all up."
"Or what?"
A split second later they were wrestling on the floor.
… … …
A hotel room.
"This drug is going to render you paralyzed. It'll slow down your breathing significantly and lower your body temperature." Guerrero showed Ames the syringe. "Not a nice feeling. Are you sure about that?"
"There are others ways to put the guy under pressure and make him withdraw the contract hit on Baptiste", Winston added.
"Big company owners like that, there's usually something wrong with the taxes." Ilsa's voice via earpiece. "I'm sure Mr. Guerrero could hack into his computer and…"
"I'm okay with it. Really", Ames insisted.
… … …
A representative office in a mansion.
"You must think I'm a monster", the man behind the desk told the man in front of the desk.
"I'm not thinking anything, sir." The mercenary stifled a sigh. A client with scruples. Those were the worst.
"She's a thief, after all." He looked at the file the mercenary had delivered him. "Has never done anything good in her life. Making a living out of stealing other people's property… conning them… It's not that it's much of a loss, is it?"
Another stifled sigh. "You've made your decision, sir."
"If there was any other option…"
"You've made your decision, sir." The mercenary was trying very hard to focus on the giant amount of money this man was willing to pay for the job. Otherwise he'd probably have throttled him. Damn was he getting on his nerves.
… … …
The hotel room.
"A dead hooker is the best way to put married guys under pressure", Ames continued. "You'll be right in the next room, what's the worst that could happen?"
"You might react badly to the drug." Guerrero's face was very serious.
"The guy might freak too much and throw you out of the window to make it look like a suicide before we arrive." Winston's face was very serious, too.
"We need to get that Baptiste guy out of Chance's life again. This is the fastest way." Ames had made up her mind. Chance had done so much for her, this was the least she could do.
Via earpiece, Ilsa tried one more time to get through with her taxes solution, but deep inside she knew Ames was right. This was the fastest way. Nevertheless she was very worried.
… … …
The representative office.
"Once you've got her located, you make sure she doesn't get injured, yes? I don't want her to suffer." The man behind the desk couldn't take his eyes from the photo that showed Ames as a seven year old in Mexico.
"We're professionals, sir."
"It's very important to me that she doesn't get scared or anything. She mustn't know, under no circumstances, what's going to happen to her."
"Of course not, sir."
"We'll put her out of her misery gently. No pain."
The mercenary nodded.
"We're probably doing her a favor. A couple of years down the road she would most likely end up as a dead hooker anyway."
… … …
The hotel. Early morning.
Ames did very well. The guy freaked when he found the "dead" hooker in his bed after waking up with what felt like a major hangover from a night of partying but was actually a side effect of the drug they had slipped him.
Of course he was willing to do absolutely EVERYTHING, just to get rid of the body and prevent the photos of him and the hooker from reaching his wife. There was only one tiny complication: He couldn't reach the Crane. The Crane was paranoid, he never left a telephone number or anything that could somehow be traced back to him. When an order had been carried out, he contacted the client to collect his payment.
In other words: Even with the client having changed his mind, the Crane would still strike. They needed to flush him out and nail him.
"Maybe Agent Barnes could help us there?", Ilsa volunteered.
Speaking of Emma Barnes…
… … …
Emma's house, a couple of hours later.
"So we're clear about your role in flushing the Crane out, right? Any additional questions?" Guerrero adjusted his glasses.
Emma shook his head. She was on tenterhooks. Ever since Guerrero had sent her that ominous text message, she felt something looming on the horizon and it didn't resemble a silver lining.
Not at all.
"Donald Abernathy, member of the Marshall Pucci Foundation's board of directors, was found dead under suspicious circumstances on a parking lot in L.A.", Guerrero began.
Emma shrugged her shoulders. "So I've heard."
"He was an important man and his death will be thoroughly investigated by the FBI. They'll probably stumble upon a couple of threats he received recently", Guerrero continued.
"You blackmailed him?"
"Ilsa did."
"Well, then Ilsa was very stupid." Emma really didn't see why this issue concerned her.
Give it a minute, darling.
"You'll make any evidence that points into Ilsa's direction disappear", Guerrero told Emma, his tone making it very clear that he wasn't joking.
Nevertheless Emma laughed: "You're asking me to tamper with evidence just because that Pucci woman was stupid enough to commit a crime that can be traced back to her?"
"Not as stupid as leaving behind a video tape of it." Guerrero was totally unfazed. He just sat there, polished his glasses and waited.
Slowly, very slowly it dawned on Emma what he was implying.
"YOU'VE KEPT IT?"
"Don't worry, your little venture into the world of splatter movies is safe with me. Unless of course the FBI finds incriminating material on Ilsa Pucci… they might search the warehouse and then I can't guarantee they wouldn't find your cinematographic masterpiece, too."
Emma was speechless. Guerrero got up and walked out the door.