Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
The hut.
The Spanish words tangled and jumbled in Chance's head. He couldn't make sense of the conversation, not even if his life had depended on it.
Wait, his life did depend on…
Well…
His thoughts swirled back and forth through time and space, leapt over years and decades and finally came to a halt on an extremely cold winter's day in New York…
"The boy's got talent. Needs a bit of fine-tuning, but talented he is." Joubert took a big swig of Whiskey from his tumbler and stretched back in his executive chair. A low fire was burning comfortably in the fireplace.
"We could send Guerrero to make him an offer", Junior suggested, pouring himself a new glass.
The Old Man shook his head. "No, you approach him. And I don't think we should make money our main argument…"
A couple of days later, in the midst of snow and ice, a young man was desperately trying to open the lid of a dumpster in a cluttered, dark back alley. No easy task, with a freshly dead 260 pound man at your feet and a superficial but stinging knife wound to your shoulder.
Especially not if the bloody lid is frozen solid to the container!
"Looks like you could need a hand there."
The young man spun around and threw a knife in the direction of the unwelcome witness. To his great surprise it was caught with well-practiced ease.
"Whoa, you really are the shoot first, ask questions later type."
The young man found himself face to face with a slightly older man, blond hair, blue eyes. The blonde tilted his head a little and smiled at him, not too broadly, but definitely friendly. Nothing in his posture indicated immediate threat.
Growing up on the streets of London however, had taught Baptiste better than that: He didn't take his eyes off the knife in the stranger's hands. To his great surprise the man turned the knife and tossed it back to him.
"We know each other?", Baptiste asked wearily, catching it and keeping it in his hand, not firmly gripped but at the ready. He was shivering in his thin jacket.
"Not yet. Look, I'm totally for fresh air and all, but my toes are starting to freeze…" Junior nodded at the 260 pounder. "Why don't we get Big & Stupid here out of the way for good and have a little chat over a cup of coffee and a couple of pancakes?"
The evening of the same day Baptiste found himself in the visitor's chair of a non-Manhattan office with heavy, 19th century wooden furniture, thick carpets and dim lighting. The man on the other side of the desk tossed a thick jacket at him. "Keep it. It's freezing out there."
Chance's mind started swirling again, propelled forward a couple of years…
Usually clients didn't get to meet the employees. A rule that made a lot of sense and that Guerrero in particular insisted on being followed meticulously. But these weren't normal clients. If these people set their trust in the Old Man, golden times lay ahead. Joubert opened the door to the office's kitchen with a, for his standards, grand gesture. "And now you're going to meet two of the, if not THE most dangerous assassins in the world…."
The door swung open and revealed two young men wrestling on the floor. Broken plates and knocked over chairs were lying about. The whole kitchen – walls, floors, furniture – was covered with spots of something that looked like… chocolate pudding?
"We've – ahem – tried out a scenario for our next job…", the blond man explained, lopsided smile on his face, mischief gleaming in his eyes, while his comrade wiped pudding off his forehead.
They were punished with a weekend trip hiking in the Appalachians.
Organized by Guerrero.
Ever since the tackle box-sealed-shut-firmly-with-superglue-incident he had been waiting for such an opportunity...
Once more, Chance's memory sped forward, a couple of months only, to another cold winter's day.
"No!", Joubert shouted. "No! You're not going to jump in there!"
"He might be still alive!" Junior kicked off his shoes and got rid of his jacket. Joubert tried to get hold of his arm, tried to jerk him back, but the young man was way too fast for him. A split second later he had disappeared in the lake where the car with Baptiste had broken through the ice.
"I don't want to lose you both!", the Old Man shouted helplessly at the silent, frozen water.
The seconds seemed to stretch into infinity – minutes, hours, years, decades. Joubert wanted to kick Junior's ass for his goddamn recklessness, wanted to grab him and shake him and … embrace him.
For the first time it dawned on him what losing the boy would mean.
The lake's water started moving and splashing, Junior emerged, Baptiste in his arms.
Through the haze of Chance's clouded mind, a single Spanish sentence rang loud and clear.
"No lo vamos a dejar aquí."
We're not leaving him.
A/N: Again, the Spanish in this chapter was provided by Dreaming Sio. THANK YOU!