Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
Washington. Sewer system.
Ilsa stumbled forward in the darkness. She only had a vague idea in which direction the restaurant where the contact was waiting lay. There was the option of using her mobile's navigation system, but she feared that would allow her pursuers to locate her. Guerrero had said he had made her phone untraceable, but these people were obviously very good at hacking…
Above her the ceiling vibrated with an endless parade of cars and trucks, worming their way through the city in rush-hour traffic. Down in the sewer the rats were creating their own rush-hour. Something delicious smelling had descended into their realm…
The ground underneath Ilsa's feet squished and squoshed. From time to time something hard or sharp scraped her soles. The stench was unbelievable. She had thought the garbage bin was bad? Hell, she wished she was back in there!
At least the sound of hundreds of tiny, clawed paws, scurrying through the dirt, was drowned out by the traffic. But every now and then one of the rodents let out a high-pitched shriek, probably to alert even more of these beasts and those Ilsa couldn't block out.
Just like she couldn't block out her worries. Winston was out there, all on his own, facing the bad guys – "I'm going to create a diversion." What was that supposed to mean? He was in grave danger…
And Ames! Talk about grave danger… What had gotten into her, why in the world had she tried to…?
If not for the legions of rats around her, the horrible stench and the inch-thick pitch black muddy debris on the ground, Ilsa would have curled up in a corner and waited for someone to rescue her, Chance preferably.
Wait, wasn't that exactly…?
That was what the others had always implied, with all their moments of telling silence, their "Ilsa can't pick locks"-statements, their continuous exchange of glances… this was what Winston had been talking about, back in the hotel room in Washington of all places, when they had helped bloody Emma Barnes who, according to Winston, knew how to handle complicated situations on her own…
Chances voice: "Don't disappoint me."
Ilsa stopped and took a deep breath. Big mistake, considering the horrible stench. She started coughing and almost gagged. But while she was bending over, cradling her ribcage, fighting the tears that were stinging her eyes, realization dawned on her: No one would come and rescue her. Instead it was up to her to do her part of the job. To hold her end of the stick. To trust that somehow the others would do the same and by that they would all make it out alive somehow.
She needed to find that restaurant. The only option to do so was using her mobile's navigation system. Guerrero had said her phone was untraceable? She needed to trust he was able to hold his end of the stick.
Of course, down here she couldn't get a signal. But maybe if she…? She positioned herself directly underneath a sewer cover and activated her cell phone. Ah, there was the restaurant! But it was a thirty minutes walk from here, damn…
SPLASH
Someone had emptied something into the gutter. It was warm and thickish and most likely not water. Ilsa let out an angry scream of frustration, shook herself like a dog and proceeded to waddle on. Thirty minutes was a damn long time, but what choice did she have?
Just as she was about to round the next corner, she heard the scraping of metal. Her pursuers? Had Guerrero been wrong after all? Ilsa halted.
"Hello?" A stranger's voice. "Somebody down here?" Of course Ilsa didn't reply, but she risked a sneak peek. A man had lowered his upper body into the sewerage channel and was looking around. His hair was straggly, his clothes looked like he had found them down here – a homeless man. "Sorry if I drenched you!", he yelled into the semi-darkness. "Didn't mean to. Can I help you?" He was still not sure if he hadn't misheard – his mind often played tricks on him. But it had sounded like a woman screaming. And screaming women needed help. It was a question of being a man.
Ilsa was torn. This was most likely none of her attackers. But she couldn't be sure… On the other hand – what if the contact disappeared if she didn't make it on time? "You don't happen to know a shortcut to a restaurant named "The Treehouse", do you?"
The chief waiter had seen a lot of curious sights in his long career. But this woman and her companion? They definitely made it into his personal top five. "Where do you think you're going?", he asked, stepping into their way, making it very clear that nobody smelling like this and looking like this would even make it across his restaurant's threshold.
A long time ago, back in the boarding school in London, when she had fought with intense inferiority issues regarding her upper class school mates, a teacher had told her that it didn't matter where she was coming from or how much money she had. "It's the way you carry yourself, Ilsa, that's all that matters. People judge from appearances – and don't get me wrong, the right clothes help, but they're not everything. It's the body language that does the trick. That and your voice."
Well, if now wasn't the time to put that advice to the test…
Ilsa pulled herself up to her full height and let the waiter in her best British upper class accent know that she was expected by a guest at table number 16.
The waiter hesitated.
Looked at her.
Looked some more.
She didn't waver, didn't give up an inch of ground.
He stepped aside.
"My friend here will receive whatever food he chooses from the menu", Ilsa informed him.
If the contact was surprised or taken aback by her appearance, he didn't have much time to indulge in that feeling. She showed him the hidden message from the plate and he turned pale. "You've served this country very well, Mrs. Pucci", he told her – and hurried off, leaving her alone in the middle of a high end restaurant, looking like swamp thing 2.0 and reeking so badly, the other guests were already starting to move their tables and chairs away from her.
Ilsa however, didn't notice any of it. She was flabbergasted. That was it? All that trouble to deliver the information and that was it?
Yes, Ilsa, that was it. What did you expect, a parade? You probably just saved a lot of people's lives, but don't expect a medal for it. That's not the line of business you're in now.
Before she could dwell too much on the subject, however, her cell phone rang. Winston's number – and Winston's voice, thank God.
"I'm at a hospital, but it's nothing more than a scratch. The news I've got regarding Ames, however…"
An hour later Ilsa and Winston were on their way back to San Francisco. Thankfully, the jet had a showering facility on board.
… … …
San Francisco.
When Chance and Guerrero arrived at the hospital, Ames greeted them chirpily, told them a nonsense story about how hanging herself had been an accident and asked to be brought home, she really needed some rest in her own four walls and some time alone, to take a breather.
They assured her they'd bring her home right away.
Still in the parking lot, before she even had a chance to fight back, they tasered her. Drugging her would surely have been the gentler method, but they didn't know what pills they had given her at the hospital and the risk was too high they'd react badly with the sedative.
Someone was bound to lose in this horrible catch-22 situation. They were hell-bent on making sure it wouldn't be Ames.
When they entered the building, somebody was waiting for them in front of the elevators.
"Dude, get a dictionary and look up what "head start" means", Guerrero told Alejandro while Chance carried Ames into the elevator.
Alejandro couldn't take his eyes off his unconscious wife. "What's wrong with her? I've heard she…"
"None of your business", Guerrero cut him off.
"I never wanted her to get hurt. It was a watertight plan. I wanted the money for us, to give her a good life…", Alejandro pleaded.
"Dude, start running."
"I came here for punishment", he replied, all but whispering. "I'm not going to run. What I did was horrible. I want to make up for it, somehow…" He started shaking.
Guerrero looked at him for a long moment, then turned to Chance. "Should Ilsa show up… Keep her away from the basement."