Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
~ tea ceremony ~
Boston. The parking lot of a nondescript, seedy motel.
With slightly shaking hands Ilsa unlocked the rented car's trunk. "I'm still not sure if this is a good idea. Ames' ability to lie herself out of any given situation would be far more suitable for these kind of circumstances… Or maybe you and I should reconsider switching positions..."
"Ilsa, we've already discussed this. Unless you've got a hidden past that includes extensive experience with firearms and shootouts Ames is of far more use to Winston right now than you could ever be. " Guerrero paused a moment before adding "Chance's life depends on you pulling this off." Originally he had wanted to add "Fail and we'll switch positions afterwards", but they were past that point in their relationship.
Knowing when threats are useful and when they aren't separates the pros from the amateurs.
Not giving her a chance to raise further objections he climbed into the trunk of the rental, only slightly inhibited by the handcuffs he was already wearing, and pulled it shut.
… … …
An empty warehouse on the outskirts of Boston.
"We always thought Guerrero was a man", the client said.
"It's a marketing strategy... dude… Even in my line of business men get paid more and since I usually avoid meeting my clients in person…." Hoping he would buy this, Ilsa chained Guerrero to a chair. The look on his face said "Dude?" Are you kidding me?
Ilsa shrugged helplessly. I was aiming at "authentic".
"We also thought the secretary who foolishly tried to blackmail us was a woman", the client continued.
"You should consider hiring a life coach or something. Recent studies indicate that thinking in stereotypes influences business decisions negatively." Desperately trying to hide her trembling fingers, she started to unbutton Guerrero's shirt.
"Ilsa", Guerrero hissed, "torturers don't make sure the shirt doesn't take any damage during the procedure. TEAR it open!"
Ilsa pulled at the fabric and managed to cause several buttons to come off.
Stunned, she froze in mid-motion.
She had seen Chance' s bare chest several times up close, usually in various stages of injury after some kind of explosion, exchange of gunfire or close combat fight, but never Guerrero's. It was covered with a net of horrifying scars. And stunningly muscular.
What Guerrero wanted to say was "Once we're done with this you can have a full night to admire my chest and other body parts", just to get his mind off Chance who was in mortal danger while he was trying to pull a stunt with everything depending on their still field inexperienced boss. He bit it back, however. Not the time to put Ilsa at unease even further. "The clamps", he quietly instructed her. "And don't hesitate while putting them on."
"I want the material's exact location", the client told her, but Ilsa was only half-listening. Putting metal clamps on Guerrero's nipples had just made it to the top of her top ten list of things she thought she'd never do. It felt oddly intimate and very wrong… she had thought she had been through the worst when she had climbed out of the sewage system in Washington, but this – with the possibility of having to go through with Plan B looming on the horizon - was just as horrible, only on a different level.
"At least it can't get worse than this", she tried to calm herself.
Oh Ilsa, haven't you learned anything from the past few months? It can always get worse. Just wait and see.
Electroshocks were easy to fake. All it took was a flat automobile battery and a little bit of acting talent on Guerrero's side. But Winston had said he needed thirty minutes to set up the trap. Thirty minutes were too long to rely on mock electric torture alone. They would have to give them the whole nine yards and maybe even more. Ilsa tried not to dwell on that possibility.
Merely thinking of Plan B made her stomach turn.
"I've got a transportable tub in my car, could someone get it for me?", she asked, once the electric torture thing was getting old.
Way too quickly two thugs came back with it, filled to the rim with ice-cold water.
They had talked this through before. Guerrero would fake weakness due to excessive appliance of electroshocks. She would push him on his knees and immerse his head in the water, holding him by the neck. This was important since Guerrero would relax his neck muscles as long as he was okay and tighten them when he was seriously running out of oxygen. The challenge for her was to grip him not too tight and not too loosely – in both cases she wouldn't feel his neck muscles properly.
"Hurry up, Winston!", Ilsa silently urged as she dunked Guerrero's head for the second time. "Talk!", she bellowed at Guerrero. "Talk!"
Guerrero blinked once.
The signal to move on to the next stage. Which had caused her a serious nightmare in the few hours of sleep she had had before coming here, by the way. But at least it wasn't Plan B yet.
Ilsa pulled Guerrero back onto the chair, took a deep breath and faked a punch to his face, using a hidden blade to leave a tiny cut above his right eyebrow. They had practiced that for hours, with more than a dozen oranges. If she cut too deeply, she could permanently damage one of his nerves; if the cut was too shallow, it would have no effect.
Turned out, all the practicing was worth something.
Head wounds bleed spectacularly. As Guerrero's blood sprayed her face, Ilsa felt her stomach turn.
"Don't you dare throw up now!", Guerrero hissed, reading Ilsa's pale face correctly.
His voice called her back from the edge, reminded her that if she gave in to her emotions now, they'd all be dead.
Despite all the blood the client was getting impatient. So far he had let "Guerrero" work on "the secretary" alone in a far corner of the warehouse, only walking by occasionally, but for the past few minutes he had been staring at her intensely and now he was approaching her with determination in his stride.
No, no, no, she didn't want to switch to Plan B.
A quick glance told her that 25 minutes had passed. Still no word from Winston. The client, however, pulled up a chair, declaring he wanted to take a closer look at "the famous Guerrero's" work.
They couldn't talk with the client sitting so close, but they exchanged glances. Ilsa's was pleading. Just a few more minutes. Guerrero's was unyielding. There's no other way. You've got to pull this off or Chance will die.
"I need my tackle box from my car", Ilsa finally told one of the thugs who had brought the tub in. He was back in no time. Boy, what had the idiot been before he turned criminal? Short-distance runner?
"If you don't tell us where you stashed the material, I'll break your fingers, one by one." She showed Guerrero a pair of flat-nose pliers.
This, unfortunately, could not be faked. Guerrero had shown her how to produce a clean fracture, using thin bamboo sticks to demonstrate where to apply the pressure and she had practiced with a couple, but breaking a bamboo stick and breaking a human being's finger was worlds apart.
She looked him in the eyes and there was nothing but consent in it. Nevertheless she hesitated. She was holding his left index finger in the correct position, but just couldn't bring herself to go ahead and do it.
Guerrero tensed. The client was watching her every move. At the moment it still looked to him as if she was giving "the secretary" the last opportunity to spill the beans, but a few more moments of doing nothing and he would catch on.
And in that case… Chance…
Ilsa wanted nothing more than to get up and just leave, but as the trip to Washington had taught her, in this line of business there was no bailing out.
Drawing on every piece of courage she had she grabbed Guerrero's index finger with the pliers, applied pressure and… someone started to clap.
"Congratulations", said a male, slightly accented voice. Out of the shadows stepped a young man, apparently of Asian origin. "Really nice show, Mrs. Pucci. I'm impressed with how smoothly Mr. Chance's team works together…."
Ilsa's phone began to vibrate.
"Ah, that'll be Mr. Winston, telling you that he has set up the trap. God, I love good team work."
Ilsa, slowly realizing that she wouldn't have to hurt Guerrero after all, took a deep breath and was just about to ask the young man what the hell was going on, when Guerrero's foot lightly tapped her ankle in a gesture of warning.
"Don't say anything", he hissed. His face was a stony mask. "It's the Crane."