Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
The hotel/HQ near the research center.
Ilsa closed her eyes, turned off the shower and concentrated on the last few drops of water running down her naked body. She stood still for quite a while, till goose bumps started crawling up her arm.
Or were it goose bumps?
Why was she so nervous about this? She had definitely been through worse, hadn't she?
Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of the shower, carefully dried her skin off and put on the evening gown she had bought at Guerrero's suggestion. It was made of dark blue silk, generous décolleté, very low cut in the back.
"Suits our purpose", Guerrero had said, but she had seen the gleam in his eyes when he had picked it.
Nice dress.
It rustled as she walked over to the door and entered the adjacent hotel room. To her surprise it was empty, but the bed was already prepared: Guerrero had spread a cheap tablecloth over the sheets, placed several shallow bowls on it and a collection of applicators. Unsure what to do, Ilsa walked over to the edge of the bed and sat down.
She didn't hear him coming in, no moving of the door, nothing. Had he been waiting in one of the corners, hiding? Heavens, why did he always have to spook people? She felt the mattress dip behind her as he joined her on the bed.
"Relax", he told her. "No need to hold your breath." His calloused palm on her neck, resting there. Why? To keep her still? It was not that he was going to hurt her, was he? So why restrain her? But he always needed to be in control.
She had expected the first touch of the applicator to her skin to be cold and squishy wet, like the sensation of a sticky snail creeping forward. To her utter surprise it felt much more like a light breeze, a whisper, a – what a silly metaphor – promise in the dead of night.
Guerrero's hand slid down her bare back to the point where he was applying the henna, stretching the skin a little with his thumb and index finger. His fingertips felt raw, like the palm of his hand, but his touch wasn't. Almost gently his strokes slowly wandered upwards along her spine, taking curvy detours here and there.
Ilsa briefly wondered where Ames and Winston had gone, but as the silence of the room slowly covered them like – another silly metaphor – a thin veil, she gradually felt her thoughts trickle away, leaving nothing on her mind but peaceful blankness, in the background hers and Guerrero's soft breathing like waves washing against an ocean's shore.
His hands slightly gripping her shoulder tenderly called her back from this trance-like state. "I need you to turn around", he told her.
Some time not too long ago she had been nervous about this particular moment, had imagined his cold killer hands so close to where she hadn't allowed anybody but Marshall for so many years, and the thought had sent shivers down her spine, but now… this felt natural, right, true.
With one last stroke, Guerrero finished his work. "Come on", he said. "You might want to see this." He helped her up and led her to the full-length mirror on the other side of the room.
Ilsa glanced at it, froze, her gaze turned into a mesmerized stare, she started turning around, once, twice… "Did you design the dragon on Chance's and your shoulder?", she asked incredulously. The long string of Japanese Kanji he had painted on her back and décolleté formed a dragon like the one these two sported on their skin, curled up tail and all, just a lot bigger.
"Long story", Guerrero grinned.
… … …
The research center, evening.
Ilsa made it into the building without any problems. She was searched thoroughly, but just as Guerrero had guessed, nobody was able to read the Japanese signs on her skin. Of course she earned a few raised eyebrows, Ilsa Pucci with a giant henna tattoo? But since she was a billionaire and everybody knew billionaires tended to be eccentric, nobody became really suspicious.
All she had to do now was find a spot where she was in plain sight of one of the security cams and hope Chance would see Guerrero's work. The dessert table looked very promising – a camera was attached right above it and since most guests were still busy with the main dishes that were offered, she'd have room to present her "tattoo" without anyone interfering.
Pretending to be taking her time with choosing between the various mousses, puddings, sorbets, she bent over the table to present Chance with a perfect view of her lower back, where the instruction of how to defuse the detonator began. To her utter surprise, between mousse au chocolat and champagne sorbet, a pair of eyes was looking at her through a small rift between two tables.
A child's pair of eyes, dark and sorrowful.
"So many different desserts, quite tempting, isn't it?", Ilsa asked gently, already plotting how to hand the little boy a plate of ice-cream without attracting too much attention.
"I'm looking for a friend", the boy said. "He brought me home to my mom yesterday evening and I haven't seen him ever since. He's in charge of security. He should be here."
He sounded terribly sad.
"I'm sure you'll find him", Ilsa tried to console him. "If he's security he'll be in touch with a friend of mine. I'll ask him as soon as I see him."
… … ...
A tiny room above the research center's main hall, stuffed with monitors.
Chance couldn't believe his eyes. An instruction how to defuse a certain type of detonator, painted on Ilsa's skin! This time Guerrero had really outdone himself.
For this could only have come from Guerrero, Winston would have never suggested anything that involved Ilsa's bare skin.
But why had they gone through so much trouble to get this instruction to him? He had already defused a bomb, and it had been an easy one. He had also searched the whole building twice after, to be on the safe side. No other bombs.
Unless…
Oh damn…
He began jotting down the instruction, hoping Ilsa wouldn't turn around before he'd written it down completely.