Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.

~ seven monks ~

The warehouse, Chance's bedroom, very early morning.

Chance saw himself walking down a dark alley, probably not far from the warehouse, in the dead of night. A tri-colored cat, sitting on an overflowing garbage can, watched him closely as he passed it by. He idly remembered that in some cultures these type of cats were seen as lucky charms.

He was alert, aware that danger was lurking in every corner. Nevertheless the shot surprised him. A single hit, right in the center of his chest. Not immediately lethal, but very dangerous. Chance sank to his knees, pressing one hand against the wound while firmly gripping his weapon with the other one. He was expecting a second shot, but all he could hear were footsteps, moving away fast.

He let go of his gun, just dropped it, not really caring where it went in the darkness.

Blood was rapidly seeping through his fingers now and he couldn't stay on his knees anymore. Groaning, more from a feeling of immense exhaustion than actual pain, he slumped to the ground. His breathing grew heavier, apparently his lungs were filling with fluid, blood, most likely. He should get his cell phone and call Winston or Guerrero. Or maybe an ambulance. They'd sort out the paperwork later, Guerrero was good at extinguishing paper trails, Winston could call in a couple of favors with his ex-colleagues, Ilsa could pay a bribe and if all else failed, Ames could seduce someone.

Strangely, however, he didn't feel like making any calls. He knew he was running out of time, oxygen supply was becoming an issue fast and his shirt was soaked with definitely too much blood to be healthy, but he did not feel the urge to reach out for help. In fact, he felt totally at peace with the situation. Above him the night sky, sparkling with stars for a change, not obscured by the typical San Francisco mist as usual…

He felt a bit cold, but there was no pain whatsoever except some dull throbbing underneath his hands. The silence around him covered him like a comforting blanket. This felt like some sort of gift, he didn't want it interrupted by screaming friends, hectic EMTs, an ambulance ride… everything was okay the way it was…

Yes, really, it was okay…

"Chance? Chance?" He opened his eyes to see Ames standing by the far end of his bed, tugging at his toes. "Sorry to wake you, but there's a guy downstairs who wants to talk to you. He says it's urgent."

"What guy?" Chance shook his head to chase the dream away.

"A monk", Ames replied. "Says he knows you from some case with a ring and a young man." She hesitated for a moment, looked at her shorts and skimpy t-shirt. "Uh, I better change."

... ... ...

Chance wasn't the only one with a strange dream very early in the morning that day. Only Winston's dream was less morbid.

It involved a train.

An old-fashioned steam locomotive, like they had used back in the days of the wild west. Winston saw himself standing at a railway track in the middle of the prairie, watching the approaching shiny black engine. The thing was damn loud! It's shrill whistle was ear-piercing, made him want to walk away. Only his feet somehow seemed to be stuck, he couldn't move. Quicksand? He started tossing and turning, panicky his eyes flew open…

He had entangled himself in his sheets, that's why he hadn't been able to move. Big sigh of relief.

Until he noticed that the whistle of the train was still there, that is.

He jerked upright, looked around. There was faint light in the hallway, coming from the kitchen. Just like the whistle. It was the whistle of a tea kettle.

The whistle of a tea kettle, in his kitchen, in the darkest hour of the morning? Winston dashed down the corridor and yanked the kitchen door open.

"WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING IN MY KITCHEN?" he yelled at Guerrero.

"Good morning to you, too, Winston", Guerrero said, unfazed of course. "Take a seat, need to talk to you."

Winston, confused and still a bit dazed from being woken up so suddenly and so early, was actually sitting down half-way before he realized he was following Guerrero's order and shot up again. "WHO DO YOU THINK…?"

He never got to finish the sentence.

"Need to show you something, dude", Guerrero said and turned the laptop he'd been working on around so Winston could see the display.

He opened his mouth to object at this blatant invasion of his privacy, Guerrero must have broken into his house, and of course he was eating the egg salad he had stashed away in the fridge yesterday evening – but then he realized what the information on the screen was saying and the words never came out.

"This is…"

Guerrero nodded.

"Are you sure? Really sure?"

Another nod. "This program is the best you can get. State of the art law enforcement software."

"How did you...?"

"Does it matter?" Guerrero watched Winston very closely.

"He doesn't know…"

A third nod. "Question is, do we tell him?"

Winston thought his ears were deceiving him. "How can we not? We're his friends, he needs to know!"

Guerrero took a long, thoughtful sip from his tea. "You know how he is. You know his issues. This could send him over the edge for good. He's behaving rather strange lately already."

Now it was Winston's turn to nod. He had noticed Chance's uncharacteristically somber mood, too. Ever since the desaster with Ames and Alejandro.

Before they could discuss the matter any further, however, Guerrero's mobile signaled with a text message and a short time later Winston's started to ring. Chance's number on the display in both cases.

Winston answered his phone. "Abbot Stevens? Sure I remember him. I'm on my way. " He cut the connection and turned to Guerrero. "I agree with you that we can't rush this. Let's work this case and then decide what we do."

Together they left the house. Guerrero gave Winston a lift.

A/N: This story is loosely based on a true case. I changed a lot of elements, but something similar to this has really happened. I'm not writing it out of disrespect for the victims, actually it's the other way around. I wish they had had someone like Chance, seeing them as people, not as pawns in a struggle for power.