Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
The island, North Africa.
Even from the mainland they could see that something was amiss on the island. Thick black smoke was rising in huge clouds from roughly the area where the abbey was located.
There was still a tiny spark of hope left, however. The farmers were maybe burning bad crop or something in that direction.
But as the helicopter Ilsa somehow had bullied out of the general got closer it became very clear that it wasn't only roughly the area of the abbey where something was burning, it was the abbey that was burning.
It was way too late for any kind of attempt to extinguish the fire. Hissing, angry red flames were already licking through the church's roof. Just as the helicopter landed, the bell tower gradually started tipping. The monks filed out of the engine one by one, wordlessly, their eyes trained on their burning home. The tower groaned and grunted like a living being, and also like a living being, it didn't sandwich or crumble, it sank to the ground, agonizingly slow.
All they could do was watch as the fire one by one consumed the church, the main building, the library, the side wings. Not even the knotty old trees in the cloister garden were spared. This was no accident – the coincidence of their return and the abbey burning was way to conspicuous. Had Ardeshir intercepted Chance's message to Haroun that the monks were coming home?
Haroun was standing in front of the burning buildings, face turned towards the fire. Chance and the rescued abbot slowly approached him. The boy didn't react when they called out to him. Only when the abbot cautiously touched his shoulder, he reluctantly turned around. His face was streaked with tears and smeared with soot. So were his hands. He reeked of gasoline.
Chance couldn't believe it.
The abbot let his hand remain on the boy's shoulder. "Why did you do that, son?", he asked calmly.
It took a long while before Haroun found the strength to answer. The abbot patiently waited him out. "Brother Calixt is already dead", he finally said. "If you remain here, you are not safe. Who says Ardeshir or someone else won't come back tomorrow? I don't want anyone else to die! I don't want you to risk your life!"
The abbot embraced him and held him tight. "Son, that is our decision", he said quietly.
Haroun sobbed, crying like a child, and for a long while, nobody said a word. Finally the abbot spoke up again: "We're going to bury Brother Calixt here, in the garden, where he always used to work."
"And then? Are you going to leave then?", Haroun asked.
"We'll see", the abbot replied.
Chance decided he wouldn't stick around for the funeral.
… … …
On the plane to San Francisco.
"Do you think the Old Man knows?", Winston asked Guerrero.
Guerrero shook his head. "He would have used it against him."
Winston nodded. "That's exactly the problem… So, now the case is over, what are we going to do?"
"Sit him down, pour him a stiff drink, tell him…", Guerrero suggested.
"Could we maybe feed him a tracker first, in case he decides to run off to Tibet again?" Winston tried to make it sound like a joke, but Guerrero understood.
"Nepal."
"Does it matter, wiseass?" Winston waited for an earnest answer to his joking question.
It wasn't that Guerrero hadn't had the same idea in one of the sleepless nights that had followed his discovery. But in the end…
"It's his decision, dude…"
… … …
The warehouse, kitchen area.
"I told you we'd meet again", Abbot Stevens said. He thoughtfully studied Chance as he poured himself another glass of Bourbon. "What happened?", he finally asked.
"Haroun burnt the abbey in an attempt to protect the monks…", Chance mumbled, tired of all of it.
"No, I'm not talking about the abbey. What happened that put you into this… mood…?"
Chance stared at him, surprised. The abbot returned his gaze with a strangely calming smile.
"Someone I barely knew died in my arms", Chance finally said.
"That was probably not the first time this happened", the abbot replied.
"No, but it was the first time I…" Chance hesitated. The abbot remained silent, said nothing, gave him all the time in the world to finish the sentence and even if he hadn't said a thing it would have been okay.
"I've always regarded death as just punishment, waiting for me for what I did. Now I'm wondering if I got it wrong. Maybe it's not punishment." He downed his Bourbon, staring off into space. "Maybe it's redemption."