Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
A/N: Thank you, PocketSevens for helping with the Ilsa part!
Guerrero left the door to Chance's bedroom open as he headed downstairs to get his notebook, so they could hear what happened next:
A low buzz signaled that someone on the street had rung the office's doorbell.
"Ilsa? Your wrist okay again?", Guerrero yelled from the conference room where he was probably checking the security cam feed.
"Yes, don't worry, it was just…"
"Then could you go downstairs? It's an informant, delivering material for Chance. Don't want him to come up here. He expects payment. Not more than a hundred bucks!"
The door to Ilsa's office was slammed shut so vehemently, the glass in the frame slightly clattered. The sound was followed by the angry clicking of high heels and muffled murmur, something along the lines of "Could be in Monaco right now, but no…", "Someone explain to me again why…" and finally a very exasperated "Damn thugs! All of them!" before a low hiss indicated that she had entered the elevator and was riding downstairs.
Guerrero had his own special way of making sure Ilsa would stay on her feet and not brood too much about recent developments…. He could tell from the shadows underneath her eyes she was sleeping badly and during the latest telephone conversation with the real estate people she'd bordered on hysterical. Time to get her mind off things.
When he came back he placed the notebook on Chance's lap and opened a window that showed a very official, i.e. governmental looking, search mask.
"Acquired this a couple of months ago", Guerrero explained. "Took me ages to install… It allows me access to all law enforcement DNA data bases worldwide. The basic idea was to check where you had left DNA during jobs and if there was a way to delete your traces from the system with a well-place virus or something…"
Winston handed Chance another glass of water, but Chance didn't drink it, just grasped it absent-mindedly.
"Never got this far, though." Guerrero pressed his lips together. "A seven years old case from Vienna popped up. Five year old boy plays outside, it's summer, he isn't wearing shoes, he steps into a syringe."
Chance tensed and Winston put a reassuring hand on his arm.
"He was lucky, the needle wasn't infected, but the police filed the boy's DNA for comparison, should they ever get hold of the syringe's owner. This program doesn't only show complete matches, it also lists similarities. You share fifty percent of your alleles with that boy. He's your son."
Guerrero opened another window, showing him the copy of a police report written in German.
"Ash Marx, twelve now, son of Philippa Marx, father unknown. Couldn't get a picture yet, but maybe there'll be one in the delivery." The ding of the elevator indicated that Ilsa was back in the office.
Chance frowned. "Philippa Marx? Doesn't ring a bell."
"It's an alias", Winston, unable to keep still anymore, chimed in. "She started using it about nine years ago. Boy probably got too old to keep switching names without him noticing. Guerrero found traces of her all over Europe and the USA, every now and then even Asia… she seems to be on the run, but we don't know yet from whom… "
"Hopefully not from me...", Chance mused. If she - whoever "she" was - had somehow gotten wind of his profession, found out what he was at the time of the conception...
"Her online name is fips1212 – seems to be her nickname…", Guerrero added. "She's a freelancer, writes instructions for all sorts of technical equipment. Allows her to move whenever it pleases her. Boy gets homeschooled."
Of course the mother of his child had to be a fugitive of some sort. Chance shook his head. Why should this be more uncomplicated than anything else in his life? It only fit.
"Ash…", he said thoughtfully. "As in... Ashton?"
Winston and Guerrero exchanged glances for a moment, then Winston coughed. "Ashley. Ash as in Ashley."
Chance could only stare at him. "My son's called Ashley?"
"You know, bro, that's life. One moment you're an ex-assassin with a conscience problem, the next you've got a son named Ashley from a woman named Fips." For a tiny moment it looked as if Guerrero was holding his breath... then he burst into laughter and so did Winston and Chance.
"I'm very happy for you, you know that?" Winston patted Chance on the shoulder.
Ilsa poked her head in, large brown envelope in hands.
"Come in, it's safe now", Chance told her.
She weighed the envelope in her hands, then gave it to Guerrero in a small gesture of defiance. She had been so worried about Chance!
"I'm sorry", he said, and they both knew he was talking about more than just the wrist.
"I'd shoot him again in a heartbeat", she said.
He nodded, slowly, for once not feeling weighed down by guilt. Ilsa decided that this special moment was for the men alone and walked off.
Guerrero opened the envelope and retrieved an enlarged black and white photo and a sheet of paper. He handed Chance the photo and read through the text on the paper. "Just a picture of Philippa, I fear. She seems to be hell-bent to keep the boy away from the public eye."
Chance took the photo and looked at it. It showed a woman in her thirties, black, probably dyed shoulder-length hair, round face, a bit chubby round the hips. She didn't seem to be terribly tall. Gray eyes? It was hard to tell from the shot.
He studied it for a long moment, while Guerrero read and then reread the additional information on the enclosed sheet of paper. Winston watched them both and the time they took to process what they were looking it was starting to make him uneasy fast. Their silence started to become palpable.
Not a good sign.
When Chance finally put down the photo on the bed, he knew something was very wrong.
"I've never seen that woman in my life."