Disclaimer: I do not own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
A/N: Thank you, jackattack, for your reviews! It means a lot to me!
Gone with the wind.
Of course.
That's what Philippa had mumbled down in Winston's office and he hadn't quite caught. Now, as Chance was standing on the warehouse's roof, staring into the darkening, definitely not New Zealand sky, the sound of it came back to him and suddenly it made sense.
Gone with the wind.
Ashley Wilkes.
Respectful, honorable, gentlemanly, impractical Ashley Wilkes who only wanted to live his life in peace and lost everything in a war that wasn't his.
How goddamn fitting.
Juliet had lost everything because of him – he had turned her whole life upside down, sent her on a desperate flight and in the end she had died… alone, in pain, scared.
Chance didn't cry very often, but…
"You can't do this!"
He hadn't even heard Ilsa coming up the stairs.
"You can't let Guerrero torture her!"
Chance shook his head. "Ilsa, go home. This is not… your kind of thing."
"Don't you go all "in this business the means justify the ends" again on me, I bloody well know that", she snarled at him. "This is not business, Chance, and this is not some thug down there Guerrero can have his way with because we need to save a client. This is the woman who saved … your son…"
Ilsa still had problems saying out loud that Chance had a child. She and Marshall had tried to have children, but it never worked out. Some problem with him… They didn't push it, thinking that they'd find a solution eventually, vaguely discussed an adoption… Now Marshall was gone and she was entering an age where pregnancy wasn't a good idea anymore. The train had left the station without her really noticing it… It was so strange that Chance, of all people, Chance who led a life that was potentially hazardous to children, had a son, while she…
"She's responsible for Juliet's death. She's a killer", Chance snapped back, shaking with wrath. It was a good thing he wasn't down in Winston's office at the moment.
Ilsa hesitated. What she was about to say was the cruelest thing… but downstairs, the woman…
"And what, Christopher Chance, are you?"
He looked at her as if she had just slapped him, straight across the face.
Ilsa felt sick to her stomach, but now that she had started this, she had no choice but to go on. "That woman down there raised your son for twelve years! To him, she IS his mother! How do you think he'll feel when he finds out his father tortured her? And he WILL find out, Chance. The past always comes catching up with you, right?"
There was no way to tell if her words had any impact on him. He was still just staring at her, his face this unreadable mask she had come to hate so much.
"She helped delivering him, Chance! How old was she back then? Twenty? Twenty-one maybe? She helped delivering a baby in a rundown hotel room, no doctors, no midwife, no medicine, just her and her friend. Do you have any idea what consequences something like that has? She's down there willing to go through torture for your son!"
Ilsa couldn't stand it anymore. She dashed back to the stairs, hell-bent on somehow stopping Guerrero.
Chance remained on the roof, shaken by her words although to an outsider there were no signs that would have given his state of mind away.
That woman down there raised your son for twelve years.
Twelve years of running, from everyone – the police, the Old Man's enemies, him… Not only Juliet had lost everything. Gone with the wind, that went for Philippa, too.
And what, Christopher Chance, are you?
How many fathers had he killed? Maybe he didn't deserve being one.
The roof of the warehouse was high, but he wasn't tempted anymore. Ilsa was right, the past always comes catching up with you, one day the boy would find everything out… what did he want him to find out? That his father was a killer - yes, killer, "assassin" was nothing but a goddamn euphemism - who committed suicide in the end or that his father was a killer who tried to somehow makeup for the things he had done, as best as he could?
A brisk gust of wind coming in from the Bay, cool but not cold, blew a couple of dry leaves from the roof, made them dance in the air as they slowly floated to the ground.
Heavy footsteps first on the stairs, then on the roof, coming up behind him. Panting sounds. Winston.
"Chance, I can only vaguely imagine what you're going through, but letting Guerrero…"
He silenced him with a wave of his hand, walked past him, climbed down the stairs, made his way to Winston's office, with Winston in close pursuit, not saying a word.
In Winston's office he found Guerrero and Ilsa in something like a staring contest. The air felt like they had just exchanged a couple of not uncertain terms, with Ames watching on helplessly. Chance could tell from Guerrero's stance that Ilsa was just about to find out that she might call herself his boss, but… Ilsa's face said Guerrero was about to find out just how well he had taught her.
Chance walked past them, too. He grabbed a knife from the field kit Guerrero had spread on Winston's desk, stepped in front of Philippa, bent down on his knees and cut her ties.
"Don't give me a chance to change my mind", he muttered.
She didn't. The second her ties fell off, Philippa jumped to her feet, dashed out of the room, towards the elevator, hectically pressed the button and disappeared behind its hissing doors.
Gone she was.