Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
"Okay, Agent Barnes, just for good measure, let us sum this up one more time." The section chief was not amused. Not at all.
"Four deceased SWAT team members." He took a deep breath. The SWAT team leader had demanded Emma's head in a basket.
"Two dead civilians." Another deep breath. The morning in the mayor's office, "discussing" the course of the operation with him, had brought him ten years closer to a heart attack.
"An escaped drug lord." The local drug unit, which had worked on pinning that bastard for half a year and which had been forced out of the investigation by the FBI, had been in uproar for a week. They had filed an official complaint and obstructed all kinds of cooperation ever since. And damn it, those cops could be obstructive.
A blue wall of resistance.
"A thirteen year old boy…DOA. And NO weapon." The uproar of the drug unit had been nothing against the uproar of the civil rights organizations. Headlines for days…
"And five dead thugs…" The section chief slammed his hands on his desk. Nobody felt really sorry about those, but the relatives were already working on putting together a lawsuit.
"This time, Agent Barnes, you've definitely outdone yourself. I should have known after the Russian embassy debacle, but no, I gave you a second chance. Then this fishy thing in South America where you, in hindsight, didn't exactly cut a fine figure either. And now THIS!" He halted his breath, counted to ten, released it.
"It's over Emma. This is it. Definitely."
He sat back down, trying to do that Tibetan muscle relaxation exercise his doctor had recommended him.
"There's no place in the Bureau for you anymore."
Emma had seen it coming. She had tried to come up with a counter measure, wrecked her brain over it… all through the funerals of the SWAT team members… while apologizing to the civil rights group… and finally, while getting her third ticket of the day by a very hostile cop, she had had a light bulb moment.
It was a risky plan, but desperate times required desperate measures, didn't they?
"I can tell you who is responsible for the scandal that brought down the Department of Health scientist a couple of weeks ago", she said. "And I know where to find him. Interested?"
… … …
Mendelssohn, violin concerto opus sixty something (Guerrero had told him the precise number, but it had slipped his mind again) wasn't exactly Winston's style of music, but their Viennese client had given him a recording he claimed "very special". He was playing his violin on it. Jeez, had he been happy to get that thing back.
After the ordeal with the homemade bomb that almost cost Ilsa a limb she had been ready to buy him a Stradivari if necessary, but he had insisted on his Tongliogli. Apparently violinists entered into some sort of love affair with their instruments and thus they couldn't simply be replaced.
Ah well, it did sound nice and it somehow felt good, listening to the music and thinking that they had helped giving the musician the chance to produce many more recordings like this.
Winston's telephone rang. Michele's number. She had called quite often lately.
"I never knew you liked classical music", she said, commenting on the concerto she could hear in the background.
"Yeah, he was quite a genius, that Meddlesome, wasn't he?" Winston couldn't help but showing off.
Michele started laughing, that joyful, pearling laugh he hadn't heard in a long time. "If you're so into the classics now, maybe you'd like to accompany me to D'Allano's this weekend? They always hire students from the conservatory to provide background music for really good food. What do you think?"
Of course he thought it was a great idea. And for the first hour or so after her call he was very happy. But then he started thinking…
… … …
When Dr. Grace came back into her apartment in the early afternoon, she knew immediately somebody had been there. Years of being on the run from a stalker had enhanced her senses and ingrained a certain watchfulness into her system, even though the stalker was long dead.
With the knife stabbed into her kitchen table top (thank God he had spared the antique walnut desk she had inherited from her aunt) it was not hard to guess who had been here. Shivering, she walked over to read the note he had fixed with the blade.
The message was loud and clear.
Chance needs a competent doc, not more women trouble. Back off and do your job.
G.
Bastard.
… … …
Ash made a hasty backcheck. Another player tried to clip him and for a moment it looked as if he was losing balance, taking his opponent down with him, who quickly rushed out of the way.
Which was apparently what Ash had been waiting for.
He was suddenly racing full force again, managing to interrupt a drop back, stealing the puck.
"A Deke. Whoa", Philippa said.
"Still not sure this is the right thing", Chance mused, only half watching.
"If it's not, we're both to blame. We decided together to lift his restrictions. Sleeping in handcuffs and getting dressed down by his grandfather, I think that's punishment enough." She howled in triumph as Ash scored another goal.
"The boy is good", a man with a heavy accent commented, a few rows up from where Chance and Philippa were sitting. "What do you think, Innokentij?"
"Potential", the other man growled. "Lots of potential."
"So, are we going to grab him for training? We won't repeat Bogdan's mistakes."
Innokentij shook his head. "No. No force this time. We need to be patient with this one. An opportunity will present itself. Trust me."
The game ended with Ash's team winning. The boys celebrated on the ice for a moment, then retreated to the locker. The people in attendance quickly filed out and soon the rink was deserted.
Except for Philippa and Chance, that is. They were still sitting in silence, Chance deep in thought.
"Nobody said it would be easy", Philippa finally stated.
"What if we're doing it wrong? How do I know the way I'm treating him is right?" Chance had voiced this to Guerrero once, after a rather long night over a couple of glasses of Scotch. To his big surprise, Philippa replied with exactly the same sentence his friend had chosen back then.
"All you can do is do your best."
"Mom, Dad!" Ash, now wearing a lot less protective clothing, but still on skates, called out to them from the middle of the ice.
"I asked the coach!" He was holding up two pairs of skates.
"Ah, no", Chance declined, rocking back in his seat.
"Come on, don't be such a spoilsport." Philippa grabbed him by the arm and dragged him onto his feet. A moment later he was shakily skidding over the ice, holding on to Philippa for dear life, getting lectured by his son on balance and position of legs.
"And doing your best seems to be working fine, doesn't it?", Philippa whispered as she helped him up after falling flat on his ass for what felt like the hundredth time.
Behind them Ash was practically toppling over from laughter and sheer happiness.