Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
Winston checked his watch for what felt like the hundredth time, looked out the restaurant's window and glanced at his watch again. Where the hell was she? It was not like Michele to be late.
In their marriage it had always been him who had missed the appointed time, be it dinner, a family celebration or simply picking her up from the doctor. More often than not he had missed meetings altogether, either cancelling them at the last minute or just forgetting them. For reasons that totally beat him now, he had always put Michele last in his line of priorities – way behind his issues with Broward, a particularly urgent case or simply a few drinks with the boys in the bar down the street.
What a goddamn idiot he had been.
He didn't deserve another chance with her. What had he been thinking? Judging from the file Guerrero had put together, this Hank was a good guy. Shared her interests. Took her out to nice restaurants on a regular basis and bought her small gifts online. Flowers for her birthday, for Valentine's Day, for the anniversary of their first meeting. And cards.
How often had he bought a card and a bunch of sorry flowers from the gas station? Valentine's Day was always on the 14th of February, but somehow it had taken him by surprise every year.
Winston took a deep breath. He had had his chance and blown it. Time to step aside. Michele deserved a guy like Hank. He just hoped she would make today's meeting short and not waste time on a prolonged explanation. That she was so late, however, didn't bode well. Where the hell was she?
She had sounded concerned… I got myself into some sort of trouble… maybe she had somehow insulted her future mother in law or something in that direction… or she needed his police contacts to get rid of a couple of tickets…
A brownish Toyota Camry pulled up in the street by the restaurant. Winston barely registered it, till he noticed that Michele was behind the steering wheel. What in the world? That was not her usual car.
Frowning, Winston watched as his ex-wife reached for something on the passenger seat – a blue folder – looked around, hesitated, then got out of the car. He had seen that kind of behavior before – with clients, on the run. Suddenly Winston knew, not just assumed, he knew that Michele's problems were far worse than a couple of unpaid parking tickets.
Getting up and pulling his cell phone out at the same time, he headed for the door, his eyes not leaving her for a second. As high on alert as he was, he immediately noticed the black Subaru station wagon that was coming down the street. It was the car's high speed that caught his attention, even before he consciously registered it.
The driver was steering the vehicle way too close to the sidewalk.
Winston had seen that kind of behavior before, too – with thugs being after their clients.
Oh God.
Someone was after Michele!
Winston raced towards the entrance, threw himself against the restaurant's door, reached for his gun.
The car came to a screeching halt right next to Michele. The passenger's door flew open. Someone grabbed her.
Yelling, Winston dashed out on the street.
Screaming and kicking, Michele tried to get away from the car. She threw the blue folder to the ground, as far away as she could, but a hooded figure on the backseat jumped out of the car, picked up the folder and all sheets of paper that had fallen out. Seizing Michele by the shoulders, he helped the attacker on the passenger's seat to push Michele into the car.
These were professionals, a well-attuned crew.
Car door hanging half-open, the driver fired up the engine.
Winston could do nothing but shoot once at the turning wheels as the car raced off.
Shaking and gasping for air, he speed-dialed Chance while several spectators called the police.
… … …
"Something out of the ordinary?" Old Dan laughed bitterly at Chance's question and spit at the ground. "One could say so." He coughed, a heavy, barking cough. "My dog's dead. Came home and found him dead. Had him since he was a pup." His voice was raspy from alcohol and grief. He looked at Chance with bloodshot, bleary eyes. "Some bastard shot him. Shot him! For heaven's sake… Gus was a good boy. Wouldn't hurt a fly."
Chance's eyes rested on what had most likely been the deceased dog's kennel. The door looked as if it had been forced open from the inside and the rusty hinges had given in.
Dan motioned Chance to follow him, away from the hut that apparently served both as his office and his home. As they slowly made their way towards the fence they passed a rather large spot not far away from Dan's hut. The remnants of glass bottles and metal cans, lined up in a row, didn't escape Chance's notice. So they had been target shooting again…
A black tarp was spread out right in front of the fence, the distinctively shaped bump in its middle leaving not much room for interpretation what was underneath.
Slightly swaying, Dan pulled back the tarp, revealing his dog's carcass. "Haven't managed to bury him yet. Ground was too hard. Need a pickax." Chance nodded, seeing his suspicions confirmed. A Rottweiler like Carmine, of all breeds...
From the row of broken bottles and damaged cans, the traces of vomit on the ground, the destroyed kennel door and the pieces of torn cloth on the fence Chance had a pretty good idea of what had happened. Especially the dog's wounds spilt the beans: One shot to the mid-section, not deadly, but extremely harm- and painful. Probably caused a paralysis of the hind legs. A second shot to the head.
Mercy killing.
This must have been horror for Ash.
Heavens, this was exactly the kind of experience he had wanted to spare his son at all costs.
Chance took a deep breath, more than ever at a loss what to do. What was the proper pedagogically accurate reaction to that kind of incident? He wondered if he should get Ash and make him dig the grave.
Just then his cell phone rang.