Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
A/N: Big Thank You to PocketSevens and, as always, niagaraweasel, who both helped his chapter to come into being!
Winston rang Ethan's doorbell. He could hear it chime inside the apartment. Not your regular ding-dong sound effect, no, of course not with Ethan Riker, hairstylist and up-and-coming interior designer. He gave you St. Paul Cathedral's Angelus – all twelve bells, along with The Banger, Great Paul and Great Tom. With these thin walls living next to him surely was fun.
It had actually been Michele who had convinced Ethan to enroll in some community college courses and get an official degree in interior design at the age of forty. Winston could imagine very well how she had managed to persuade him. It's never too late to pursue your dreams. Go ahead and do it! There is no failure except in no longer trying. That was his girl, the woman he had fallen in love with.
After the divorce people had told him they had gotten married too early. Others had explained that cops were practically bound to have marital problems. Ethan however, skinny, make-up and manicured nails wearing weakling that he was, had told Winston direct and straightforward that the problem had neither been age nor job.
"It's you, your buffalo mentality of waltzing over everything and preferring shouting to talking. Somewhere down the road you waltzed over her and didn't even notice. She wanted to live, Winston. You were suffocating her, with your bad mood spells, your anger, your unhappiness. In the end you left her no choice." In hindsight Winston realized how much guts Ethan had shown that day, voicing this outright critique directly in Winston's face. Back then he'd barely managed to refrain from kicking his ass through the door.
Speaking of door…
Tilting his head, Winston noticed that the door to Ethan's apartment was not locked, it was off the latch. He gave it the slightest of pushes and it swung open. Somewhere in Winston's mind a voice of reason piped up, told him to call the police or at least Chance, but on the other hand there was this feeling that he needed to check on Ethan right now, that he shouldn't wait a second longer… Ajar doors that are supposed to be locked never bode well.
To be honest, he was less concerned about Ethan himself than about Ethan being the only clue to what might have happened to Michele.
Winston drew his gun and slowly made his way through the short corridor, careful not to produce any more noise than absolutely necessary. The apartment's ceiling was low, though, and Winston was a big man. His head brushed against the crystal prisms of the electric Venetian style chandelier Ethan was so proud of. The prisms slightly chinked. At least the fake leopard skin rug muffled the sound of his footsteps.
There was light in the living-room and the door was half-open. Peeking in, Winston noticed nothing out of the ordinary. No sound at all made him quite confident that he was alone. The white lacquered furniture, the tiny porcelain birds Ethan collected and used as decoration wherever he could, the framed Hockney prints on the wall… everything seemed perfectly normal. Except…
The dark red carpet was a little too dark red on a spot Winston could not completely see from his position behind the door. He cautiously pushed it open a little further… and froze. In his cop years he had been called to many crime scenes and the years with Chance had made him witness things he would have gladly have never laid eyes on, too, so he was used to quite a bit.
Nevertheless the image of Ethan, tied to a chair and beaten to a bloody pulp was nothing he could stomach easily. His face was practically smashed in, with the eyes almost invisible from the swelling all around. Holstering his gun, Winston rushed to his side, reached out the check his pulse. The skin was still warm, so the attack couldn't have happened too long ago. Or…
As Winston's fingers lightly brushed against the skin of Ethan's throat, he groaned, a barely audible, half gurgled sound, indicating lungs full of blood. Winston wasted no time, he cut the cable ties that kept Ethan bound to the chair, laid him on the floor and started with mouth-to-nose insufflation. CPR was pretty much out of question, his rib cage looked as if someone had kicked it in.
Winston knew it was fruitless. But heavens, he had to try, hadn't he? With his left hand he was feeling for his cell to call 911 when suddenly Ethan's eyes flew open, as far as they could with the swelling. "Mistake", he gasped. Then his body completely relaxed, all muscle tension seemed to evaporate within a split second. Winston sat back on his heels. No need for an ambulance anymore. Ethan was dead.
Oh god, he was dead.
Whoever had kidnapped Michele surely had something to do with Ethan's horrible demise. The brutality of the act, the ordeal Ethan must have been put through… it looked like he had been tortured. The realization what that might mean for Michele's fate hit Winston like a blow with a baseball bat, knocking all wind out of him. Good lord, what had she gotten herself into?
Just then the loud bang of a door getting smashed against a wall woke Winston from his frozen state. He grabbed his gun, ready to defend himself. The living-room door burst open. Three men in black uniforms stormed in. Thank God Winston looked properly instead of opening fire immediately – the men were cops.
"FREEZE! DROP YOUR GUN! SLOWLY! DROP IT!"
Only now Winston realized what the cops were seeing: A huge armed black man right next to a bloody heap that barely resembled a human body. And blood of said heap all over the black men's clothes, hands, face. He lowered his gun to the floor, then went down on his knees, hands behind his neck. This was not up for debate, they wouldn't listen to him as long as they couldn't be absolutely sure he posed no threat anymore.
You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at interrogation time and in court.
"Let me explain…" Winston tried to interrupt.
… … …
Back in the warehouse, the ruckus that had erupted once Winston's disappearance had been detected, had woken Ash from a really bad dream. For a while he lay in the dark, listened to Ilsa's panicky apologies, Ames' attempts to calm her, his father's soothing voice and Guerrero's curt suggestions what to do next. He couldn't understand everything, apparently they decided to go looking for him, the elevator dinged…. Ash really didn't want to go back to sleep. He rolled out of bed and padded down the stairs, into the kitchen. Carmine lay snoring in front of the oven, as it was still warm from some food Ilsa must have heated before discovering that Winston was gone.
Ah yes, some sort of vegetable bake. Ash's stomach rumbled, but he wasn't sure if he could eat something. In the end he settled for a glass of water. It was too late in the night to call Isu. But if he didn't talk to someone soon… Ash felt as if he was going to explode. His father knew something was up and he had offered to talk earlier… But Ash remembered very well how his father had reacted, last time the issue of guns had come up. In the light of what had happened on the wrecking yard... He'd probably kill him.
Maybe he should call his grandfather…
"Sleeping trouble?", a voice behind him suddenly said.
Ash jumped. "I thought you were gone, looking for Winston."
"We've got no clue whatsoever where he went. Guerrero and Ames are checking out a couple of contacts, Ilsa is pacing a path into her office floor… I'll hold the fort." Chance rested his eyes on his son. "Ash…"
His voice was calm, and there was something about his tone… Ash bit his lip. His stomach knotted up and his knees threatened to buckle, but there was also this feeling that he could… maybe he wouldn't kill him after all? And punishment... no TV, no dates, no ice-hockey... he deserved that anyway, didn't he? He took a deep breath, made eye-contact with his father...
The telephone rang. A second later Ilsa called from her office. Both Ash and Chance knew immediately, whatever she had to say, it was not good news.