Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
It took Winston a while to figure out he was staring at a ceiling. Well, granted, since his eyeballs were burning and his head felt twice its size, looking was not exactly a piece of cake task, so no surprise he needed a moment longer than he usually would have to realize he was gazing at a cellar's ceiling. The pungent smell of bleach, however, gave him the decisive clue to figure out which specific cellar's ceiling he was looking at.
Groaning, Winston tried to sit up, half expecting to find his hands and feet chained to the ground. Instead his fingers groped the scratchy fabric of a gray blanket. Squinting his eyes and groaning again because a major headache was setting in, he took a closer look. To his surprise he found himself placed on a creaky mattress with metal springs, a faded pillow on one end, apparently meant to support his head.
What the hell?
"Didn't want you to ruin my carpets, dude." Guerrero's voice, from the far end of the room. Way too loud and the echo from the bare walls didn't help either. "Tiles are easy to clean. My living-room rugs? Not so much."
"What in the world were you thinking, slipping me something?" Winston finally managed to sit up. The room spun, but Winston recognized it nevertheless. Guerrero's subterranean torture chamber.
"Didn't slip you anything, dude. You brought that all upon yourself. Barman at Louie's gave me a heads up that you were losing it."
"You've got people spying on me while I have a drink?"
Approaching footsteps from the other side of the room. Guerrero's face looming over him, arched eyebrow and all. The expression on his face was easy to read, even for still foggy-minded Winston: One drink, dude?
The rattling of metal on the floor made Winston turn his head. Too fast – ugh, his stomach turned, but apparently it was empty. All he did was heave drily a couple of times. By the time he was done, Guerrero was by his side, rubber gloves on his hands.
"What the…?" Before Winston had time to react, Guerrero grabbed his right arm, rolled the sleeve upwards, swabbed a bit of skin with a strongly chemically smelling piece of cotton and injected him with something.
Cursing, Winston tried to pull his arm away – a fruitless attempt, of course – and only then realized that this was not simply an injection, Guerrero had set up a drip infusion!
"Saline solution. You need to rehydrate."
Winston opened his mouth to protest and tried wriggling out of Guerrero's iron grip again.
"Pull that out, I'll use restraints." It was not a threat. It was a statement of fact.
Winston's stubbornness almost got the better of him and he was on the verge of trying it nevertheless, just to show that Guerrero had no say whatsoever about him, when Guerrero continued: "Got a name. Dude called Jennings hired Michele's kidnapping. You're gonna help me figure out the rest. With a couple more scraps of info, we should be able to triangulate his hideout."
A second later he needn't hold on to Winston's wrist anymore. Winston slowly sank back onto the mattress, hoping the solution would kick in fast.
Michele needed him. What had he been thinking?
Guerrero went upstairs to set his rarely used coffee machine in motion.
... ... ...
Ash had expected a WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN THINKING-tirade, a sermon about responsibility, some slamming of doors, heavy punishment and, of course, lots and lots of reproaches. He hadn't been looking forward to any of that. But this here was far worse. His parents were standing around, looking at him sitting on one of the dining-table chairs, and saying nothing, absolutely nothing.
The school board was going to expel him from school, for heaven's sake! Only a very generous donation of Ilsa's had saved his ass from a police investigation. Andrew's leg was broken in several places. Ash knew very well, if he had ever deserved to be shouted at, it was now. But his father and his mother were remaining silent, eyes full of disappointment. Had Guerrero taught them that?
Ash tried taking a deep breath and found it was impossible. His heart was beating so wildly in his chest and his stomach felt like a solid block of ice, there was just not enough room left to breathe properly.
Truth to be told, Chance and Philippa didn't know what to say. This was... unbelievable. The dog thing had been bordering on alarming, this here was... good lord, what was happening to their boy? Why was he pulling one idiot stunt after another? They were losing control, they, who kept control over situations as a way of life...
The doorbell rang and startled them from their shell shocked state of mind. Philippa went to see who had chosen this not exactly great moment to pay them a visit. A second later a rather shrill, very loud voice cut through the heavy-laden silence like a hot knife through butter. "Does Ashley Marx live here?"
Apparently Philippa must have made some sort of affirmative gesture, because a moment later someone came stomping towards the living-room with a momentum and determination that would have made Chance go for his gun, hadn't the voice obviously belonged to a young female person.
A young female person with red-blond corkscrew locks and lots of freckles, to be accurate. 13, 14 years old maybe. Ash had barely time to jump to his feet before she raised her hand and gave him a resounding slap.
"ASSHOLE!"
"My friend Christina here is the skating partner of Andrew Brandsny, whom your son pushed down the stairs", a second girl, maybe a little older than Christina, maybe she only seemed to be older, helpfully informed Chance and Philippa.
"YOU COST ME THE FINALS!" Another slap to Ash's face. Ash, still more or less stunned, stood and took it. Chance moved to interfere, but a glance from Philippa stopped him. He can take it.
"Christina and Andrew had qualified for one of the USA's most prestigious junior level figure-skating tournaments", the girl continued explaining. She had dark hair and exceptionally pale skin. Her black jeans and gray shirt didn't exactly help lighten up her appearance, but she wasn't unattractive. "Sinister" described her quite accurately.
"WE TRAINED FOR EIGHTEEN MONTHS, EIGHTEEN GODDAMN MONTHS!"
This time no slap for Ash. Christina's first wave of anger had subsided, shaking and trembling she was gathering strength for the second.
"And who are you?", Chance asked, for a moment lost in studying the second girl. There was something about her…he had never seen her, but still… "How did you two find Ash?" They all worked quite hard on keeping his son's address a secret.
"Triangulated it", the girl shrugged. "From his bus route, the shop his sandwiches come from and the time he needs to respond to entries on his facebook page after school. My name's Helen."
Christina was ready for the next round. This time, however, her voice was less loud. Instead tears ran down her face. "We worked so hard. This tournament would have meant so much. I want to be at the Olympics one day! You ruined it all."
"I'm sorry", Ash whispered. "I'm so sorry. If there's anything I can do…"
Christina snorted.
Helen, however, raised an eyebrow. "Well, now that you say it, you could stand in for Andrew…"
Everyone except Christina looked at her as if she was nuts. She showed not the slightest hint of caring.
"He's one of them ice-hockey studs. Best player in the team, according to the coach. In this tournament it's all about the lifts – the pair that gets them right, wins. He can skate, he's got bulk enough to carry your weight… he'll need a ton of training… a couple of hours a day… but the tournament is still several months away." She shrugged again.
Chance and Philippa looked at each other. Hmmm…
"Of course", Helen continued, "…it's a bit unlucky that the tournament takes place the same day the ice-hockey finals do. You wouldn't be able to take part in both."
Open-mouthed, Chance stared at Helen. Jeez, that was devious.
Glinting eyes, the girl smiled at Ash. "On the other hand, you did say you were sorry."
Christina looked at her best friend and started smiling, too. You really pulled it off.
"Well, it's all up to you, Ashley", Helen said. "How truly sorry are you?" She nodded to her friend and together they left the house. As she walked away Chance noticed she was limping.
It took a moment till Ash came to his senses again. "What am I supposed to do now?", he asked his parents.
Philippa looked at Chance. Chance slowly nodded in agreement.
"She already said it", she told her son. "It's up to you now. What is more important to you, ice-hockey or trying to make up for what you did?"