Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
"What THE HELL do you mean, he left?" Winston couldn't believe it. He was stomping in small circles around the table with the radio equipment, getting more and more angry by the minute. "He cannot just leave! He's got an appointment! He's supposed to meet the contact!"
"Stop yelling at her, dude. She is going to meet the contact now and for that she needs her hearing."
In different times, with a regular client's life at stake, Winston would have, at least secretly, agreed with Guerrero's reasoning. But with Michele's life on the line, this was a completely different game. He was familiar with Chance's antics, had been on the enduring end of them more than once, but this time… this time… Not tolerable. Not at all.
"I'm sure he had his reasons", Ilsa tried to calm the waters.
"He saw someone… something… I'm not sure…" Ames' voice was barely audible, the microphone was picking up too many side noises – people laughing, children screaming, the music from the carousel… Apparently she was making her way through the crowd right now.
"Don't tell me he spotted some damsel in distress!" Winston was far from placated.
"Trust him." Ilsa put a hand on his arm. "You know he always has some sort of game plan. Most likely a completely crazy one, but still. Whatever came up, it was surely of great urgency."
"And aside from that, I can talk to the contact just as well." Kidnapped ex-wife or not, Winston was getting on Ames' nerves. Mightily. How many years again were they working together? And now that suddenly someone important to him personally was involved he had no faith in her abilities anymore? Thank you very much, cop.
"Stop being pissed and concentrate on your job." Guerrero's voice was strict, no-nonsense. If he was irritated by any of this, he didn't show it.
"Problem is the contact expects Chance, not you. He won't give you much time to explain yourself. He's good with knives."
"Jeez, this is getting better and better." Ames was still upset with Winston's lack of trust into her.
"What did I say about being pissed and concentration, dude?"
There was something about his voice that made Ames take a deep breath and concentrate indeed… a tinge of hardness that reminded her of fishing hooks, fingernails, kneecaps and desperate pleading. They were teammates now, but that wouldn't stop him if he felt the need to teach her something.
Thanks but no thanks.
She could really do without a lesson from Guerrero today.
The contact was still in sight. He was heading towards the more industrial parts of the area, where actual fishing boats still landed and fresh fish was prepared for sale at restaurants, markets, shops. Here the crowds were substantially thinner, especially since the tourists were all heading in the opposite direction, towards the attractions of the more appealing premises around Pier 39.
"We're heading towards something that looks like a cannery… can't really make out the name… Ah. Dobster's…", Ames informed the rest of the team.
"You still got eyes on the contact?" Winston's impatient voice.
"I see him just fine." The man was leading her into the inner yard of the cannery, out of earshot from any potential witnesses.
"Anyone following you?"
"You think I'm an idiot?" Ames really had to pull herself together not to shout back. This would have looked really interesting to any coincidental or not so coincidental onlooker. She had checked and double-checked her surroundings. There was no one on her tail. Her instincts were quite sharp and she was proud of that!
The contact disappeared around another corner of the cannery which apparently only worked nightshifts. Made sense, fishing boats usually returned in the early morning hours. Since it was now early afternoon, the place was completely deserted.
Granted, there should have been a watchman around, but apparently he was busy elsewhere. In hindsight that particular detail should have given Ames some thought, but at that very moment she was preoccupied with more urgent problems. On top of the list with the question of how to identify herself to the contact before he went ahead and cut her into handy little pieces.
Guerrero characterizing someone as "good with knives"? That was definitely saying something.
That problem, however solved itself, at least sort of, when suddenly muffled shots rang through the eerie stillness of the factory's premises.
"What was that? What the hell was that?" No one bothered to tell Winston to shut up. Ilsa simply smacked his arm with her hand.
"Ames? That sounded like gunshots…", she asked cautiously, which earned her a roll of the eyes from Guerrero. That sounded like gunshots? Seriously, that WERE gunshots.
Someone must have calculated where the contact had been heading, maybe even had put a tracker on him… "Get the hell out of there, dude." He signaled for the others to pack up and get downstairs – FAST.
"She needs to check if the contact is still alive!", Winston thundered.
Ilsa looked at Winston, hesitated, then: "Run, Ames."
I'm sorry said the expression on her face, but Winston didn't care.
Ames, however, was already running. But not back towards the busy pier where she could have disappeared in the crowds. If she went off the premises the same way she went in, she'd be an easy target for any half-way practiced marksman. Too few options for cover. Damn it!
She looked around, but hiding here, in this small inner yard with nothing more than a couple of empty cardboxes, wasn't possible either. Footsteps quickly advancing towards her in the end left her no choice. She quickly produced the bobby pin she always carried with her and picked the lock of one of the cannery buildings. Somewhere in the distance a seagull cried and for whatever reason, that particular sound sent a painfully freezing shiver down her spine.
Just in time Ames managed to slip into what from the outside had looked like a huge storehouse. Once inside, however, she found herself in a tiny room apparently some sort of antechamber leading to the cold storage unit. Oh great, now she was really caught, especially since the moving doorknob told her the contact's shooter was still hot on her trail.
"Entering the cold storage unit", Ames told the team. "Maybe the temperature will affect his gun…" A faint hope, but there was the chance it bought the team enough time to rush for the rescue. Guerrero, Winston and Ilsa were already in the van, racing down Van Ness.
The cold storage unit was of gigantic proportions. And it was cold. Ames' teeth immediately started chattering. If she stayed in here more than a few minutes, she'd freeze to death. Too late she realized that all the attacker needed to do was somehow block the door…
…but thank God he apparently wasn't of the think-through kind of killer. He followed her into the unit, gun at the ready. Only now she finally got a full view of him. Good lord, he was huge! And unfortunately, again Ames found herself in a place that offered little cover. Only a few gutted Marlins and Swordfish on hooks and tables. Maybe a restaurant had placed an order and then, for whatever reason, not claimed them. Restaurants going bankrupt was no rare occurrence in San Francisco.
Ames ran to the back of the unit. Her earpiece was completely silent. Most likely the extra isolation of the storehouse kept the radio waves out. She was all on her own… at least for the next few minutes…
A bullet whizzed past her ear, hit a frozen Marlin, ricocheted, produced a loud, metallic BANG.
"Oh no", Ames thought, fleetingly, because she was still running and looking for cover at the same time "please tell me that wasn't the door lock mechanism. If he shot the electric door lock…"
But that was a secondary problem, compared to the more urgent one of being under fire. He kept shooting, one bullet grazed her arm, another her thigh, he was driving her into a corner, he advanced on her…
CLACK-CRACK.
The characteristic sound of a slide jamming up. Yes! The cold HAD affected the gun! Unfortunately that only momentarily slowed the thug down. He looked like he was good with knives, too, and now that he wasn't firing at her anymore, he advanced even faster. Ames stumbled backwards between two tables although she knew that it was useless, that her back would hit the wall any minute…
To top it all off, she lost her footing on the uneven unit floor. Maybe the gunman misinterpreted her fall as some sort of escape attempt, maybe he realized she was in the most vulnerable position possible, anyway he lunged forward the same time she fell backwards.
Grabbing the air desperately for some support, any support, Ames' hand hit the table and knocked it down – which sent the gutted Swordfish that had been placed upon it, probably for further processing, crashing down to the ground with her.
Up to one-third of the length of a Swordfish may be taken up by its, well, "sword" – a sharp, flattened extension of the upper jaw, made of bone that the fish uses like a spear to break up groups of other fish and go after the intended prey.
Let's just say the attacker fell unluckily.
It took Ames a moment to realize she was now dealing with thug en brochette instead of thug out-to- kill her, but only a very brief moment. Then she rolled his dead carcass off her and started undressing him. She needed to keep warm till the others got her out of here and he wore a flannel shirt.