Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
"Ames is fine." Winston started heading towards the direction where they suspected the contact had been shot.
"Excuse me?" Ames' indignant voice via earpiece. "I'm stuck in a goddamn freezer, how dare you say I'm fine?"
"Your attacker is dead. You're clothed sufficiently. A few more minutes won't matter."
"It is COLD in here! I've got two grazers! And the contact is just as dead!" Ames' chattering teeth could be clearly heard over the microphone.
"Maybe he's only wounded! It's not like you checked properly, is it?", Winston yelled, already rounding the corner towards the man on the ground.
"I'm terribly sorry" Ames' voice was dripping with irony "but I was busy not getting killed!"
Guerrero instructed Ilsa with a nod to follow Winston, while he headed towards the warehouse to free Ames.
When Ilsa rounded the corner, she was faced with a heartbreaking sight. Winston, crouched next to the slumped body of a skinny man who had to be their contact. He had a large chest wound and half of his face was missing. Close range shot.
Yes, he was dead.
"Why wasn't he here? Why the hell wasn't he here?", Winston muttered barely audible, staring at the body in utter desperation.
"Chance wouldn't have been able to protect him either", Ilsa cautiously protested.
Winston snorted dismissively.
… … …
"Seriously, you have no sense of rhythm at all. Every young man should be able to go dancing with a girl. But of course, with what you children call music nowadays, it's no surprise you've got all the grace of an elephant."
Ash couldn't help but think that getting constantly dressed down by Christina's ice-skating coach wasn't exactly supporting his learning progress. If Christina was a chick from hell than her coach was coming from the arctic part of it.
Actually Miss Matsumoto was from Japan, a petite woman in her fifties that combined the humor of a tax inspector with the determination of Carmine smelling a treat and the attitude of a deep sea moray eel. Ash secretly suspected she was one of those Japanese demons in human form they kept mentioning in the anime movies Isamu loved so much.
Isu had even told him the name of a quite fitting one… Ohaguro-bettari, if Ash wasn't completely mistaken. A woman that turns to reveal a face with only a blackened mouth…
At the moment Miss Matsumoto was skating right next to Ash and Christina, holding a bamboo stick she wasn't shy to use whenever Ash fell out of rhythm. Not a rare occurrence, he was still struggling with the damn toepicks. At least he wasn't landing flat on his ass all the time anymore. Unfortunately "staying upright and not breaking anything" was no category when it came to points in that darn competition.
Of course she had promised to give him only light taps, but apparently her and his definition of "light" significantly differed. At the end of the lesson Ash felt totally exhausted. Never ever had he been so down, physically and mentally, after an ice-hockey game. Feeling dizzy, he sank down on the bench in the locker room.
"Aww, was the poor puppy beaten with a newspaper cause he didn't learn to give paw fast enough?" Ash looked up to see Helen leaning in the doorway.
"This is the boys' locker", Ash snarled at her.
Unfazed, Helen crossed the doorstep and walked in. She was still limping, just like she had when he had met her the first time. Seemed to be something chronic.
"You're feeling quite sorry for yourself, aren't you? You're trying so hard and all you get in return is yelling."
"Your friend is in the locker down the hall. I'm sure she could use help sharpening her horns or cutting her hooves", Ash spat.
"Shocking realization, huh?" Helen intruded his personal space now, bent down to Ash's sitting form, bringing her face into touching distance with his "This is about a little more than simply learning how to skate to music."
"Don't you dare give me an "actions and consequences"-sermon. Whatever I do has consequences and being a man means drinking what you brewed."
Helen straightened herself up again, eyebrows questioningly raised. "Who told you that?"
"Mom and Dad."
"Very insightful. You sure you're their kid? They seem so much more reasonable than you."
For a reason not quite clear to Ash, that last comment made him incredibly angry. Now, he was not stupid. The Andrew-staircase-incident had taught him to THINK before lashing out at someone, so he did not push Helen backwards against the next wall, which was what he felt like doing. Instead he threw his skates all across the room.
"I am going to take part in that damn tournament!", he shouted at her.
Helen smiled. "All I wanted to hear." And off she went, out the door, out of sight, like some goddamn ghost.
And not the Caspar kind.
… … …
"It was so predictable! Most ambushes happen in fringe areas between busy and deserted places and you walked right into the perfect spot!" Winston was shouting so loud, Carmine had deserted his blanket and taken refuge in the conference room.
"The contact LED me there!", Ames snarled back, then hissed. "Ilsa, this antiseptic solution works just as well with half the amount."
"I'm sorry", Ilsa apologized quickly, "I thought better safe than sorry…"
"You should have foreseen this! What the hell have you been doing the last few years? Haven't you learned a thing?"
Ames opened her mouth to retort, but at the same moment Ilsa brushed her cotton ball against a particularly sensitive part of the wound and all she managed was a wince.
"Stop tearing into her, dude. She proved tactical thinking by retreating into the cold room, knowing it would affect the killer's weapon. Using the swordfish to impale him wasn't bad either…"
"MICHELE IS MISSING! WE'VE GOT NO MEANS TO FIND HER THANKS TO THAT NO GOOD THIEF AND MY SO-CALLED FRIEND!"
Open physical confrontation was not Guerrero's preferred strategy in conflicts. They were so many more subtle options out there and the best fight was always the one that never happened. But that night things were different – Chance was MIA, they had almost lost Ames, Winston's behavior was becoming increasingly intolerable for weeks now…
"I said stop it, Dude." Guerrero walked over to Winston and positioned himself right in front of him.
Winston read the maneuver exactly like it was meant – dominant and provocative.
"When have I ever taken orders from you?", he thundered and attempted to push Guerrero backwards. Guerrero, however, ducked the blow and attacked Winston's knees with a leg sweeper. Winston went down, not so much from pain than a purely physical reaction – kick the back of the knee with enough force and the knee bends.
Adrenaline is a great pain killer. At the moment neither man was feeling the effects of what they were doing to each other. It also seriously reduces your ability to think clearly, provides you with tunnel vision and basically turns you into a troglodyte. Ames and Ilsa, who had taken refuge in the lobby, could only agree with that.
In toppling over Winston managed to headbutt Guerrero into the stomach.
They both crashed into the kitchen table, scrambled to their feet again, another headbutt attempt from Winston that he sidestepped this time, but not completely. In falling past him, Winston grabbed his waist. Down they went once more…
Ice-cold water washed over them.
Ames and Ilsa had not been idle and filled two buckets in the office's bathroom.
A couple of minutes later the combatants were sitting next to each other around the now significantly tilting kitchen table, with Ilsa applying more antiseptic solution. "This cut looks deep", she told Guerrero, eyeing a slash on his forearm. "Maybe I should stitch it?"
Strangers would have missed it, but Ames noticed the brief twitch of Guerrero's eyebrows, and so did Winston. They knew immediately he remembered what Ilsa had done to Chance with a needle during the spaceship sect job. Afterwards Dr. Grace had told Ilsa to apply for a position at the slaughter house.
"Uh, Ilsa, there's some horrible pain on my back", Winston groaned and turned so that Ilsa had to turn around, too, to take a look at it. Ames quickly handed Guerrero the field kit and in no time he had stitched up the wound himself while Winston put on a show to keep Ilsa's focus on his ribcage.
Over his shoulder, however, he glanced at Guerrero and Guerrero met his eyes. They both nodded slowly.