Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
"This might be a stupid question, but if he was framed, wouldn't it be better to prove his innocence instead of just breaking him out of prison and thus making him a fugitive?", Ames asked, tugging at her turquoise ladies' suit. The skirt just didn't fit right.
"Caracas is the deadliest capital in the world, with roughly one murder every hour. Armed assaults and robberies are a part of normal, everyday life. No neighborhood is safe. Poorly-paid and corrupt law enforcers, inefficient politicized judiciary, a violent and overcrowded prison system, overworked prosecutors and about 15 million illegal weapons in the wrong hands… in that kind of country you can be a Vatican-approved saint and they still lock you away if the right people want you behind bars. No chance to play that nicely, Ames."
Chance reached out, took hold of the hem of her skirt and pulled lightly, once. Suddenly it fit perfectly.
"But there's an extradition treaty between Venezuela and the States. He'll become a fugitive here, too. He gets stopped for speeding and they put him in the next plane back to Caracas. Murder is listed as one of the crimes that warrant an extradition."
Chance looked at her, then let his mouth fall open in mock surprise. She lightly slapped him.
"What? You said I was going to pose as a prosecutor, so I did some research on Venezuelan law!"
Once again Chance couldn't help but think how much she had grown in the past few years. In the beginning she had been street-smart and good at manipulating people. By now that manipulative side of her had almost completely disappeared. She only used it during jobs, when dealing with thugs. At home, he couldn't have trusted her more.
Chance almost gave a start when he realized that he had just called the warehouse his and Ames' home. Good Lord, what had become of the "We're just friends"-resolution? Apparently having no sex with her wasn't enough to keep her out of his heart. His stomach tightening at the possible consequences of that, he quickly concentrated on the matter at hand.
"Aaron apparently learned something from the Russian embassy ordeal. He entered the county with a fake ID. Thanks to Venezuela's inept judicial system so far nobody found out. You'll present transfer papers for him and one, two, three we'll be on our way back to San Francisco."
Now Ames was giving him a long, mocking look.
"What?"
"Chance, your plans never work out the way they're supposed to."
They both laughed.
… … …
A couple of hours later, when Ames was stopped right outside the prison by half a dozen armed guards with very real loaded guns and a real prosecutor who knew Aaron's real name, she felt a lot less amused.
"Let's get back inside", the prosecutor said in false politeness.
Aaron looked at Ames, waiting for some sort of indication what to do next. He was expecting guidance.
Yeah, and she would gladly give it.
If she only knew how.
Goddamn it, Chance! One, two, three? What are we going to do now? If they lead us back into that prison we're trapped! Overcrowded or not, you'll need a tank to get in there. What THE HELL are we going to do now?
This situation wasn't really his fault. But looking at machine gun muzzles can make you unreasonably angry at the first person that's available. And since Aaron was staring at her with a deer-caught-in-headlights expression… As Winston had demonstrated quite excessively lately, blaming Chance was easy.
She had lost radio contact to him when she had walked into that prison to present the transfer papers – too much radio traffic from the prison guards' old-fashioned walkie-talkies.
Did Chance know what was going on? Was he already taking steps to bail them out? She had little means to guess what he would do, but one thing she was quite sure of, whatever he was planning – if he was planning something – it required them to stay out of that building.
So, hoping she was acting more or less in accordance with whatever crazy plan he was – hopefully – concocting she took a step forward, pretended to be tripping over something, dragged Aaron down with her, cried over her heel coming off in Spanish and all in all created a turmoil that hopefully would provide Chance with the opportunity to…
The hair raising sound of screeching tires, coming at least from three sides, told her that yes, Chance was seizing the opportunity.
Or was he?
Dozens of people jumped out of the six cars that had stopped right in front of the prison – all young men between sixteen and twenty-five, at the most. Judging from their clothing, they belonged to different street gangs.
Much to Ames', the prosecutor's, the guards' and of course Aaron's shock, the gang members started shooting at each other.
Most guards and the prosecutor were way too stunned and had their attention turned to the sudden battle on the street to waste any thought on their newly taken prisoners. Inside the prison someone had set the alarm off, guards were streaming out the entrance, heavily armed.
Only one guard of the prosecutor's lot apparently wasn't willing to allow the turmoil to make him neglect his duty. He pointed his machine gun straight at the fallen Aaron and Ames, motioned them to get up and directed them towards the entrance.
The prosecutor saw him taking care of the fake prosecutor and the wannabe jailbreaker and nodded in appreciation. He liked men who were proactive and took their job seriously. Maybe he could promote this one.
With a wave of his gun, the guard made the two walk towards the prison door. Once they stepped over the threshold, everything would be lost.
Then Ames caught a glimpse of the face half-hidden underneath the butterscotch colored uniform cap and saw bright blue eyes gleaming at her.
Pretty much at that very moment the prosecutor noticed that his future officer of the month was wearing shoes that were way too good for an underpaid prison guard.
"ALTO!", he yelled.
"RUN!" Chance yelled, creating covering fire for Ames and Aaron.
He had parked their getaway car in a side street and left it in the custody of a couple of street kids. Tossing money at them he jumped behind the steering wheel. "Get me Ilsa on the phone!"
Ames hectically started punching numbers into his cell.
"You think it's wise, making a telephone call and driving?", Aaron timidly asked from the backseat.
Chance took a sharp left turn, accelerated once more and turned right.
"Yeah, might get a ticket for that", Chance replied, taking a sharp left turn. Then he accelerated once more and shot straight forward.
"Maybe we should all fasten our seatbelts, there are steep fines on that, too!" He raced through a narrow opening between a donkey cart and a at least sixty-year-old truck laden with live chicken, barely missing a huge palm tree on the street corner.
"Chance, is that you?", Ilsa asked. Ames had put her on speaker.
"Tell me the jet's ready and on the way. We need to get out asap and I don't think we can stick around for some last-minute special offer!"
Ilsa's answer came with a suspicious delay. Maybe it was the bad connection.
"I'm working on it…"
"Well, you better get going, we'll need transportation in two hours tops!" Chance made a u-turn, brought the car to an abrupt halt and motioned them all to hurry from the vehicle into a narrow side street. An old buddy of his had a bar not far from here where they could maybe hide for a while.
If they paid him well enough.
… … …
Meanwhile in San Francisco, Ilsa was facing some serious challenges of her own: "Seriously, Rummy, you still owe me money from that poker game. Gambling debts are debts of honor, remember? Yes, I know she will ask questions if you withdraw such a huge amount of money at once… I'm also very well aware of the fact that she isn't supposed to know about that little game of ours. But I've got a very simple solution for that…"
Ilsa put forward her proposal.
Of course it was met with outright rejection.
Time to tighten the reins… "I'm sure you remember she and I are members of the same society for the preservation of antique roses, don't you? If I got my appointments right, there's this annual meeting next week. I'm really looking forward to a nice chat with her, over a cup of tea or two…"
Predictably her announcement wasn't exactly well-received.
"Veiled threat? That sounded like a veiled threat to you? Rummy! I'd never do that kind of thing… I just pointed out…"
Guerrero, who was listening in to the whole conversation, nodded appreciatively while hacking away at the layers of Innokentij's online network. So far he hadn't made it in terribly deep. This Russian dude was really good.
Grumbling on the other end of the line, then Ilsa broke into a triumphant smile.
"You know, Rummy, I'm sure those business friends of yours won't mind enjoying the luxurious side of South America a little longer. Thank you for turning your jet around and sending it to Caracas. Unfortunately I don't think I'll make it to the society meeting next week. Give her my regards, will you?"
Letting out a deep sigh of relief, Ilsa put down the phone.
… … …
"So what are we going to do now?" Ames was pacing up and down the room round and round Chance's former buddy on the floor who had attempted to strike a little extra bargain by ratting them out after all. Well, Chance had intercepted it just in time and now he was enjoying a very close view of the dirty tiles in his storage room.
"They know Aaron's real name. He'll become a fugitive after all…"
"I've got rather interesting information on the real use of US development aid down in the south of the country", Aaron cautiously explained. "I guess that's why they're after me. And if it's so important to them, it'll probably be important to our government, too?"
Chance nodded. "That'll do it. We've got a contact in the department of justice who might help…"
Aaron gave Chance's former buddy on the floor an ostentatious look. Chance understood.
"More precisely, Guerrero's got dirt on him."
In the light of the latest developments involving a certain bundle on the floor, not only Aaron felt reassured by that clarification. Ames nodded in appreciation, too.
"So where did you stash the information?", she asked Aaron.
It turned out he had hidden it at the airport.
Well done, Aaron… Now all they needed was to retrieve it an then get into whatever transportation Ilsa had arranged for them.
Shouldn't be too difficult, should it?
… … …
Predictably, the Venezuelan police was closing in on them – rapidly – when they had finally managed to get the flash drive with Aaron's story.
Time to create a diversion…
Ames however, was not happy at all with Chance's plan.
"No!", she yelled at him, over the noise of machine guns being fired. "You're not going to fly off with this deathtrap alone!"
Chance's idea was to make the officers believe they were all three fleeing with a small, twin-engined aircraft not unlike the one Guerrero and Winston had hijacked in the Andes, while in reality, only he was taking off with it, while the others would use the impressive jet Ilsa had sent.
"You are right, Ames - it IS a deathtrap!", Chance yelled back at her.
"I'd rather crash with you than live without you!"
Her voice, her face… suddenly Chance felt like being back at the Loch in Scotland. He just couldn't push her back. Not again.
"Get in!", he shouted.
And off they went.