Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.

When Ash woke up the next morning the first thing he did was wonder why his head was hurting so badly. He also asked himself why he was in the warehouse – it was the middle of a school week, he was supposed to be at home, wasn't he?

Then he remembered.

… … …

Baptiste looked at his cell's display and frowned. Number suppressed. Maybe he should just ignore the call. He weighed the small, noisy device in his hand, trying to make up his mind. His gut told him it wouldn't be the last one. Pressing his lips together, he tapped his index finger against the phone screen.

"Hey, mate."

A voice he hadn't heard in a long time. And not missed at all.

Grimacing at Greta as if the call was just a ridiculous nuisance, Baptiste walked a couple of steps away from her. Of course she frowned in immediate suspicion. She knew him well.

"How did you get this number, dude?", he asked, voice lowered.

"Mate, it's me."

Baptiste sighed. Indeed, it was Guerrero…. stupid question. He let his eyes wander over the crystal blue ocean, the glimmering white sand of the beach, the palm trees, Greta's beautiful, barely bikini-covered body… he should have known this wouldn't last.

"Got a job for you", Guerrero said.

"I'm retired." Baptiste grimaced some more and waved at Greta. He could see she was getting more suspicious by the minute.

"Flawless hits were your specialty… Prime Minister of Argentina… Senator Stanton… Their deaths are still widely perceived as accidents. Nicely done, mate. I need something similar, just without the collateral damage. No crashed airplanes."

There was something underlying Guerrero's voice… Baptiste couldn't quite lay a finger on it.

"What is this about, dude?"

Guerrero told him.

Greta watched Baptiste's body language subtly change from annoyed and alert to angry and determined. Her stomach tightened. Something was up. Whatever had happened, it meant something to him. When he came walking back to her, his face had become an unreadable mask.

"I'll be away for a while."

She just knew asking for any additional information would be fruitless.

As Baptiste packed his bag, his cell rang again. Once more the number was suppressed. "Stop mithering me, will you?", he growled into the phone. "I AM on my way, mate."

"Good to hear", said the gravelly, slightly slurred voice on the other end of the line. Baptiste froze. The Old Man… He had never called before although he had left him his number.

"So you're packing", Joubert said as if they had last talked yesterday. "Coming out of retirement?"

Baptiste remained silent, not sure what to make out of the whole thing.

"B. Brax is quite the target. Need backup?"

… … …

After sitting by his son's bed on a hard chair all night, brooding, sipping at a glass of scotch, watching over his child's uneasy and often interrupted sleep, Chance had needed a breath of fresh air and climbed onto the warehouse's roof. When he came back, Ash was gone. Damn it, had he pretended to be asleep and waited till he was out the room? Not many people managed to trick Chance like that. Well, it had been a long night... where WAS he?

Chance found him in the gym section of the warehouse, pounding away at a sandbag with his bare fists. "There's a reason gloves were invented, you know?"

His son kept pounding the bag, hair a mess, face taut with anger. When Chance noticed crimson red traces on the white fabric, he had enough. With one fluent move he wrapped an arm around the sandbag and dragged it out of the way, causing Ash, suddenly hitting thin air, to topple over. Chance caught him with his other arm, let go of the bag and tried to hold onto his son, but he struggled.

"Ilsa convinced a specialist to make some room for you on his schedule. She set up an appointment this afternoon."

Finally the incredible anger Ash had felt surging through his veins all morning found a target - Ilsa and her damned money! What was she thinking, trying to fix everything with her credit card? Well, he had news for her, he didn't need her wealth, her connections and, for heaven's sake, her pity! This was NOTHING money could make right again!

"NO WAY!", he barked at his father.

"You need professional treatment." Even to his own ears, Chance sounded unconvincing. And of course Ash was quick to point it out...

"Says who?", he snarled, starting towards the door.

Chance caught him by the arm. Ash violently lashed out at him. Chance blocked the blow instinctively, but he didn't hit back. He could have easily brought him under control, with an armbar or a headlock, just to name the most obvious choices, but he felt as if he was paralyzed... as if those yibs were back he had suffered from in Brussels...

Ash fled into the showers.

Chance stared at the door his son had slammed shut behind him. He listened to the sound of the rushing water and shook his head in helpless frustration. Never had he felt so far out of his depth… he just didn't know what to do…

... ... ...

"I'm very sorry", Winston said again and tried once more to finish the telephone conversation he had been having for the past ten minutes. "I do understand the gravity of your situation Mrs Evensong, trust me, I do, but we're dealing with a personal tragedy ourselves... For the time being our business is closed... There are a couple of very competent people I can refer you to, though..."

"Case coming in?" Chance, suddenly standing in front of his desk, asked. He still wore the same facial expression he had shown all of yesterday. Winston knew it well. He had seen it a million times in the years before Ilsa's and Ames' arrival, when things slowly began to change... and hardly ever since Ash had shown up. Now it was back again.

Winston covered the receiver with his hand and shook his head. "You can't seriously..."

Ames, who had been listening from the sofa, came up behind him and put a hand on his arm.

"We're taking it", Chance said determinedly.