Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
~ four ~
Chance decided to start with paperclips. He linked them all together, creating a long chain. Then he used the stapler to arrange the chain into a spiral and attach it to a piece of cardboard ripped off a folder.
Not bad. Maybe he should have become an artist.
He did basically the same with about two dozen rubber bands – tied them into a long chain and then stapled them to the cardboard in a spiral matching the first one.
Yeah. Definitely Museum of Modern Art material.
With the help of adhesive tape Chance created a grid to cover the spirals.
Now a bit of color with the help of a few highlighters…
Hm, maybe the eraser into the center? Upright? Like a small tower?
Chance was sure he had seen some glue lying about…
Pushpins. Lots of pushpins….
Very pretty… Now, with a bit of toner poured along the spiral lines he could set the whole thing on fire…
Theoretically the grid should melt first, then the rubber bands… the cardboard last… Or would the toner soak the paper so completely that it would go up in flames and engulf everything in one mighty blaze?
Definitely worth to try and find out…
"No offense, but are you bored?" Marybeth Tucker, their client, frowned and gave him a questioning look, startling him from his musings.
"It's a professional death retardant specialist thing", Chance told her with a wink and a reassuring smile.
"I still find it difficult to accept that there is actually someone out there to kill me…", she said.
Truth to be told, Chance found that difficult to accept, too. Marybeth Tucker was pretty much the most harmless, most non-provocative, most – yeah, well – BORING person he had ever met. She was a linguist. She spent her life counting prefixes and suffixes and writing long essays about the results. For the life of his, Chance couldn't think of a less hazard-free occupation.
But her name had cropped up during an interrogation. A suspect in a drug case had tried getting a deal with the DA and claimed somebody had put out a hit on her. He had had nothing for them to go on, neither the name of the person who wanted her dead nor an idea what she had done to provoke such a radical measure.
What was SFPD supposed to do? Provide her with 24/7 personal protection? Because a snitch had tried to save his own skin with some wild rumors?
Not an option with the city's newest budget cuts. There was just not enough to go on to justify a full-fledged investigation. Not when they had their hands full with real bodies filling up the morgue. A new gang war had broken out about two weeks ago and keeping that quiet from the tourists had top priority at the moment.
But the officer who had taken the statement from the suspect called Winston and Winston had decided it sounded like something that fell into their remit. Philippa's funeral had gone down a week ago, Ash was still silent and refusing to see a doctor of any kind, but at least he was going to school again. They had a deal – as long as he went to school, his grades remained steady and his teachers' didn't report any problems they'd believe him that he was able to deal with the situation on his own. Marybeth Tucker's case sounded well-suited to slowly get back to normal again – she was not terminally ill, she didn't seem to be involved in any kind of mafia or agency activities… they'd do it the old-fashioned way, make her appear vulnerable, lure out the threat and eliminate it.
Thus Chance was stuck with watching Marybeth Tucker count her prefixes and suffixes.
And yes, he was bored to death.
They were practically presenting her on a silver tray and nothing, NOTHING was happening. What Chance needed right now, after all that mourning, talking, thinking, discussing of the past few weeks were a couple of explosions… a car chase… a shootout… maybe he should set the cardboard on fire after all… There was a box of matches on the windowsill.
"You still there?" Winston's voice over the earpiece.
"Tell me you found something. Anything."
"Don't you think getting bored on the job just because nobody is pointing a gun at you is a tad bit unprofessional?" Ames.
Chance smiled at Marybeth, walked to the far end of the room and turned a little away from her. "I'm close to trying to kill her myself just so one of you can stop me and we can have a decent confrontation", he whispered.
Ames laughed. The first time he had heard her laugh in weeks.
"It indeed doesn't look as if Ms. Tucker is in immediate danger… maybe the police's assumption is correct and the information was the result of a man desperately trying to escape the three strikes and you're out regulation…", Ilsa mused. With Ash in school they didn't need anyone staying back at the HQ all times. Apparently they had all decided to enjoy their renewed freedom by crowding the van.
"Is it just me or are you bored, too?", Chance asked.
"I could hire someone to attack you…", Ilsa replied thoughtfully. "Maybe I could declare it as a team building exercise in the tax declaration… and get extra funding from the board… I just need a euphemism for "assassin"…"
Ames started giggling and suddenly Ilsa couldn't hold back anymore, too.
Winston leaned back in his chair and watched the two women share a moment of long absent happiness. Only too well he remembered their faces at the funeral, Ames' tears, Ilsa's shaking shoulders… Guerrero by her side. Chance's hand on his son's shoulders.
Philippa was by no means forgotten, not at all – Guerrero's glaring absence spoke volumes. But they needed to move on.
To survive this, they needed to move on.
Not an easy lesson to teach Ash…
"Excuse me, Mr. Chance, would you mind putting those matches away?" Marybeth Tucker was looking a tiny bit concerned… yeah, well, alarmed… at the man who was claiming to be protecting her from a threat she still couldn't quite believe actually existed and all in all… was making her nervous.
Just then the fire alarm started to sound.
"Chance?", Winston asked.
"Not me…"
A fire alarm out of the blue, that just had to be the threat, FINALLY making a move.
Yes, he was a tiny bit jubilant.