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

~ three ~

It wasn't a coincidence that "mob" referred to both, an angry crowd of people and a highly organized network of criminals. For once Chance and the team weren't faced with having to fight the latter. No Tony Belvilacqua, no Hugh Prentiss this time around… Just nameless faces, taut with rage.

Initially, an odd job had brought them to Greece, some trouble with Harry, a kidnapped poodle and an opera singer named Lise with a very theatric streak…

Just don't ask.

They had managed to free Harry from his prison before he drowned in …

Again, don't ask.

The poodle had been reunited with Lise, unshaved (!) and Lise herself, after a candlelight dinner with Winston – yes, Winston – actually pacified.

Back in San Francisco Ash was home alone… as alone as someone under Guerrero's watchful eyes could be. Thanks to his extracurricular activities Guerrero wasn't physically present at the office, but the boy was far from unprotected.

Nevertheless Chance was more than happy now that the job was done. Last time they had been out of the country they had lost Philippa. He still remembered vividly the agonizing helplessness he had experienced on the way back. A race against time and they had lost.

It seemed Ash was slowly learning to deal with the situation. No behavioral problems at school, his grades were okay… Helen seemed to be good for him.

Yes, they allowed her to visit regularly.

Ilsa's jet was already waiting. They could have ignored the smoke billowing heavenwards from Athens' financial district in throwing distance of the Acropolis. But after one week in Greece they had seen enough of the country's state to hesitate.

Greece was a nation in deep crisis.

Oddly enough the word "crisis" derived from Ancient Greek κρίσις krísis - it was as if it had now come home to dwell permanently where its roots lay. While trying to retrieve the goddamn poodle, Chance and the others had talked to lots and lots of people... and they had gotten to hear the same heartbreaking stories over and over again. The kidnapper himself, a middle-aged man with spectacles and shaking fingers had been so deeply affected by the current state of his country's economy that he hadn't seen another way - he had turned to crime to feed his family.

"What was I supposed to do? In the past two years the government raised taxes on the one hand and slashed pensions and state salaries on the other! I've got eight hundred Euros less each month now! My parents are scraping by with cuts of over four hundred Euros a month. Only last week the government announced they would put 30.000 workers on reduced pay... everybody knows it's just foreplay to layoffs later! And more pension cuts for nearly half a million public-sector retirees!"

In addition to all that the government had also introduced a new tax on private property. The house the kidnapper lived in with his wife, three kids and his parents was all they had left. The new tax would cost them two thousand Euros a year, money they simply didn't have, especially not with the costs of living dramatically rising. The kidnapper, as the property owner, had been looking at jail time prior to the taking of the poodle.

They hadn't reported him to the police.

And they had "accidentally" left the ransom in his possession. Ilsa later compensated the opera singer.

That night, however, Chance had found her crying on the balcony of the hotel room right next to his and Ames'.

"These people are falling into an abyss... they're slowly drowning... unemployment, complete devaluation of savings, breakdown of all public services... this country is sinking into chaos and with all my money, there's nothing I can do!"

Chance had climbed from his balcony to hers with one fluid motion and had taken her into his arms, knowing that she was experiencing the same helplessness that he had felt regarding Ash on that fateful flight back to San Francisco. Ilsa could be a tough boss and demanded effort and dedication from her employees, but she also cared about people. The horrible damages to the cities of the East Coast after it had been hit by that horrendous hurricane had broken her heart, but back then the Marshall Pucci Foundation had at least been able to help.

This time around the problem was much more deeply rooted. For decades tax evasion, corruption and a blown way out of proportion bureaucracy had weakened the country like termites working their way through a wooden building, slowly but thoroughly. When in addition to those structural flaws greedy bank investments with securities that weren't worth the paper they were printed on had blown up into the bankers' faces the whole thing had come down like a house of cards in an earthquake.

No death retardant specialist could help here, no motley crew of (half-) reformed criminals… theoretically this was what politics were invented for, this should have been the hour of the politicians, determined to find a solution through well thought out measures, careful negotiations and deep dedication to their cause.

Unfortunately they much more made the impression of a bunch of headless chickens, running around madly, than of knowledgeable leaders with the best interest of the people they were supposed to represent in mind.

Thanks to their hectic and blind activism public services, among other things, were reduced to a minimum by now. So when Chance and the others saw the smoke obscuring the view of the Acropolis, they couldn't just keep on driving to the airport and leave. They knew only too well that most likely three quarters of Athens' fire trucks weren't ready for a run, be it due to disrepair or simply lack of fuel.

And that smoke looked like it was coming from a damn big fire…

The driver of the limousine Ilsa had rented initially refused to bring them to the financial district. A monetary bonus quickly changed his mind, though.

When they arrived at the market place that represented the center of the district, surrounded by all the big banks, they knew why their driver had been so scared. The area was packed with people.

Angry, stone-throwing, club swinging people.

And they had set one of the banks on fire.