Disclaimer: I don't own Human Target and intend no copyright infringement.
~ one ~
They buried Joubert in New York. He had bought a mausoleum there ages ago. Trust the Old Man to make sure it reflected the kind of person he had been. His tomb was a 100-year-old Greek Revival building in shining white granite with a dome, Corinthian pillars complete with acanthus leaves and a vast flight of stairs leading inside, where walls and floor were clad with top quality marble. Dim light filtered through a custom-made window by a famous 19th century artist depicting a peaceful landscape probably somewhere in Italy. Victor Joubert had always been a man of classical taste, be it in Scotch or architecture.
After a long and fierce debate with his father Ash had pushed his attendance at his grandfather's funeral through. Chance had insisted that the boy had already been to one burial not too long ago, he definitely didn't need to witness another and have all the barely closed wounds Philippa's death had torn reopened.
"I will go to New York and you won't stop me!", his son had yelled at him, slamming doors, retreating to the gym and boxing sandbags.
"You can't save him from the pain, bro", Guerrero had told Chance and in the end he had agreed. There was no way he could spare Ash from having to experience everything all over again, the loss, the emptiness, the helplessness… the grief.
Grief.
When the news came in, Chance had sat down and poured himself a very generous amount of Scotch. And then another. And another. At some point, Guerrero came by and joined him. Wordlessly they proceeded to empty the bottle. Later Winston showed up with food, made them down a bit of water in between the alcohol and tucked them in when they both finally passed out.
Ames and Ilsa spent that evening at Ilsa's apartment, waiting for occasional sitreps from Winston via text message, picking their way through a delivery from Ilsa's favorite restaurant and wondering what consequences Joubert's demise would have… for both father and son. Chance could deny it as much as he wanted, the Old Man had been family to him, no matter how twisted the relationship. And Ash… he had lost his grandfather.
When Chance had told Ash he could go to New York after all, Ash had angrily grabbed his gear and stomped out of the warehouse's gym. "Thank you for your permission!", he had spat.
This was all not good, not good at all.
… … …
Ash would have rather bitten his tongue off than admit it, but part of him wished his father had put his foot down and not permitted him to go to New York.
This was horrible. The moment they carried the coffin into the mausoleum… but even worse was the closing of the bronze door, just a muffled metallic thud… but to Ash's ears a sound of thunder in its absolute finality.
He wanted to hit somebody or shatter something into pieces, shout, SCREAM… His grandfather was gone! The only person who had truly understood how he felt about his mother's death! And now he was no more! Snatched away from him, just like that, without warning, a bolt out of the blue.
Like his mother had been taken.
Yes, his father had been right, this was like saying good-bye to her all over again, only worse, because back then, the day they had buried her urn, he had been numb with pain and shock, unable to realize what was truly going on… this time around he knew… He perceived everything… Every single neural cell of his body took in what was happening and memorized it… connected it back to what had happened to his mother and filled the formerly hazy pictures of her funeral… of her lifeless body on the floor… of… her face… with new life, new vibrancy, like Technicolor to a black-and-white movie.
… … …
The moment they closed the mausoleum's door Ash turned around and walked off. The graveyard was big, full of old trees, their cars were parked by the main entrance, Ash disappeared in the other direction.
"Let him take a breather", Winston told Chance. "This is quite a lot to wrap your head around."
Before Chance could reply Guerrero made a brief "heads up" motion. Baptiste came walking towards them.
"Heart attack", he said slowly. "Who would have thought it." He didn't make it sound like a question. Everyone knew what he was talking about.
"What are you going to do?", Guerrero asked. "Investigate?"
Baptiste took his time to answer. He let his eyes roam over the gravesite, rested them first on the shiny white museum in all of its pompous monstrosity, then on Greta, who was standing together with Ames and Ilsa, waiting for him. Light wind was tugging at her hair, playing with her long skirt.
"No", he finally said. "This is not my life anymore."
His eyes locked with Chance's. "You can keep my watch", he told him. Nodding at Guerrero and Winston, he walked off towards Greta and together they left.
"Are we going to investigate?", Winston asked. "I mean, seriously, heart attack? After everything he's been through? There are a million poisons which can mimic that. He must have had a ton of enemies. Wouldn't surprise me if one of them finally got him… Question is, are we interested in who did it? Or do we just let it pass? He did have it coming…"
"Raccoon man had the order to specifically shoot Ash", Guerrero said. "According to one of the hamsters Brax hadn't planned it from the beginning, but at some point during the robbery he made that decision. Don't know why yet, but maybe raccoon man can tell us. Dude's name is Walter Lewis. Still working on his location. Point is, first someone tries killing Ash, then the Old Man dies… don't think we can ignore this."
No passing train or cannon shot could have been louder than the silence that reigned between the three men.
No, they couldn't ignore this.