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

Walter Lewis, the raccoon man, had gotten wind of his comrades', the hamster men's, fate. Of course no bodies were found, but word on the street attributed their disappearance to Guerrero.

Guerrero.

Lewis did the only logical thing. He ran. Fast. And far. South America was the most affordable option.

Ecuador, to be exact.

According to Guerrero's sources Walter was hiding out in a small boardinghouse located somewhere in the outskirts of Guayaquil, popular with backpackers.

Good. Provided them with the perfect cover.

They didn't take Ilsa's jet. Too much of an eye-catcher and aside from that they didn't want to involve the Pucci name or, God forbid, the Marshall Pucci Foundation's, into an endeavor as …checkered… as the one they were planning.

A commercial air plane brought them to Iquitos in Peru. From there they hired a small private aircraft that dropped them off at Talaras. In the back of a ramshackle old truck, crammed in between cages with chickens and bags full of fishmeal they crossed the border to Ecuador, where they changed into another truck, this time full of sugar cane.

The Pan-American-Highway would have brought them to Guayaquil within a few hours, but again they opted for maximum unobtrusiveness and thus they were jolting along what seemed like an endless succession of muddy, bumpy side roads.

They needed to make sure that nobody could track them down…

…afterwards…

It was hot, but the real problem was the humidity. To Winston it seemed the rain hadn't stopped falling ever since they had touched down in Iquitos. According to the locals quite the unusual weather phenomenon in this region. Very helpful information, that. His skin was covered with a solid coat of grime. The human nose is pretty much oblivious of one's inherent smell, but judging from Chance's and Guerrero's odor, he STANK.

If the stench had at least kept the mosquitoes away!

Forget about it…

Guerrero was wearing camouflage pants and an originally white wife beater that had long ago taken on camouflage colors, too. Chance had chosen cargo pants for the trip and a by now very torn Hard Rock Café t-shirt. Winston preferred not to think about his own garment. Or what was left of it. They definitely looked like hardcore backpackers.

Hell, Guerrero had even brought a guitar.

Great place to hide certain …equipment… in.

Winston didn't even attempt to crack a joke about it. They hadn't talked much ever since their departure from San Francisco and once the Ecuadorian border was behind them they fell almost completely silent. Funnily enough, Winston had never felt more like wanting to talk.

Michele had always chided him for being so silent. Going on vacation with her had been hell – those long road trips… he had wanted to listen to some proper music and indulge a bit in that truly American trucker feeling. She had wanted to discuss their relationship.

For heaven's sake. Their relationship! While on vacation!

Well, right now he felt like sending her a postcard with the possibly most sincere apology he had ever offered.

The look on Guerrero's and Chance's faces... it wasn't just the lack of their usual banter. There was something else missing… something in their eyes… Winston couldn't help but shake the feeling that this must have been what they used to look like when on a job for the Old Man.

Their eyes weren't exactly cold. It was more that there was a certain… distance… about them. They didn't come across as thugs, at least not right away. But they did radiate a certain air of underlying violence. Something that told all onlookers not to mess with them.

Now, Winston had met Chance back when he had been on a job, in the Old Man's employ. At that bar, where he had first invited him to drinks and then stolen his cell to find out Katherine Walter's location. He hadn't looked like that. If he had, Winston would have never, never ever even considered working with him.

Granted, Chance had been undercover at that bar, had pretended to be someone else, his sole aim had been putting Winston at ease to so he'd let his guard down and Chance could get his hands on Katherine's whereabouts.

But nevertheless… The look in his eyes… the slight quiver in his voice when he spoke about his work problems… breakdown in civility… co-workers he didn't trust…

Chance hadn't lied about that and Winston had known it, had somehow instinctively sensed it without consciously realizing.

Back at that bar Chance's transformation from assassin to protector, bodyguard, death retardant specialist, had already begun.

Winston couldn't quite shake the feeling that only now, after so many years, he was meeting the real Junior.

Same with Guerrero, in a way, although the contrast was not as stark. Back when he had met Guerrero the first time he had immediately disliked him, had sensed, just as with Chance, only the other way around, that Guerrero was a lot closer to – as cheesy as it sounded – the "dark side".

Now he realized that what he had seen back then had only been a glimpse of what Guerrero truly had been about in his New York days.

Winston buried his face in his hands and rubbed his forehead. There was no denying it. He was in the company of two killers. For that was what they were planning to do: Find Walter Lewis, question him with all means necessary and then…

Kill him.

Yes, they were talking about coldblooded murder here.

Another memory came back to him… the dead UN diplomat… Baptiste's access kill to stop operation olive branch. Him and Chance posing as police detectives to get a closer look at the body.

Hey, look man, I know what this guy took from you. I know what you wanna do to him and I don't think there's a person in the world who'd blame you for it.

But?

No buts. Whatever you want.

He had given Chance permission to break the "nobody deserves to die rule". In the end, at the great showdown in the subway, Chance didn't make use of it. Of course Emma Barnes liked to believe she had talked Chance out of it, but Winston knew better: Chance had defeated his thirst for revenge, the man Junior had become just hadn't been able to shoot Baptiste.

But things were different now. This was not about revenge. This was about protecting Ash.

No buts.