Work Text:
Caught out by Chance
by Tree979
“Dude! What the fuck…?” Guerrero barely managed to jerk the gun to one side as he fired, sending the bullet harmlessly in to the wall behind his friend. Chance didn’t so much as blink as it impacted scarcely inches from his face. Instinct demanded an instant kill shot for any intruder in his loft apartment but luckily for Chance a deeper reflex in Guerrero’s brain acknowledged the familiar silhouette of the man leaning back, arms folded by the window.
“And Winston think’s I’m the one losing his touch…”
“What the fuck dude? You’re not even supposed to know about this place!”
Chance smiled. When it came to other people’s privacy Guerrero had no qualms about breezing in physically or via cyberspace. Locks were to be picked, firewalls demolished and encryptions to be broken. He didn’t really care if someone knew he’d invaded their privacy or not, unless there was a tactical advantage to their ignorance. Chance clearly had the advantage here.
“Just because I never made a house call before, it doesn’t mean I don’t know where you live.”
“Obviously.”
Chance pushed away from the wall and wandered round the large, opened plan loft. There wasn’t really much to see. A beat up, old leather couch stood against a bare brick wall, affording a clear view of the windows to the left and the front door leading to the hallway on the right. A camp bed was set up in one corner, a small kitchen in another. A surprisingly expensive looking 19 inch flat screen television sat on an ancient coffee table next to a plain wooden picture frame containing a photo of a little girl, no older than six or seven years old.
Chance switched the TV on, flopped onto the couch, remote in hand and flipped through the channels. His eyes flicked to the picture of the little girl. There was no mistaking the narrow face, angular bone structure and the coolness of the eyes. The girl, unlike Guerrero himself, had a wide grin and looked as if she smiled easily and often.
Guerrero dumped his jacket and keys on the kitchen table and opened the refrigerator, grabbing two beers and headed for the couch. As he passed the coffee table he turned the picture of the smiling little girl face down, a silent warning that its subject was off-limits. He passed a beer to Chance and sat down.
Chance finally settled on an old Bruce Lee film and they sat in silence for a couple of minutes watching the figure on the screen take down five heavily armed men with his bare hands.
“Shit, I wish I was that fast. You ever seen his screen test? The camera could hardly register his movements. They actually told him to slow down.”
“Dude, I am that fast.” Guerrero said without the slightest hint of modesty. “What do you want Chance? I know you didn’t break in to give me a fan boy commentary.”
“You cleared out the safe. Winston hasn’t noticed yet, but he will.”
Guerrero looked at him with blank, expressionless eyes. Chance was still watching the movie. There was no point trying to read Guerrero’s expression. That man could out-stare a snake. If Chance was going to get information out of him it would have to be by provoking him to say or do something.
“I notice you left the cash,” Chance said.
Still nothing.
“You took the portable stuff. The gems from that job in New Jersey. And the less conspicuous jewellery.”
Silence.
“Where are you going ?”
Guerrero stood up and flicked the TV off.
“Dude, this has been fun and all but get the fuck out of my house.”
“Are you bailing on us? You’re part of the team.”
“No dude, I’m a consultant.” Guerrero stressed the last word.
“Bullshit.”
Guerrero ran his hands through his hair in frustration. He really didn’t need a confrontation right now. He needed space. Working as part of a regular team did not come naturally to him. Sure, since he left the old man’s crew he’d team up when he needed someone else’s expertise or intel but he’d just as quickly put a bullet in their brain if they double crossed him or got underfoot. But having people actually watch his back because they chose to gave them the leverage over him. It was weird, uncomfortable weird. Loyalty was something to be exploited, not relied upon. It added a stressful dimension to his work that he didn’t need or enjoy. It was so much easier to watch his own back but lately he’d found himself giving thought to the safety of his colleagues, which was ridiculous. Chance knew how to take care of himself and Winston had better learn quick, or he was in the wrong business.
He needed space. He needed to do a couple of jobs solo to redefine the sharp edges that working as part of a team had eroded. He was softening to the company of others and if he lost his edge he could hesitate at the wrong moment and get himself killed.
He’d been planning to get out for a while now but the final straw came when he’d discovered he was damn near broke. There had been a few debts to pay that were way past due and unfortunately he been so tied up with one of Chance’s cases it had been easier to pay up than “renegotiate”. Not a few of those debts and favours had been generated by his work with Chance. Something between professional pride and a reluctance to deal with Winston’s bitching over money stopped Guerrero from just asking for the money, so he just helped himself to what he needed to get out. He had hoped he’d have a bit more time before they noticed. He’d been on the way to the airport before he’d realised he’d left behind the picture that was now face down on his coffee table. Getting caught out by Chance whilst he tried to retrieve it was further proof of the dangers of sentimentality.
“Dude, this whole crusader thing is your deal not mine.”
“So why help? I know you get better money… freelance.”
Guerrero shrugged. “For shits and giggles?”
“It really doesn’t bother you?”
“What, dude?”
“The death. The killing.” Chance thought for a fraction of a second an expression was about to break through Guerrero’s mask but it was just a flicker, invisible to anyone who hadn’t known him as long as Chance had.
Guerrero shrugged again, “Maybe some people do deserve to die.”
“Do you ever think,” Chance said, “that maybe we’re those people?”
“If you’ve got a death wish, dude, you’re talking to the wrong person. This conversation is exactly the shit I don’t need.”
Chance smiled inwardly. His technique was beginning to pay off. Maybe he could talk him round. Guerrero’s skills and contacts were invaluable to their operation and truth be told he’d miss his friend if he took off for good.
“Well, I really don’t need you running off with half the contents of my safe.”
“Deal with it dude.”
Guerrero retrieved his jacket from the kitchen and made for the door.
Shit.
Chance jumped forward, blocking the smaller man’s exit route.
“Seriously?” Guerrero asked, one eyebrow raised.
“I was hoping I could talk you into staying with the team but…” Chance shrugged, palms up in a world-weary gesture.
“Dude, really. Not cool.”
Guerrero threw the first punch, which Chance deflected easily moments before slamming his elbow in to Guerrero’s jaw. Guerrero stepped back, reeling slightly as he wiped his bleeding mouth with the back of his hand.
“I’m totally getting this feeling of déjà vu dude. Only last time it was you bailing on me.” Guerrero wiped the blood from his hand on to his jeans.
“I wasn’t bailing on you, I was bailing on the old man.” Chance replied, easing in to a defensive stance, ready for the next onslaught.
“Whatever dude. You bailed.”
Guerrero stuck out against Chance again, but this time as Chance deflected the punch he ducked the returning blow and drove his knee straight in to the larger mans ribs. Chance heard a sickening crack and grunted.
“It’s not too late to just talk about this, Guerrero.” Chance was leaning forward, winded but unwilling to back down.
“Quit being such a baby. Get out of my way or take your beating. Your choice.”
Chance straighten up, wincing ever so slightly from the pain of what he suspected were a couple of cracked ribs.
“Just remember I gave you the option.”
This time Chance hit first, the discomfort of his ribs not even slowing him down. He’d fought through much worse and his show of pain had largely been to mislead Guerrero. As the flurry of punches and blocks continued back and forth, Guerrero retreated back in to the wide expanse of the loft, as Chance knew he would. Chance was physically bigger and stronger but he lacked Guerrero’s speed and agility. At close quarters Chance had the advantage but given a bit of space Guerrero’s fighting style really came in to its own.
There really wasn’t much furniture to break in the room so it was sheer bad luck that when Guerrero dropped out of the path of Chance’s fist and knocked him off balance with a low sweeping kick that the man should land on the coffee table where his daughter’s photo sat.
Chance groaned as he rolled off the remains of the coffee table and shoved the now flatter than flat screened TV skittering across the floor until it reached the end of its cable.
“Okay, you can keep the cost of a new TV.” Chance said as he got back to his feet. “But you are not walking out of here, Guerrero. You are not walking out on the team.”
Guerrero’s face was hidden by his hair as he reached down for the photo, crumpled but not torn, in the debris at his feet. Gently smoothing the worst of the wrinkles away, his gaze rested on the only thing of personal value in his apartment. He stood, slipping the picture in to his back pocket as he turned to face his friend.
Chance felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up when he saw the look Guerrero gave him.
“Not cool?” Chance asked, baiting him further. He’d had no intention of trashing the place, least of all the picture but he couldn’t miss the opportunity to provoke Guerrero.
“No. Seriously not cool.” The words had barely left his lips as Guerrero launched a series of kicks and punches that Chance barely registered as instinct and training fended off the worst of the attack. They’d sparred in the past and on the odd occasion fought it out for real but Chance had never really been on the receiving end of Guerrero’s anger in a fight before.
Talking it out was definitely no longer an option and Guerrero was angry enough to make the possibility of him kicking him clear through one of the large fourth floor windows very real. Chance weighed up the situation. He wasn’t worried about the gun. Guerrero would want the satisfaction of kicking his ass and besides if he was going to shoot him he would have done it by now. Chance knew how to end the fight but he felt a little badly about breaking Guerrero’s only picture.
I need to let him let off some steam first.
Just to be sure, Chance edged round the room away from the windows until he stood between Guerrero and the door again. Guerrero muttered a string exasperated profanities, dropped his head to his chest for a moment and took a deep breath, centring himself. He cricked his neck to the left, feeling a satisfying little pop and squared his shoulders.
Guerrero’s next attack was less frenzied and Chance was slightly relieved that his friend’s usual precision and economy of movement had returned. On the upside he was regaining control and was less likely to accidentally put Chance through the window. On the downside he was regaining control and was more likely to put him through the window deliberately.
As one of Guerrero’s kicks connected with his face, chipping one tooth and loosening two more, Chance realised he couldn’t really afford for Guerrero to let off much more steam without putting himself out of commission, or worse.
Sorry buddy. Chance silently apologised to his friend. This is gonna hurt.
Chance spat the blood from his mouth and focused on blocking Guerrero fists until he spotted the opening he needed to take him down. The moment came when he Guerrero only partly managed to deflect a punch from his face, connecting instead with his shoulder, knocking him off balance. On reflex Guerrero followed with the kick Chance had been waiting for. Chance side stepped, grabbed Guerrero’s calf and simultaneously wrenched his knee to unnatural angle. Guerrero yelped and when Chance released his leg he fell awkwardly with one hand pinned behind his back.
Chance stepped around his fallen friend taking care to stay out of reach and headed for the refrigerator. He grabbed a beer and looked in the icebox. Unsurprisingly, given Guerrero’s line of work there was plenty of ice. Chance improvised a couple of icepacks and turned in time to see Guerrero pop two of his now dislocated fingers back in to place. He flexed his hand and looked down to his rapidly swelling knee. That would require more serious attention.
Pressing the ice to his throbbing jaw, Chance walked back across the room and offered him his hand. Guerrero sighed admitting defeat, for the time being anyway, and accepted Chance’s help. He couldn’t put any weight on his wrecked knee so he had to lean on Chance as he hopped to the sofa and collapsed with a pained grunt. Chance flopped down next to him and without a word handed him the other icepack which he applied to his injured knee.
They sat in silence for several minutes staring at the splintered heap that used to be a coffee table.
“Guess you remembered that prick taking a crowbar to my knee in Munich then.”
Chance nodded showing no sign of the small pang of guilt he felt about taking advantage of his friend’s old injury.
“About your picture, I didn’t…”
Guerrero cut him off with the wave of his hand. “Don’t sweat it dude. I dropped you on the table.” With that, the subject of the photo was dropped.
“How’s the knee?”
“Dude, I’m not even going to dignify that question with sarcasm!”
The tension evaporated as Chance let out an involuntary chuckle and Guerrero cracked a rare, thin lipped smile.
“Dude, did you really have to dislocate half my fingers too?”
Guerrero’s question set Chance really laughing in earnest and soon they were both laughing.
---------------
“What the hell happened to you?” Winston demanded as he saw the Guerrero limping though the door of the office on crutches.
“Walked in to a door dude.” Guerrero said, slumping in to the nearest available chair.
Winston turned to see Chance smiling, arms crossed in a familiar pose, at the foot of the stairs. He had some fairly impressive bruising on his jaw and, from the mess he found in the kitchen, Winston guessed Chance had raided the first aid kit. He didn’t know what those two had been up to and he didn’t want to know.
“Well, I’ve got a client coming in a half hour so get your ass out of my office.”
“Whatever dude.” Guerrero got up and headed towards the kitchen and the prospect of pilfered leftovers.
“And try not to trip over the furniture!”
For some reason Chance and Guerrero both found his last comment amusing. He ignored their laughter as he turned his attention back to the file on his desk.
“I did warn you you weren’t walking out.”
“Shut up dude.”
end