THE GAMES WE PLAY

AUTHOR: sss979
TITLE: About Ashley (working title)
RATING: PG-13 (subject to later increase)
SUMMARY: Every job has calculated risks. This job just has a few MORE of them...
WARNINGS: (eventual) ANGST with a side of emotional torture and possibly death.
DISCLAIMER: I don't own the A-Team.

PROLOGUE

Lieutenant Templeton Peck could extinguish the flame of a candle at 500 yards with a sniper rifle.

"Faaace?"

"Working on it."

And normally, the challenge would've been welcome. Normally the thrill of the tension in the atmosphere, in the air he breathed, in his very blood would have served to focus him even more. He'd always worked well under pressure.

"You've got about ten seconds, Lieutenant." One would think, from the sound of his voice, that someone had just told Hannibal to go screw himself. Dead serious and threatening. It was a tone that Face could honestly say he hadn't heard since Vietnam.

"Do you want it done now?" he challenged. "Or do you want it done right?"

"Five seconds."

"Stop it!" he hissed. You're making me nervous.

Nervous? Oh, no. He was not nervous. He was appalled that the thought had even entered his mind. Finger on the trigger, tensed and ready, crosshairs set dead center on his target's temple... his hands had never been steadier, even if his palms were sweating. They always did before a shot. At least a shot this important. Life and death in his hands, at his disposal. It had been years since he'd set up a shot like this - over a decade since he'd felt this rush. Not since Vietnam had he shot to kill. But he was not nervous. It was not in him to be nervous.

"Face?"

So why hadn't he breathed in the last 60 seconds?

"Yes, Colonel?" he replied calmly, just loud enough to be heard over the hissing rain.

"What is wrong?" The tension in Hannibal's voice made the seriousness of the situation clear. Colonel John Hannibal Smith did not getnervous, either. No more than Face did. And if he ever did, he sure as hell didn't show it. It seemed strange that he was showing it now, but Face understood why. Increasing the pressure on him hadn't worked. Normally it would have been the last push he'd needed. If he'd ever needed a push.

Of course, the fact of the matter was, he hadn't ever hesitated on a shot for any reason other than the fact that he didn't have clearance. Until now. He had clearance. But in spite of that…

"I can't take the shot."

"What do you mean you can't take the shot?" Hannibal was clearly appalled at the thought. As well he should be. Face was appalled by the thought.

"I can't." He hissed in a breath through his teeth. A half-step away from hyperventilating, he felt like he was using only the very top part of his lungs to breathe. His diaphragm was paralyzed, his heart beating in his ears. He'd been doing so well at keeping his voice calm and measured. He almost lost it there. But not quite. Steady. Calm. Patient. Breathe...

His heart was pounding well over a hundred beats per minute. Not enough oxygen for that much blood. He forced himself to breathe deeper, slower, pushing away that lightheaded confusion. The rain hitting his shoulders had already soaked through his clothes. Shards of glass in his palms dug deeper the harder he gripped his weapon, warm blood mixing with cool rain. His muscles ached from staying perfectly still in this same position for so long. But he didn't move.

"I can see her from here. Your path is clear."

That's not what he meant. "That's not what I mean."

"Then what do you mean, Lieutenant?"

That tone jarred Face's perfectly steady, perfectly calculated shot a few degrees to the left. Anger was not a genuine emotion for a colonel to show. It was a manipulative one. Part of the game meant to break any insubordinate soldier. And whatever he had been twenty minutes ago to Hannibal - friend, co-worker, teammate - right now he was nothing more than a perfectly trained Special Forces soldier with years of experience and aim better than 98% of his class. One who was making up excuses for why he couldn't take a shot.

He remained still, silent, unflinching, not breathing until his lungs screamed for air. His target stepped forward. One step. Then two. Face tracked perfectly, keeping his target dead center. The shot was so easy. But his finger hesitated on the trigger. It hesitated there, and wouldn't move.

This wasn't war. And even if it was… How could he take an innocent life? His mind wound around that, over and over again, wearing a rut in his thought processes. It wasn't just an innocent life. It was that particular innocent life. And if he pulled this trigger, there would be no looking back. When he pulled this trigger.

"Damn it!"

Because he would pull it. Just as soon as the nausea subsided.

He didn't have to take his eyes away from the scope. He heard Hannibal move to stand with his foot up on the ledge of the balcony, bracing his weapon, the long barrel of an assault rifle pointed in the general direction of the windows across the street.

"Don't," Face said flatly, his voice completely void of emotion. "They're out of range; you know that." There was no telling what he'd hit if he started shooting indiscriminately into the rain.

Hannibal didn't answer. He might not hit the target, but he would at least try. A target. Face had to remember that. That's all she was: a target and not a person. There was no life involved here. No guilt or innocence. Just a gun and a mark in the rain. Ten years ago, he would've had no problem making the distinction. After all, he knew he could hit a target at 500 yards because he'd done it before.

Come on, Face. Just pull...

"Face!"

He'd seen the blood, seen the men fall. He'd seen it up close, too. When the blood was on his shoes, his clothes... his hands. Images flashed, and his eyes narrowed as his heart pounded in his chest so loud, it nearly deafened him. He'd seen a lot of blood...

That innocence was blurring.

"Peck!" The sound of the familiar, commanding voice ringing in his ears made him lose track of the debate in his mind. "Shoot, damn it!"

Ever-steady hands tightened ever-steady fingers and he felt the pressure of the trigger, the resistance. But he didn't hesitate. There was no room for hesitation. Nor regret. Nor emotion. Just obeying an order from his C.O.

Shoot her.

And the gun fired.