"You know, fellas, all I really wanted was the Big Kid's Meal…"
That was mostly true. He really wanted the jet Transformer toy, which came in the meal. But you can't say no to French fries when the opportunity arises. And everyone knows burgers and sodas are the only acceptable side-dishes to French fries. So in the end, it was really the meal that he wanted.
Unfortunately, all he was getting right now was dried ketchup up his nose and a face full of Formica counter top. "Shut up and tell us where he is!"
He sighed. Wasn't there one time someone could ask where he was, or BA, or even the van? The van didn't get nearly enough attention, now that he thought about it. It was always about them. Poor girl – no wonder Bosco spent so much time with her. "Now you're goin' to have to be more specific than that, cause I don't know who you're talkin' about. There's six billion people in the world, and if you consider that about half can claim the usage of the masculine pronoun, then you're still lookin' at-"
Simultaneously the grip on his arms and the fingers in his hair tightened and his face met the counter in a way that made him hope there wasn't a second date. "Fuckin' wise guy; where is Colonel Smith?"
"Again, see, Smith is one of the most common names in the English language, and-"
Another smash. "Colonel John fucking-Hannibal Smith!"
"Ok, now that is more like it!" Pause for dramatic effect, then, "Though I really don't know a Colonel John that is fucking anyone named Hannibal Smith." He wasn't at all surprised when the next crash of his face brought a loud crack with it.
"Last chance, fucker. Where the hell is he?"
He was a lot more concerned about the fact that he was tasting iron than if the thugs found Hannibal. It was enough that he knew where Hannibal was – out in the parking lot, drumming his fingers on the van door no doubt – but they'd find the Colonel soon enough. Or more like Hannibal would sweep in on them, all God of War in blue jeans and James Bond-esque rolled together into a really, really vicious out-of-the-shadows, death from above kind of deal. After all, gun shots, screaming patrons, and panicking employees vacating the premises were fairly indicative that something was going on.
This was also why they couldn't go anywhere nice. Even a trip to the grocery store seemed like it could turn into a battle these days. Granted, at least at the store he had an army of eggplants and canned goods on his side, but what kind of world were they coming to when wanted fugitives couldn't get a burger in peace?
The hand tightened in his hair again, however, so he opened his mouth to let the thoughts rush out. "I don't know, but you can go through the drive through and order one up, medium-rare, extra side of fries. I'd recommend an ice-cold Sprite, though, somethin' light, cause Hannibal comes in on the heavy side-"
At least the ketchup packets thought he was funny, even if his nose laughed so hard at the next slam that it started bleeding.
"What the hell is wrong with this guy?" He couldn't decide if the guy sounded nasally or if he was just far away. "You sure he's part of Smith's gang?"
Again, he sighed, because that question seemed to come up a lot. Like any of these guys could say they didn't want an action figure every now and again too. Sometimes people just needed to lighten up, really. They'd be a lot happier, and have a lot more cool toys that weren't guns pressed into his already sore skull.
"You better believe it."
The grunts turned at that voice, the gun pressing slightly less so into his temple. He grinned into the counter. Some voices needed no visual introduction.
"And you are?" asked one of the goons, another gun appearing from a baggy waistband.
He looked just in time to see Hannibal raise that eyebrow just so. Hannibal Lecture in three, two, one… "A word of advice, boys. Next time you go looking for someone, know what they look like. Now unhand my friend and no one has to get hurt."
The goons glanced at one another before one of them raised a gun.
He'd seen Hannibal take down dictators, drug cartels, bullies, generals, and thugs. He'd seen the Colonel out punch goons, out gun desperados, out stare outlaws, out run athletes, and out shout the cafeteria Sergeant way back in the day. Hannibal had dodged bullets, dodged punches, dodged kicks and insults and even, once, quite memorably, a train. And, if Hannibal tried, he was quite certain that the silver fox himself could probably con the rest of the world into believing he had a plan for everything.
In short, Hannibal Smith was either Chuck Norris or a god. Or both.
There was no man, woman, or child that was safe from Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith. Five goons with guns never stood a chance.
It was with an overwhelming sense of awe that he watched Hannibal move. The Colonel was tall and used every inch of length to his advantage. Ducking the first few bullets and using a trash can as cover, only Hannibal could make flinging dirty take out trays look cool. Or hit the first goon with a perfectly aimed red square.
The goon holding him let go to go help the man down, but it was too late. As soon as he was free he turned on the last armed gunman, grappling to get the gun aiming somewhere besides Hannibal. Out of the corner of his eye he saw a knife drawn, and managed to shout, "Hannibal!" before a blow to the head (again) saw little salt packets swirling around his head. And people wondered why he was unstable.
But the Boss saw the knife – he always saw everything – and with frightening precision was on the last three men with a ferocity that could have come from any of the canine family. A hard upper cut here, a bend and grab here that saw a good flying across tables, a well placed kick to the chest that sent another grunt over the counter and thudding against the shake machine. It was White Lightning that was hitting with such deadly accuracy, striking hard and fast and leaving goons sprawled across the floor, the soda machine dispenser, and the counter top. By the time he had managed to twist the goon's arms behind his back and pressure pinch the gun out of his hand, the restaurant was filled with a lot less threats and shouting and a lot more groaning and heavy breathing.
Looking up as he forced the kid to his knees he could only grin at the Colonel. "Now that's what I call fast service, Hannibal."
There was a flicker of a smirk on the older man's face, but it was over taken by the stern reprimand that came next. "Care to report what happened, Captain?"
Oh, right. "Well, I was just standin' by the iced tea, mindin' my own business, waitin' for order number 7 - which you would think would be lucky, but apparently not so much today - and then I hear this gun go off and a hand reach around and grab me like this-" He demonstrated just how on the grunt in his hands, ignoring the sharp cry of unexpected pain as an arm was pulled back. "Next thing I know I'm throwin' an upper one-two combo, except 'one' was my left hand and 'two' was my right foot right onto the instep, and man you should have heard that guy shriek, Hannibal! It was like that one time with the pool and the lobster, and-"
Hannibal was giving him a look that clearly indicated that he was rambling or was about to bring up the event-that-shall-not-be-named-on-that-one-Vegas-trip, so he cleared his throat. "Got pinned, put a gun to my head, and started askin' questions, Boss."
The Colonel nodded, surveying the damage. "Right." Then, fast as lightning, Hannibal grabbed the shirt collar of the grunt Murdock had and all but lifted the kid up to his feet. "Who sent you, kid?"
For a brief moment he thought the kid was going to be stupid enough to do something, well, stupid. "I'd tell the nice man if I were you. He doesn't like it when his order's messed up."
One look at Hannibal's fist, curled so neatly in plain sight, had the grunt swallowing, eyebrow piercing twitching in fear. "S-Sebastian Longmore."
It was answer enough, even if he did have to bite back a quip about if life really was better under the sea and behind bars. Hannibal stared down the kid, the look sending shivers up Murdock's spine at the fact that so much power could be held in one glare. BA would be proud. "You tell that bastard that if he goes after my men or me again I will personally make sure that his sentence is longer than the two he has already. Got it? And if I see your asses around again, I'll make sure you join him."
By then the kid was nodding like a bobble head, the effect only heightened when Hannibal let go and the grunt's knees buckled. Kicking the gun under a far table, Hannibal glanced at him as the sound of sirens whined in the air. "That's our cue, Murdock."
He nodded, letting go of the kid with one final glare of his own. "And that's why you don't get in between the A-Team and fast food."
Which reminded him…
Hannibal turned, side door open, a slight frown on his face as he barked, "Captain!"
"Coming, coming!" He grabbed the cardboard meal from the counter, ignoring an "oof!" from a goon as he leaned over him, before darting after the Colonel.
Like hell he was going to leave it after all this!
The Colonel rolled his eyes but didn't say anything until they were in the car and speeding away. "This, Murdock, is why we don't eat out."
"Not like I wore a sign begging to be jumped, Colonel," he shrugged, tearing open the box. "That's my other shirt. The one with the big bulls-eye on the back and block lettering that says 'Howlin' Mad Murdock, Member of the A-Team, Jump When Seen.'"
Hannibal glanced over at him with a serious expression in his eyes that he knew well from those missions. Usually missions where one or more of them managed to make a FUBAR of the whole thing and almost wipe the team off the planet. The look always made him squirm and his stomach double over.
"Just wanted a burger, Hannibal." And even saying it out loud, with that look, it felt like too much to ask.
But just like that the look disappeared and a softer, sympathetic expression replaced it. A hand ghosting his bloody chin. "Are you all right?" And just like that, all was forgiven.
He waved off the hand, wiping his face off with the back of his shirt sleeve (or, well, Face's – oops). "Aww, they didn't do anythin' that a Ranger can't take. And I'm a Ranger, baby! Full-blooded, or, well, four-fifths at this rate."
With that he dived back into the box as Hannibal chuckled and hit the accelerator. Past the wonder of beef patty and crispy fries to the plastic packaging at the bottom. The thing that would make a swollen nose and Ellen Greene voice worth it tomorrow morning.
"Hannibal!"
He almost flew out of his seat the Colonel hit the brakes so fast.
"They gave me the wrong order!"
He was definitely having Face take him next time, because he was fairly certain he'd never survive another look like that.