CHAPTER SIX

1982

The police chief's office was neat and orderly. He smiled as Suzanne walked into the room, and rose to offer her a hand. "Miss Davids, very nice to meet you."

Suzanne took the offered hand with a confident smile and a firm handshake. "And you."

Gesturing to the chair across the desk from him, he paused before sitting back down to ask, "Can I get you a coffee?"

"No," she replied, gracefully taking the chair indicated and smoothing her skirt. "I'm fine, thanks."

As the balding, well-built man in the white shirt and tie sat back down, she crossed her legs elegantly, tactfully ignoring the way his gaze lingered on her blouse. She wasn't wearing anything the least bit revealing; she knew from experience that presentation stood for a lot when talking to men in authority.

"Thank you for taking the time to see me today," she said politely. "The FBI appreciates your willingness to cooperate with us."

"My pleasure," he answered with a nod, finally looking her in the eye. "What can I do for you?"

Noting and categorizing everything in his office, Suzanne confirmed what she already knew and added more information to her arsenal. The chief was an avid fisherman and hunter, with two grown children and a wife with whom he had a rocky relationship. Her picture was noticeably missing from his collection, but the ring was still on his finger.

Opening her briefcase, Suzanne withdrew the standard printout of a "wanted" poster and set it on the desk, facing Tomlin. "I don't want to waste your time so I'll get right to the point." Tapping one white-tipped nail on Smith's face, she watched Tomlin for a telltale response, but got nothing. "Are you familiar with this man?"

"Don't think so," Tomlin answered honestly, picking up the paper to study it more carefully. "Who is he?"

"Colonel John 'Hannibal' Smith." She leaned back again and folded her hands loosely, elbows on the chair's armrests. "He's been wanted by the military for over ten years now and we have credible information that puts him in your jurisdiction."

Tomlin set the paper down and gave her a funny look. "Military more or less takes care of their own affairs," he said warily. "What's this got to do with me? Or you, for that matter."

She smiled politely. "We're looking for him on an unrelated matter," she explained. "I mention his military history only because it rather contributes to his... folk hero status."

"Folk hero, is he?" Tomlin repeated, chuckling at her choice of words. "Well, folk hero or not, I certainly won't stand in your way, Miss Davids. You catch him, he's yours."

Suzanne smiled. Nothing in her expression or manner showed any uncertainty or annoyance at the chief's attempt to dismiss her request. "No, Chief Tomlin, you won't stand in my way," she replied curtly. "In fact, I'm expecting a great deal of cooperation and assistance."

He raised a brow and shook his head slightly, as if confused. "I'm not sure I understand what you're asking."

"Cooperation," she said again, carefully enunciating. "As in, acting together for a common goal or benefit. And the way I see it, Chief, we could both benefit here."

He studied her warily, saying nothing.

"Bringing in a dangerous murderer will look nice on your record," she explained, "especially when the time comes to find a new police commissioner. And I would get my man. It's win-win."

She pulled out her cigarettes and lit one as she waited for the chief's reply with infinite patience. Finally, he gave her a polite smile. "I would love to see you catch this man, Miss Davids," he patronized. "But as far as devoting this department's time and resources to that goal, I'm afraid I'm going to need a little more information."

Dragging deep and exhaling, Suzanne's smile grew wider as her eyes grew harder. "He's a murderer and dangerous fugitive who is operating in your jurisdiction and risking the lives of those people who you have sworn to protect and serve," she declared, leaving off the part about Smith being an insulting, infuriating, sexist, cocky bastard. That was no concern of the police chief's. "What more information do you need?"

Brow furrowed, Tomlin continued a bit more defensively. "Miss Davids, it is my duty to protect and serve this entire city, and to allocate resources accordingly." He shifted uncomfortably, but the look in his eyes made it clear that he very much perceived he was still in charge of his conversation. "Depending on what you're asking for, I might be able to free up a few men. But I'm not about to put this entire department into a frenzy over some guy your 'credible information' says is probably in my city."

"I've seen the photos of what Smith can do," she said icily. There was no smile as she took another drag and leaned forward, tapping her cigarette against the ashtray on his desk. "Trust me, your entire city would be served to use every resource you could beg, borrow or steal to get him behind bars forever."

He chuckled quietly, dismissively. "I'm afraid that's not your call, Miss Davids."

She finished her cigarette in uncomfortable silence, then crushed it out with a feral smile. "These may change your mind, Chief," she said as she reached into her briefcase. She pulled out a folder and laid it open on his desk. Inside the folder was a copy of a tax return and some photos. "I am by no means a tax attorney, but I'm pretty sure that your bass boat and all of the 'hanky panky' that you keep at your mistress' place won't qualify as a business expense. Oh, and Chief? Doing that -" she indicated the lewd photo of Tomlin with said mistress in an alleyway beside a dive bar "-in public can get you arrested."

She glanced briefly at another photo of his heavyset, expensively-adorned wife before looking back at him, waiting. His eyes were the size of saucers, jaw dropped.

"This is what I found with just a couple hours of free time on my hands," she said lightly, leaning back again with hands in her lap. "Imagine what the full resources of the FBI could uncover. We may even be able to figure out how you afford to keep a boat and a mistress on your salary."

She gave him a moment to adjust to his new reality. He stared for a long moment, then looked back up at her. "I... I don't..." He swallowed. "I can't just..."

"Sure you can," she replied with a patient nod.

"Are you... blackmailing me?" he demanded, still struggling words.

"Got it in one." Standing up in a fluid motion, she stared hard at the man on the other side of the desk. "And before you say something stupid like, 'Does your boss know about these strong-arm tactics?' let me make something very clear to you." Leaning on the desk, she gathered together the evidence and tucked it all neatly back into her bag. "I have the utmost respect for the chain of command, the legal process, and the way things are supposed to work. But I won't hesitate to take down you or anyone who stands between me and Smith. Consider that before you attempt to play hardball with me."

With a final, pleasant smile, Suzanne draped her bag over her shoulder, turned, and exited the office without another word. She'd give him the night to think about it, but she was quite certain she would have no further trouble procuring all the help she needed from the Chief of Police.

1967

"You alright?" Hannibal asked, evaluating the wide-eyed expression of the young man sitting beside him in the chopper.

The man nodded, but he wasn't alright. Hannibal knew that look of shock and fear; the young sergeant had lost his nerve. Of course, running headlong into an entire company of NVA would do that to most men. Two of the Yards hadn't even been willing to follow until they realized there was simply no other option. Their hesitation said a lot, given the nerve that most of those men showed in the heat of battle. In retrospect, Hannibal probably had asked more than what any of them were prepared to give. But the alternative - waiting and hoping they might get an opportunity for another extraction through the trees - was ludicrous. He'd known how it would play out from the moment he'd given the drop order to the pilot.

Besides, the fact of the matter was, he hadn't lost a single man. They'd startled the enemy by running right through the center of the fray. Hannibal had probably killed a dozen with his own gun; God knew how many the rest of the team had dropped in addition to the friendly fire the VC let loose on each other. Although there were a few injuries, everyone was alive, including those from RT Chile who almost certainly would've died without such a daring extraction.

Hannibal sighed as he put his head back against the inside wall of the noisy Huey, eyes closed. His arm - wrapped and taped in crude field-medic fashion -was still bleeding where a bullet had gone clean through. It hadn't lodged, and in fact had barely even slowed him. A few centimeters to the right, and it probably would've shattered the bone. Then, he would've had a problem. As it was, he had only a minor inconvenience, easily solved with painkillers now and antibiotics later.

"You really are crazy, you know that?" the voice on his other side called over the loud rattle.

He opened one eye and glanced at Indigo. "Bet you wish you'd got on that chopper when I told you to," he replied.

But to his surprise, Indigo smiled. "Hell no, sir," he answered. "I fuckin' live for that shit."

Through the morphine haze, Hannibal chuckled. "Good to know."

It was only a few minutes more before the chopper touched down, neatly depositing them back at the camp. A quick check by the camp commander - who was more than a little surprised to find that Hannibal had already inserted himself into field operations when his arrival hadn't been expected for several more hours - confirmed that they were equipped to take care of all of the injuries. RT Chile had been moved on to a field hospital, but the sprained ankle, cuts and bruises, minor shrapnel damage, and clean bullet wound didn't require more than some general first aid.

"So what are you doing here, anyway?" Indigo asked as he unwrapped the field bandages around Hannibal's arm so he could suture the wound. "Do you often show up and insert yourself randomly into team extractions?"

Eyes closed and feeling a bit lightheaded from the painkillers, Hannibal shook his head. "No," he replied. "But I wanted to see if you still had your nerve."

Indigo raised a brow, glancing up and making contact with Hannibal's lazy gaze for only a moment before turning his attention back to the wound. "My nerve?"

Taking a few moments to put his thoughts together, Hannibal did his best to stay relaxed while Indigo sewed up his arm. The morphine made it easy, but trying to concentrate on coherent words heightened his awareness. "Most men have some aversion to trying to outrun and outgun death," he said quietly. "But last time I was here, you seemed to almost enjoy it."

Indigo laughed. "Well, I guess I ain't most men." He worked quickly and efficiently, the way Hannibal would've expected him to, cleaning and closing the wound. "The way I see it, whole reason I'm here is to take out as many of those blood-sucking bastards as I can. Put a good two or three hundred of them in a mile radius? Well, hell, that's just more for me to shoot at."

The man was rambling. Hannibal's awareness of the words ebbed and faded. The more he experienced morphine, the less he cared for the stupefied, drunk feeling it left him with. But at least he hardly felt what Indigo was doing to his arm. He wasn't even aware the wound-tending had finished until he returned to lucidity just as the bandages were being taped down.

"So tell me," Indigo continued, taking the suture kit and the bloody field dressing to the trash. He deposited it before turning back and studying Hannibal with intensity. "What are you doing here, really?"

Hannibal smiled and took a long look at his surroundings, confirming that they were truly alone before he continued with a bit more of a slur than he'd intended.

"I have a proposition for you."

1982

Grandiose events – such as they were – always posed a certain amount of inherent danger. Not that the newly released "It Came From the Murky Swamp" was likely to be a blockbuster hit, or that there would be a hell of a lot of people at the premier. The potential risk, while there, was negligible and frankly worth it to Hannibal.

Acting had always been one of those fun and mindless things - it came naturally - that was a great way to pass the time. But life as a fugitive made it a far more restricted business for him than most. An actor who couldn't show his face was not in terribly high demand. The only way he was able to dabble in show business at all was to maintain a constant stream of effort, meeting new producers and directors of low budget B movies. That was the main reason he was here. It was the reason these premiers - unless he had reason to suspect they were more dangerous than normal - were worth the risk.

He spotted this evening's threat a mile away. She had been watching him with fleeting glances out of the corner of her eye since arriving. Her moderately-revealing evening dress, shoulders covered only by the shawl draped over her shoulders for warmth, was meant to help keep attention away from her makeup and wig. It wasn't that she was bad at disguises. But he expected her to use them after the charade with Mr. Lee, to say nothing of her earlier impersonations. He knew the moment her eyes were on him, and it made her incredibly easy to feel out. The smile and the smell of danger made her even easier to talk to.

"Hi." He offered a hand, and a smile, not hesitating in the least. "John Smith. I don't think we've met."

For her part, Suzanne didn't miss a beat. She had a flirty smile ready for him and, he would bet, a cover story. Suzy liked to be prepared and this time, she was undoubtedly ready to carry through on her threat to bring him in - handcuffed if necessary.

He was loving this.

"No, we haven't." Her voice was pitched several octaves lower than normal and she had a very plausible Georgian accent. "I'm sure I would have remembered someone like you."

There was a slight pause as she checked for a gun under the guise of appraising him. He smiled knowingly, approving of her careful efforts. Too bad for her, the gun was well-concealed. There would be no telltale lumps or breaks in the lines of his tux jacket.

Meeting his eyes again with just the right amount of interest and invitation, she continued quietly. "I'm Kristen Lansfield. It's a pleasure to meet you."

He nodded, smiling broadly and entirely comfortable. "So, Ms. Lansfield, what is your interest in the movie industry? I thought I knew all the beautiful women who would be here tonight, and it seems I missed the most obvious. Are you an actress?"

She gave him a flirtatious, soft laugh. "My, my, aren't you just the most charming man?"

Her hand rested just briefly on his upper arm - a modest but inviting touch. He smiled back. "I try."

"Actually, I'm a film critic for the Atlanta Times. The paper decided to spring for a junket to Hollywood for me. This is the first of five premiers I will be lucky enough to attend."

Her eyes were on his, trying to keep him engaged in the conversation and oblivious to the fact that she was holding her little purse just a bit too close and too tight. If he had to guess, that was where she'd stashed the gun. There sure as hell wasn't any place to hide it under that dress.

"And what does a handsome gentleman like yourself do for a living?"

"I'm an actor," he declared. "The star of this picture, actually."

He beamed. It was laughable really, considering he had no lines and screen time only beneath a bulky costume. But it was always so much fun to see the way people responded to his pride in meaningless roles.

Her gaze turned just a fraction more serious. "Then you must be the man who played 'Gatorrat'," she responded breathlessly, gesturing nearby to the life-size cutout of Hollywood's latest rat-alligator mutant from the Louisiana swamp. "Because as with all horror classics, it's the antihero who is truly the star."

Choking back the laugh that came reflexively, he only smiled. She was playing to his vanity, and doing it with flare.

"Heroes are a dime a dozen," she cooed, laying it on a bit too thick. "But to be a good villain... that takes a special man."

He nodded in agreement. "Right you are, Ms. Lansfield. Though I like to think of him as sort of a tragic figure rather than strictly an antihero." He paused reflectively, enjoying the moment of banter with an amusement that made it unimportant whether she thought he was serious or not. "He's a victim of society, and all that is wrong in the world."

She was smiling again and nodding enthusiastically. "Oh, I completely agree," she bubbled. "Much like Frankenstein, or the Blood Sucking Brain Eaters from Planet K7. Or even the iconic Godzilla." She leaned in a little closer. "A truly developed creature is so hard to find in films nowadays."

Her fingers were lightly resting on his forearm, eyes on his as she stared with intense infatuation, as though he was the most talented man in the room. It was a fine line to walk, just the right amount of flattery and professional interest. If he'd been genuinely so full of himself as to think he was the star of this movie - and she had no way of knowing that wasn't the case - it would've been a flawless performance on her part. Clearly, she was no rookie to this part of her job. She also knew her 'Creature Feature' movies; Blood Sucking Brain Eaters from Planet K7 was a rarely heard-of film, but a true cult classic.

"You must have fascinating insight into both the film and the genre," she said softly.

"You said you're a reporter?" he asked, but quickly corrected. "Film critic, excuse me."

"Yes," she nodded enthusiastically. "For the Atlanta Times."

He smiled. "I'd be happy to give you a more detailed analysis after the movie. Say, over a glass of wine? I know a nice little bar just up the street; it's very cozy."

The coy smile, the slight drop of her head, the way she looked up at him through her lashes, but still managed a look full of promise and just a hint of hesitation... It was good. Very good, in fact. She was probably thinking she had him right where she wanted him.

"I really shouldn't, but..." But she would. He could see it in her eyes as she gave his arm a brief squeeze. "Passing up on such a fascinating opportunity would be positively criminal."

Of course it would.

Leading her into the theatre when she was hanging on his arm was remarkably easy. He stepped into the row first, letting her take the aisle. He'd already located the exits; he knew exactly how many steps it would take him to get there. But for now, he let her feel comfortable through a few more moments of small talk, watching her convincing "I'm relaxed" routine.

She wasn't relaxed and he knew it. Finally, he leaned closer to her and whispered softly, "You seem nervous," just to see if it would, in fact, unnerve her.

Only a hint of shock made it to her expression before she caught herself. Leaning towards him, just close enough to brush her hair against his shoulder, she offered a perfectly practiced soft, shy look. "I'm sorry. It's just that I've never had the pleasure of watching a movie while sitting next to the film's star."

He smiled as she dropped her eyes for a second, then looked back up like she was making a confession. Her hand rested lightly on his - not too forward, but a clear signal she was still interested. It also gave her the added bonus of knowing where his hand was. Not a bad plan. Of course, he could get the drop just as easily with one hand if he wanted to. In fact, his other hand was already moving to his waist, carefully, as he distracted her with the movement of his fingers over the back of her wrist.

"Is that the only reason?" he asked, his voice low and full of insinuation.

There was a flirtatious implication and a little bit of caution in her soft reply, "Should I have another?" Her smile was back to alluring. She was far better at that than she was at "shy."

He smiled back. "Yes, you should. It's not nice to crash somebody's party, you know. And an armed and dangerous fugitive might not take too kindly to it."

The pistol was under her ribs before she could gasp, low enough that even someone passing through the aisle right beside them wouldn't see it. His hand tightened slightly over hers - not hurting, just holding - as he pressed close to her ear.

"Make a sound any louder than a whisper, Ms. Davids, and I may just add a felony to my already impressive rap sheet."

Fighting the natural instinct to pull away, the coy "Kristen" faded. Shock turned to anger. Her smile slid away and every muscle tensed. But she very wisely chose stay still as the lights dimmed and the opening credits rolled over the top of a deafeningly loud music score. It was a couple seconds before she pulled it together enough to figure out how she was going to deal with this curve ball.

She struggled to keep her voice calm, trying to make him – or maybe herself – feel like she still maintained control of the situation. "It may not be nice," she said, the accent instantly gone from her voice, "but it will be effective."

He laughed quietly, lightly, as though she'd just told an inside joke to which he didn't want to attract unnecessary attention.

Irritated by his dismissal, she growled. "Besides, you're the one who raised the stakes, Smith," she continued angrily. "And nice doesn't come into play when I have orders to bring in a killer."

Ignoring the bait, he moved his hand off of hers and inconspicuously grabbed her purse, dropping it onto the floor at their feet. "I assume you're in contact with the four men who are posing as ushers and have been watching us since we walked in," he said lightly. "Now you're going to be a good little girl and tell them - and anyone else you have ready to move in - to stand down."

She was so mad, he could practically see steam rising off of her. He could see just how badly she wanted to go on the attack, but knew how stupid it would be. So instead, she drew in a calming breath, fists clenching even harder.

"Unless you want me to yell across the theatre," she growled through a clenched jaw, "you're going to have to either let me get close enough to speak to one of them or let me use a hand signal. That's assuming you're brave enough to let me move my hands."

She was right to ask about moving her hands. He had no way to trust that she would signal them to stand down and not move in. Of course, the latter would be suicide if she truly believed he was a killer. For once, her gross misconception of what he was capable of worked in his favor. Still, she was young and stupid, and a bit unpredictable.

"How 'bout you and I just take a walk," he instructed, standing slowly and guiding her alongside. "Real nice and slow, over to that exit right over there."

Careful to make every movement look casual, he slipped a hand underneath her shawl and set it on her back. The touch was too intimate for "just meeting," but it certainly didn't look like force. It was impossible to tell in the dim light that he was holding a gun, even if she could feel it flat against her spine. With his free hand he gestured for her to go first. "After you, Suzy."

She had no choice but to move. Placing an entirely fake smile on her lips, she moved forward, hissing quietly to him, "It's Suzanne."

No doubt she was rapidly running though scenarios in her mind, trying to find some way out of the rather sticky situation. But she was smart enough to accept the fact that alerting her escorts to her situation would only lead to a lot of guns being pulled in a room full of unsuspecting, innocent civilians.

They made it through the doors leading out of the theatre and straight outside, emerging around the side of the building and near his car. How convenient! He turned as soon as the heavy metal emergency exit door closed and shoved her back against the wall, the gun under her chin.

"I have to admit, Suzy," he said lightly, "I'm impressed with your persistence."

She growled audibly this time, in mounting frustration. "It's Suzanne, you patronizing bastard!"

With his free hand, he frisked her just in case she had managed to hide a gun somewhere. His hand was quick and efficient, checking everywhere he could while keeping the gun steady. He wasn't shy, but he didn't linger in any one place; he'd clearly done this before and he knew if she was good, she would have her backup weapon somewhere like the inside of her thigh. He checked there, nudging her feet apart with one of his own, and paused as his hand found a leather sheath. With an amused smile, he withdrew the knife, forced in the process to slide his hand up far higher than what could be considered modest. Lifting the blade between them, he ticked his tongue against his teeth.

"Now, this just isn't nice," he chastised. "What were you planning to do with this? Filet me?"

She snarled at him, baring her teeth in the most threatening look she could manage. "That's the least of what I'd like to do to you."

He grinned, and tapped the blade on her collarbone - an almost-casual threat. "Sometime when my schedule is free, we'll have to get together and explore the possibilities."

A tiny shiver ran through her, followed by the quick intake of breath as the blade brushed her neck. To his surprise, her eyes flashed with a look so familiar and so intense it made him pause for a moment to drink it in, like a kindred spirit who'd run smack into their soul mate. Deep and suppressed, beneath the anger and indignation at the way she was being treated and the fear of her current helplessness, a flash of excitement made her draw in a sharp breath. Pheromones, hot and involuntary, sheeted off of her instantly, and his amused smile grew. Well, that was unexpected.

"As long as we're exploring them from different sides of metal bars," she finally answered with a tone that was low and serious, but a little too breathy. Her eyes flicked to the knife, then back to him.

"It's too bad I have to run," he said with genuine regret. "It might be fun to see how good you are with this thing."

Her eyes narrowed into slits. "Oh, I am very, very good with it," she snapped back. Clearly, she meant it as a threat, but it rang a bit hollow.

Still smiling, he leaned in closer to whisper in her ear. "So am I."

He pulled away suddenly, taking the knife and the gun with him a few steps back. Then, with a wave, he turned and bolted for the parking lot. It would take her a minute to mobilize the men inside. By then, he'd already be driving away. Of course, he expected her to follow. She'd damn well better follow. It just wouldn't be any fun if she gave up that easily.