Well, this chapter wrote practically itself, really. I just hope it came out right. It seemed right, anyway. Talk amongst yaselfs…

Song referenced: Little Ways, by Dwight Yoakam.


"You do have kind of an advantage," Ripley was saying, as Seaborn ordered a round of coffee from Lava Java's, an offbeat little place she had found near her apartment. She paid for everybody and she and the other members of her newly-formed team fought their way to a table and sat down. The place was always jammed with college students and professionals, and she found the blend particularly invigorating.

"What advantage?" she asked. She poured several tiny cups of Half&Half into her coffee, then several packets of sugar. Her colleagues often joked that Seaborn only liked a little coffee with her cream and sugar, but considering she had had exactly four hours of sleep in the past twenty-four hours, it was no surprise to them that she ordered an extra large cup of the ugliest black coffee to be found, and was now adding more to the jolt.

"You know these guys, right? You must have some idea of how they operate, and where they might go."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, Lieutenant Peck always liked to maintain his tan, so I suggest we check out the local salons. Smith liked cigars, so a tobacco shop is our next stop, and Baracus is a mechanic who did a bit of boosting in his younger days, so it's all the local chop shops..."

"And what about the nutter…Captain Murdock? What do you know about him?" Shore asked her, looking amused.

She paused, remembering all the little things she had learned about him during that week at Tomahawk, when everything in her life had seemed just about perfect. Or was about to be. "He's a pilot," she nodded at last.

"Weren't you a pilot, back in Iraq?" Ripley asked.

"Just evac and transport," she answered. "I was good…but nowhere as good as he was. Is. He has no equal, believe me."

"So you knew him? Hung out with him a little, maybe? Did he seem like a criminal to you?" The youngest member of her team, Christine Magnusson, was a bright-eyed, fresh-faced kid, full of ideas and ambition. She drove Seaborn crazy most of the time, but she recalled being much the same way a few years ago and thus practiced patience. Besides that, she had really amazing interrogation skills. Probably because she loved to talk.

"I…uh…knew him." She took a sip of the coffee, wincing at its heat. "And I admit, he didn't seem like a criminal, because he wasn't one. He was dangerous when provoked, like the rest of us. But not a criminal." She took another sip and recalled hearing, through the grapevine at the base, that Murdock had received a 'stern rebuke' and a case of Lone Star beer for his behavior toward al-Murad, and that the medics hadn't been able to find the man's thumbs. Of course, another rumor had come around to her that the medics had tossed his thumbs out the window and feigned ignorance as to what had happened to them when questioned. At the time, she hadn't thought it was very funny – of course, then, nothing had amused her much at all. Now the image of medics throwing a rapist's thumbs away struck her as perfect comedy.

Funny how three years of therapy with a psychologist who could listen can get a person's sense of humor back up and running again, she thought as she sipped her coffee. Seaborn still had nightmares every now and then, and didn't like anybody touching her at all, but she was better, and each step was progress, no matter how small.

Christine pulled out the four photographs of the men they were pursuing. She studied each one, pausing at the photo of Peck for perhaps a little too long. Seaborn eyed her, noting with a small, bizarre twinge of satisfaction and annoyance that the girl didn't linger over Murdock's picture. They had spent the morning going over every detail of each man's past, particularly any connections they might have in Long Beach, Los Angeles, and then the entire state of California. In the meantime, every branch of California's law enforcement was looking for the A-Team while Seaborn and her team had questioned the MP's who had lost the men.

None of them had contacts in the state – Murdock had been born and raised in Texas, and had only been in California twice – once on an Army base, and another at a VA hospital in L.A., until his frequent escape attempts caused him to be moved. Peck was born in (of all places), Texarkana - Arkansas side - and raised in an orphanage in Ohio, and only visited California for the women and the beaches, and little more. Baracus was a native of Chicago and had never been to the state at all until two days before, and Smith was a Boston-bred Irishman, formerly an altar boy with a huge Irish Catholic family in Massachusetts and even more in Belfast. None of them had family or close friends or even enemies in California.

"Well…okay, boss, where do we start?" Ripley asked. He was in his mid-thirties, but relatively new to the Marshals, having switched over from the FBI only a year before. He was a large, well-built man, always well-dressed, clean-cut and professional-looking in tailored suits and leather shoes. She knew that Friarson had put him on her team because of his prior experience, and she was grateful for that, as Sean Ripley's instincts were stellar. Daniel Shore, the senior member of the team after Seaborn, was the opposite – his tie always had a stain on it, his hair was never combed, and he had won the 'Office's Messiest Desk Award' three months in a row. Yet he was also an excellent officer, never missing a day of work and was completely unflappable. Another asset to her little team.

"If you were on the run in a strange city, where you didn't know anybody, where would you go to be safe for a few days, particularly if you were injured?" she asked them.

"Someplace quiet," Christine said. "Where people wouldn't bother me and I wouldn't be noticed. Where I would blend in, actually."

"Quite right," Seaborn nodded. "I put the search radius at sixty miles, north and westwards. I can't see them heading south and into Mexico, or back east. I believe they'll be heading north, maybe even into the country." Her cellphone started ringing and she flipped it open – it was Kris. "Sorry…voicemail," she told the phone and put it away. "They escaped from the transport truck here," she said, tapping the spot. "Ocean Boulevard. I would suspect that if they're looking for some place no one would really notice them, they'd go to the warehouses and shipyards here." She pointed to the inner harbor of Long Beach and points west, toward the sea. "There's several warehouses along here, and many of them are empty. Smith might think that they can hide in plain sight – maybe he'd think we'd never look for him so close to where they started in the first place. And that's how we're going to outfox the foxes."


Hannibal was getting nervous. He suspected he might also be getting a little paranoid, but considering the circumstances, a little paranoia went a long way. It had been twenty-four hours since their escape, and they were still in the warehouse in Long Beach, approximately six miles from where they had jumped out of the truck while it was stopped at a red light on Ocean. He had no maps, no GPS…nothing but his instincts and Murdock's unfailing sense of direction. Unfortunately, Murdock was finally admitting that he might not just have a contusion but an actual concussion, and so he was slightly off. More off than usual, anyway. He was currently talking to himself, or possibly to his dog Billy, which caused B.A. to get agitated and worried, because he hadn't done that in a while.

Another problem was that they had been wearing the same clothes for three days now and none of them smelled extremely good. In fact, every time B.A. moved in one direction, Face and Murdock moved in the opposite. Not that Face or Murdock were any pleasure to be around, either. They also hadn't eaten much of anything in almost a day. The warehouse did have, to their relief, a bathroom and running tapwater, but the Coke machine on one side of the building was empty, B.A. having confirmed that by busting it open, looking inside and knocking it over in a fit of hunger-induced petulance. Lately, he had been muttering about steak and tampanade and grilled onions.

Being on the run sucked. It made people so grouchy.

Battlefield decisions had to be made. He splashed his face, took a drink of the tepid water and looked at his boys. "All right. We need to go. Now."

"Where?" Face asked.

"Disney Land'd be nice," Murdock said, struggling to his feet again, assisted by Face.

"That's kind of far away from here, Murdock, and I don't think the Teacup Ride would do much for your head," Hannibal told him kindly. B.A. grunted but said nothing, and Face wiped his sweating brow.

"I'm ready to get the hell outta here, too," he said. "We can probably scam some clothes, some food…"

"Right. A car, some money, and some weapons would also be useful." Hannibal nodded. He stopped, and listened, eyes widening with alarm. "What's that noise?"

They all froze when they heard car doors slamming.

B.A. peered cautiously out the window. "Shit! Marshals!"

"Martians?" Murdock said, tilting his good ear toward Baracus. "Oh, man…not Martians. I don't need Martians now! I just got my bell rung! I don't need to lose time too! And the medical experiments alone…"

"Marshals, fool, Marshals!" B.A. hissed at him. "There's a carload of 'em out there…and a Cadillac!"

"Jesus," Face whispered. "I mean, about the Martia-…the Marshals. A Cadillac I can handle. In fact, we could use a Cadillac…"

"Head to the back of the building," Hannibal ordered. "Move!"

The men scrambled toward the back, Face staying at Murdock's side to make sure he was moving well enough. The pilot was having some difficulty with his coordination, but he was doing all right so far. From the front of the building, they all heard the rattle of keys and voices. Hannibal was getting the doors opened and peering out, relieved to see that no one was back there – yet. He gestured to B.A., who grabbed Murdock and all but carried the captain out, with Face taking up the rear and wishing to God he had something to use to defend their retreat. Rocks seemed slightly childish, in his view.


Seaborn and her team stepped into the warehouse and weren't surprised to see a small pile of debris – some used Band-Aids and antiseptic wipes, and bits of discarded clothing. She glanced back at the building's owner, a weasel-eyed little man with a lisp, who had let them in. He was already marching toward the back of the building, and when he saw that the lock had been jimmied, he looked extremely disgruntled. "They broke in here!" he bleated angrily.

"Have you been here in the past two days, Mr Conroy?" she asked him.

"Naw…been outta town. Wife wanted to vithit her thithter and made me go as part of my punithment."

"What was your punishment?" Christine asked him, and Seaborn rolled her eyes.

"She married me."

Seaborn searched through the pile of debris and found nothing of interest, but had Shore bag it all. The blood on the Band-Aids could definitely prove who had been wounded and whether they were on the right trail or not. She walked to the back of the building and looked out at the trash-littered field behind it. Plastic bags from a grocery store across the highway blew across the field like miserable little ghosts, mingling with used diapers, beer bottles, tumbleweeds and other rubbish and wattle. A few California poppies grew amidst all the crap, and that made the field even more depressing to look at. She looked down and saw the footprints then – four sets, one with a definite drag to it, heading west. She looked around, drawing her Glock, and followed the trail. She rounded the corner cautiously, and frowned when she heard a car door slam. Seaborn started moving quickly then, alarms going off in her head. No…surely not…

Mr Conroy's old Cadillac was backing out, tires squealing, and turning fast toward the exit. She fired, shattering the right rear light, but the Cadillac kept moving. She could make out three men in the car, and as she moved forward, still firing, she recognized Peck in the front seat, but he wasn't looking at her – he was looking at something in the back seat, shouting. She fired again, shattering the passenger side window, but he had ducked in time and she saw Baracus at the wheel. She glimpsed Smith, and heard him yelling 'Punch it, B.A.!' The Cadillac fishtailed a little as it screamed out of the parking lot, but Baracus was an expert driver and soon the car was speeding away, easily exceeding seventy-five miles an hour. She watched as it took a left turn at a fast clip, running a red light, fishtailing again and knocking into a vomit-colored Yugo hatchback heading west, before it sped away. The Yugo, in spite of lousy engineering by drunken Communists, come out looking only slightly more awful than before.

The other three Marshals were running out of the building by then, and she turned to glare at them. "Well. Looks like they were here," she said calmly, holstering her Glock. "Let's go."


"That wasn't…surely that wasn't…" Face shook his head, having finally stopped laughing enough to start thinking, running the scene through his mind. He didn't have a photographic memory, but he never forgot a good-looking woman, and the woman firing at them couldn't have been anyone other than her. "I can't believe it."

Murdock, hunched down in the back seat, blinking against the light and the wind blowing in through Face's shattered window, looked at him curiously. "What can't you believe?"

"That was…good God, Murdock, that was the Hellcat!"


"So y'all lost them?" Friarson said, not looking at all amused.

Seaborn raised one smooth eyebrow and made only the slightest of gestures. "I told you, sir, that they are not to be underestimated. I take full responsibility, though. I was following a…gut feeling, really. I suspected they would be in one of those warehouses, after considering how Smith might be operating now, and I was lucky…and then not quite so lucky, as it were. We were caught off guard. The police pursued, but they managed to slip away. They were last seen heading north." She was just glad the news hadn't caught the chase on camera.

"Well…" He blew out his cheeks. "What are you going to do about this, Miss Buchanan?"

"I'm going to find them, sir, and bring them in. Just like I told you."

"Very good. Have at 'em."

She nodded and left his office. Climbing upstairs to her own cramped space, she thought about her own immediate reaction to having not seen Murdock in the Cadillac – she had, for the briefest of moments, worried that he was badly injured and left behind…or worse. A thorough search of the warehouse and the others around it, as well as the fields, had garnered no sign of the pilot. The bloodied Band-Aids confirmed that they were from Baracus and Smith – there were no blood traces from Peck or Murdock, so evidently neither of them were wounded, or at least not seriously. She had examined the bag of debris and found a blue and gray silk tie, and it had splatters of ketchup on it that she had initially thought was blood. Either way, all evidence pointed to Murdock being alive and traveling with the A-Team. For that, she was immensely but quietly relieved.

She went into her office, collected her mail from her secretary, and sat at her desk. The files on the A-Team were still on her desk, and she moved three of them aside, leaving Murdock's in the middle of her desk. She opened it, looked at his photograph, and took a slow, deep breath. She remembered his smile and his green eyes – a color she had matched, maybe not completely subconsciously, in her kitchen – and his never-combed hair. His native Texas accent, and the accents he could adopt when required or if he just felt like it. His calloused hand on her cheek, and his arms around her waist, and his kiss…

"Miss Buchanan, there's a call for you. Line two."

"Who is it?" she asked, jerked out of her thoughts and knowing her cheeks were pink. Carmen didn't seem to notice, but then Carmen had a tendency to not notice earthquakes.

"I dunno. Some guy." She shrugged, looking annoyed at having to answer such a question, as if she was supposed to be helpful or something.

Seaborn snatched up the line, glaring at her secretary's retreating form. "Buchanan," she said sharply, still looking at the photograph.

"Hey, baby."

She jerked to her feet, gasping, in shock. "How…"

"Hey, listen, I don't like bein' shot at all that much, and I know it takes about…three minutes to trace a call? But then this is just a payphone, so by the time y'all get out here, we'll be long gone. Just wanted you to know we're all still alive and bear you no ill will. Fact is, I'm rather glad to know you're okay. Face said you looked good in that black mini skirt. I'm imaginin' it right now." His accent was as strong as ever.

"How did you get this number?" she asked, gesturing wildly to Carmen, who stared at her as though she had finally just snapped. Seaborn waved her arm, snapping her fingers and fighting off a desire to smack her secretary with the phone and strangle her with the chord. Where was Peterson? She needed Peterson to hit the tracer and get LAPD out there now. The little jerk was probably shooting the breeze at the damned cooler again. She looked at her Glock on the desk beside the file. No. Can't just shoot a fellow Marshal…that wouldn't play well on the news.

"Same way you nearly got me, baby. You've got your little ways to hurt me…you know just how to tear me up...leave me in small pieces…on the ground," he sang. "I got 'em, too, baby. And a phone book, with numbers for local and state government entities, and then it was just a narrowing-down process and punching the right series of numbers. Press 'nine if you don't speak German', 'zero' several times if you're OCD', and so on, and pretending I was calling from the FBI and…voila! I had your number! So easy! How ya doin', baby? Face swore up an' down it was you shootin' at us. I had to make sure."

"Murdock…" she said. "I am a United States Marshal. I am going to have to catch you and arrest you. I will."

"Operative word bein' catch. Bye-bye, baby!"

The line went dead, and she was left standing there, holding the phone, her heart pounding, her cheeks pink, her mind whirling. She slammed the receiver down and grabbed her jacket, rushing out of her office and heading back downstairs. Friarson looked up at her as he exited his office, and raised his eyebrows. "Yes?"

"I just had contact."

"With…?"

"The A-Team…Captain…Captain Murdock just called me."

"And why would he call you?" Friarson asked her, looking confused.

"That's not important. There won't be a trace – he was calling from a payphone, but he's…they're still in the area, I'm sure it was him…I know it was him." She would know that voice anywhere. She heard it in her dreams.

"All right. Get your team together. Police are looking for the car, obviously, and the news stations are showing their pictures every few minutes…I'm sure they will be flushed out soon enough."

"It won't be that easy, sir. You can guarantee that. But I'll be damned if I don't catch them." She squared her shoulders and resolved to focus as she headed for the doors. "I will."


Face was pacing, frantic and not quite able to believe that Murdock would insist on calling her. They were waiting at the stolen Caddy, B.A. having removed its plates and replaced them with tags from a car they had found broken down on the side of the road. Hannibal was leaning against the car, ankles crossed and looking remarkably calm considering what a mess they were in.

As soon as he hung up, Murdock came bouncing cheerfully over the trash and weeds, glancing back at the glum little empty lot where the phone stood, lonely and unloved. He looked happy – a little manic, maybe, but happy. Then again, Murdock could be happy getting jolts of electroshock therapy, or crawling across the desert with buzzards circling overhead, or somehow managing to land a chopper when its back rotor had been knocked out.

"Well…and what the hell did that accomplish?" Face snapped at him.

"I feel a lot better, Colonel," Murdock said, the light back in his eyes. "Bell stopped ringin'. I'm ready to rumble, man."

"I figured all you needed was some rest, Captain," Hannibal said, giving his shoulder a warm squeeze. He opened the back door and Murdock piled in, cackling merrily. Face stared at Hannibal.

"If it had been me," he said, jaw clenched, "You would have said not to engage. He engages and…it's okay?"

"Yep."

"Damn it, Hannibal!"

"Get in the car, Face. Just relax. It's fine."

Face got in, glaring at Murdock, who was looking much more chipper. Hannibal ordered B.A. to hit the gas, and they pulled out and continued north. They still didn't have any money, and they were all still hungry, but the road was rising up before them and Hannibal was starting to form a plan. The smile forming on his lips was evidence enough of that, and so maybe he could at least relax a little. At least until the Hellcat starting shooting at them again.