CHAPTER TWENTY

1971

Morrison's office wasn't hard to find. Murdock had been there before. Down at the end of a vacant hall was a door slightly ajar. From the single voice inside, Murdock concluded before he had a chance to knock that the colonel was on the phone. He decided to wait rather than interrupt.

Standing just outside, Murdock put his back to the wall and held his hands clasped in front of him, still gripping the jacket. He glanced down at it and felt his stomach do a strange, uncomfortable flip-flop. Alan had bought this? Hesitantly, he lifted it again, studying the lines and creases of the American-made material. On the back, above the tiger, was a scrawled "DaNang 1970" in yellow-orange letters. A bomber jacket. Obviously hand painted. Wherever he'd gotten it, it must've cost him a fortune.

"Listen..."

"They're whispering..."

He lowered the jacket again, glancing down the long, empty hall. The choppy sound of Colonel Morrison's voice was the only thing he heard. Colonel Morrison... speaking in Vietnamese? Suddenly curious, but very much aware he was eavesdropping, Murdock took a step closer to the crack in the door.

"Listen... listen..."

"Chung toi co mot thoa thuan!"

"Listen..."

"[We had a deal! I have upheld my end; now you will uphold yours!]"

Murdock could feel his posture straightening, shoulders pressed back. The tone of the colonel's voice made his skin crawl. The words didn't help ease the uncomfortable feeling.

"[No, you listen to me! I contacted you as soon as I was able. If it wasn't enough time, you just tell your men to move faster!]"

He paused. Murdock felt a flicker of guilt, and a growing awareness of what would happen if he should be caught eavesdropping on this conversation. He could feign ignorance and innocence as well as anyone, but it still wouldn't be pretty.

"[I could not possibly have known that Smith would leave so quickly.]"

Murdock's head snapped up so abruptly, he almost hit it on the door behind him. Suddenly, he cared very little about the consequences of being caught listening in on the private conversation. "[Listen, Cuyet,]" the angry tone was kept almost too low for Murdock to hear through the open door, "[you get your men out there to that bank, you take care of Smith's team, and you bring me my share of the money. I do not care how you do it. But if he comes back, how the hell am I supposed to explain those orders?]"

There was a tight feeling in Murdock's chest, gripping harder and harder with each passing second. He peeked around the corner of the door, staring in at the man in the desk chair who was gripping the phone so tightly, his hand shook. "[I gave you exactly what you asked for. I handed them to you on a silver platter! Ten million piastres is not much to ask - especially when you'll be collecting thirty. And for God's sake, don't let him get away!]"

He slammed the phone back into the cradle without another word.

The jacket had slipped out of Murdock's hand, and he let it fall as he pushed the door open a little and stepped inside. A middle-aged man with a full head of grey hair and fire in his eyes looked up and immediately locked stares with him. A look of surprise came instantly over his face.

"Who are you?" he demanded, startled.

Murdock knew his jaw was hanging open in shock at what he'd just heard. He was still processing the words very slowly. At the same time, he realized his hand was moving to the pistol on his belt. "I'm the pilot for the team you just sent to rob the Bank of Hanoi," he answered. His own voice sounded like it was echoing down a long, dark tunnel.

The look of surprise on Morrison's face was not without precedence. What One-Zero shared the details of their ground mission with the pilot? By all rights, Murdock should know nothing more than that they were dropped off in North Vietnam. The surprise mingled with a flicker of fear as the colonel saw where Murdock's hand was headed.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

As Morrison reached under his desk, Murdock's movement sped up. In an instant, he had the pistol aimed directly at the older man's forehead. "Don't even think about it," he warned.

Morrison froze, and slowly raised his hands in surrender. "Put the gun down, son," he ordered tensely.

"Listen..."

"He's a traitor... Treasonous bastard..."

"He sent them to die..."

"Deal with the devil..."

"You sent your own men," Murdock growled, wading through the voices that were echoing in his mind. "You deliberately sent your own men into an ambush?"

"No, it's not like that," Morrison protested, laughing anxiously.

Murdock's grip tightened on the pistol as he breathed slow and measured, staring the traitor in the eye. "What was the deal?"

"What deal?" Morrison asked, feigning ignorance. But he wasn't a very good liar.

Holding the gun straight out in front of him, Murdock cocked it back with his thumb, the barrel pointed right at the man's head. "What was the deal!" He was only vaguely aware of the way his voice echoed off of the walls.

The silence settled over the room like a heavy blanket, smothering Murdock's efforts to breathe. Finally accepting what Murdock already knew, Morrison set his palms on the table. "What are you going to do?" he asked in a tone dead set between fear and challenge. "It's not like you can just shoot me and walk out of here."

"Tell me," Murdock growled angrily, taking a step closer, "or I will blow your fucking head off here and now."

1985

Hannibal and Face wouldn't aid Murdock before the bullet in Corrolini's gun found its mark. Confronted with his lie, the unfortunate oversight of Corrolini knowing what his mercenary looked like, Murdock's brain ran a mile a minute in a desperate attempt to find a plan B.

"You have three seconds," Corrolini said simply, supporting his elbow on the desk as he took aim directly between Murdock's eyes. "One."

He could run; he wouldn't get far. He could try to overpower him; he'd be dead as soon as he took a step. No distractions were readily available and the long silence precluded any possibility of salvaging his cover. The indignation at being unjustly called a liar would've spewed forth long ago if it had been true.

"Two."

The gun cocked. Murdock felt the sweat drip down the back of his neck. The voices in his head screamed at him in incoherent madness, drunk on nightmares and the memory of pain and loss and the pitch blackness of fear. He could die, or he could live. Those were the only two options he had.

His resolve to live was so powerful, it was almost tangible. Straightening his hunched posture and letting the facetious accent drop, he looked Corrolini directly in the eye.

"Alan Parker is my brother," he said icily, letting the slight accent and the facade of insanity drop suddenly.

He had the man's attention. With a slightly amused look, Corrolini tipped his head and waited for more.

"You want him dead," Murdock continued, void of emotion. "I want him dead. But killing him myself poses some... difficulties."

"I won't pretend to be interested in your sibling rivalry," Corrolini replied, his tone suggesting he was not entirely convinced of the truth. "What interests me is how you managed to intercept my communication with Joseph Linus."

"I didn't," Murdock answered coolly. "Joseph Linus and I served together in 'Nam. He knew how I felt about Alan then and he knows how I feel about him now." He tossed the envelope full of cash back onto the desk. "I told him he could have the money - that is, as long as you held up your end. All I wanted was the satisfaction of marching that son of a bitch in through the front door and handing him over."

Corrolini studied him long and hard. But there was far more honesty than lie in Murdock's carefully chosen words. After a long, scrutinizing silence, Corrolini lowered the gun and sat back slightly, but didn't let it go. "Why the elaborate ruse?" he demanded. "You might have gotten away with it if not for the crazy act."

A wicked smile crept over Murdock's face as he felt the darkness inside of him wrap its claws around his being. "What makes you think it was an act?" he intimated.

Sitting a bit straighter again, Corrolini nevertheless kept the gun at rest as Murdock took a half step forward.

"I said I was his brother," Murdock growled. "I said I wanted to kill him and believe me, I've thought of all kinds of intriguing ways to do it. I never said I was sane."

Corrolini shook his head with a shrug. "I don't care," he dismissed. "What I want to -"

Murdock was fast, and the man wasn't expecting him to vault over the desk, pinning the gun with his knee. The brief struggle ended when Corrolini was unwilling to let go of it, and Murdock crossed an arm over his throat to silence any cries for help. There were almost certainly guards on the other side of the door, and the problem posed by their station - how was he going to get out of here now that his cover was blown? - briefly flitted across his mind.

"You know what I want?" Murdock growled, letting the seconds tick by as he indulged in some hardcore honesty. It was therapeutic, and there would never be a better time or audience. "See, he survived a POW camp, just like me. The black, the starvation, the beatings... oh, but that was only a small part of it. Your mind gets stretched on the rack, the joints start to separate, the blood vessels start to burst and you scream but nobody can hear you. And then, you snap. Then it's not hell anymore, it's just... empty. No more voices in your head, just voices you can't make out, can't tell if they're real or make believe. Then you realize you never knew what hell was."

Corrolini choked, gagging on his attempt to breathe. Murdock eased off the pressure on his throat a little, but not before he wrenched the pistol out of his fingers and spun it around, barrel to the man's forehead.

"I want to kill you," he snarled. A flicker of genuine fear crossed Corrolini's eyes. "Not because you deserve it although, let's be honest, you really do. But no. I want to kill you just because you're not going to kill Alan Parker. And because even if you did, you wouldn't know how to do it right."

Still gasping for air, Corrolini stammered out a choked, "What do you mean?"

"You should've shot him in the head when you had a chance," Murdock declared. "Come to think of it, you should've shot me, too. You shouldn't have let him leave this room. But since you didn't have that kind of foresight, now it's just you with your failure, me with my unresolved anger -" He pulled Corrolini's tie from around his neck, wadded it up, and shoved it in his mouth before reaching behind him. Without looking back, he set the gun on the desk, exchanging it for a sharp, silver letter opener. "- and this very sharp blade."

The fear in the man's eyes was a bit more than a flicker this time as the sharp edge caught the light from the desk lamp.

1971

Murdock felt nothing. Separated from his body by a haze of distant confusion, he stared at the scene unfolding before him without comprehending. He didn't hear the words that were spoken, as if they were in another language, and spoken to someone else very far away. Someone else was holding a gun aimed at his commanding officer, whispering something about hell and agony. As the colonel's hand darted under the desk again, someone else pulled the trigger of the Smith & Wesson .38, then stood still, staring at a lifeless body, blood pouring from two holes in his forehead.

A moment later, someone else was running down the hallway, then turning back to pick up something - he wasn't sure what - from off the floor just outside the colonel's door. Someone else felt the floor shake and the walls rattle, and felt the burning heat of an explosion as he sprinted outside. Finding cooler air, it was someone else who pulled a resting pilot out of a chopper by his shirt. Someone else closed the door and cranked without even looking to see if he had fuel, then lifted and headed north in the unfamiliar chopper without even radioing for clearance or radar contact.

In seconds, the base was only a hazy memory.

Chopper blades and rattling guns echoed in his ears. He had no gunner, no crew, but he could hear laughter from the cargo bay. He was lost, but the map seemed to glow. "Follow the yellow brick road," Alan sang, sitting comfortably in the copilot's seat. "Follow the yellow brick road."

"You shouldn't be there," Murdock answered. It took him a minute to remember why. "You don't know how to fly a helicopter."

"I could learn," Alan answered with a casual shrug.

Green carpet stretched out below - a million jungle trees in a never-ending expanse of enemy territory. "How many klicks from Hanoi are we?" Alan asked.

"What?" Murdock stared at him, confused. "Hanoi is in the North. That's nowhere near here."

Alan smiled. "I know. Funny how that happens. Somebody must have moved it."

This was a bad dream. He had to be dreaming. He frowned at the controls and realized he wanted to wake up.

"You know," Alan started contemplatively. "There's supposed to be one thing you can't do in a dream."

Increasingly desperate to find his way back to a safe, comfortable bed he hadn't visited in years, Murdock was ready to try anything. "What's that?"

"Die," Alan replied.

Murdock stared out the cockpit at the trees passing below with some apprehension. "So, if I crash... I'll wake up?"

"First, you have to go to Hanoi," Alan chided. "Otherwise they'll die too."

The brief memory of his team added to the hazy confusion, and he shook his head. "I thought people couldn't die in a dream."

"You can't," Alan corrected. "But they can."

Murdock frowned. "I don't know the way to Hanoi."

"Let me fly, then," Alan offered enthusiastically. "I know the way."

Breathing a sigh of relief, Murdock closed his eyes and relaxed. It was all going to be fine. Alan knew the way.

Gunshots startled him awake - Ping! Ping! - and voices on the radio made him realize he'd woken up into another circle of hell rather than that nice soft bed. Voices in the cargo area of the chopper made him want to look back, but for the first time since training, he was having a hard time keeping her level.

"Go, Murdock! Go!"

Hannibal? Murdock couldn't be sure, but it sounded like him.

"Can I wake up now?" he yelled back. "You guys won't die on me, right?"

Finally, he turned to glance back. He found the cargo bay was empty. Even Alan had abandoned the copilot's chair. Facing forward again, he heard incoherent sounds of victory from his invisible passengers.

His hands were on the controls, but he couldn't feel them as he eyed the green canvas below longingly. The confusion was a nightmare - everything happening so fast, the timeline so disjointed. The voices were screaming... Screaming...

Then the chopper was empty. Had he landed? Had they jumped out? Had they ever been here? Where was his team? He looked around at the fires of hell, blazing in the jungle below him and all around him. Screaming soldiers and secondary explosions. He didn't like this scene. The rotors were still turning. He was still flying. Fly away, to another section of Never Never Land. So many sections to explore. So little time.

Voices on the intercom, voices in his head, voices in the back of the chopper from long-dead ghosts. As he looked back, he could see them - bloody, mangled bodies oozing with the scent of death. Dead eyes staring at him. Colonel Morrison... "Murderer. You're a murderer."

Murdock faced forward again, turning his back on the horror of the scene behind him. He was ready to wake up now, a child safe in his own bed with his favorite blue blanket. Safe in his own home...

Murderer!

Only vaguely aware that he'd lost control of the chopper, the pain of hitting his helmet-less head against the Plexiglas window came as a shock. The sound of his own scream was the last thing he heard as the darkness engulfed him.