CHAPTER TWENTY

November 8, 1982

An hour drive in a cramped car - while sitting on Smith's lap, no less - did little to improve Suzanne's mood. She'd had him, dead to right, and yet somehow he had still managed to weasel his way free. How in the hell had he done it?

If the Chief hadn't balked at her request for backup she would be halfway to Langley by now. She'd have Hannibal signed, sealed, and delivered. Then she could get to the heart of the matter and find out just which idiot at the CIA thought they could slaughter an entire village and just walk away from it. Damn it all. But no, instead, she had been kidnapped and taken for a joyride to the middle of the god-forsaken desert. This was beyond absurd.

"Where are we?" Suzanne demanded as the car finally stopped in the middle of nowhere.

"We're in the desert," Hannibal answered. "Where does it look like we are?"

She glared at him. "I know that. What are we doing here?"

She eyed the structure in front of them – a travel trailer with corrugated tin walls added on to expand it into something like a house. Actually, it looked more like a kid's fort, or one of the hootches she'd seen in photos of Vietnam.

"We're stopping." Hannibal seemed to take great pleasure in pointing out the obvious. As Face killed the engine, Hannibal pushed open the door. "Get out."

Suzanne looked at the metal - what the hell was that, anyway? House? Hut? Trailer? Box? - then back at Hannibal. Was he serious? One look at him and she knew he was. Great, the one time he was serious, she'd been hoping for facetious.

With a shake of her head and as much dignity as she could manage, she twisted in his lap and stumbled onto the shifting sand. Her legs were cramped and a little less steady then she would have liked. Using the door, she tried to balance herself, ignoring the scorching sand on her shoeless feet. She'd be damned if she was going to let him know just how uncomfortable it was. But after only a few seconds, she had no choice but to instinctively hop from one foot to the other. Still, she kept her back straight and shoulders squared as she took a few steps forward, trying to smooth down her hopelessly wrinkled skirt. Damn it, the thing was made of linen; it would never be the same. Tossing her head back, she folded her arms and stared at Smith. If she could've killed him with her glare, she would've.

"Nice little place you have here," she snapped at him. "Very... quaint."

Hannibal stood and shut the door behind him, then smiled at her and gestured for her to go ahead of him. Peck actually led the way, pistol in hand just in case there were surprises.

Damn, that sand was hot! It was nearly hot enough on her feet to break her not-inconsiderable pride and send her scrambling for the shade. When they reached the shadow from the trailer, it provided only minor relief. But the dry, scorching heat was radiating off of the trailer. Hell, it was probably an oven in there. Besides that, the last place she wanted to be was in a confined space with the two of them.

Hannibal stopped at the bottom of the three steps leading up to the door and gestured for her to go first. "After you, Suzy."

A brief glance at her surrounds reinforced that she had no other real options. She had no weapon; Smith had taken her knife from her in the car. Even if she managed to surprise him and get past him, she would never make it to the car before Peck caught up with her. Besides, Peck was the one with the keys. And she knew they really didn't want to harm her. Running through the desert without shoes or water or anyplace to go was certainly more dangerous - not to mention stupid - than playing along.

Shaking her head slightly she walked up the steps, trying to let her eyes adjust to the dim interior and glad to have her feet on something that wasn't a thousand degrees.

"So what's your brilliant plan now that you've kidnapped me?" she demanded.

The sweltering heat inside of the tin can trailer almost made her wish for the hot sand again. Peck was coming back from the second, adjoined room, slipping his gun back into his belt when she turned to Smith and raised a brow in challenge.

"Well, this isn't exactly the way I would've chosen," Smith answered. "But having you as a hostage will just make your superiors that much more cooperative when they come for that talk."

Peck stopped and stared at him, almost as incredulously as Suzanne herself. "Hannibal, you don't really think..."

He trailed off as Smith turned to him and grinned. Instead of finishing, Peck merely shook his head and sighed. Suzanne, on the other hand, was still staring at him, jaw dropped. "You're joking right?"

"Why would you think that?" he asked innocently.

Her hands dropped to her sides. "You can't really still believe that my superiors agreed to coming here?"

It had to be a joke. Had to be. What were the odds that the one time he believed her was when she was lying through her teeth?

He flashed her a full smile. "Oh, come on, Suzy. You wouldn't lie to me, would you?" He stepped closer, couching in on her personal space, and lowered his voice. "Not any more than you would allow personal vendettas - or desires - to get in the way of your mission."

Her jaw snapped shut. Son of a bitch…

"Looks like your plan backfired on you, honey," Peck said flatly. "Maybe in more than one way."

She glared viciously, first at Smith and then at Peck. "Honey?Really?"

He shrugged, entirely nonchalant.

"You know, I expect that from him." She nodded towards Smith. "He's old enough to use that term, but you?"

Some part of her was shocked and appalled by her outburst. She was being both stupid and careless – two things she never was. But she couldn't stop running her mouth without thinking. Maybe if she hadn't just been humiliated – both in public and in private - by Smith, she would have had a little more ability to keep her cool. But damn it, he just had a knack for getting under her skin.

Peck sighed, and turned towards the door, not willing to engage her. "I'll wait outside."

Smith nodded, and watched him go before turning back to her. "Fact is, Suzy, your plan did backfire. Out in the real world, that could get you killed."

For a long moment, she just stared at him, wishing like hell she could figure out what was going on in his head. Why was he talking like he gave a damn? He'd just kidnapped her for Christ's sake! She was just a toy for him, something to pass the time with.

She didn't need to answer. It didn't matter what he thought of her. But still the words were coming out of her mouth, low and serious. "I'm well aware of how the real world operates."

"Good," he said with a smile. "Then you'll appreciate this simulation."

He walked to what had once served as a kitchen for someone who had once lived here. It was hard to believe that anyone could've lived out here in the middle of nowhere. What had ever happened to them? And why did they leave their "house" behind? It wasn't like it would've been that hard to move it...

Her wandering thoughts pulled up short as he withdrew a few gallons of water out from under the sink. He had prepared. Had he known he was going to bring her here?

"This is for you," he said. "And until further notice, you're going to stay right here. Is that understood?"

It took her a second to digest what he had just said with that patronizing, casual tone, as if she were a misbehaved child getting sent to her room for time out. And like a child, she could argue and protest, but would it really make a difference? She was in the middle of the desert with no weapon, no idea of her location, no means of communication. Hell, she didn't even have a pair of shoes. All of her protest would amount to nothing, other than to amuse him, and she was sick of being his entertainment. So instead, she found herself staring at him in genuine confusion.

"Why?" she finally asked, with less authority than she'd hoped for.

"Well, because even if your superiors aren't on their way," he answered, "I imagine your disappearance - on top of what they already want from me - might make them a little more inclined to be... approachable."

She stared. He had worked with the Agency. He had to know that as far as they were concerned, she was on her own. There was no rescue, no negotiation. Of course, that wasn't necessarily what he was implying. She felt her eyes widen slightly. Was he going to let them think she was dead? That he had killed her? Was he hoping that might make them nervous and willing to talk? That was insanely risky. There was just as much reason for him to think they would send someone much more dangerous than her after him with a kill order.

He smiled as he headed for the door. "I'll be back to check on you and bring you food. For now, just make yourself at home."

"You're taking a hell of a risk, you know." Did he not even see it? "It would be easier if you just helped me get a hold of the people who started this."

"Sorry, Suzy." He paused in the doorway, and smiled at her before stepping out. "That's not part of the plan."

In a matter of only seconds, he was in the car, and pulling away, leaving her alone in the desert.

March 15, 1968

As it turned out, there was a damn good reason for Hannibal's exhaustion on the mission that had ended Wo's life. While the team spent a week on stand down, he spent the better part of that week in bed, feverish and vomiting, barely able to move and trying hopelessly to keep something - even water - in his stomach. By the time the worst of it had passed, he was itching for their next assignment, eager to see something other than the inside of the sick bay. Still, it took several more days before he was returned to health and he found himself on the other side of the wire again.

It was a warm up run. At least, it should have been. He'd been in contact with Westman, who told him to take a few more days off, and was still near the radio when the popcorn sound of AK-47s blasted from the speaker. The voice that followed was frantic, calling for an extract, and Hannibal had scrambled the team in time to meet the helicopter pilot at the flight line.

The FAC knew right where to find the team, and with warnings of "It's too hot! You can't go in there!" ringing in their ears, Hannibal's team had rappelled down straight into the middle of the firefight. Well aware that there was no guarantee the helicopter pilot would stick around, there was a mad dash to reach the jungle floor, then to figure out what was going on.

"They just came at us from everywhere!" the wild eyed radio operator yelled over the sound of the bullets.

Too calm, realistically, for the situation, Hannibal put a hand on the man's shoulder as the rest of his team took stock and began blanketing the trees around them with a fresh supply of ammo. "How many still alive in your team?" he asked.

"Um, I…" The man finally closed his eyes, took a calming breath, and answered with precision. "There's me and… Groove is still alive, I think, but he's injured."

"Where?"

He pointed to the man tucked under the brush and bleeding profusely from a number of holes in his torso, one of which blew his shoulder to hell. Hannibal frowned. Whatever he'd been hit with, it was bigger than the normal rounds that came out of the automatic rifles. Moving over to the man, he checked for a pulse and found nothing. Before he had a chance to turn away, Finch was beside him.

"They're coming from the north and the east," he reported. "There's that creek down to the south and they might be trying to back us up there."

Hannibal's mind raced. "There's that field on the other side of the creek," he said quickly. "Would make a good LZ."

"If we can get across…" Finch answered warily. "It looked pretty flooded from the air."

"We're going to have to," Hannibal said, leaving no room for any other conclusion. "Call it in so the choppers can meet us there and have Covey check if that path looks clear from his angle."

Finch made no argument, only nodded and grabbed his radio. Moving away from the dead body they would have to leave behind, he readied his weapon and exchanged glances with Finch before opening fire into the trees. The plan would work; it had to. Otherwise, he'd all but ordered his entire team to their deaths.

November 9, 1982

Hannibal leaned back on the hood of Face's loaner car – a sensible four door sedan the dealer had offered when he'd dropped his car off for bullet hole repairs. Thankfully, the dealer was a "close personal friend" who asked no questions about the nature of the damage. Face had regarded Hannibal's suggestion of waiting until the fiasco with Ms. Davids was well and truly concluded before patching up holes with utter distaste. With other things on his mind, Hannibal had only spent minimal effort goading Face.

"Regardless of what else she knows or doesn't know, she's got the official documentation on Linh Hu Nao," Hannibal reported, glancing around BA's garage to make sure none of his come-and-go coworkers - most of them ex-cons or nameless immigrants - were listening in. So far, nobody had paid them any heed.

"I had a quick look at them in the motel," Face added. "They're pretty clear on the fact that you had nothing even remotely resembling orders."

BA growled deeply. He was doing his level best not to pace back and forth, but the anxiety was clear in his tone as he demanded, "What do you mean there was no orders? They think you went around killin' people for fun?"

It was a rhetorical question. Even if the Agency had believed that, Hannibal thought bitterly, a willingness to indiscriminately kill would have probably been a plus. They would have been able to send him on even more ethically questionable assignments in that case.

As BA ground his fist into his palm restlessly, Face finally pushed away from his leaning position against the car and sighed heavily. "How is it," he asked, tone dripping with sarcastic contempt, "that your orders keep getting lost?"

"I don't think these orders were lost," Hannibal corrected, eliciting deep frowns and expectant stares from both men. Reaching for his cigar, he took a long moment to find his lighter and didn't speak again until the smoke was curling up from the end. It was calming, in light of the information he had to share.

"The same man who signed my orders is the man Suzanne is working for," he explained. "His name is Ekhart and he was a real piece of work."

Face frowned. "So it's a cover up."

"Sounds like it," Hannibal agreed dryly.

"What about the Army's paperwork?" Face demanded, not ready to resign to the solid state of yet another false accusation.

"I mean... Westman had to approve our missions," Face tried hopefully, "even when he loaned us out to the CIA."

"Some of them," Hannibal clarified. "Not all. This one, I happen to know he never filed."

"Like the orders for the Hanoi bank job," BA growled, and Hannibal shrugged.

Face was clearly less than pleased with the prospect of taking the fall for another set of illegal and immoral orders. BA looked as though he was ready to bolt for destinations unknown, just to avoid the potential danger and certain discomfort of this conversation. Hannibal sighed as he focused on his cigar. After a long, uneasy silence, Face was the first to speak.

"You know," he mused lightly. "It's amazing to me that with all the red tape and protocol, so many of our operations failed to make it to the books."

"Well, two of mine that we know of," Hannibal reflected thoughtfully. "And to be fair, technically, we didn't even exist."

BA growled. "We existed enough for them to court martial us!" There was a loud thunk! as his fist met Face's car with almost terminal velocity. "Ain't nothin' fair about any of this!"

"Hey, watch it, will you?" Face snapped at him. "This isn't even my car!"

"I ain't worried 'bout your car!" BA snarled back.

"Great," Face retorted with a roll of his eyes. "Well, you and Hannibal can start a club. But for right now -"

"Being on the run for robbery and treason ain't bad enough?" BA interrupted, ignoring him. "Now they want us to take the fall for killin' a bunch of people, too?"

The deep anger was sheeting off of BA in waves. Hannibal could understand why, but it wasn't going to help. Not only that, a few heads were starting to turn, shooting candid glances in their direction. "Take it easy, BA," Hannibal warned. "And remember, this is all about something that happened before I even met you - any of you."

"That don't matter," BA growled bitterly.

He was right, and Hannibal knew it. Their work depended on their reputation, and they all suffered for the sake of each other. If Hannibal was branded a murderer, so they would all be. But at the moment, lessening the insult to BA's personal character seemed a wise attempt at diffusing the man's anger.

"Alright, let's assume there's no paper trail," Face started, pacing slowly. "And let's assume Ekhart knows you had orders, because he gave them, right? So the question is whether he's acting alone or with the Agency's backing."

Hannibal studied his cigar, waiting for Face to follow the logic. As far as he could see, there was no reason to assume this was anything other than a cover up. So who had the most to gain?

"Do you really buy that the Agency as a whole would want to erase this?" Face pressed, watching Hannibal carefully. "I mean, they haven't exactly done a good job covering up the Phoenix Project..."

"It's possible," Hannibal answered without conviction. "But I agree; it's unlikely."

"That girl you got stashed would probably know," Face pointed out. "You got any plans for making her spill?"

Hannibal didn't answer. His gut told him Suzanne honestly wanted the truth. But even if that was the case, they couldn't prove anything. Their side of the story was the testimony of three fugitives against the word of a government agency - complete with documentation. And what would even be the point? Even if she wanted the truth and believed it, what was she supposed to do with it?

There was a long moment of silence before Face spoke again. "You know, Hannibal, you weren't the only one out there."

Jolted out of his thoughts by a picture that didn't fit inside the framework, Hannibal glanced up and waited for Face to elaborate.
"You had a whole team," Face said carefully, clearly going somewhere.

"All of whom are dead," Hannibal replied dismissively, not quite able - for all his effort - to hide the sting of those words. "You know that."

"All of them?" Face challenged.

Hannibal frowned, considering. The deaths of those men weighed on him even fifteen years after the fact. He remembered them vividly. But Face was right; there was still one possibility.

"Breaker Jones," Face supplied, surprising Hannibal with his knowledge.

Shifting uncomfortably, Hannibal nodded. "Yeah," he finally admitted. "But I wouldn't know where to start looking for him."

"Well, according to Suzanne's file," Face continued, just as cautiously, "he's living in a Detroit suburb with a wife and three kids."

Hannibal blinked in frank shock and Face shrugged. "I knew what I was looking for when I saw the file," he admitted, answering the unspoken question. "The kind of thing that happened at Linh Hu Nao takes a toll. I wasn't surprised you had someone leave because of it. Hell, if it had been me - any of us..." Face shook his head slowly. "I honestly don't know what I would've done."

Drawing in a deep breath, Hannibal considered, for the first time in over a decade, the possibility of seeing Breaker again. Although they'd parted on good terms - as good as could be expected - if he had a family, the last thing he was going to want was rehashing gory Vietnam stories with well-known military fugitives. Just as there was a very distinct line to be drawn between the soldier they'd known as "Boston" and the man who lived quietly with his wife as Ray Brenner, so too would there be a drastic difference Pete Jones and the man Hannibal had once known as "Breaker".

"They sent her after me, specifically," Hannibal reflected quietly. "They don't want Jones."
"Good," BA said firmly. "If he got a family, he don't need no trouble with the CIA."

"That's not the point," Hannibal said quietly.

"My point," Face interjected, "is that someone wants to shift blame for that incident so they've decided to file it under 'war crimes of Colonel Smith.' It's an easy fix to a complicated problem. But Jones -"

"- would have the entire CIA and all the documentation in that file to contend with if he tried to interfere," Hannibal interrupted with a glare. "Not to mention dragging his military career through the mud, to say nothing of his conscience."

"But if, by chance, there is some question of guilt and innocence here - if there is someone, be it Suzanne or anyone else - who really wants to know what happened and wants it from a credible source..."

Hannibal shook his head. "His word is not going to stand up against the official documents of what happened."

"Not in court, no," Face agreed.

"Then why on earth would I want to drag him through all of that?" Hannibal demanded.

"Because if he can convince that woman we've got locked up in the desert," Face pointed out, "then she has a chance of going back and figuring out what the hell happened. At the very least, it would make it clear who's trying to smooth this over. And if it is Ekhart, acting on his own..."

Face trailed off, and Hannibal sighed as he stood straight and paced a few steps away. He hadn't really given much thought to what he intended to do with Suzanne other than keep her fed and contained. Obviously he couldn't hide her in the desert forever, and he wouldn't want the inconvenience when he had absolutely nothing to gain. Maybe she could help. At the very least, she'd have something more interesting to cut her teeth on than chasing him around LA. Whether or not she'd be able to do anything with the truth was another story entirely.

"It's your call Hannibal," Face finally said, sensing his hesitation at dragging Breaker into this shit storm. "But either way, you may want to consider letting this guy know that someone is dredging this up. Because if, by chance, they think he may have the same information and pose the same threat you do, he has a lot more to lose."

Hannibal was quiet for a long moment. Then, finally, he nodded. He had reservations about using Breaker as a redeemer. But Face had a very good point - or at least a valid excuse. It was better that Hannibal should knock on his door than someone like Suzanne.