A/N: This is a one-shot, no sequel story that I never really planned to write, but the idea would have eaten me alive if I hadn't. So, I wrote this out in the library sometime between second semester Spanish and Principles of Macroeconomics. I didn't have a particular time-frame in mind when I wrote this, but you can think of it as having occurred when Colonel Decker was chasing the Team, or really, anytime before they went to work for Stockwell.
That said, on with the story!
***
Waiters and Wild Goose Chases
"How many in the party, sir?"
The politician glanced around in annoyance, couldn't the waiter see he was the only one waiting to be seated? "One."
"Right this way, sir." The politician became even more annoyed as he found himself being led in circles around the tables in the small dining room, doubling back several times, and finally to a table near the front, not ten feet from where he had been standing. It was almost enough to make him give up after all he'd come through, but he knew he couldn't as he thought of his eight-year-old son, kidnapped from the boy's own bedroom.
The message left behind had said in no uncertain terms that if the politician didn't deliver $100,000 to the kidnappers by the end of the week, or if he attempted to contact the authorities, his son would be dead. The money wasn't an issue. The problem was he knew these people, or their kind at any rate. If he delivered the money, he'd never see his son again. There could be no witnesses.
So he had begun a search. Not for his son, but for the A-Team. Whispered rumors in back rooms and alleys had led him to a Chinese laundry. The strange old owner's cryptic messages had seemed to lead him nowhere but here, to this quaint little Chinese restaurant. Though less than forty-eight hours had passed since his son disappeared, it seemed an eternity.
As he sat, wondering what was expected of him now, it occurred to him that he hadn't eaten in all that time, so the politician ordered a lunch of lemon chicken and white rice, and the *very* annoying waiter actually had the audacity to ask if he wanted fries with that. When the politician declined, the waiter actually *skipped* off like a child to fill the order.
* * *
"He's clean, mi Capitan. We didn't pick up any tails in the restaurant." The waiter climbed in the side door of the black van in the alley next to the restaurant.
"'Course not, fool. You led him in circles," came from the driver's seat.
"Cool off, B.A." Hannibal turned to Face who was scanning the street in front of the restaurant. "Is it clear?"
"Nothing out there. He's legit."
Hannibal pulled out a cigar and turned back to the waiter. "All right Murdock, time to move in for the kill."
* * *
The politician looked up as the waiter dropped off his check and complementary fortune cookie. Frustration struck him again, where the hell were the A-Team? And what the hell was he doing just sitting in a restaurant having lunch as if nothing had happened? But at the same time he realized there really wasn't anything he could do alone. Damn the A-Team!
'Ah, hell,' he thought and forcefully cracked open the cookie. The fortune fluttered down to the table in front of him, and the single line of neat type caught his eye:
'You have found the A-Team.'
*fin
A/N: So, love it? Hate it? Let me know, but be aware that flames are not needed in the drought-ridden West right now.
Oddly enough, the idea came to me as I was eating Chinese. Go figure.