Chapter Seven







The mop swirled in patterns on the floor. Tiny bubbles trailed in its wake. Occasionally the handle hit the pail, causing a faint ring to echo down the hallway. It scraped the floor in rhythmic swishes, interspaced with clatter of the wheeled bucket as it was pushed down the hall.

The man with the mop paid no attention to anything else. With the concentration of an artist, he worked his way slowly down toward the ICU doorway, stooping over the bucket. His pants dragging along the floor, hiding his shoes. The color of dirty snow, they matched the scrub jacket he wore over a brown T-shirt. His gray ponytail was tied with a piece of string. Thick, horn-rimmed glasses clung desperately to the end of his nose, threatening to slide off with the least provocation.

He stopped in front of the agent there, and drew himself up slightly. Shoving the glasses back up his nose, he scowled at the other man. "Y'gonna move, or I gotta mop over ya?" he demanded.

The agent stiffened. The janitor thrust his face at the other's. "I ain't got all night, mister," he said.

The agent began to move out of the way, then stopped, eying the janitor suspiciously. Alarm bells rang in his head. The A-team was known to don disguises as needed, especially Colonel Smith. He studied the man in front of him, then pulled a radio from his pocket.

"Able Four to base."

"Go ahead, Able Four."

He looked at the janitor again, debating. "I got some guy here trying to get in the ICU."

"Is it one of them?"

The janitor glared at him as if trying to stare him down. "Will ya move it, mister? I got three more floors t'finish." He raised up on tiptoes, wobbling slightly.

"Could be." The agent answered. "Send a backup."

"Git yerself outta my way, mister!"

"Roger that," came the answer, "Able Eight and Able Fourteen are on their way."

"Acknowledged," responded Able Four. He snapped the radio off and shoved it into his pocket. Withdrawing his pistol from its holster, he held it casually in front of him.

The janitor's attitude changed abruptly. "Okay, mister," he said nervously, backing away. "I don't have t' mop here now." He stumbled against the pail, dropping the mop. It skittered away, and he scrambled after it.

"Hold it!" snapped the agent. He leveled the weapon at the other.

The janitor halted, dropping the mop he had just recovered. Shaking, he raised his hands.

Able Four advanced on him. "Put your hands on your head," he ordered. The janitor complied.

The elevator doors rumbled open, disgorging two more agents. They drew their weapons, taking up positions on either side of the janitor. One produced a set of handcuffs, locking them around the wrists of the suspect. The other grabbed the man by an elbow and hustled him-protesting loudly-back to the elevator.

Once the doors closed, Able Four relaxed and returned his weapon to its holster, congradulating himself on his vigilance. He retrieved the abandoned mop from the floor, then reached for the bucket, intending to move both from the middle of the hall. The bucket rolled toward him, then stopped abruptly, halted by a foot planted firmly on one side of it.

"Right idea," said Hannibal, "wrong man." He casually pointed a handgun at the agent, who dropped the mop and automatically raised his hands. "How 'bout you hand me your gun, and we discuss it in the closet?"

Mentally kicking himself, Able Four withdrew the weapon, handing it over butt first. Hannibal tucked it in his belt. Then, with a gesture at the agent, he followed the other toward a linen closet. Shortly thereafter, Able Four was secured with an assortment of towels and tape, and seated in a laundry trolley, with additional towels and sheets were flung over him.

"Sorry, pal," Hannibal apologized, locking the closet, "Your buddies will find you eventually." He straightened the scrubs he was wearing, headed for the ICU doors, and pushed through them.

Once inside, he paused and scanned the area. The desk area appeared deserted, an illusion created by the fact that most of the staff were occupied in the individual rooms. He moved purposely toward the desk, then stopped as if to read something there. Another glance around the area, then at the main doors, and he started toward Face's room.

"Can I help you?"

He turned, facing a staff member-a nurse, by her name tag-holding an IV bag. He hadn't seen her earlier. Then he saw the open door behind the desk. She must have been back there, getting the IV. He hesitated. "I'm here to see a friend of mine," he said.

She glanced first for a name tag, then her gaze moved up, stopping at his eyes. A gauntlet of emotions flickered across her face, settling into recognition laced with resignation. With a wry smile, she started to cross her arms, realized that she still held the IV bag, and set it on the desk. She folded her arms, then said, "When do I expect the others?"

Hannibal looked at her questioningly.

"You guys are as persistent as cockroaches," she said, and added softly, "and about as hard to get rid of."

Hannibal shrugged apologetically. "We're not trying to cause trouble," he said, "It just seems to follow us. We're just concerned about our friend."

Renee sighed. She glanced at her rooms, then back at Hannibal. "Okay," she said. She picked up the IV bag and headed to Face's room. Hannibal followed. She stopped outside the door and held up one hand. "Wait here," she ordered, then went into the room.

Murdock looked up when Renee entered. "Would you please step outside for a bit?" she requested abruptly, snapping the blinds closed.

Puzzled by the impatience in her voice, he nodded and stood. "I'll be back," he said to Face, lightly touching him on the shoulder.

"And close the door."

"Yes, ma'am." He closed the door behind himself, wondering at her tone, then glanced up. Seeing Hannibal leaning against the window, he understood some of her frustration. Murdock nodded at Hannibal, who returned the nod. They waited.

Hannibal broke the silence. "How's he doing?'

"Renee said 'No change'," Murdock answered.

Hannibal raised an eyebrow at the name, but let it pass for the moment. Murdock seemed pulled into himself, more so than Hannibal had ever seen him. The captain had that ability, but never had it manifest itself to this extent. Murdock glanced briefly at Hannibal, then his gaze returned to nothingness.

He may have seemed lost in his thoughts, but Murdock had noted more than Hannibal realized. The colonel looked tired and aged. While his brain knew that Hannibal was older than the rest of them, that particular knowledge had never hit him so thoroughly until now. It's Wednesday morning, he thought, and the colonel hasn't slept since we got back from Spain. There was the restaurant, Stockwell, and wondering if Face is going to make it. And you want him to look like the cover of 'Vanity Fair'?

The seconds stretched into minutes. It felt as though they had stood for hours, waiting to be allowed back into the room. When the blinds finally opened, Murdock and Hannibal straightened quickly, eyes on the door.

It opened, and Renee halted in the doorway, startled by the intense gazes directed at her. Neither man said a word, but she could read the question unasked by both. She hesitated, then said, "Okay. Ten minutes." She stepped aside, allowing them into the room.

Murdock gestured for Hannibal to go first. The colonel turned to the nurse, bowed slightly, then entered the room. He moved to the chair previously occupied by Murdock.

The captain turned to Renee. "Thanks," he said, then added, "Only two more coming. I promise."

Renee started to say something, then appeared to change her mind. She gave Murdock a brief smile, then returned to the desk.

Murdock went into the room. He closed the door part way, then joined Hannibal at the bedside. He glanced at the monitors, but again, they meant nothing to him, other than the pulse and blood pressure. And the EKG, still tracing a living heart.

They remained silent, watching the man on the bed, and searching for some hopeful sign. Murdock sensed that the stillness bothered Hannibal as much as it had him. He wondered if-like himself-it reminded Hannibal of that day, back in Vietnam. Rather than confirm the thought, he asked, "BA and Frankie?"

Hannibal- his thoughts interrupted-looked at him. "They're here," he said, "Just not here yet."

Murdock nodded, remembering the lack of agents at the front door. Of course, BA would see to that. He's just a bit cautious, with having Frankie in tow. He felt a brief rush of sympathy for Frankie, caught up in the mess of their lives; and for BA, with another team member to watch out for. His thoughts turned back to the man in front of him. He leaned against the bed rail, aware that Hannibal's attention was on him, and asked, "D'you ever think, back then, that we'd still be doing this fifteen years later?"

Hannibal didn't respond. He looked at Face for what seemed like ages before returning his attention to Murdock. "No, I didn't," he finally admitted, "I thought this whole thing would have been settled in our favor right after the war."

"And Stockwell?" persisted Murdock.

Hannibal hesitated. "I still think he's our best bet," he said, "Better than stepping on a rusty nail."

Murdock looked at Face. Minutes seemed to slow into eternity. He looked back at Hannibal and said softly, "He hasn't had much of a life, has he?"

Hannibal studied the pilot before answering. "None of us has since then," he responded.

"I know." Murdock wasn't giving up on the subject yet. "But we all had somewhere-somebody-to come from. Face doesn't." He snorted briefly, sounding like BA. "Face's been on the run almost half his life." He paused. "It's just not fair."

"Life isn't fair, Captain," Hannibal said, "And Face isn't the only one with that problem."

"I know," Murdock acknowledged, "But still, he never. . ."

"He tried," Hannibal reminded him, "We all tried." Faint exasperation crept into his voice. " I didn't set it up this way, Murdock. We're all playing with the hand we've been dealt. If it hadn't been for the Army pushing on this, we could have faded into the sunset like all the other vets. But we got a reputation, a notoriety, along with the Lynches, Deckers, Fulbrights and assorted others." And how many times have we all had this conversation over the years?

Murdock subsided. He sensed that Hannibal was in agreement with him, but held back from admitting so. He knew better than to push the colonel, and they returned to an uneasy silence, waiting.

A brief commotion jerked them from their thoughts. Murdock glanced at Hannibal, then rose and looked out from the room. Two more scrub-suited men had entered the ICU and were at the desk, one of them wheedling the staff person there. In spite of himself, Murdock grinned. You guys should've asked for Renee, he thought. He looked back at Hannibal, then headed to the desk.

"Excuse me," he interrupted. They all turned to him, looks of relief on the faces of BA and Frankie. The nurse merely looked puzzled-and annoyed. It seems to be a common expression among ICU staff today, Murdock thought. He took a deep breath. "Renee okayed their coming," he bluffed, mentally crossing his fingers that she would back him up. He glanced at the other room she covered. That patient was being transferred, Renee occupied with giving instructions to the attendants.

Frankie opened his mouth, but was abruptly jabbed by BA. "Shut up, fool," he growled softly. Murdock frowned at him also, silently willing Frankie to keep his mouth shut.

Renee tucked the chart next to the patient, smiled encouragingly at both patient and attendants, and watched as the stretcher rolled out of the ICU. She sighed in relief, and turned back to the desk, only to be met by the glare of her coworker and Murdock's pleading eyes. She sighed again, and walked to the desk.

"Renee," began both the nurse and Murdock. BA looked at him, then Murdock, and shook his head.

She held up a hand and looked at Murdock with a scowl that could rival BA's. Then her expression smoothed out and she turned to the other nurse. "It's all right, Lynn," she said, "I okayed these guys." She studied Murdock briefly-warningly--and continued, "And HM's taking responsibility for it."

"All right,"said Lynn doubtfully, and turned back to her chart.

At a gesture from Renee, the three men followed her to Face's room. She paused, looking first at BA, then Frankie, and finally Murdock. "Ten minutes," she said. She pushed open the door.

"Thanks," grunted BA.

"We really do appreciate this. . .," Frankie began, but BA snorted and shoved him into the room. He followed, leaving Murdock outside with Renee.

Murdock opened his mouth, closed it again, then leaned forward and quickly kissed Renee. "Thanks," he said, and disappeared into the room. The door closed.

Renee stood, staring at the closed door. Her hand raised to her face, and she could feel herself blushing. She walked back to the desk, gratefully noting that Lynn was in the med room, and no one else seemed to be paying attention. She grabbed Face's chart, flipped it open and began writing.



TBC