We film makers live by our own code. There's tradition at stake. You may have heard of some of our more arcane sayings such as always leave them laughing and the show must go on. We believe in those expressions. We live by them.
- Hannibal, "Where is the Monster When You Need Him"
What unknown variables?
Well, if we knew the unknown, the unknown wouldn't be unknown.
- Sam and Al, "The Right Hand of God"
Chapter 11: Discoveries
TUESDAY, MAY 13, 1986
LONG BEACH, CALIFORNIA
7:35AM PACIFIC TIME
When I was growing up, I had heard the old saying, "Never judge a man until you've walked a mile in his shoes." My dad used to always tell us the same thing, but used five miles. I found myself not only literally wearing the shoes of another person, who happened to be a potential criminal, but also driving his car. Somehow, I don't think this is what they had in mind . . .
There is another saying that music is like a key to the soul. It can also provide the greatest insight as to who an individual is. The presets on the Corvette's radio had been programmed with a wide variety of music ranging from classical, to country, to rock. Whoever this Templeton Peck was, he was certainly a very complex man . . .
Sam eased the Corvette to a stop in front of the address that Murdock had told him about the day before. His past Leaps into Los Angeles had been somewhat less than desirable in terms of trying to navigate the streets of the buzzing metropolis. At least he had the time to check maps and plan out his routes so he wouldn't look like a total idiot who had never been in the large city.
The quantum physicist glanced over to the house that belonged to the address on the map. It was a quaint home, by most definitions. It was a modest size, but not too big, fancy, or outlandish by any means, painted light blue with white trim and white shudders around the windows. The roof was brown in color, and was more of a traditional tile roof rather than the adobe style that appeared on many southwestern homes, especially in southern California. A white picket fence surrounded the house, and the lawn looked to be well trimmed and cared for based on how green the grass looked. There were some shrubs and hedges, but also some flowers as well, all very strategically placed in order to add to the beauty of the property.
For as much as the A-Team was on the run, Colonel John Hannibal Smith had managed to set himself up a home . . . a real home that he was able to call his own, in a nice and quiet neighborhood, and it was very obvious that he took a great deal of pride in it. This was something that, considering the brief time he had spent among the members of the A-Team yesterday, he wouldn't have expected from the military leader. Then again, it was entirely possible too that all of them would want some kind of a chance to eventually settle down and have a home for themselves . . . maybe even, at some point, raise a family.
As he waited, Sam glanced through the small assortment of cassette tapes stored in the center console, just to satisfy curiosity if nothing else. Even the tape collection was of an impressive variety of tastes . . . Boy George and the Culture Club, Huey Lewis and the News, Rick James, Stevie Faith, The Bells, and a few others.
One cassette in particular caught his attention. The plastic cover was somewhat cracked and seemed to bear some fairly ground in dirt, almost as if it had been dropped in mud. Sam arched an eyebrow at this, considering the seemingly impeccable and spotless tastes of Templeton Peck. Pulling out the cassette, Sam looked at it more closely. The cover artwork was red and boasted "Blood Simple - C. J. Mack" with a silhouette of the artist below the album title.
A song came on the radio that drew Sam's attention. Even in spite of his swiss-cheesed memory, he recognized it instantly. It was the rock song, "Fate's Wide Wheel" by King Thunder. Images filled his mind of when he had Leaped into the band's singer and front man, Tonic . . . a band that seemed to be the British version of the band KISS with the wild hair and faces covered by makeup.
But it was the song that spoke to Sam with its hidden meaning. Even though it was revealed by the other members of the band that Tonic had written the lyrics in a drunken stupor, in a way it was almost as if that very song had been written about the time traveling Sam Beckett with how fate wouldn't allow him to stay in a place for too long, and he kept taking on the faces of others . . .
He was so engrossed by the song that he hadn't even noticed a figure approach the passenger side of the Corvette until the door opened. Sam's green eyes immediately snapped to his right, which allowed him to spot Colonel John Hannibal Smith as he climbed into the passenger seat and then closed the door. He fumbled with the cassette tape that he held in his hands, due to the surprise at the sudden appearance of the A-Team's commanding officer, and had to try hard not to let out a sigh of relief.
The silver-white haired strategist chuckled slightly at the Lieutenant's reaction. He hadn't expected to surprise the con man, especially with how observant they all generally had to be due to the pressure from the MPs, but it was still rather amusing to witness. He pulled the newspaper out that he had stashed under his arm as he questioned, "What took you so long, Face? Did you get lost?"
"Rush hour traffic," Sam mentioned briefly. Even though he had left Face's penthouse with plenty of time to spare, he hadn't expected the drive across Los Angeles to have taken as long as it did. There had been several occasions where he was tempted to get off the bumper to bumper traffic on the 405 and take side streets, but he had thought better of that because he hadn't wanted to get lost. One thing for sure, though . . . if he ever had a Leap again in the future that brought him back to Los Angeles, he just hoped that he wouldn't have to deal with the gridlock that he had just been through. "Did I ever mention how much I hate it?"
"You gotta love LA," the Colonel admitted with a hit of pride as he chuckled. It was very clear, from his tone of voice, that he loved living in the City of Angels. Then again, when someone lived in a certain area for years they often grew in love with it and felt a certain attachment and fondness for that region.
The quantum physicist didn't bother to answer. He reached forward and twisted the key out of the accessory mode to start up the Corvette again, pausing for a brief moment to listen as the engine roared to life. He then reached to the gear selector that sat in the center console and guided it into the drive position before gently pulling away from the curb. As he tried to focus on driving so he could remember the route he needed to take to the movie studio, his green eyes cast a glance over to the person sitting in the passenger seat. He had to inwardly admit that he was becoming more and more intrigued by the Colonel with every passing moment.
Hannibal turned his attention to the newspaper that he had pulled out a few moments ago. He unfolded it and flipped past the national and local news until he came to the classifieds section. He even purposely ignored the sports section as well. Instead, his ice blue eyes scoured the pages . . . and it wasn't the comics either due to the lack of a chuckle from him. He eventually folded the paper over backwards, and then folded it a few more times until it was in the compact form of a rectangle. As he folded it, it became clear what section he had focused his attention on.
The classifieds . . .
"Hey, Face, look at this," the leader of the A-Team mentioned, pointing to one particular spot on the page.
Sam eased the Corvette to a stop at a red light and then looked to the spot that the Colonel was referring to. He had pointed out a specific classified ad . . . but it wasn't one where someone was selling something. This one was different and read:
A-Team
I need your help.
Call me.
555-2315
Triple A
Sam cocked his head slightly, inwardly wondering if this was the method that some people used to call upon the A-Team for help. It would kind of make sense in a way. A person could be totally anonymous in a classified ad until a phone call was made to establish contact. Even the name that was used to sign the ad, per sey, was clearly an alias.
"Who's Triple A?" the physicist wondered, hoping that the A-Team's Commanding Officer might have some idea.
"I'm not sure," Hannibal admitted somewhat somberly, almost as if he was mulling over something. The signature that was used on the classified seemed remotely familiar, although he couldn't quite put his finger on it. A small smile crossed his face as he ordered, "Call that number while I'm in the makeup trailer. I think it'll be time for Mr. Lee to make an appearance."
The time traveler glanced over to the Colonel for a moment before returning his attention to the road ahead of him. The light had changed green, so he gently pressed down on the accelerator to keep up with the flow of traffic. He inwardly wondered if the person sitting next to him was crazy. Everything about that classified practically screamed at him as being off somehow. Could this be what ultimately lead to the death of the leader of the A-Team?
"Hannibal, you realize that it could be a trap?" Sam countered, hoping to perhaps be the voice of reason in all of this. Anything he could do to try and avert the disaster that Al told him about would give him a better chance of Leaping. He just hoped that the crafty Colonel would see his logic. "Triple A? Someone who is that desperate for our help probably wouldn't sign an alias to the ad."
"They would if someone is after them and they didn't want to be tracked down by them," Hannibal quickly pointed out. In a way, he didn't blame the person for using an alias instead of their name in the ad. His logic was sound, but it still made him wonder who the person was and what kind of trouble they were in in order to go so far as to use an alias. "Even if it is a trap, you know what they say, Face," the silver-white haired leader started with a light tone of voice. "It takes a con artist to catch a con artist. Make the call and set it up at the Golden Pagoda restaurant in Chinatown where there'll be a lot of people. We won't do the laundry shop on this one in case it is a setup from Decker and Fulbright."
Sam focused on the road ahead of him as he was about to get onto the 405, unsure how to respond to the Colonel. He was a scientist, not a con artist . . . yet the person that he had Leaped into apparently was. He wasn't even sure if he would be able to tell if the person on the other end of the phone was setting them up or not. All he could do was hope that his holographic partner, Al, would show up soon and could provide him with the information on who placed the ad . . .
ARCHIVE ROOM
LOS ANGELES COURIER-EXPRESS
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA
The morning sunlight streamed through a few clear windows along the outside wall, providing more than ample illumination to where the florescent lights did not have to be used. Black metal file cabinets lined the walls, with papers overflowing from the drawers and even more laying on top. Those pages were filled with typed information and old articles on just about anything that one could ever imagine. A wooden table sat in the center of the room, surrounded by a few wooden chairs. Papers and manila file folders were strewn across the top of the table . . . a clear indication that someone had been hard at work.
The room that contained these archives wasn't too small, but it wasn't too large either. There was plenty of space to move around, but it wasn't visited often and had earned a dubious nickname. It wasn't called the morgue for nothing. It was not only the perfect spot to hide out within the building when you didn't want someone to find you, but it was also where old stories, that were killed off and never saw the light of the printing press, were ultimately sent.
Amy sat at the table, looking at several papers that had been within one of the folders. She let out a bit of a sigh, and then ran her hand through her strands of brown hair. It was clear that she was getting frustrated as she expressed, "Zack, we've been at this for over an hour, and we still haven't found anything that helps with the story I'm working on."
Even though they hadn't made any progress, Amy knew that she couldn't give up. She knew what was at stake, and she was thankful that Zack was willing to help her. He was putting a lot on the line by doing so, risking his own job in the process. If Grant Eldridge found out that she was back in the United States and not on her foreign assignment, and that Zack was helping her, it would mean both of their careers.
Zack was standing near the filing cabinets, leafing through one of the open drawers. He already had a few file folders in his hand and it was clear that he was digging for another one. "Give me a second. I've got one more file to find . . ." he urged, hoping to keep her spirits up. He knew how determined she could be when it came to a story. He recalled how, even when Grant suspended her over her insistence that someone look into the disappearance of Al Massey, she didn't give up and continued to get information and pursue other options that eventually led to his recovery. He still had no clue how she managed to do it. His eyes spotted the final folder he was looking for and he pulled it out. He deftly closed the file cabinet drawer and took the small stack over to the table where he set it down in front of Amy.
Immediately, the brunette reporter grabbed one of the folders and flipped it open. Her brown eyes scanned the text that was printed on the paper and she immediately recognized it as a story from a reporter she had heard about some time ago. She saw it come across the AP wires from Germany about a month before she was offered the foreign correspondent position in Jakarta. "Zack," she started to mention as she held the page out to her friend. "What do you make of this?"
He reached forward with his right hand and accepted the sheet of paper from Amy, and then adjusted his dark rimmed glasses on his nose with his left hand as he started to read it over. "I remember seeing this when it came off the wires 'bout a year and a half ago. Huge story with a lot of research into it, but it never made print, though," he admitted.
"Never made print?" Amy parroted, somewhat stunned by that revelation. Nothing was more devastating for a reporter than to put their heart and soul into a story, but then find out that it never saw the light of a newspaper page. Granted, after they wrote the story it was out of their hands, but it could still have an impact on the person who wrote the story. "How come?"
"Word has it that some higher ups got spooked," Zack started to mention. "The reporter disappeared without a trace . . . poof. Nobody's heard anything from him. Rumor is that he was killed, but nobody's been able turn up a body. There were threats against even printing the story, and not just lawsuits if you know what I mean."
Hearing what Zack had to say hit her like a ton of bricks. She had no idea that the reporter on that story had vanished, but if he actually died . . . that thought sent a shiver down Amy's spine, especially knowing the danger that she was in with the story that she had managed to uncover. There was a very real possibility that she could be next to die. Her thoughts dwelled upon a moment from the past, which still practically rung in her ears. "Accept death. It calms you," a familiar voice had told her. Even though she had taken the advice given that day, it still didn't change the fact that she could still be shaken by the prospect of an unexpected demise.
Amy took a deep, cleansing breath as she tried to refocus her thoughts on the present. She stood up as she grabbed another folder and flipped through the pages contained within. As she glanced over them, she recognized that they were profiles that contained foreign military personnel files, INTERPOL reports, among other important pieces of information. Turning to her friend, she asked, "What can you tell me about these guys?"
Zack took the file folder from Amy and scanned through the pages. "They're known as the Red Sword. These guys are trouble with a capital T. They call themselves that because the movement started behind the Iron Curtain, they strike quickly and they're not afraid to kill to get what they want. They're into everything . . . international espionage, the black market, high level assassinations," he began to rattle off the top of his head, keeping his focus on the female reporter. "You name it, they've done it several times over. They've even placed a few of their own into political positions to help cover their tracks and make their operation look legit."
The more information was revealed, the more Amy realized that this was almost like a huge game of chess. It was very strategic with how all of the pieces were being positioned and, once everything was in place, then they would deal the final blow in order to capture the win. "Put people in power and eventually you can take control," she murmured as the full weight of the situation fell upon her shoulders, steeling her conviction to get help on this from the only people she could trust to keep her safe.
"In Russia, they operate under the title of Partiya Svobody, which is the Freedom Party, but they're anything but. They're more like a dictatorship with an iron fist. Look at one of them the wrong way, and you'll probably end up in a body bag," Zack continued to rattle off, divulging the information he knew off the top of his head without having to review too much of what was in the folder. "They almost have majority control in the Kremlin, and they currently run the KGB."
That was new information for her, as the intrepid reporter had no idea just how far this went . . . but, now that her friend had told her that, it started to make sense. She now knew why she had made the KGB White List . . . a fact that she didn't want to tell Zack. Knowing what he was like, he would worry and try to protect her, putting himself in danger in the process. The last thing she needed was for Zack to get caught up in this any more than he already was and killed. "Do they have military control yet?" she wondered.
"Not yet, but they do have their own squad . . . the Brocknoviatch. They're an elite pursuit squadron made of superb drivers who are all dedicated killers. They are led by a homicidal guy named . . . Morovich," the dark haired reporter revealed as he opened another folder and pointed out the information to his friend. "The guy has a glass eye, and is absolutely ruthless. They all wear black helmets that you can't see through, so outside of Morovich they've never been identified, they've never been captured, they never miss or leave any witnesses. These guys practically put the A-Team to shame."
This story seemed to be getting bigger and bigger with every moment . . . and just hearing about the Brocknoviatch made her shudder. A unit that was just as good as or better than the A-Team? That idea seemed almost unfathomable, yet they had information on it which meant that it was true. That only served to deepen her worry over the entire situation, including what was potentially to come if she wasn't able to get the help she needed.
"What kind of weapons do they have?" she wondered, hoping to get a bit more information. Anything else she could dig up would be of tremendous benefit and would further prepare her for what she might encounter. The more information she could arm herself with, almost like a shield, the better prepared that she could be.
Zack opened up another folder and placed it on the table in front of her before rattling off, "You name it, they got it . . . AR-15s, shoulder rocket launchers, missile defense systems, tanks, choppers, fighter jets and tons more. Primo stuff too, including missiles and prototypes from right here in the US. If they get a few more people in control at the Kremlin, they'll probably overthrow Gorbachev and also take control of the nukes. When that happens, you better believe that they'll use them on us."
The gravity of the entire situation fell heavily upon the brunette's shoulders. Although she tried to put on her best poker face and tried to look like she was taking all of the information in stride, inwardly she felt the true weight of everything she had learned. Begrudgingly, she had to admit that the Red Sword was good . . . no, excellent in disguising their true intentions. It was no wonder why they had killed the other reporter and were now after herself. They obviously didn't want this making front page headlines and thwarting their plans through the intense scrutiny that would have arose out of this revelation by the media, since that would have led to pressure from the international community for a diplomatic resolution.
She stood, the wooden chair scraping against the floor and making more noise than she would have liked. Amy gritted her teeth slightly and tried not to wince. In the silence of the morgue, that sound was almost like fingernails on a chalkboard and almost echoed within the deathly silence that enveloped the two of them. The last thing that she needed was someone coming down to investigate and finding her there, when she was supposed to be on foreign assignment.
She brought her right hand up to her chin and started pacing, her mind mulling over everything. She knew that Zack was watching as she moved back and forth within the room. He was worried about her, and she knew that. They had a close friendship while they both worked at the paper, so she also knew that he wasn't afraid to risk life and limb in order to try and go after a hot lead on a story. Although he jumped at the chance to take the initiative, she inwardly prayed that wasn't going to be the case here . . . at least until she was safe.
Safe . . .
That immediately made her think of the other reason why she needed her friend's help. Amy paused and looked directly at Zack as she asked, "Did you get the ad into today's edition for me?" In a way, she almost felt like she was on pins and needles waiting for his answer.
"Yeah . . . yeah. I slipped it in for you. The guys in print owed me a favor. Eldridge has no idea that it's in there, much less that it's yours," he answered. Inwardly, he was a bit surprised that she had even bothered to ask that all things considering. He always had her back, even when the managing editor of the paper was on the verge of canning Amy over her persistence on checking out what happened with Al Massey. Inwardly, the questions that she was asking troubled him and he was starting to piece the puzzle together. "Amy, can you tell me what's going on? Why are you asking about the Red Sword?"
"Later Zack . . . I can tell you later after everything has quieted down," she quickly responded, trying to ward off his curiosity. She knew that her response was swift and cryptic, but she knew that she couldn't give out too much since her friend had a gift for gab and the last thing was for any of this leaking prematurely. She stopped pacing and turned to look at him, her brown eyes showing how passionate she was about making sure that she got everything for this story and could get it published. "Right now, I'm onto something really hot and I want to pursue it before time runs out."
Amy was about to say something else when she spotted something red out of the corner of her eye. It was brief, only a fraction of a second, but it seemed to be a glint off one of the few windows that cast light into the room. She caught her breath and looked around, trying to see if she could see where the light originated from, and then looked down on her own white blouse. It was there that she saw the red dot.
Her breath caught in her throat as she realized what it was. She immediately dove for the floor, pulling the clueless Zack down with her as she yelled at him, "Get down!"
A split second later, she heard the unmistakable sound of a rifle shot ring out. That as quickly followed by a second shot. There was another sound like something penetrating the glass windows. It was a cracking sound, but it didn't seem like the glass had shattered. She crouched under the table for protection and pulled Zack under there with her . . . not that it would do much to stop a bullet from striking either one of them, but it was the best that they could do under the circumstances. An eerie, deathly silence descended upon the room like a thick fog. Amy let out the breath that she didn't realize that she had been holding and heard the comforting sounds of Zack's breathing as well. That meant that he was alive, at least . . . they were both alive. All of it took only a few fractions of a second, although it felt like an eternity.
She remained under the table and started to assess the situation, starting with herself. She didn't feel like she had been shot, although she had heard that when sometimes when a person does take a bullet they may be in a bit of a state of shock for a moment so they may not necessarily feel the pain immediately. Still, she would have known if she was and there wasn't any feeling of intense pain or signs of blood. She then looked over Zack, who remain cowered down under the table. His black hair and vest contrasted the white shirt that he wore . . . and all of it also looked normal. She didn't see any indications of blood or bullet holes. In fact, he almost looked like he was trembling slightly.
No other gunshots rang out, but she kept both of them under cover for a while longer. She had no idea if this was just a random act, or intentional . . . although the use of the targeting scope indicated that this may not have been just a passing violent act. It was done intentionally. She was the one that was clearly targeted, and she didn't want or need Zack to be caught in the line of fire. Either way, she had to get out of here. She couldn't stay in the archive room since someone would likely get curious about the gunshots and start checking things out. If they found here there, instead of in Jakarta, Grant would clearly blow a gasket. But, she also needed to make sure that the coast was clear before they got out of there. The last thing she needed was to emerge from their hiding spot and have more gunfire erupt.
Drawing in a breath, she slowly and carefully repositioned herself to try and peer over the table to see if maybe the coast was clear. Her brown eyes were immediately drawn to the window, where she saw two well defined bullet holes in the glass. There were a couple of cracks that spread out from where the bullets had passed through the clear material, but she noted that the glass had not shattered at all. Beyond the window, she could see the rooftop of the building across the street. Calculating what had just taken place, she realized that was probably where the shooter had been positioned when they fired the shots. She didn't see anyone up there now, so either they had ducked down for cover so they wouldn't be immediately spotted, or they ran once they realized that they failed. She then looked to the wall opposite of where the windows were and spotted a couple of holes that had not been there before. She wasn't sure what happened with the bullets, but they were likely buried inside. Mentally tracing the path, she realized that she was lucky. Those bullets practically had her name written all over them. Had she not seen the targeting scope and moved she would have been laying in a pool of blood. Both of them would have . . . both her and Zack.
She returned her focus on her colleague and asked, "Zack, are you okay?"
"Y-yeah, I-I think so," he responded, his voice trembling slightly. It was obvious that he was clearly shaken by what had just taken place. For someone who had boasted previously about taking risks by breaking into Al Massey's home through his louvered windows, this clearly shook him up. "W-what happened?"
"I thought I heard a gunshot and my first instinct was to duck," Amy noted as she started to emerge from underneath the table. It was a lie, but she didn't need to give him any more indication that she was clearly being targeted. The fact that no more shots were being fired was an indication that their assailants had fled the area . . . but, there was no telling if they would return to try it again.
She got back to her feet and noticed that Zack also scurried out from under the table and also arose to a standing position again. His face was as white as a sheet. Still, she knew that she couldn't linger here. Even this early in the morning, the gunshots would not have gone unheard and there would be a crowd descending upon this room within a matter of moments. "Zack, if Grant still gets here as early as he used to, he's probably on his way down here now. I'm going to take the back way out of here and head back to your place," she noted.
"Need me to drive you?" the nerd asked out of concern. His voice was still slightly shaky, but not as bad as it had been a few moments ago. It seemed like he was getting his courage back again now that everything had settled down.
"No, I don't want to take you away from here when you're scheduled to work, Zack. We don't need Grant getting suspicious after you took a few hours to pick me up yesterday," she advised him. He was already sticking his neck out on the line on this, and the last thing she needed was to cost her friend his job. "Think you could give me your keys and let me borrow your car? I'll find a place to go for a while and pick you up once you're done with your shift."
He fished the keys out of the right pocket of his pants and handed them over to Amy. He then watched as the brunette started to pack up some of the files that were on the table. "Amy, are you going to be okay?" he asked out of concern.
"I'll be fine, Zack. I'll pick you up once your shift is done," Amy responded as she hurriedly grabbed the files and dashed out of the room toward the emergency stairs . . .
The two shots were quickly fired from the high powered rifle, but when it became obvious that they had missed their mark, former Naval Lieutenant Thomas Angel quickly ducked down out of view on the rooftop. "Damn it," he swore under his breath as he clutched the rifle closer to himself, his locks of wavy blonde hair resting against the barrel. He clearly wasn't happy about missing his target, but he wasn't the only one.
Crouched down next to him was Major Douglas Kyle. He was clearly fuming and trying hard to not totally take it out on the person that was hired along with him to try and capture the reporter. He ran his hand over his balding head as he found it very hard to do so considering what had just happened. "How in the hell could you miss?" he blasted angrily, his dark eyes glaring at the person he was forced to work with. "It was an easy shot, even without the scope."
"How am I supposed to know?" Thomas quickly snapped defensively. Any number of things could have happened, and he hoped that Douglas Kyle at least was sensible enough to realize that. He was just as frustrated with what had happened and he hadn't volunteered to take part in this. He was getting paid for it knowing that it would help him get his operations back on the ground after his long incarceration. "Maybe she saw the laser off the targeting scope. Maybe she was lucky. I wasn't there and I can't read her mind, so I don't know how she avoided the shot."
"Well you just wasted two experimental tranquilizer bullets, which could be traced back to us," Kyle countered angrily. Anger . . . that was an understatement with how he felt right now. He was so irate that he could nearly explode. He couldn't believe that someone, who was a trained military officer and had served in Vietnam, could have missed his target so easily. "I don't know how you do business, but leaving evidence is not my style."
"You should have told that to the person that hired both of us. I was a Naval officer, not a sharpshooter," Angel retorted in a haughty tone. He honestly had better things he could be doing with his time right now, but the lure of how much money he was going to get if he and Kyle were successful was too much to resist. It would be more than enough for him to get his business up and running again, even with General Chao still in prison. "I'm into drug smuggling, gun running . . . things like that. Not being a hired gun like you."
Kyle let out a sigh of exasperation from where they had sought cover so they couldn't be seen by anyone in the building across the street. Not only did Thomas Angel get on his nerves, but he knew that they needed to get off the roof before anyone started to investigate or decided to call the cops. In the distance he could hear sirens, but it was too soon to tell if they were coming to check out this shooting or if they were heading to another crime scene. The last thing they needed was to be thrown in jail before they could complete what they got hired to do. Realizing that they needed to make a quick escape, he gestured toward the fire ladder and started moving toward it as swiftly as he could. He could see Angel follow suit, which prompted him to state, "Let's get one thing straight. I'm in charge here."
"I don't think so," Thomas scoffed as he noted Kyle start to climb down the ladder. He grabbed the strap of the rifle and slung it over his shoulder before he hefted himself over the side so he could follow. He couldn't believe the audacity of the person that he had to work with. Then again, the reputation of Major Douglas Kyle preceded him. "I hate to break it to you, but we're not in the military anymore. I don't take orders from you. You may like to play soldier still, but I'm a businessman."
Kyle glowered at his so-called partner in this venture, skeptical of his motives. "If you're into wearing suits and ties, then why did you take the job in the first place?" the mercenary demanded as he continued to climb down the ladder. It didn't take him long to reach the bottom, and then he moved out of the way for Angel to finish climbing down.
Thomas quickly hurried down the ladder toward the bottom. Even though the rifle had been slung over his shoulder, the climb down was unencumbered and fast. As much as he hated to admit it, he had also heard the sirens on the rooftop and knew that Kyle was right about leaving while they had a chance. He paused for a moment and admitted, "I need the cash. I was trying to make a quick buck to get back on my feet. Getting revenge on the A-Team through their goody-two-shoes reporter is just an added bonus. Because of them, I was rotting in jail for over two years until my father was able to get one of his lawyers to get me off on a technicality. Being in jail was too much like being in the POW camps."
"Ha," Kyle blasted as he saw Angel reach the bottom of the ladder. He moved to the car and opened the driver's door. He slipped behind the wheel and then closed. He watched the Naval Lieutenant then get in on the passenger side, but not before removing the rifle and putting it into the back so it wouldn't be visible just in case a cop pulled them over. "From what I heard about your time in the POW camps you made out like a bandit with General Chao, living in luxury while other soldiers starved and were beaten to death."
Inwardly, Thomas Angel couldn't help but to grin. "Let's just say I know when to make good business decisions and relationships," he informed the mercenary. He paused for a moment and then prompted, "Now, we've been at each other's throats since before we got up on that roof. We can continue to make this hell for each other, or we could try to get along until this job is done and we get paid and then we can each go our separate ways."
"Fine," Kyle responded. He had no intention of continuing his business relationship with Angel once this was all over and the sooner that they could complete their goal, the better. He would just have to put up with him for a while longer. Kyle fished out the keys to the ignition from his pocket and slid it into the steering column. He turned the key and heard as the engine roared to life. This wasn't over for the reporter, who was lucky and got a slight reprieve . . . not by a long shot.
