Chapter 9

The bell above the door of the Family Diner jingled as Mrs. Baracus entered. She was early, but she had left the apartment early because she'd known those military men would be following her. She'd led them on quite a trek, she thought with a smile as she nodded to the waitress behind the long counter and took a seat in the back, near the hallway in the long, fifties style diner. Those military police might not ever find their way back to her apartment after the chase she'd led them on. Mrs. Baracus had taken them through a maze of small shops and stores downtown, and finally lost them by escaping through the back door of a friend's clothing store.

Finally reaching the diner had given her a sense of relief. This place hadn't changed a bit, she thought, as she reached down to finger the checkered tablecloth. She glanced out the window and saw the giant snowflakes continuing to fall. It had been snowing throughout the day, and it seemed as if the flakes had gotten larger by the hour.

"What can I get you, ma'am?" The waitress asked as she set out silverware rolled in a napkin. She took out her pad and gave Mrs. Baracus a smile, tired though it was.

"Hot tea." She answered. "And I've got someone coming to join me. Should be here in a little while."

"Okay. I'll get some more silverware." The girl left, and returned shortly with the tea.

Mrs. Baracus sipped at the tea and wondered what had happened to her son. All she knew was what had been in the papers, and what she could get out of that Colonel Lynch who had showed up at her workplace that morning. She smiled to herself, thinking of how she'd gotten more information from him than he'd gotten out of her. She didn't understand how they got such a wrong idea about Scooter. Her boy did not rob banks.

Scooter had always been a good boy, even though he'd had a temper. She supposed it had been because he'd lost his dad so young. That was bound to make a child angry at the world. Still, he'd never gotten into any real trouble with the law, and she'd seen plenty of mothers' sons end up in jail or worse—shot dead after an argument or robbery.

Her mind scanned back over the years, the scenes playing out like a movie in her mind. Scooter had lost direction after he'd missed out on that football scholarship. She thought back to watching him on the front stoop with the neighborhood boys, the boys he'd gone to high school with. The ones who weren't going anywhere. He'd managed to stay out of trouble somehow; she remembered wondering if it was due to luck or Scooter's good sense. Several of those boys had gone off to prison before Scooter had joined the army, and she'd been worried about him.

The army. She hadn't really liked the idea at all, but . . . it had been the first thing that her boy had been excited about since the scholarship. She'd had to support him. She'd known there wasn't anything for him here, and so she'd given her blessing. Maybe it had all been a mistake, but she'd always done her best.

The sound of the bell above the door brought her out of her reverie, and she saw an older man enter, long white hair hanging out from under the brim of his knit cap. He stumbled to the counter in an obviously drunk fashion, ordered a cup of coffee and then took it in both hands as if trying to be very, very careful that the contents didn't end up on him. He turned slowly, in a half circle before choosing his direction to go back out the door. She sighed, hoping he had somewhere warm to sleep on this cold, cold night.

About ten minutes later, she saw a large form enter the diner. Even though he was enveloped in a heavy coat, gloves and a knitted cap, she immediately recognized her son. She held her breath as he came over.

He slid into the booth, sitting across from her. Both of them understood that they didn't dare draw too much attention to themselves by a tearful greeting and hug.

"Son." She whispered, not knowing what to say. He seemed like someone she didn't know, for a moment. He carried himself with an expression in his eyes that she didn't recognize; something dark and dangerous existed inside of him now. She found herself wondering again, as she'd pondered so many sleepless nights before, what it had been like for him in Vietnam. It was something she knew she'd never be able to understand, and she felt saddened by that.

BA didn't seem to be able to find words either. His mama looked like she was about to cry, and the thought of it made his heart ache. "Mama, it's okay. I'm fine." He said to her in a soft voice that he never ever used with anyone but her. He took off his gloves and took her warm hands in his cold grasp. It used everything in him to stay strong, but he succeeded and gave her a smile.

She nodded. "Take off that hat and let me get a good look at you." She whispered, getting a hold of herself.

He took it off and laid it on the booth next to his gloves. The waitress came over. "What can I get you two?" She asked.

"How about two slices of apple pie and a glass of milk?" BA said. "My friend said the apple pie was good here."

"You bet it is." She answered and scribbled it down on a pad. "I'll bring some more tea for you too." She said to Mrs. Baracus before heading back towards the kitchen.

"Mama." BA began. "I know you must be wondering why they're after me…" He wanted to explain the whole thing.

She could tell how hard this was for him. Wanting to help him, to figure out what had happened, remained central in her thoughts, but easing Scooter's mind came first. "Scooter. Before you tell me all of that, I just want you to know I never doubted that you did the right thing." She said simply. "I can see you've been worrying." She reached out for a brief moment, placing her hand against his scruffy cheek. "Don't ever worry about that. I've always been proud of you."

When she spoke, the leaden weight lifted from BA's shoulders. He struggled for words, staring down at the tablecloth that hadn't changed from the time he was a kid. "I didn't know what you'd think about me." He whispered. "And I worried about you being here all alone."

Mrs. Baracus suddenly laughed softly. "Oh, Scooter, baby." She shook her head. "You don't need to worry. I got friends to look after me. You look up at me." She paused, before catching his eyes with her own gaze. "You're a grown man. It's time for you to make your way in this world—whatever way that ends up being." She made sure he understood, then she continued. "Your friends. Are they still with you?"

BA nodded.

"Are they good people? They'll stick by you?"

"Yeah." He said. "They will."

"Then I won't need to worry about you so much." She replied, acting much more positive than she really felt inside. She knew she would worry. A lot. But Scooter didn't need that burden on him. She looked up, and the waitress had returned with the pie.

"Now that we've got that settled, tell me about these friends of yours and what happened. I want to know the whole story. . ."

Face pulled his knit cap down a little lower on his head. It was cold enough outside, without lying on top of the snow-covered roof of the diner. He'd been up there quite a while, observing, before Hannibal, disguised as an old drunk, went in and then out of the diner. Now BA was inside, talking to his mother.

Face didn't begrudge BA the chance to talk to her. Heck, if he had a mom, he'd probably want to talk to her too. It must be nice to have someone like that… someone who knows you inside and out, and loves you anyway. Who would always be there for you, no matter what. He once thought he had found someone like that, someone who could become his family, but he had been wrong. It seemed like he was destined to make his own way in the world, alone. Just as he always had.

He pulled the collar of his jacket a little tighter as a strong gust of wind blew. Why would anyone want to live here, anyway? It was too cold, and definitely too windy. He couldn't wait to get back to California. Back to the warm sunshine, sandy beaches, and lovely women in bikinis. The thought made him smile.

At least for a moment.

He watched as a rental car pulled into a parking space down the street. The driver was obviously lousy at parallel parking. After straightening up the car a few times, the driver got out. Face's blood ran cold.

It was Lynch.

He wore a coat over his army uniform, but there was no mistaking it was him. Face would know that moustache and smug looking expression anywhere. And he was walking towards the diner.

Face quickly whistled a bird call, his signal to Hannibal to get BA and get the heck out of dodge. He watched long enough to see Hannibal, disguised as a drunk, jump up from the sidewalk and run inside.

Face crouched and ran over the back of the building, jumping onto a trash dumpster as Hannibal and BA burst out of the back door of the diner and ran towards the van. Lynch also ran out the back door, just a few seconds behind them.

Face held his breath as he watched Lynch pull out a gun and fire a warning shot wildly into the air.

"Stop right there, Baracus, or you're next!"

Lynch had slowed, and was now walking towards the men, his gun pointed directly at BA.

Hannibal and BA turned around, hands in the air. There was nothing else they could do.

Lynch smiled smugly. "Looks like I've got you, Sergeant Baracus. And who's your friend? Is that Colonel Smith?"

"Well, it isn't Santa Claus." Hannibal quipped. "But cheer up, Lynch. Christmas is coming early this year and you're getting a big surprise."

"You just don't change, do you, Smith? Making jokes until the end." Lynch said. The self-satisfied smile didn't leave his face, however, as he looked over his hard won prey.

Caught up in his good fortune, he never saw Face slip quietly off the trash dumpster and sneak up behind him. He never knew what hit him.

Face gave an innocent shrug of his shoulders as Lynch went down in a dazed heap, groaning. "He just didn't know he was on Santa's 'naughty' list, did he?" He reached down and grabbed Lynch's gun.

"We're going to be on the 'naughty' list if we don't get out of here." Hannibal said. "Van. Now."

The three of them reached the van, hearing a whole chorus of sirens in the background. They climbed in as Lynch struggled to his feet and towards the street. As he pulled into traffic, BA saw the lead car of the line of army sedans stop and pick up Lynch. "There's a lot of 'em behind us, Hannibal." He said as he tried a few quick turns, weaving through the cars on the road.

"I know. Having fun?" Hannibal grinned and lit a cigar as he glanced in the side mirror. The van handled the hairpin turns as well as a van could—probably due to BA's tweaking, he realized. He reminded himself to compliment BA on that later.

Face held on to his seat, glancing out the back windows and seeing flashing lights. He thought he could actually see Lynch in the front seat of the lead car as it darted daringly in and out of traffic. "The lead car is pretty close." He called out. "At least they're not shooting at us."

A metallic ping proved him wrong. "Ok. Scratch that. They are shooting at us." He called out as he hit the floor of the vehicle, heart racing. He'd been shot at before, so many times he couldn't count, but he never seemed to get used to it.

"BA—" Hannibal called out. "That idiot is going to get someone killed if we don't get out of here."

"I know." BA said through gritted teeth. He wheeled through the different streets, making his way toward the expressway and losing two of the army cars along the way. There were more shots as they made a particularly sharp turn.

"I think he's trying to shoot our tires." Face called warningly.

"Of course he is." Hannibal said. He glanced in the large side mirror and shook his head. "And he's a lousy shot. It figures."

"That sucka ain't gonna shoot out MY tires." BA growled. The van's engine shrieked and the tires squealed as he put a few cars between the two of them. Slowly, BA increased his lead, concentrating on the road. Lynch's driver, trying to catch up and probably urged on by Lynch, did something stupid by running a light at the wrong time.

The bad judgment caused a cross-bound car to crash into the back end of Lynch's car. The impact spun the ruined sedan around like a top. Hannibal watched the whole thing in the side mirror. It didn't look as if it were a deadly crash, but that sedan would need some body work before anyone would drive it again. The wreck created a mess that would be enough to congest the intersection and keep the rest of the pursuit held up behind it. Hearing the crash, BA slowed the van down enough for them to get a quick glimpse.

"Guess Lynch will need a new car." Hannibal said as he watched the mass of flashing lights begin to fade into the background.

"And a new gun." Face reminded them, holding up Lynch's confiscated M1911.

"Hey guys--maybe we can send him a toy car and gun for Christmas. That'd really burn him up." Hannibal glanced from Face to BA. "What do you think?"

"Let's not plan on Christmas yet." BA said. "We 'ain't even made it to Thanksgiving." He shook his head, trying to remain serious, but he began to snicker—unable to help himself. Face's laughter joined his own. "But it is a good idea."

"Remember, anger is the best way to keep your enemy off balance." Hannibal sat back in his seat, trying to imagine the look that would be on Lynch's face when he opened the gift. It was still on his mind as BA turned onto the expressway and drove them into the dark night.

To be continued…