Chapter 7

"C'mon, you didn't really let those guys track you here, right, Murdock?" Face repeated himself. He looked into his friend's eyes, hoping to find a glimmer of sanity.

"I'm tellin' you the truth, guys. Last thing I remember, I was standin' right in front of this place, you know, like this." He trembled all over. "Maybe they just got lucky?"

"Maybe they just followed yo' footprints, sucka," B.A. murmured, too preoccupied to argue at the moment, as he pulled both rifles from his shoulders. "Hannibal? Looks like about a dozen men out there. We gonna stand and fight?"

In his sitting pose, hand under his chin, Hannibal appeared to be a flesh and blood version of Rodin's The Thinker. He raised his head and met B.A.'s gaze. "Could have been they were led here, but not by Murdock." His eyes shifted to Moira. "That sound like a good theory, sweetheart?"

She put down the paper bag Murdock had given her with deliberate calm, eyes blazing. "Yer all strangers tae me, I give ye aid and comfort, and now I'm a traitor, am I?" She fumed, her Irish country lilt becoming even thicker in her rage.

Face pointed an accusing finger. "You said Ike Redthorn was once your soulmate. How do we know he's not still?"

"Yeah, or that you're not really with them Black Foxes?" added B.A. Outside, the shouts had grown louder and closer.

Her expression was a portrait of fury, teeth bared. "Look, Sassenach, much as it'd be me pleasure to tell ye the full tale, now's not the opportune time. Believe what ye will, but Redthorn and his band are sworn enemies tae me now, and I've taken an oath tae kill that bastard or die tryin'." She spat. "You're not enemies, and my quarrel's not with ye, so take whatever medicines an' supplies ye need. Until we meet again, then; I've me own battles to fight," she said, wheeling about and plucking the duster coat and hat from their hooks on the wall.

Before she could take up her longbow, Face intercepted her. "And we're trying to take him down too. If you're trying to avenge your father, shouldn't you want to stand up to these guys?"

"He's got a point there." Hannibal shifted his weight on the cot, .45 clenched in one hand. "If you're sworn to kill him, we're actually on the same side."

For a moment Moira was quiet. Then, she gently but firmly pushed past Face and armed herself with a deep sigh of resignation. "Ye seem like nice fellas, really. I shouldna drag ye into all this," she muttered. "It's…complicated. I've mucked things up enough as 'tis. May the Lord and the Lady protect ye, because I canna anymore. Farewell." In a fluid motion, she disappeared like a shadow through the cabin's back door.

"Well, she's a piece of work, isn't she?" smirked Face, unslinging his own rifle from his back. "First she's Cornelia Van Helsing, then Samantha, then Mata Hari."

"Hannibal, we got company comin' right up. We gonna fight or what?" B.A. called from his position next to the window.

The colonel shifted again to face Murdock, who seemed frozen in place, either from shock or sheer cold. "Captain, I'm gonna need you again for a special assignment."

B.A. snorted. "This ain't the time for playin' around, man."

Hannibal ignored him. "C'mere, and let me tell you what to do," he said, beckoning to Murdock.

There was a thunk on the cabin door, which sounded less like a polite knock than a battering ram.

"You nuts? You're actually gonna surrender to these suckas?" B.A. shouted in fury. "That girl drug you or somethin'?"

Murdock smirked and flexed his hands like paws. "No, big guy, only you three are gonna surrender. As for me, I'm gonna lie in wait, and come out when they least expect me…"

"Even worse!"

Face's eyes darted to the door, which shuddered on its hinges under another heavy blow. "Hannibal? I really hope this isn't another of your 'Plan B's.'"

"Okay, guys, we're on. First positions, and, curtain up, any minute now," Hannibal said, as if trying to be Steven Spielberg. "Murdock, you better find a tight spot."

"Yep, I'm on it." He scanned the humble living space and noticed the steamer trunk. In a spontaneous display of agility, he folded his six feet two inches inside and lowered the lid with one finger held to his lips.

"Crazy fool gonna get us all killed…"

Before B.A. could finish his sentiments, the door gave out and came crashing down. Ike Redthorn, a look of haughty pride back on his angular face, stood on the threshold. He held a 30.06 with a flashlight scope, and was flanked by four of his men bearing torches.

Face, trying to play along, offered an impish grin. "Uh, guys, just leave The Watchtower on the stoop, okay? We're just about to sit down for dinner."

Redthorn didn't laugh. He drew a bead at Hannibal's forehead. "Any reason I shouldn't shoot you right now, smart guy?"

"I can think of a few." Hannibal rose, his face still drawn with pain. "First of all, it's against the rules of civilized engagement to shoot anyone who voluntarily surrenders. We are surrendering to you," he said, nodding to B.A. and Face in turn. They wore sour expressions but obligingly placed their rifles on the floor. Eight Black Foxes swarmed in, collecting the weapons and patting down Face, who merely seemed chagrined, and B.A., who appeared ready to explode.

"You're sure not amateurs; you stayed ahead of us for a few hours. I'm impressed." Redthorn turned over Hannibal's .45 in his hands. "So what are you? FBI, ATF? They usually don't pack this kind of heat."

Hannibal's eyes were twin chips of blue ice. "Everyone always asks us that, but those guys have a few too many rules and regs for our liking. And before you so rudely kicked down the door, friend, we were also discussing the unsolved disappearance of Ronin O'Faolan, and how you guys seem like persons of interest in that case."

For just a moment, there was a twinge of fear in the deputy's proud façade. "I don't know what you're talking about."

The two men's faces were mere inches apart. "I think you do."

There was no visible reaction this time, only Redthorn blinking his liquid black eyes slowly. "There anyone else here with you three? What happened to that other guy that was with you, the one wearing that bomber jacket?"

Face spoke up. "He's not feeling well, so we sent him to see the school nurse for an ice pack." The man standing next to him swung his rifle butt hard into Face's unprotected stomach.

Hannibal finished for him. "We sent him scouting ahead for some medical help. Lost contact with him a couple hours ago, so if you guys didn't run across him, there's no telling where he is now. He certainly isn't here."

"There were fresh tracks leading here. Search the place," Redthorn commanded the men who weren't covering B.A. and Face. As they started to look up and down the cabin, he leaned in closer to Hannibal. His black hair smelled of something powerfully herbal. "What about the bitch? You happen across her, cowboy?" Even his clothes carried the scent.

"To borrow your own phrase, friend, I don't know what you're talking about."

Redthorn's right hand met Hannibal's cheek. "I hate it when someone lies to me. Where is she?" His low voice was becoming more snakelike with every syllable.

Hannibal smiled. "You need some practice with that. As for this girl you're asking about, I'm really not sure where she is, but I hear Tahiti is lovely this time of year. Or Acapulco. Right, Face?"

"Yeah, or even Key West," said Face, still trying to catch his breath.

The first sparks of real anger danced in Redthorn's eyes. "Let's just see how many bad jokes you can make as you're slowly bleeding to death. You could have had it quick and painless, but I'm having second thoughts. Take 'em," he growled, flicking a glance at the man nearest him.

"Speaking of which, I'll take a pint of O-negative for the road if you've got it," cracked Hannibal as he was hoisted roughly to his feet. The Black Foxes behind Face and a still steamed-looking B.A. prodded their prisoners along with their rifles.

The man who seemed to be the second-in-command gave Redthorn an odd-looking salute with his left hand. "Nobody else here, boss, but it sure smells like somebody else was here."

The leader of the Black Foxes nodded. "No need to worry, Cragan. I can sense it too. When we find their other man…and we will…we'll take care of him too." His was the look of a predator anticipating a fresh kill.

"We gonna take care of you and yo' redneck friends, sucka!" snapped B.A., unable to contain himself, as he was frog-marched past.

Redthorn, nonplussed, shot back a lopsided smile. "Interesting, coming from a man who's outnumbered and helpless at the moment."

"Let it go, B.A.," urged Hannibal, right behind him. "Now, about my O-negative?" He fluttered his eyelashes delicately at his captor.

The steady torrent of wisecracks broke the dam of Redthorn's temper. "Shut Rodney Dangerfield here up, gag 'im if you've got to! Tie 'em all up and put 'em in that wagon. Reed, Stansfield, if they try anything, fill 'em with lead."

"Guess the blood's out; no pun intended. Maybe I'll just settle for some Sauvignon Blanc instead…" Hannibal trailed off as someone tied a sweat-stained gag tightly around his mouth.

"Can't go wrong with a 1977 Burgundy, either." Face was likewise silenced in the next moment.

As the captive A-Team was pushed outside, Redthorn paused, eyes flicking over Moira's quarters as if he'd missed something. Then, seemingly satisfied, he stepped over the fallen-in door and left it behind him.

Ten minutes came and went, which felt more like an hour to someone contorted in the tight confines of a steamer trunk. The lid raised a cautious inch, then another, as Murdock scanned his field of vision for either friend or foe. Seeing neither, he popped out like a lanky jack-in-the-box, rubbing at his numb extremities.

"Hannibal, guys, I'm c-comin', I promise…" he muttered, teeth chattering. The brief time between his arrival at the cabin and that of Redthorn's men had not given him opportunity to find replacement clothes.

Murdock sat by the remains of the fire for a moment, grateful for its warmth. He tried to pull at his cap brim, then realized it was missing, along with the rest of his effects. Only his favorite Woody Woodpecker boxers, as well as a Browning rifle with perhaps half a clip and a .45 with four rounds, remained on his person after his flight through the woods. He thought hard, trying to remember exactly what might have transpired to cause him to disrobe, in enemy territory, deep into October, but came up empty.

But the moon remained full, even if it had retreated behind a veil of clouds just before he'd made it to Moira's cabin. He shuddered. It wasn't safe for anyone in his condition to be out at all. He'd made a promise to Hannibal, though, and he knew he had to keep it.

Having warmed up, he started looking for something, anything, to cover himself. On the cot where Hannibal had been was a rough-woven tartan blanket. Murdock held it up to his waist as if it were a kilt, then flung it aside in disgust. His unit needed him, and come hell or high water, he was going to help them, even if it meant going into battle like an ancient Greek warrior.

"Are they gone?"

He wheeled around. In the doorway stood Moira, her head hung low.

"Yeah, sweet cheeks, they're gone." His drawl was thick with annoyance. He picked up a tiny tea cozy and tossed it atop the blanket. "As if you care, right? Didn't you say somethin' about a battle you had to fight alone?"

"Aye, that I did." Her eyes, softer now, met his. "Ye may have heard the phrase 'harm none,' but that don't apply when ye've first been harmed yerself."

Murdock fixed her with the kind of intense gaze that usually got him thrown into the room with the rubber walls. "That's all well and good, but my guys are in trouble, and I don't have the time right now for pretty platitudes."

Moira nodded. "But that's why I came back, lad. Tae help ye."

"Well, if you want to help me, and my guys, you could start by gettin' me some clothes. I can't track 'em down lookin' like this," he admitted.

She pushed aside the cot and started prying a loose floorboard out. "Dad's things, at least some of 'em. Should fit ye just about right."

As Moira continued to work, Murdock edged closer to the fireplace. "I don't wanna be rude, muchacha, but if Redthorn and those other guys killed your old man, why haven't you done anything about it, anyway?"

"Who'd believe a witch 'round here? I'm damn lucky I've not been burned at the stake, and luckier still tha' a good man like Hayward Hawkins is mayor o' this burgh and not a bigot like Prescott or worse, Redthorn." She disappeared for a brief moment and came up with a smaller, musty-looking trunk.

"So why don't you just move? San Francisco, maybe? Or Oregon?" asked Murdock.

A look of exasperation. "I told ye, my duty's tae protect these woods. Can't just up and leave on some kinda lark."

"You still haven't answered my question."

Moira's amber eyes blinked at him. "I've my own reasons. Ye…wouldna understand." Her tone suggested she wanted to change the subject, and quickly. From the trunk, she pulled a pair of buckskin trousers, a roughspun tunic similar to her own, and moccasins. "Put these on, lad, before ye catch yer death o' cold…"

He did, tugging on the breeches, which were comfortable and broken in, if a bit too short. "I'm goin' to get my guys. Whether you want to help or not is up to you." His head disappeared momentarily as he pulled on the tunic, overlarge on his gangly frame.

"And what o' yer curse?" she asked quietly.

In the firelight, Murdock's dark eyes were wide, two astonished commas. He swallowed. "Is this really gonna happen every full moon?"

She put a finger to her chin. "Ye brought back mistletoe and wolfbane before, am I right?"

"Yeah. Findin' that stuff was no picnic." Murdock scowled. "What's it for?"

Moira picked up the crumpled paper bag from the kitchen table. Redthorn and his men had left it untouched.

"It's fer you, lad. Keeps the worst of it at bay, it does. Take this wi' you, and Brigid's blessing, and no harm shall come tae you." She slipped the medicine bag into his pocket.

"What if I…you know…start to change?" Murdock said, trembling even though he was no longer cold.

Her grin was a savage crescent. "Well, then, Redthorn'd be fightin' a wolf, and not a man." She turned, and fetched a small bottle of kelly-green liquid from one of several racks in the kitchen. "Meant tae give this to yer silver-haired friend earlier; fer the pain, ye know. Make sure 'e drinks it all. He's quite a spitfire, that one. Reminds me a bit o' Dad." There was that look again, a curious mixture of anger and regret.

"Last call before I head out. You got any idea where those fellas hole up, 'cause that would be helpful." Murdock tugged on the moccasins one by one.

Moira shook her dark head, the floppy hat wobbling. "Told ye before, I can't say no more."

"Sooner or later those crazies are gonna catch up to you, too, muchacha, and then you know what'll happen. You gotta take a stand sometime," Murdock said, his voice unusually solemn. "Believe me, I know all about crazies." Solemnity gave way to dark-humored irony.

"Follow the wagon tracks. They'll be takin' yer friends to the Ostermann place, I think." She paused. "And try not tae get killed, all right?"

Murdock gathered his rifle and sidearm, and cast one more glance over his shoulder. "If Charlie couldn't kill me, I don't think these rubes will be able to either." He flashed his teeth, eyes ablaze with mad determination. "'Specially if I'm fightin' on four legs. Adios, and thanks for the supplies. Just remember what I said." Then he was gone, one more shadow among many.

"You guys really need to have this suspension looked at. In fact, our friend Mr. Baracus here is excellent, and he'd be happy to look at it with no charge. And don't we get some hot cider on this nice little hayride, or what?"

Face prattled on, just trying to keep warm, a cheery smile plastered across his features. Reed and Stansfield, the two Black Foxes assigned to guard the A-Team, had removed their gags a mile back, and were sorry for it now. The two-horse wagon continued on through the night, its bed jouncing at every step. The horses seemed to know where they were going despite only the weak light provided by two kerosene lanterns and the full moon, which had reappeared from behind the clouds.

"I told you guys to shut up, didn't I?" Stansfield, the man holding the reins, shot back wearily.

"We're not very good listeners," piped up Hannibal, his spirits high despite the cold, his wound, and having his hands tied. "My guess, Face, is that they pawned their pickups to pay for multiple visits to the dentist, which is why they got stuck with this old trap…"

"Can it!" hollered Reed, raising his rifle as if to strike with it.

"Better not, sucka," rumbled B.A., watching as the man quickly lowered the weapon.

"Guys, any idea as to our ETA? I'm dying to order a room service cheeseburger," Hannibal asked hopefully.

Reed smiled without a trace of humor. "Just keep thinking 'dying,' smartass, and you've got the right idea."

"Okay, then, no cheeseburger. It's been a while since I've had a French dip, though…"

As Reed turned to mutter something to Stansfield, B.A. leaned in and whispered hoarsely. "You better have a plan, Hannibal."

"Don't I always?" The familiar grin returned, minus its usual cigar.

"And does it involve Murdock, who, as far as we know, still thinks he's Lon Chaney?" Face asked with concern.

Hannibal continued to smile. "Yeah. But he did save you from that guy using you as a punching bag last month in Long Beach, didn't he?"

"I had that situation firmly under control! He just stumbled into it. And besides, he was only being Ricky "the River" Flacco, the poker shark, that time…not running on all fours and scratching all over for fleas," objected Face.

B.A. grunted. "Foo' better show up quick, before we end up bein' room service cheeseburgers."

As they spoke, the wagon drew to a halt. Reed, his eyes wary, kept his rifle pointed at the three prisoners. Stansfield hopped down from the driver's seat and beckoned with his own weapon for them to exit.

"Out. No funny stuff, either."

"Damn, and I just heard this great joke about a Buddhist monk and a yeti who walk into a bar in Tibet…" Hannibal tried to snap his fingers together but couldn't.

They were shepherded along, trying not to trip over the protruding roots of a giant oak which stood beside what appeared to be a smaller version of the Osborne barn.

"Where's Redthorn? I didn't see him after we left the cabin," Face said under his breath, just loud enough for Hannibal to hear.

"Probably went back to finish them dogfights," B.A. suggested.

Hannibal gave it a moment of thought. "I don't think so. He seemed pretty eager to finish us off, so my guess is he's cooking something special up for us. Just like Decker…always gives us just enough time to think…"

"Inside. Don't bother trying to escape. We'll be watching you." Stansfield shoved the three of them into the confines of the barn and slammed the door. The sound of a heavy bolt being slid into place followed.

The space the A-Team found themselves in was dark aside from a single overhead light high in the rafters. It also smelled like it was currently in use, perhaps for the wagon team outside. But best of all, in addition to bales of hay, feed buckets and sacks of chicken feed, there was a smorgasbord of farm equipment, baling wire, hand tools, and a two-wheeled hay cart.

Hannibal flicked a glance at B.A., whose eyes had gone wide with delight. "You see, Sergeant? If you just keep a positive outlook, something's bound to go right sooner or later."

"Yeah, I might be able to do somethin' with all this." B.A. flexed his wrists hard, then relaxed, loosening the knots that bound them together. He moved to untie Face, whose nose was turned up at the ambient barnyard smell.

"Was this part of your plan, too, Hannibal?" asked the lieutenant, freed of his bonds.

Hannibal eyed the cart. "No, Face, but sometimes a good plan just comes together all at once." He grinned. "B.A., remember that special project you did for General Mowery that one time?" he asked, rubbing at his chin in thought.

The big man glowered at the memory. "You mean, before I threw a haymaker at that rat-faced sucka?"

"Yeah. Think you could manage that again?"

B.A. flashed a sheepish smile of his own. "I'll be workin' on a tighter schedule, but I think I can do it."

"Right. While we're waiting for Redthorn to get back, let's go ahead and keep ourselves busy. If he's gonna be throwing a big party, we wouldn't want to show up without any presents for him…"