Face: Stopping Stockwell

Although I can't speak from experience, I imagine those awkward Thanksgiving dinners with extended family that I've heard about would have an atmosphere similar to this meal. Amy looked like Snow White surrounded by five of the seven dwarfs, none of whom were inclined to make conversation. BA, of course, has always been the dictionary definition of the strong and silent type, but Murdock had fallen unusually quiet, Frankie was busy shooting furtive glances in Amy's direction, and Hannibal didn't seem to have much to say. He had been acting strangely ever since Amy's visit came up. I guess I had expected him to show more excitement at seeing her again, or at least to be a little friendlier, but there was a distance between the two of them that they both appeared to be aware of. When Amy had left suddenly for Jakarta years ago, Hannibal had relayed the news but hadn't gone into detail. I had always wondered if there was more to the story, but now I began to think the reason had something to do with the Colonel himself. Perhaps later I could utilize my expertise in the art of persuasion to get him to tell me about it. I might not even have to try too hard. These last two weeks I could have merely mentioned wanting a new Corvette and he would have gone out and bought it for me himself. It kind of took the fun out of asking for things.

The lull in conversation was well on the way to becoming a regular radio silence. Since three bites of pizza were already sitting heavily in my opiate-harassed digestive system, I put eating on hold and took it upon myself to get the metaphorical ball rolling.

"So, uh, Amy, what brings you to D.C.?"

Amy set her forkful of salad down, apparently relieved at the excuse to break the silence. "Well, actually, I came up after Thanksgiving to cover the AJ Bancroft story, and I've been covering political stories here ever since."

At the mention of AJ the rest of us exchanged glances.

"What is it?" she said. "Did I miss something?"

I turned to Hannibal, unsure of how much he thought we should say. He spoke up, "AJ Bancroft was one of our clients. We arranged the meeting between him and his daughter so he could give her the diary."

"The diary was found because of you guys?" Amy lit up with more than the appropriate amount of excitement.

"Now, Miss Allen," said Hannibal, "before you put our names on the front page of the next paper, we are undercover. I don't know how much Murdock has told you, but our situation here is complicated."

A car door slamming brought the discussion to a halt.

"Is that —" I began.

"Murdock, take Amy to the kitchen," Hannibal ordered. "And take her stuff."

Murdock picked up Amy's plate and cup and carried them out, followed by a bewildered Amy.

"What about her chair?" Frankie asked.

The front door opened. Hannibal shook his head. The chair would be fine since it was the one I usually sat in, and I was currently occupying an upholstered chair from the den for comfort. We all began eating again as footsteps pounded across the hardwood floor toward the dining room.

"Gentlemen," came a familiar voice from behind me. "I see I have disturbed your dinner."

"Indeed you have," said Hannibal, taking a deliberate bite of pizza as he stared down the intruder. I twisted around to see how the General was reacting and instantly realized it was a mistake. Sharp pain stabbed my side, and it was all I could do not to let out a yelp.

"Here, Face, I found the Thousand Island," called Murdock, rushing in with a bottle of salad dressing.

I quickly took control of my expression and played along. "Ah, thanks." It wasn't until he handed me the dressing that I realized I had no salad on my plate to put it on. The salad bowl was sitting in front of Amy's empty place. Although BA had plopped down across from her before Frankie had the chance, Frankie had managed to snag the seat on her right and my left.

"I regret the interruption," Stockwell said, coming down the two steps to stand next to Murdock and me, "but unfortunately, it is necessary that I take a few minutes of your time."

"Frankie," I whispered. He turned, and I motioned toward the salad.

"Or I can save time by giving you your answer right now, Stockwell," said Hannibal. "And the answer is no."

Frankie passed the salad bowl. I reached out to grab it, and the pain intensified, causing me to nearly drop the bowl. Thankfully Frankie was watching Stockwell again. Gently, I set the bowl on the table and concentrated on putting lettuce on my plate with the smallest amount of movement necessary.

Stockwell strode over to stand by Hannibal. "Colonel, I am well aware of your current sentiments on the matter. What I am interested in is what your men have to say."

"How can we say anything when we have no idea what you're talking about?" asked Frankie.

Stockwell raised his eyebrows. "You don't mean to tell me that the Colonel has told you nothing about your next mission?"

"A mission?" BA exclaimed. "We ain't going on no mission!"

"Don't speak so hastily, Mr. Baracus. You may find it in your best interest to hear what I have to say."

Murdock raised a hand. "Excuse me, General, but I think what the big guy's trying to say is, we're not ready for a mission. I mean, Faceman just got out of the hospital last week."

I paused with serving tongs in midair to give Stockwell a broad smile. If I was going to throw a wrench in his plans, I might as well enjoy it to the fullest.

"That is unfortunate," Stockwell remarked, "especially when your pardons are at stake." He paused to let the statement sink in. "However, I would not be opposed to your performing the mission in the absence of Mr. Peck. If you were to succeed, you and he would be equally rewarded."

Frankie spoke up. "By 'rewarded', do you mean you would get us our pardons?"

Stockwell nodded.

"So, this would be our last mission?"

"You are correct, Mr. Santana," he replied.

"Hey, that doesn't sound too bad to me."

"Not a chance," Hannibal declared.

"Hold it, Johnny, what do you mean? This is what we've been waiting for!"

"Face is not ready to travel, and we are not leaving a man behind."

"Can't I decide if I'm ready?" I said, but nobody paid attention. My left side felt as if a malicious giant had plunged his hand inside and was squeezing what was left of my spleen inside his hairy fist.

"No way, man!" said BA. "Nobody separate the A-Team!"

"In case your memory has failed you, Stockwell," said Hannibal, "the last time we did it your way I almost ended up as fish food for the local Hong Kong mackerel."

"Yes, but that was a solo mission, if you recall," Stockwell objected. "This time you would have your team on hand, minus one man."

Murdock shoved his chair back and stood to his feet, startling everyone. He paused for a moment, surveying his audience, before speaking. "There were three of us in the restaurant the night Face was shot," he said evenly. "The reason he almost died is because we didn't have the other two. It wasn't until the whole team was together that we pounded those thugs into the ground. I think we should go as a team, or not go at all."

He sat back down amid a heavy silence. Then, everyone started talking at once.

"Well, I don't see why we can't take Face with us."

"He can't even hardly walk around."

"What about our pardons?"

"You're forgetting that we have to complete the mission first, Frankie."

"Yeah, what if we mess up?"

"We haven't messed up yet."

At the moment, I wished I could be anywhere else but here. It was bad enough that I was keeping the team out of missions, but if we lost our last hope of pardons too . . .

I stood up and told the team not to worry, I was ready for the mission. At least, that's what happened in my head. In actuality, what transpired was that I made it about three inches off my seat before the invisible hand twisted inside my gut, and I collapsed, moaning.

"Face, are you okay?" Murdock was at my elbow in less than a second. His expression of concern became obscured by the gray blobs taking over a significant portion of my vision.

"Yeah, I just moved a little too fast." The pinch in my side showed no signs of abating yet. My stomach churned.

"You're really pale, kid," said Hannibal suddenly from close by.

"I'll be fine." I got up more slowly this time, saving my spleen, but wobbling as I felt how lightheaded I actually was.

Hannibal tried to push me back into my seat, but I stood my ground, not only because Stockwell was watching, but because I had to prove to the team that I could go on that mission.

"Don't blame me if you pass out."

"I'm fine. I just need to lie down," I insisted. My hand gripped the back of the chair, and sweat broke out on my forehead. Inhale through the nose, count to five, exhale through the mouth . . .

"BA," Hannibal called, "help me get him to bed. Murdock, go find the painkiller. Frankie," with a note of sarcasm, "please entertain our guest."

Murdock ran ahead as BA and Hannibal supported me on each side as we made our way at a snail's pace up the steps and out. When we reached the living room, Frankie's voice drifted up from the dining room saying, "So, how 'bout some pizza?"

Once I was tucked in bed, medicated, and no longer seeing spots, Hannibal sent BA and Murdock out to "give Stockwell a proper sendoff." Then he sat down on the edge of the bed, wearing the stern superior officer frown that always had me racking my brain for anything I had done that could get me in trouble.

"We need to have a talk, Lieutenant," he said.

Nothing came to mind — I hadn't exactly had a lot of opportunities to misbehave over the last few days — but his tone still made me nervous. "Sounds terrific. What do you want to talk about? The weather? Foreign policy? The price of tea in China?"

"What happened back there?"

Was that all? "I moved around too quickly, and my side started hurting again. Sorry I interrupted your discussion of my welfare." My voice came out more sarcastic than I intended, but I was, after all, slightly annoyed.

Hannibal laughed. "You have a point. Next time I'll try to ask for your opinion before I give it to you. And you could have interrupted sooner — your argument was a lot more effective than mine."

I groaned as I realized what he meant. "But I want to go on the mission!"

He shook his head. "If the display I saw back there is any indication, you won't be going on missions for a while yet."

"Oh, for Pete's sake, Hannibal, that was only because—" I stopped myself too late.

"Because of what, Lieutenant?" Hannibal's eyes are a lovely ice blue that grows brighter when they are aimed directly at your soul. There was no getting out of it now.

"I, uh, think I missed a dose of painkiller."

"Just one?"

Why did he have to catch on so quickly? "Maybe two."

"Face, I watched you take your meds once this morning and once this afternoon. You don't have to explain the slight of hand to me, but I do want to know why you conned me."

That disappointed gaze hurt worse than a glare. He was trying to send me on a guilt trip, and it was working. I couldn't tell him the whole truth, but I'd certainly tell him nothing but the truth.

"Aw, Hannibal, it's just that I hate feeling, you know . . . drugged all the time. I can't even think straight, not to mention being dizzy, and sleepy, and nauseated, and cold, and, well, really itchy. It's like having a chronic case of the flu but without the congestion. And it stinks."

Hannibal sighed. "I know it's no fun, but unfortunately that's the way it's gonna be for a few more days until you can stop the painkiller without staging a repeat of tonight's drama. Be glad you're still around to feel itchy."

"Yeah, I know." I preferred not to think too much about how close to death I had actually come. Long ago I'd accepted the fact that this line of work could be the end of me, but there were a few things I'd prefer to do first, such as get out from under Stockwell's ever-present thumb.

"Actually, kid, you've been a good sport about this whole thing. Abdominal injuries are no joke, and you lost part of your spleen and had serious internal bruising. You've done far less than your share of complaining. It's been good to see."

I blinked. Somehow the lecture had turned into a compliment. No doubt about it, Hannibal was a pushover these days.

"Does that mean I can go on the mission?" I asked hopefully.

"Hold on. I didn't say we were going on the mission at all."

"But if our pardons are at stake, why is it such a big deal if I stay behind? I mean, I wouldn't be opposed to a little peace and quiet, maybe a nice nurse or two to make sure I take my meds on time."

"How about being used as Stockwell's bargaining chip?"

I looked up quickly. "What do you mean?"

"What bothers me is the way Stockwell's been pushing for us to do this mission, with or without you. He's desperate for something, and I wouldn't put it past him to use you as collateral to make sure we do exactly what he wants."

"You mean he might take me hostage while you guys are gone?"

"Exactly."

In my weakened state, I couldn't put up much of a fight if anyone did try to overpower me. As far as the team was concerned, I was nothing but a liability. All the blood drained from my face. "I . . . never thought of that."

"Hey." Hannibal squeezed my shoulder. "Don't look so worried, kid. We're not going to leave you behind, no matter what happens. Okay?"

I nodded, more relieved than I cared to admit. "Okay."

Hannibal rose to his feet. "Now that we're on the same page, will you be all right if I go take care of a few things? I suspect Miss Allen will need a long, detailed explanation of what just happened."

"No problem. I can feel a nap coming on anyway."

"Good. I'll send Murdock in later. If you need anything, just call." He picked up one of two walkie-talkies from the side table and hooked it onto his belt before walking out. I settled into my pillow, thankful for Hannibal's understanding, relieved that I had gotten off so easy, and a tiny bit frustrated that I'd forgotten to ask him about Amy. Soon, however, these thoughts merged into a content relaxation that looked a lot like sleep . . .