Jean got up with the sun the next morning. The light was just starting to come in through the window from far out east and the morning air was almost chilly. She fell out of bed and got to her feet and walked over to the window and saw the light starting to bring some color to the otherwise gray scenery outside. She still felt out of it from last night and took her time getting up and around. She found a full length mirror over to one wall and tried taking a look at the bruises on her back to see if there was any change in them. From what she could see, though it wasn't much, they looked like they were starting to turn colors. Good, she thought, maybe in a few days they would start to fade and disappear. But it was obvious that the ones on her legs were going to take a while longer to fade out.

She turned and all but jumped out of her skin when she heard the bedroom door open. She heard the intruder call out, "Hey!" before she actually saw him.

Jason Crowley froze in the doorway at the unexpected sight of Jean without her shirt on and he quickly backed out and called after her, "Whoops, sorry!"

Jean turned to get one more look at the bruises on her back and she half called to him, "No harm, no foul." Any harm had been done long before this.

Jean put her shirt back on and padded out to the living room where Crowley and Kellerman were seated at a table discussing something among themselves.

"Oh my aching everything," Jean grumbled as she made her way over to a chair and carefully sat down on it.

"Are you insane?" Crowley asked her.

"That is a subject open for debate," Jean replied as she rubbed her side.

"What the hell were you thinking trying to sleep in your car at the studio?" Crowley asked, "You know any idiot could've snatched you up."

Jean let her head fall against the table and she replied with her eyes closed, "And any idiot did, you."

"What happened to you?" Kellerman asked as he noticed how stiffly she moved.

Jean grunted down a moan and answered, "Car crash."

"At the studio?"

"No, recreationally," she replied.

"So what the hell were you doing at the studio?" Crowley asked.

"The guys are gone, I can't stay home all day in an empty house, I'll go out of my mind," Jean said, "I wish they were home, or at least that I could call Hannibal…I need to get his opinion on something."

"So why don't you?" Kellerman asked as he watched Jean fidget and reposition herself several times before she was finally able to slump forward on the table comfortably.

"Decker's been drummed out, his replacement might just be smart enough to tap the lines," Jean answered, "I'm not having them sent back to Fort Bragg on my account."

"You were mumbling in your sleep half the night, what have you gotten into with these people?" Crowley asked.

"That remains to be seen," was her only answer. She worked her eyes open and picked up a sheet of paper with something typed on it, "This the storyline for your movie, Jason?"

"Part of it," he answered and, eyeing Kellerman, added, "We've been having…creative differences on the matter."

"Hmm, no kidding," Jean looked to Kellerman and asked, "How'd he rope you into this?"

Kellerman just shrugged.

"One thing we can't agree on is the names," Jason told her, "Who knows? This could actually be good, or at least gain a cult status, and in either case, you want a name that's gonna stick with people."

"Like what?" Jean asked, "Like Isaac Newton?"

"People know names like 'Rambo' or 'Han Solo', they're household words, how the hell do people come up with something like that that everyone's going to remember?"

Jean shrugged and remarked, "They also come up with other names that are easier to stumble on, 'James Bond', 'Tony Montana'…'the Aquamaniac'."

"Ha-ha-ha," Jason dryly replied.

"Well that alone has had us stumped for three days," Kellerman explained, and to Jason he added, "First of all I think we need to come up with something better for the dad since he is a key part of the story, something that's going to get people's attention like…oh…I had it," he grumbled and hit himself in the head and asked Jason, "What was the name of that white haired guy on the old 'Jonny Quest' cartoons? The bodyguard?"

"Race Bannon," Jean answered as she picked her head up from the table. The two guys looked at her and she added, "Everybody knows that. And how ironic," she let her head fall on the table again, "If they'd ever turn that into a live action show, Hannibal would be perfect for the role if he could ever show his face. He could get that part on his looks alone, his personality pending."

Through the corner of her eye, she caught sight of a crumpled up sheet of paper. She reached out and dragged it over to her and opened it up to see what was on it.

"Molotov cocktails," she read, "Nice touch."

"Sure, but here's my question," Kellerman said, "Everybody just thinks that you pour some gasoline in a bottle, stuff a rag in the top, light a match and pitch it."

"That is the general idea," Jean said.

"Sure, that's what every movie does, but it's not realistic. They need a thickening agent added to them to really work. And if we actually put that in this film, that'd be going the extra mile considering it's the kids that are going to use them. But what would they know about that?"

"Well, dish soap is used all the time," Jean murmured half to herself, "But if you wanted to really spice it up…it's also a well known fact that blood is used to thicken the gasoline and kerosene. You could have them arguing about taking that route, give one of them a mini-speech about patriotism, that they should be willing to bleed for their country and that's just one more example of how it could be done."

She closed her eyes after that and waited to see what would happen. She didn't hear anything for a few seconds, and then she heard Crowley asking her, "Can you type?"

"Sure I can type, what kind of a question is…" her eyes opened and she looked at him, "What, me?"

"Well you can't be any worse than him," Kellerman said, "He's got a good outline for the whole thing, but he sucks at actually putting the dialogue together."

"I don't get what that has to do with this conversation," Jean told them, "But sure, why not?" She peeled the side of her face off the table and told Jason, "I have to get to the studio by 11 but when we leave for the day I'll break out my typewriter and see what I can come up with to help you."

Crowley's eyes bugged out, "As smashed to hell as you are and you're still going back?"

Jean shrugged helplessly and merely remarked, "Why not? I gotta do something, and it'll give me something to do to keep from going stir crazy until the A-Team gets back."

"Face, did you happen to get a look at what car Mr. Bianchi came up here in last night?" Hannibal asked.

"Uh yeah, sort of," he answered, "From the window it looked like a dark old Dodge Dart, but I didn't get a chance to check out the license number."

"Two door or four door?" Hannibal asked.

"Uh…two I think," Face said.

"Little cramped if you're bringing company," Hannibal said.

"So what, there was another car we didn't see?" Face asked, "Or Tony chanced coming alone?"

Hannibal folded his arms against his chest and pondered, "Only one set of tracks up in the driveway, but a second car could've stayed out in the street where we wouldn't have noticed. Would you know the car again if you saw it?"

"Hannibal, do you have any idea how many cars there could be like that in this city alone?" Face replied.

Hannibal shrugged half dismissively and commented, "Just a thought."

"What thought, Colonel?" Murdock asked as he and B.A. entered the room.

"Just wondering if there's any way we could get a handle on where Mr. Bianchi is and see where he goes and whom he goes to see."

"Find out who he's working with," Face said.

"And see if any of them would happen to be the infamous Woody Stone," Murdock added.

"Hey Hannibal," B.A. spoke up, "There's something else we gotta consider."

"What's that, B.A.?" Hannibal asked.

"That this new manager could be in on it too," B.A. pointed out.

The other three men looked at each other and considered this possibility.

"In which case her paranoia didn't spread far enough," Murdock realized.

Hannibal shook his head, "David Salto doesn't strike me as being intelligent enough to be in the middle of this."

And right after he said that, he got a prompt earful from the others about how he'd been wrong before.

"Everybody's a critic," he noted.

"So what's the plan, Colonel?" Murdock asked.

"Well," Hannibal said, "If I thought we could trust Stevi to stay here by herself and stay out of trouble…but of course we know that's not reality, somebody would have to stay here with her while the rest of us went out hunting for Tony Bianchi."

"But who'd go where?" Face asked.

Murdock pointed to himself eagerly but Hannibal shook his head, "If there'd be trouble at the house, B.A. would be the best bet to protect Stevi, which would leave the three of us to go hunting."

"Well that works too," Murdock said.

Dead on her feet, that's what Jean was. She barely got in the door before she dropped everything on the hallway floor and kicked the door shut behind her. Today she was reminded of why she hated working in movies. Those rare moments when it was all action and movement and twist, turn-turn-turn, do this, do that, get in the middle of this bar fight, drive this car at 110 through this closed road, that stuff was fine. It was all the in between stuff that killed her. Waiting around half an hour, an hour, for everything to get set up, everything and everyone get into position, get the lighting right. If it hadn't been for all of that, she would've been fine, but now that the workday was over she was exhausted and just wanted to collapse; her adrenaline had been allowed to come down from zenith too much and too often throughout the day and now fatigue had not only set in, it was winning.

Sure, her back was still killing her and that hadn't done her any favors at the studio, but it was worse when you actually had time to sit down and relax because by the time they were ready to shoot again, your body had gotten use to the newfound, more comfortable position it was in and it was hard to get up and moving at full speed again. But, she'd gotten through another day, unscathed for the most part, now, now she could just fall down on the couch and decompose as she tried adjusting her mindset to figure out what she was going to do with Fulbright. Of course this was the man's first day on the job, it'd take a while before she could find out anymore information about him to help her. Well, maybe later she could pay Decker a visit and see how he was taking to his sudden boot out. Nah, she decided as she made her way over to the couch and fell on it, too obvious, give him a day off from her visits, make him let his guard down, then she'd pay him a visit.

In the meantime, there was still the matter of what she was going to do to Stockwell when she got her hands on him. So many possibilities, but so little time and so limited a choice of what could be done with a human body. And that's when it was really a downside to being a writer, when you were you could come up with an unlimited amount of ways to torture, mutilate, maim and slowly kill someone, but to exercise them in real life, so many choices, and which to pick? Well, obviously it was best to go with something that you knew, and knew would work, that narrowed the list quite a bit for her. On the other hand, sometimes what was familiar was too familiar, maybe this time she had to try something different.

Writers…that reminded her, she'd told Crowley she'd see what she could do for his screenplay when she got home. She got up and made her way over to the table she'd set up for her typewriter and started looking for some fresh paper to use under the sheets she'd punched out before. Now she really wished Hannibal was here, she needed someone to talk to and he was the only other person she knew with Hollywood in his blood. When he had been there she'd been tempted to show him what she'd already tried her hand at for her own scripts. A hundred different ideas had come to her and each of them could go a dozen different ways, and all of them came to a crashing halt long before she was anywhere near done with them. And now, if she tried continuing on any of them, she knew she wouldn't get anywhere. For all that wasn't ever going to be done with them, she had half a mind to gather up all the ideas she'd started with and throw them away, or burn them, just get rid of them forever. But she knew she couldn't. They would never be finished but they were her ideas and that was something that nobody could take away from her, but if she destroyed the only evidence of their existence now, then she took it away from herself.

Deciding she could procrastinate for a while, she dug up some of the scripts she'd started on and never gotten more than a few pages' worth done, and sat back on the couch to read through them to see if she could even remember what was supposed to happen once the typeface ran out. She'd had several ideas, and some of them had, at the time of their creation anyway, genuinely seemed good. But all in all, looking at the bigger picture, what did any of them amount to? And what would they have amounted to even if they had been finished? This one, a centennial anniversary slaughter that mirrored the Borden murder case from Fall River, and this one…what if some of the haunted bricks from the garage the St. Valentine's Day Massacre had occurred in, which were reputed to bring misfortune of all sorts to whoever possessed them, had been used in the construction of a public high school? What ominous fates awaited the teenagers that attended there? She tossed that one over her shoulder and picked up another one that was barely two pages long. It had been an inside look to the patients of a mental institution who actually and not surprisingly proved more competent than the staff running the place.

One that had actually made the 10-page limit, an attempt to cash in on the 'old Nazis looking to rebuild the Third Reich' craze that had shook the film and literary world a decade ago, only replace the old Nazis with not so old Croatians, descendants of the Ustasha guards who had slaughtered 800,000 Serbians gleefully, and relocate the Croatians to America where they intended to track down the witnesses who could reveal to the world, their true identities. And that had led her to dig up another one…at the time this had seemed like a good idea too…did Josef Mengele really die when he was said to have drowned? Sure by that time he was about 70, but evil never died. What if he managed to live 150 years on his pure unconcentrated evil? Or…a less serious approach she had taken in a different script, what if someone believed he was still alive and insisted he was still out there somewhere, and looked to find him and send him back to hell where he belonged? To other people it would come off as a comedy, a joke, but she'd only half intended it for a joke, she did remember that if she'd ever finished it, she was going to have the suspicions prove correct, that he had faked his death in South America and was still wandering around somewhere. All of these, when they'd first been started, had all seemed like great ideas, what the hell had happened?

Nothing more depressing than to work your whole life and never have anything finished to show for it, just made it look like you sat around all that time twiddling your thumbs when you should've been doing something productive. Always different to walk a mile in the other person's shoes but that's why nobody ever volunteered for the task.

More than once though, and she'd never brought this idea up with anybody, many times she'd considered doing a script about the A-Team. Why the hell not? It was a movie, anything she put into it she could claim was a creation of her own imagination mixed with what little knowledge about the Team that the general public had access to. Besides, they were fugitives so they couldn't collect on the royalties. It could be like an unauthorized biography, nobody ever believed there was any truth to them, but they were still fun even if they were absolute garbage. She had a good laugh at that one, make a movie about the A-Team, and then during the middle of a shoot, bring in Decker or Fulbright or whoever, only for them to realize after the fact that they hadn't caught the A-Team, but actors portraying them, or better yet, their stunt doubles instead. Now that would be a sight to see.

In her mind it had potential, but she'd never put one word of it down on paper, and she didn't see any reason why today should be any different. She flipped through more pages of old ideas and came across one that had been one of her first, and it was one of the shortest but it was also one she was proudest of at the time. The scene had opened with a woman getting the crap beat out of her in her kitchen by some man, a husband, a boyfriend, a mere acquaintance, she'd never really gotten around to specifying. Instead of curling into a small ball and sobbing as was the norm in a lot of those domestic violence TV movies of the week, the woman slowly and without a word, got to her feet, and started hitting him back; punching him, kicking him, even grabbing a broken ceiling fan chain and wrapping it around his neck to choke him. Then she picked up a frying pan off the stove, and beat the man near to death with it.

A line of dialogue, or rather monologue, that she'd put in, though she didn't remember if it was supposed to be directed to a third party in the kitchen, or just to the audience as her own take on social commentary, she'd written: 'After a while you get tired of being smacked around so you start smacking back, and after that, you spend the rest of your time improving and perfecting your technique.' It took her back. As a writer, you put yourself into characters, but you also took it a step further and made them everything you were not and could never be but always hoped and wanted to be, they were your alter egos, the ideal you, even if as a whole they were far less than an ideal anything. A low chuckle escaped her, less than an ideal anything, that described her pretty well. And that considered, looking back on her brief career as a general nuisance to the men in green, she'd made a pretty good run of it, and she intended to again, with or without the A-Team's help. She gave it a little more thought and finally decided as she shook her head. Brutus was dead, let him stay dead, to go after Fulbright and Stockwell, she would need to come up with something new. Maybe something less bloody, definitely something far less confusing. Brutus and the blood he left behind him were ancient history, neither one of these idiot generals would have the brains to put it together.

The first day they'd gone out checking every main road, secondary road, back road and alley for any car that resembled the one Face had seen, they came up empty; they'd also searched so many places for so long that Murdock was able to see black and dark blue cars in his sleep. The next day while they resumed the search, Hannibal had gotten a call from Face in on the radio in his car that they'd found a vehicle that looked very similar to the car he'd seen outside the house the other night. He met up with them and saw a dark blue Dodge Dart parked in the middle of an otherwise oddly empty street. Very odd given that the block was outlined with old apartment buildings that somehow seemed to still have people living in them. A glance up to the windows facing the street saw that most of them had the curtains pulled and the shades pulled down, a vain attempt for those who couldn't afford air conditioning to try and reduce the heat from the hot July sun, so it was unlikely anybody in any of those apartments could see them or the car.

"Any idea whose it is?" he asked the Lieutenant and Captain when he joined them.

"No," Face answered, "That's the problem."

"How is that a problem?" Hannibal asked.

"Hannibal, it could be anybody's car," Face said, "I told you it's common."

"Alright, so it's common, but so what?" Hannibal remarked, "We keep an eye on the car and see who comes out and drives off in it, and if it's Tony, then we follow him."

"Comes out of where?" Face gestured to the buildings on the block, "He could be in any of those places."

"Faceman's got a point, where are we supposed to keep watch so that nobody's watching us?"

"Well the answer to that isn't where, but what, what you need to do is make sure when whoever owns the car comes out, the first thing they're going to notice is the car," Hannibal said, "A smashed headlight generally does the trick, nobody looks forward to getting stuck with a $50 ticket for that."

"Uh-huh," Face said not convincingly, "And what happens if it turns out the car belongs to some little old lady?"

"Then we'll come up to her and say we saw the whole thing and give her the money to have it fixed," Hannibal answered as if it was the most common thing in the world.

"Ah, of course," Face remarked sarcastically, "Alright, how?"

"Got a brick?" Hannibal asked with one of his more trademark and unsettling smirks.

Face and Murdock stood back and kept a lookout while Hannibal nonchalantly walked over to the parked car, went around it a couple times as if he was looking at it, and then casually noted, "Oops" as he smashed the brick against the left headlight and walked off before anybody saw him.

The noise hadn't been enough to bring anybody out, not surprising. They waited around for about 20 minutes before they saw someone come out of one of the buildings in the middle of the block, and that person did go to the car, and yes, much to Face's surprise, that person was Tony Bianchi, who did notice the smashed headlight.

Hannibal murmured to the Lieutenant, "His first stop will probably be to the garage to get it fixed and from there he'll get a different car to use until the light's fixed, so we have to find out what the temporary car is and where he goes from there."

"What we found out," Hannibal explained to Stevi when they'd returned late that afternoon, "Is that Tony was going to meet some people, we didn't happen to see Woody among any of them but all the same it's obvious that he's in on something. Trust me, you wouldn't want to know the people he went to see."

"How many, Hannibal?" B.A. asked.

"As far as we could tell? We counted about six, but there could be more," he answered.

"Who was it?" Stevi wanted to know.

"Well we didn't get their names," Face told her, "But I'd say it's a safe bet they're the local branch of neighborhood thugs who muscle their way in on anyone unsuspecting."

"And," Hannibal added, "I'd say it's a safe bet that they're all going to be coming here to pay us a visit soon."

"Which means we gotta get ready for them, right, Hannibal?" B.A. asked.

"Which means, B.A.," Hannibal corrected him, "We put out the welcome mat."

"Uh huh," B.A. grumbled.

"Wired like a Cong shoeshine box, right?" Murdock asked.

"Mmm, something like that," Hannibal replied, "Of course, six inch nails would work nicely too."

B.A. rolled his eyes and shook his head, Hannibal was definitely on the jazz once again, it was as plain as the nose on his face.

Stevi shrugged confusedly and asked, "So now what?"

"Ah, well…" Face tried to think what the best way to tell her was.

Murdock did it for him, "Now we're gonna booby trap the place for boobs."

"Yeah, something like that," Face added.

Murdock moved over towards Stevi and slinked an arm around her back and said to her, "Tell me, Stevi, where does your aura stand on violence?"

"That depends," she told him, "Is it necessary?"

Murdock moved his jaw and mouth to answer but he seemed to stop himself before anything other than a couple sounds came out, and after giving it a little thought, answered, "Yes, I'd say so."

She smiled at him and said, "Then I'm all for it, what're we going to do?"

Murdock chuckled to himself and smiled at her and said, "Oh boy Stevi, someday you're going to make some man very lucky, you know that, don't you?"

As it turned out, they wouldn't have had to hurry to get everything set up because nobody came out to the house until the next day. It was going on 24 hours since the A-Team had gotten the house ready for their 'visitors' when they actually saw the cars arriving. Three black sedans had sped up to the driveway, screeched to a sudden halt and they saw about six men with guns come charging out of them and up to the house. Hannibal had seen this from the top window in the house, he watched and when he was certain that it had been timed just right, he pressed the buttons on the remote he'd had B.A. rig up. The next thing he heard was the blasts from the two shotguns they'd set up over the front porch. It had slowed them down but hadn't completely stopped them, he knew that it wouldn't. A few of them got off several rounds from their own guns but Hannibal knew it wouldn't do near the damage they had figured it would, since all of them had spent most of the previous night reinforcing all the front windows and the front door with the closest thing to armored plating that they'd been able to put together on such short notice.

Hannibal looked at the other set of buttons on the remote and juggled it from hand to hand as he seemed to be debating with himself. In a 'bad little boy' tone he said to himself, "If I do it…I'll get a whooping…" and in his more normal voice he added, "Of course I don't know why I'm thinking about it because I'm just going to do it anyway." He went to the window and tried to time it just right. He pressed the buttons and listened to the several screams of pain as several spikes popped up through the floorboards on the front porch. Those six inch nails did work wonders. Hannibal shrugged helplessly and said to himself as he tossed the remote away, "I dood it." Then he scrambled across to the back of the house and climbed out of another window and slowly made his way down to the ground to help the others.

By the time he made his way around front to where the action all was, he could already hear rapid gunfire, but he wasn't concerned. As soon as he could see around to the front he confirmed what he already knew, it was B.A. and Murdock shooting out the tires of the assailants' would be getaway cars, by the time they finished, all three cars looked like Swiss cheese.

"Sorry boys," Hannibal said as he drew his own rifle on the men, "Looks like you'll be hitching from here." He noted the shocked looks on their faces and added as he adjusted the aim of his gun, "I'd suggest you put those down before one of you winds up with a hole the size of a grapefruit blown in you."

The men all dropped their guns, Hannibal realized only after the fact, a little too quickly. B.A. and Murdock had been keeping their eyes on the pack of men by the door and so nobody had noticed anyone coming up behind Hannibal, and even he hadn't realized it until he heard the click of a gun and felt the muzzle pressing into the back of his skull.

"Nice try, Mr. Smith," he heard a voice say, "Now you drop it."

Too late, B.A. and Murdock turned when they heard the same instructions. Hannibal just shrugged slightly and tossed his gun on the ground and put his hands up. He watched as B.A. and Murdock also dropped their guns, then he turned slightly to get a glimpse of the man behind him and said in his usual unflappable tone, "Woody Stone I presume, I've heard much about you, and none of it good."

He grunted when he felt the gun hit him between his shoulder blades, it sent his head tilting back and he just about saw stars.

"Where is she?" Woody demanded to know.

"Uh, where's who?" Hannibal asked.

"You know who, Stevi Faith, where is she?"

Hannibal shook his head to clear it and said as he blinked a few times to make the spots go away, "Uh…Australia, she went to meet the aborigines."

He was hit again and the spots got brighter, but he decided to drag this on for as long as he could. But Woody had other plans. Hannibal felt the gun pressing into his spine and Woody said to him, "I'm done playing games, either you tell me where she is or you get it."

"Okay, okay," Hannibal said as he raised his hands higher, "She's in the house."

"For your sake, you better hope you're telling the truth," Woody warned him.

Hannibal rolled his eyes since he had his back to the man. He watched as the other men went into the house and he chanced saying to Woody, "And Mr. Bianchi of course was another one of your players in this act, right?"

"Stevi never changes," Woody said, "Not when it counts."

Hannibal nodded slowly, "You knew everything Tony had to be for her to notice him and take an interest in him, then you were able to keep tabs on her."

"That's right," Woody told him, "I'm the one who found her, I discovered her, she was my property."

"Funny, I thought that was outlawed about a hundred years ago," Hannibal said, earning another sharp blow to something he might need later.

"It's like when you're a kid and you go to the beach, spend all day making the perfect sandcastle, then it's time to go home, you stomp the castle down so no other kid can play with it. That's what Stevi is, I made it and it was mine to destroy."

"Hmm, if you can't have her then no one else will," Hannibal noted, "Sounds more romantic when The Police sing about it. You're an oversized spoiled brat, Woody, you should've grown up about 20 years ago."

"If you don't shut up," Woody warned him, "You're not going to get any older."

"Oh I wouldn't say that," Hannibal said.

The next thing anybody heard was an explosion of gunfire coming from the roof where Face was positioned and letting off about a dozen warning shots, creating the perfect distraction for Hannibal to get the drop on Woody and subdue him. Once he was knocked out and officially declared not a problem for the time being, they went into the house to see just what had become of their other guests.

They'd all walked into the booby traps with open eyes, naturally, nothing more efficient than hiding in plain sight. Two of them were hanging by their heels from the ceiling after they'd triggered a couple of trip wires. Another one had been hit in the head by a swinging sledgehammer and lay out cold on the floor. A fourth had been bombarded with a couple dozen tin cans in the kitchen as soon as he stepped in the doorway and was crumpled on the floor with a very bad migraine. And as for the other two…one had taken the wrong turn and fallen down the basement stairs in the dark and still had the doorknob in his hand, and the sixth man…was missing. They went up to the second floor to see if maybe he'd gone up there to look for Stevi, and he had, and he was sprawled out across the second story hall floor with a rag gripped in his hand. Hannibal's nose picked up on a familiar scent. "Homemade chloroform."

One of the bedroom doors opened and Stevi came out and said, "Well I had to do something, didn't I?"

"I told Face to get you out of here and put you where you wouldn't be in any danger," Hannibal told her.

"He did," Stevi insisted, "I just came back once he went to climb on the roof. You guys went to all this trouble to protect me, the least I could do was help."

Face smacked himself on the cheek and murmured to Murdock, "She's about as bad as Jean."

"And about as effective," Murdock replied.

"And would it do me any good to ask how you knew to make chloroform to use on them?" Hannibal asked.

"Murdock told me," Stevi answered.

Murdock's eyes widened as he replied, "Not to use I didn't."

"It doesn't matter now," Hannibal said, "Let's get everybody together, then we'll go find our friend Tony, and then we're going to return you to your manager, Stevi."

"And then we can go home," Murdock added.

"Hurray," Face dryly noted.

"Are you sure that you got everybody involved in this?" Salto asked Hannibal, "You couldn't have missed someone who's still out there?"

"I'm pretty confident we got the whole operation busted wide open," Hannibal told him, "Of course if you two encounter any further problems, you know how to get in contact with us."

"You guys have amazing timing," David said, "Stevi's concert is in a few days and now that it's safe for her to go out in public again, she's got to get to rehearsal."

"You worry too much, Dave," Stevi told him.

"Well, right about now the police should be processing Woody and his whole crew," Hannibal said, then he turned to Salto and asked him, "Mind if I use your phone for a local call?"

"Go ahead," he said. To the other members of the Team he added, "I don't know how to thank you guys."

"Oh, covering our fee will be thanks enough," Face said, receiving a sharp elbow by Murdock.

Stevi went over to Murdock and told him, "I feel good things in store for you guys, your energy's all in the right place."

Murdock grinned sheepishly and turned a little pink as he replied, "Thanks, Stevi."

After a couple minutes on the phone, Hannibal hung the receiver up frantically and went over to Face and murmured to him, "We've got to get back as soon as possible."

"What's the matter?" Face asked.

"I called down to the studio to tell Jean we were wrapping everything up here," Hannibal told Face and shook his head, "They said she hasn't been to work in three days and she's not answering her home phone either."