You're all dead men!

Really? Gee, I didn't think I'd feel this good after I was dead. I wanna thank you all for coming to the funeral.

- Strickland and Face, "Harder Than it Looks"

Chapter 19: Face of the Enemy

BA charged through the narrow passages of the submarine, past the senior officer's quarters and the captain's quarters. As he neared the engine room, all he heard was the uneasy sound of silence from in front of him. The gunfire had stopped, which was never a good sign. It usually meant that one side overpowered the other . . . but was it Face or the guards that got the upper hand? A surge of adrenaline rushed through his veins as he feared that he was too late . . .

As he rushed into the control room, he immediately skidded to a halt once his gaze fell upon the scene before him. His dark brown eyes darted from the two guards standing in the doorway to the still figure lying next to them. Each of the guards held a pistol on their hands, and it was trained on the prone man. It didn't even register in his mind that the guards had turned their guns on him . . . not after he spotted the left side of the fallen blonde-haired man's face covered in blood.

Face . . .

The anger with the whole situation with Spencer and his Mama reached a critical level, and seeing the Lieutenant hurt was like an atomic bomb going off within him. Consumed by rage, he let out a deep growl that seemed to echo through the control room, amplifying the guttural expression. The muscular mechanic clenched his fists as his massive biceps bulged underneath his parka. He took one step forward, completely ignoring the guns. His only concern, right now, was the con artist lying on the floor. If Face was dead, he was going to kill them.

The older of the two guards, with jet black hair that was only slightly peppered with grey, saw the approach of the burly African American. It reminded him of a charge of an oncoming bull . . . and they almost practically might as well have been waving a red cape to spur him on. Thinking quickly, he turned his gun away from the advancing angry man and pointed it toward the figure that was still sprawled out on the floor, unmoving. "Take one more step, and he's as good as dead," the guard threatened firmly.

Instantly, BA froze in his tracks. Every muscle in his body tensed, like a cobra coiled up and ready to strike, as he appraised the two men. He had no doubt that he could take either one of them, or even both of them, but with that gun pointed at Face he couldn't take the risk. That's when a low moan from the floor caught his attention. "C'mon, man, let me help him," he urged to the two guards. He watched as they looked to each other and nodded, and then took a couple of steps back in order to allow the Ordinance Officer a chance to approach the wounded man.

The Sergeant immediately rushed over to the stirring form and knelt down next to him. The first thing he did was to search for the source of the blood streaming down his friend's face. That's when he spotted a small gash on the left side of Face's head, right above his left ear. From what he could tell, it looked like the bullet just grazed him which meant that the Lieutenant was lucky. The shot apparently was just enough to stun the con man, but not seriously injure him. He pulled out a large red handkerchief from out of the pocket of his overalls and pressed it against the wound to stop the flow of blood.

"Ow . . ." Face started to say as his blue eyes fluttered open. His gaze immediately fell onto the Ordinance Officer, and then shifted as he noted the two guards practically hovering over them with their guns aimed at the two members of the A-Team. He weakly tried to brush away the mechanic's hand, his words slurring as he protested, "'at 'hurts, BA."

"Good. 'Cause that means you ain't dead," he countered gruffly. He didn't reduce the pressure against the wound. If nothing else, he put a bit more on it which caused the con man to wince uncomfortably in pain. He hated causing his friend such pain, but it was with a good reason. "'Sides, I gotta stop the bleeding."

"Get him up," the older guard ordered curtly, his gun trained steadily at the two members of the A-Team. Now that they were caught, there was no way that they were going to take chances with either of these men . . . especially not with the big Black one who looked like he could have ripped their heads off if given a chance.

Moving cautiously, BA gently drew Face's left hand to the bandana and pressed it against the fabric. "Hold it right there," he instructed gently, but firmly. With the Lieutenant trying to staunch the bleeding on his own, the muscular mechanic reached down to help him up into a sitting position, and then eventually hoisted the smaller man to his feet. Templeton Peck swayed for a moment before regaining his balance. The Ordinance Officer watched him closely, and placed a strong hand on the con man's arm to keep him from falling again. After a brief moment, the Supply Officer nodded reassuringly at his friend.

"Move. We're going to collect the rest of your friends," the older guard instructed, waving his gun in the direction of the galley. After the intense fire fight, he was not going to take a chance with these men.

Slowly, BA helped to guide Face down the passageway toward the galley. In the back of his mind, he wondered if both Hannibal and Murdock got away. If they did then the guards that were following them closely, still with their guns trained on them, would likely be livid . . . and if they got upset over losing any of the other members of the A-Team, there was no telling what they might do. The big thing, at the moment, was to try and be as non-threatening as possible . . . something that was a major challenge for him considering his appearance.

As they eventually stepped into the galley, they could see Hannibal with his black gloved hands raised in surrender. He looked over to see the blood on the left side of his Lieutenant's face and was about to rush over to attend to the wound . . . which the con artist was pressing one of BA's bandana's against to slow the bleeding . . . when one of the guards threatened in a low voice, "Move an inch and I will shoot them both!"

The Colonel immediately froze, and as he did so his thoughts returned to the pilot. He knew Murdock all too well, especially since they thought so much alike. The Captain wasn't about to leave them and was probably trying to hatch his own plan in order to try and rescue them. If he did try to climb down at this point, he'd be captured just like they were and then he wouldn't be able to help get them out of this mess. Besides, if these rent-a-cops were as dumb as he thought they were, they'd likely slip up somehow and give them a way out.

But, not before taking them to see Spencer Jackson . . .

After what happened in the basement, he figured that the Director of Exhibits and Security was probably just itching for a chance to confront them, and even retrieve the documents they managed to take . . . the documents that would not only cost him the lucrative job at the Museum, but also put him away for a very, very long time. And, if what Face found was true, it looked like he may have been engaging in these illegal activities even before he got the director position. No . . . a meeting with Spencer right now was going to be interesting and fun, and he wouldn't want to miss that for the world.

Discretely, he formed the sign for retreat with his right hand. He knew that the Captain would notice it and knew what the Colonel intended for him to do. He had no doubt that the crazed man could pull a rescue off . . . but he couldn't do that if he couldn't gain a tactical advantage and got captured right away. He'd be better off pulling back and coming up with another method in order to secure the freedom of the rest of the A-Team.

"Let's go. Mr. Jackson wants to have a word with you," the black-haired guard directed as he waved his gun toward the front of the sub, indicating the direction he wanted the three men to take. The yellow staircase leading to the offices wasn't too much further, so it wouldn't take too long for them to get there.

For Colonel Smith, this was going much better than expected. Sure, the plan may have hit a snag, but they had managed to gather the evidence they needed . . . and now they were being taken for a confrontation with the key slimeball in this whole affair. Even as they were being forced toward the office under gunpoint, Hannibal couldn't help but to flash a huge, bright smile. In spite of the danger they were in, he was clearly on the Jazz and enjoying every second . . .

"Well, well, well . . ." a deep bass voice filled the silence in the office.

Hannibal stood next to his men in the office of Spencer Jackson, noting the pressure of the barrel of a handgun from one of the guards as it was pressed into his back. BA and Face similarly had a guard standing behind them, also with a gun pointed directly at their spines. After that long, elusive chase through the Museum which allowed them to gather the evidence they needed, the guards had finally wised up and weren't taking any chances with the members of the A-Team. So much for not teaching an old dog new tricks . . .

There was also something else that stood out to the Colonel as well . . . the eerie silence within the office. He remembered hearing the wail of the alarm stop just as they had been led out of the sub and before being escorted up to Spencer's office. The blood on the left side of his Lieutenant's face concerned him, but he remained sharp and observant. There was a strong chance they'd be able to tend to his wound later, once everything was said and done. Right now, Hannibal knew that he couldn't afford to slip up and make a dumb mistake that could get all of them killed.

Hopefully, the guards were unaware of Murdock's escape . . .

Spencer Jackson walked around the desk to stand in front of them, studying the three men standing in a line in front of him. He then moved to stand in front of the A-Team's leader as he stated in a triumphant voice, "Colonel John Hannibal Smith . . ."

The Commanding Officer looked to his other men and grinned, before slowly reaching into the pocket of his safari jacket under the parka and pulled out the cigar that Face had given him earlier. The end had already been chewed off, although he would have loved to have treated the sleeze ball to the indignity of spitting out the end of the cigar onto the floor of his office. For the moment, he pulled out and flipped open a lighter, allowing the flame to dance at the end of his fine Cuban stogie. He knew that smoking a cigar would invariably annoy his captors, and he was rewarded by a brief flash of anger in Spencer's eyes. That reaction was exactly what Hannibal expected, which brought a smug expression to his face.

Ignoring the obvious taunt by the Colonel, the Director of Exhibits and Security moved to stand in front of the next man within the line. He carefully regarded the blonde-haired man, who had blood streaking down the left side of his face. Spencer noted the red handkerchief that was pressed against the wound in order to try and slow the flow of blood. "Lieutenant Templeton Peck," he continued, the victorious tone in his voice still resonating.

Face, on the other hand, held Spencer's gaze for a long moment, his blue eyes lit with challenge. He deliberately smiled, masking the pain that was attacking his head with a gong following being grazed by a bullet. Normally, he and the Colonel would trade barbs at their captors as quickly as they could think them up, but right now he couldn't concentrate long enough to come up with any with how the wound throbbed insistently. One thing he had noticed . . . although Hannibal hadn't spoken a word since they had been taken captive, he was glad to see the familiar cigar. That meant that his Commanding Officer still had some defiance left, which just encouraged the young Lieutenant that much more to maintain the challenging grin he forced onto his face . . . even if it was something he could barely manage.

Spencer moved to the last person in the line and regarded the muscular form of Mrs. Baracus' son. There had been something right away about him that he hadn't liked when he had first seen him within Addie's apartment. He couldn't quite put his finger on it at the time, but he had been certain at that early stage that it wasn't due to all of the gold chains hanging around his neck. Now, knowing exactly who was standing before him, his own dislike for the man had been confirmed and then some. "And Sergeant BA Baracus," he continued, his voice dripping with distain.

If only looks could kill! BA glared at the man that had been dating his Mama and let out a low, deep growl as his face contorted into a sneer. He was beyond angry and wanted to wring the man's neck after what he had done to his Mama, and for Face getting hurt. He felt the gun digging into his back, forcing him to keep still. It was taking an extraordinary amount of self control right now to keep the Ordinance Officer from springing into action and ultimately tearing Spencer from limb to limb. If there hadn't been guns similarly positioned at Face and Hannibal, he would have acted upon the rage that intensified inside of him.

Spencer was a bit surprised at the hatred and anger in that animal-like growl coming from Mrs. Baracus' son. He hadn't expected such intensity from the man, yet the Director hid his own reaction well by turning his back on BA and walked across the office to gaze out the window into the dark night. Even from where his office was located, he could see a few bright lights dotting the famous Lake Shore Drive, and the white crests of Lake Michigan's breaking waves lapping against the shore.

After a moment of taking in the sight of the darkness outside, which seemed almost as black and torrent as his very soul, he turned around and moved back to stand in front of the Sergeant. "I ran a check on you and your friends right after your mother introduced us. She had been careful not to mention you in our previous conversations, and now I know why. The A-Team . . ." Spencer started to say, his voice practically purring like a cat that knew that it had caught a big canary. Now that he knew who these men were, he didn't dare move closer to them, but he turned his head to look into each of their faces. He let out a sigh that was similar to a father who much now punish his son for going out of bounds as he continued, "Still, I had hoped that you wouldn't have grown suspicious and kept clear of my business. I guess that was too much to expect from yourselves."

The face of the bearded man, with greased back hair, was not only calm as he looked into the eyes of his enemies . . . the very people that wanted to thwart his plans . . . but filled with an expression of triumph. He looked directly at BA, who was obviously seething with anger. That's what made this victory that much more sweet . . . although, there was a tinge of sadness within his voice. "You know, I really did like your mother. Sure, I needed her to act as a cover for me. After all, no one would suspect sweet, harmless, old Mrs. Baracus."

Just hearing his mother's name was enough to bring a deep, threatening growl to the lips of the burly Sergeant. A fire burned deeply within his eyes, and he would have lunged for Spencer to tear him apart, but again he showed an incredible amount of restraint. Of course, with the gun from the guard pressed against his back, he had no other choice for the moment . . .

Spencer ignored the menacing look and the threatening growl from the Ordinance Officer and turned his back on the members of the A-Team. He started to walk around to behind his desk as he let out a bit of a sigh. "She really is a wonderful woman. A bit naïve, and an absolute joy to be around. If I weren't involved in this . . ." his voice trailed off, almost as if he couldn't bear to go in that direction. He turned back around and fixed his gaze on the Colonel. "It's a pity that I'm going to have to hurt her even more by killing her son and his friends."

"Ha!" Hannibal reacted immediately and sarcastically to the Director's threat. He removed the cigar from where it was wedged between his teeth, and lightly rolled it back and forth between his gloved fingers. His ice blue eyes took on a hardened tone as he transfixed his gaze onto the man, his eyes practically boring into him like a powerful drill cutting a hole into a piece of wood. The Commanding Officer's voice was firm and confident as he challenged, "You can't get away with it, and you know it. Our friend escaped, remember? And even if he hadn't, Mrs. Baracus knows where we went and why, and she'll alert the police immediately."

Spencer's eyes narrowed with the jab. He had been furious with his guards when they had showed up with only three members of the A-Team and had immediately ordered the search for Murdock to continue. But, there was something about what the silver-white haired man had said that stood out at him. He had the upper hand here, and he knew it . . . and it was time to call out the Colonel on his bluff. "I don't think so. I believe you were doing this on your own. You wouldn't have risked hurting Addie with your suspicions when you had no evidence at the time."

Hannibal hadn't expected Mrs. B's beau to call him on his bluff. The expression on his face was impassive, yet the silence . . . the lack of a witty retort . . . likely spoke volumes to their captor. No . . . he was going to remain observant and bide his time.

He knew that Spencer was right about one thing. Although BA had talked to his mother and let her know that they were going to look into their suspicions of him, they hadn't shared anything they had learned with her. So she had nothing to go on if she were to even go to the police. What was she going to say anyway without any kind of evidence? That her son and her friends, all military fugitives, went missing while trying to check on someone that they believed to be engaging in underhanded activity? Oh yeah, that would go over well. She'd get laughed right out the door of the cop shop. Yet, in spite of this his eyes glinted with a strange combination of anger and the Jazz that had been there ever since he had seen the blood covering his Lieutenant's face.

That telling silence was enough to make Spencer give out a hearty laugh. He had the A-Team right where he wanted them. Never would he have imagined his good fortune, or even the possibility that Addie's son was a member of the fugitive military unit. Fortunately for him, they were wanted dead or alive . . . and they were just too much of a risk to his plans being alive now that they likely knew what he was about to do.

"And, as for your friend . . . a Captain H. M. Murdock?" the Director started to say with a derisive sneer within the tone of his voice. A slight smirk appeared upon his lips, his voice showing just how confident he was. "He is an escaped mental patient. Even if he goes to the cops, who is going to take is word over mine?"

The Colonel looked over to his men, trying to gauge their reactions to what was being said. Face didn't react, but he could tell that BA was ready to explode. He then then returned his gaze to Spencer, into the face of the man who had proven to be a formidable adversary, knowing that he was telling the truth about the Texan. If their pilot tried going to the cops and they checked into his background while trying to investigate his claims, they'd immediately dismiss them as some kind of a fantasy created by the delusions and hallucinations attributed to his perceived medical condition.

Spencer reached to a handle of a drawer on the left side of his desk and slowly slid it open, revealing a .357 Magnum sitting inside. He wrapped his right hand around the gun and pulled it out, caressing the barrel gently. "You are wanted dead or alive, gentlemen. You broke into my Museum and started a firefight with my guards," he stated with malice in his tone. A flash of anger filled his face for a moment before he calmed down and looked steadily at them. "Unfortunately, for everyone involved, I will have to report that you were killed in the exchange of gunfire."

His right thumb reached behind the weapon and found the hammer. The cocking of the gun echoed ominously in the deathly silence . . .