You're under arrest! You're under arrest! You guys are all goin' to jail!

Thank you.

- Warden and Hannibal, "Pros and Cons"

Chapter 20: Arrested Development

None of the A-Team members reacted to the sound of the gun in Spencer's hand being cocked. They all looked straight ahead, almost as if they had been lined up to face a firing squad and were about to face it with honor, dignity, and pride. Hannibal wedged his cigar back between his teeth and narrowed his ice blue eyes slightly at their captor. Spencer had called his bluff earlier, but the Colonel was still counting on a couple of things that could still save them from an early grave.

Almost as if right on cue, there was a knock on the door that separated the office they were in now from Mrs. B's office. The Director of Exhibits and Events wasn't expecting to have his moment of triumph . . . his moment of satisfaction interrupted. He clearly looked annoyed as he hissed, "Come in."

Slowly, the door to the office creaked open, the sound filling the air in such a way to where it was like fingernails on a chalkboard. A young guard, who looked barely old enough to shave, with blonde hair could be seen peering inside. He could tell that he was interrupting something important and looked so nervous that he was likely going to run out and hurl. "S-s-sir?" he started to say, his jitters extremely apparent with how he was stuttering.

Spencer Jackson glared fiercely at the guard, a rage burning within his eyes due to the interruption. "What is it?" he snarled, wanting to get the info out of the man so he could return to the task at hand.

"Uh . . . s-s-sir . . . the police are here," the young guard mentioned, still sounding very nervous. "I told Jamison to tell them we had captured the intruders, then I came up here to tell you. They should be coming up here to arrest them any moment now."

Upon hearing that statement, Hannibal let out a hearty laugh around his cigar. He was counting on that happening, actually. The cunning strategist figured that the rent-a-cops that were hired as security guards for the Museum likely didn't have much in the way of brain cells and would screw up somehow. And their mistake was definitely in the favor of the A-Team. There was no way that Spencer could kill them now without the police knowing it was murder. His blue eyes danced merrily as he observed the infuriated Director, who looked like a volcano that was about to explode . . .

"You idiot!" Spencer snapped back in an angry snarl. He was beyond livid, and it showed in the menacing look within his eyes. His own guards had just robbed him of his greatest moment of satisfaction. "Why didn't you just tell them it was a false alarm and let me deal with this as I choose?"

The young guard really had no idea how to respond to that. He opened and closed his mouth in surprise, which made him look like a fish out of water. He obviously hadn't thought of that, and did what he believed that all good security guards would have done.

Hannibal glanced over to his men and couldn't help but to grin around his cigar. He loved watching a mark squirm, especially when they thought the upper hand and it had just been ripped out from under them like a cheap throw away rug. Due to the mistake from the guards, they'd likely get carted off to jail, but he was certain that wasn't going to hold them for very long . . . especially not if Murdock came through for them like he had planned.

After a long moment Spencer held up his left hand, which had not been holding the gun, almost as if trying to stop the guard from making any more pathetic attempts to apologize or offer excuses. "Never mind. It doesn't matter anyway," he started to say, his voice regaining his composure that he had prior to the interruption. His dark eyes still flared with anger as he watched the young guard quickly make his way back out of the office.

"Some security you have there, pal," Hannibal couldn't help to remark. He relished being able to throw verbal barbs at an enemy, especially when they realized that they or their men screwed in some way. Sure, it'd likely frustrate Spencer to no end, but when someone like him could be pushed over the limit and react in such a way, it could cause him to make even more sloppy mistakes that could play into the A-Team's favor.

The Director of Exhibits and Security returned his attention to the A-Team, particularly the Colonel after he had made the comment he did. A sneer appeared upon his face as he regarded the Commanding Officer of the crack military unit that stood before him. Even though they had skillfully eluded his guards for a while, truthfully he had expected more of a fight from these men once he had learned who he was having to deal with.

"You and your friends are going straight to prison. No matter what you think you learned here tonight, nobody will believe a word you tell them . . . and if they do think to question me, they will never find anything to prove your claims," Spencer commented, his gruff, deep voice filled with malice. His dark eyes bore into the crystal blue eyes of Hannibal's, almost as if trying to look into his very soul and try to read the man from the inside out. After a moment, he broke the gaze as he turned his attention to the guards behind each of the men. In an authoritative tone, he ordered, "Search them. I want those blueprints they took, and anything else they may have found."

Face's expression revealed nothing after he heard Spencer deliver that order to his guards. He knew that he had to act quickly before the guards could get a chance to rummage through his pockets and take the one thing that contained most of the evidence. He gave a moan and slumped to the ground, using his right hand to catch himself. He dropped the left hand with the handkerchief to where it almost seemed like he was going to use that hand as well to brace himself, but instead discretely reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat.

Both Hannibal and BA instinctively wanted to move and help their fallen team member, but the guards that covered them pressed their guns into their backs a bit harder as a firm reminder . . . a warning that if they were to try it, they'd be on the receiving end of a bullet. Instead, they could only watch as the one guard who had been covering Face grabbed onto him and forcefully lifted the Lieutenant back to his feet.

"Hey, take it easy," Face weakly protested, still clutching the bandana in his left hand. He let out a groan of discomfort with how he was forcefully lifted back to his feet, and then stood as the guard started searching through the pockets of his suit coat and his parka, relieving him of the poster and papers he had grabbed from Spencer's office earlier, as well as his lockpicks and safe cracking equipment. As he lifted the red handkerchief back up to press it against his head wound, he shot Hannibal and BA a very small, discrete smile to not only reassure them that he was alright, but also as an indication that he may have pulled off the a perfect shell game.

With the con artist back on his feet again, the other guards started to search through the pockets of BA and Hannibal. They relieved the Colonel of the blueprints and map he had gotten from the basement, as well as his cigars and a lighter. One of the guards had tried to touch the massive mound of gold that hung from the muscular Sergeant's neck, but a menacing scowl and a frightening growl had quickly convinced the guard that he wasn't hiding anything in or under that mass of gold.

Spencer looked at what had been stripped from the various members of the A-Team as he wondered just how much they managed to figure out. Truthfully, there wasn't a lot here for them to go on, yet when everything was combined and once the news hit the streets tomorrow after what was about to take place, it would be extremely incriminating. He gathered up all of the papers and walked over to the corner of the room, a look of triumph again filling his face. He removed the picture from the wall and then quickly opened the safe. He then slid the papers inside, closed the safe, and returned the painting to where it had sat before.

He walked back over to the desk and looked at the remaining items that rested upon the surface . . . the slender black case with the zipper that belonged to Templeton Peck, and four finely rolled Cuban cigars and a plain silver lighter. "I think we'll turn this black case over to the police . . . but these . . . I think I'll just hang onto these to savor my victory over the infamous A-Team," Spencer noted smugly as he picked up one of Hannibal's cigars and the lighter. He wedged the cigar between his teeth and flicked the lighter open to where a flame appeared at the end of it. He allowed it to lick at the end of the stogie until he was able to pull a drag on it. The expression on his face indicated that he was mildly impressed by the richness of the flavor of the cigar before he blew out a puff of smoke at the three intruders to his Museum.

He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and held it in his right hand as a knowing smirk filled his face. "I don't know how much you have figured out, but it doesn't really matter now, does it? You are wanted men, and the cops won't believe you. They'll think that you're trying to feed them a story to try and worm your way to freedom, and there is nothing you can do to stop me now. If necessary, I can be out of the country before sundown tomorrow. And you, my friends, won't be seeing the light of day for another thirty years," he told all of them, the tone of his voice filled with confidence knowing that he had won.

No sooner had he said that, the sound of voices could be heard from Mrs. Baracus' office and he could see the shadow of a figure wearing a military-style dress uniform hat standing outside the door. A knock upon the wooden door echoed loudly, announcing the arrival of the Chicago police department . . .

The tiny needles of the green bushes poked at his exposed flesh, but the wry figure of H. M. Murdock ignored it. He had chosen this location to lay in waiting, after making his way down off the sub, in order to keep an eye on the front door to the Museum and wait for his chance to try and rescue the other members of the unit. Unfortunately, it seemed almost as if everything was working against him . . .

No sooner had he emerged from the sub, the weather started to turn for the worst again. What was that saying about this very thing that Chicagoans had . . . if you don't like the weather, go inside and wait 15 minutes? Well, right now he certainly didn't believe it. The dark, night sky was heavy with clouds, and the snow started to fall again at an increasing rate. The wind whipped up once more with the force of a blizzard, lashing at anything in its path. He was starting to feel numb from the bitter cold and how wet his clothes had gotten by laying in the snow for cover. Even his toes throbbed, and he knew that there was a real risk of getting frostbite. And the night seemed to be promising to only get worse . . .

But, what also concerned him was the flashing blue mars lights that cast the nearby snow with an eerie glow. Those lights sat on top of several white Ford Crown Victorias, each of which bore a light blue stripe along the length of the car, and four orange stars. Thanks to the TV shows he had watched while at the VA like Hill Street Blues, he immediately recognized the vehicles as belonging to the Chicago police department. From his hiding spot, he had watched as the cops pulled up several minutes ago, and several officers emerged from their vehicles and headed inside the Museum. If the boys in blue were here, that could only mean one thing . . .

They were likely responding to the alarm and were here to arrest the guys. The way he figured it, though, maybe it was a good thing. With the evidence that they had managed to find, how they interrupted the secret basement meeting with the assassin, as well as how long they had eluded the security guards inside the Museum, Spencer was likely enraged enough to want to kill the guys. The arrival of the CPD was hopefully just the thing to prevent them from being removed in body bags.

Murdock continued to lay in the snow, ignoring how much colder he was feeling, as his brown eyes remained focused on the large copper doors. After a few minutes after the police had disappeared into the building, they emerged with the members of the A-Team. He could immediately tell that Hannibal and BA had their hands cuffed behind their backs. Face was the only one who wasn't wearing handcuffs, as he was pressing the red bandana against his head.

As he continued to look at his best friend, that's when he noticed the blood on the con man's pail face. It was obvious that the Lieutenant had been hurt . . . but when? He was fine when they entered the sub, so could it have happened when he was trying to hold off the guards? Or did Spencer cause this? Either way, he felt a flash of worry as he watched, although he was overwhelmed with relief that they were all still alive.

After he had managed to get down from that sub, the pilot had searched for another way to get back in and help his friends. Sure, Hannibal ordered him to retreat with that hand signal, but he also knew that he wouldn't abandon them and leave them behind. Unfortunately, when he wasn't able to get back into the Museum, he began to panic as his fertile imagination supplied ever more gruesome scenes of what might have been going on inside.

As much as he wanted to pull off a daring rescue now, he knew that he couldn't . . . not without being put into cuffs himself. If he was arrested, then there'd be no way that any of them would be able to escape. No . . . he was going to have to find a way to get them out of the police station . . . but, with a city as large as Chicago there were likely several stations spread all throughout the area, so it became more of a question of where they'd be taken to than anything else. There was only one problem, though . . .

He didn't know Chicago.

BA grew up here, and Hannibal visited here as a kid, so they were much more familiar with the city than he was. He might be able to figure out how to get to Mrs. B's place from here, but that was about it. He was already coming up with an idea that he could use to help free the guys, but in order to pull it off he was definitely going to need help and provisions . . .

The Captain watched as the police led Hannibal, BA, and Face down the steps of the Museum. They were all looking around and he knew that they had spotted the black Suburban that Face had managed to rent. They likely figured that after the Colonel ordered him to retreat, he would have found a way to hotwire the vehicle so he could get out of there without being caught.

That's when it happened . . . he noticed Face looking straight at him! Somehow, the sharp blue eyes of the Lieutenant spotted him, nestled in the bushes and snow as he lay in wait. But if his best friend had spotted him so easily, were the police going to also spot him? Thankfully, the police wasn't as observant as he was and seemed to be focused just on getting the members of the A-Team to their patrol cars, otherwise they likely would have gone after him as well.

As he continued to look on, he thought he saw a strange smile on the con man's face. Was he trying to tell him something? A split second later, the Lieutenant stumbled and dropped to his knees, causing the swarm of cops to pause. BA and Hannibal looked to Face, unable to help him due to the handcuffs, but the cop that was nearby quickly helped him back to his feet.

The Texan watched as they reached the police cars, and his friends were ushered into the back of one of the cruisers. Spencer must have taken Face's lockpicks, otherwise they would have been out of the cuffs by now and trying to fight for their freedom. He remained pressed into the snow, in his hiding spot, as he watched the police cars pull away with their sirens wailing into the night and the blue mars lights serving almost like a beacon in the darkness.

He waited for a bit until after the cars had left and he watched the Museum security guards tromp back inside the relative warmth of the Museum. His brown eyes surveyed the scene, and assured that the coast was clear, he pushed himself up out of the snow and raced over to where Face had stumbled. That grin that had appeared on his best friend's face was a sign . . . he was telling him something, and he knew that he needed to check out that very spot.

As he approached, he saw what looked like a piece of red fabric sticking out from the snow. He stumbled over as best as his numb legs would allow him to and soon recognized the fabric as BA's red bandana, which was stained with blood from the Lieutenant's wound. Why hadn't the police picked this up after Face had dropped it? Didn't they even see it, or were they just so focused on getting them inside the back of the cop car that they didn't even want to bother investigating what seemed like a harmless handkerchief?

Reaching into the snow with a gloved hand, he grabbed the bandana and dashed back to the safety of the bushes along the side of the building. He wasn't about to stay out in the open any longer than he had to, just in case the guards decided to do a sweep to see if they could find him. Since Spencer had already met all of them at Mrs. B's apartment, he knew that there were four of them. Since he had only captured three, he'd be a fool if he didn't keep up the search for the elusive pilot.

Sheltered in the hiding spot he had previously, he noted that the bandana was a bit heavier than it should have been for a simple piece of fabric. He unwrapped it within his gloved hands, his eyes widening a bit as he saw what had been contained within it . . .

It was the miniature camera that Face carried around in case it was needed to take pictures of documents whenever he had to gather evidence, and he likely wouldn't be allowed to walk out with the papers themselves. In fact, he remembered the con artist taking pictures of the site map and the blueprints while they were in the silent movie theater inside the Museum.

That's when it dawned on him . . . Face must have pulled a wounded raccoon trick in order to hide the camera in the bandana and prevent it from being taken.

"Bingo," he whispered with a bit of a smile. Although Spencer may have taken back the rest of the papers that Face and Hannibal had lifted, the pictures on the camera in his hands would be more than enough to put him behind bars for a very, very long time.

There was only one problem. He knew he couldn't go to the police . . . especially not if Spencer had given them his description. They'd arrest him on sight for breaking in and entering, along with theft. Even if they didn't, once they realized that he lived in the mental ward of a VA, they'd discount anything he'd have to say in an instant. No, he needed another way before the MPs showed up . . .

An idea was already starting to formulate in his mind in terms of how he could free the guys, but he was going to need help on this one and a few things to help him pull this off. Taking a final look around him, he dashed out from his hiding spot into the growing blizzard, thankful that he had been observant enough to remember how to get to Mrs. B's place from here. It was going to take him a bit to get there anyway with the weather like it was, although thankfully she didn't live too far away. He hated having to get her involved in this, but she knew Chicago and he didn't. He was going to need her help if he had any chance of freeing the rest of the A-Team, and he had to do it tonight.