Oh, he's nothing but the cheese in the trap. If the rat eats the cheese, what do we care? So long as the trap gets sprung.

- David Vaun, "Mind Games"

Chapter 27: House Of Cards

The warning from the Lieutenant drew the attention of Colonel Smith. He glanced over by where Face was and noted that he was closer to the assassin, but not quite close enough. There was no way that he'd be able to push his way through the rest of the crowd in time, not with how it was clear that Kramer was preparing to take the shot. He had only seconds to react and come up with some way to stop a terrible tragedy from unfolding in front of over a thousand innocent bystanders . . .

Moving swiftly, turned and grabbed onto the bar on the side of the Zamboni while stepping onto the conditioner. He pulled himself up and climbed into the seat of the resurfacer. He then reached forward and grabbed the key that was in the ignition and turned it. The engine roared to life with a melodic purr that would make BA Baracus jealous.

The cunning strategist knew that starting up the ice making vehicle by itself would not illicit a response or cause the ceremony to stop. In fact, he was scheduled to pull the Zamboni out during the ceremony and raise the dump tank just for show . . . but that wasn't supposed to be until later on when Spencer would talk about the Museum's contribution to the ice rink. A huge smile spread across his face as he knew exactly how he was going to interrupt this ceremony and stop the assassination . . .

"Now!" he shouted into the hidden microphone. It was time to spring the trap.

Reaching onto the panel in front of him, he pressed a rubber button several times, which caused the horn on the Zamboni to honk. The reaction was instant as he saw the Mayor and others waiting for their turn to speak turn to look at him. He could even make out one of them asking "What on Earth?" It was obvious that they didn't expect this interruption.

Hannibal quickly glanced over to where Kramer was and noticed that he had pulled his head away from the targeting scope with a confused look on his face. Like everyone else, it was clear that he hadn't expected this turn of events since it wasn't in the schedule he had been given. The assassin swiftly recovered and put his left eye up to the end of the targeting scope again . . .

As the military strategist continued to survey the scene, it quickly became clear that the camera wasn't pointed at the Mayor this time. With all of the confusion, others that were near the podium and waiting for their turn had congregated around Harold Washington, mainly to try and ascertain what was going on. Blowing the horn on the Zamboni helped to avert that assassination for the moment, but there was someone else that was in immediate danger. Kramer had pointed the camera at the Mayor's blonde assistant.

It was a strategic move, which the Colonel himself inwardly appreciated. If you couldn't get the target with the first attempt, then go for something or someone else that would make the crowd stop and provide a second chance. It was simple, but often very effective.

Even though he could see that Face had managed to make his way through the crowd and was right behind Kramer, there was still a chance that the assassination could be carried out. Gritting his teeth with fierce determination to prevent a tragedy from taking place today, Hannibal moved one of the two levers forward next to his right leg, boosting the RPMs on the machine. He then quickly reached for the other one and ease that one forward, pulling the Zamboni out onto the ice . . .

It had taken a great deal of effort, but just as the horn on the Zamboni started to blow, Templeton Peck managed to get through the crowd and took up a position almost directly behind Kramer. The Colonel likely noticed that he wasn't close enough to do anything and was trying to buy time.

And buying time was exactly what he did . . .

The Lieutenant noticed how Kramer had pulled away from the concealed weapon for a moment, almost as if totally confused as to what was going on. He had to keep from grinning and making an outward comment about how this probably wasn't on the schedule.

He also noticed how Murdock had quickly jumped off the stage where he and BA had been positioned and was running . . . or rather sliding . . . across the ice in his direction. It wasn't like someone playing baseball and sliding into home plate. This was more like trying to run across the ice without ice skates on. How in the world his best friend was able to do that and not end up on his rear end was beyond him. Due green Santa's elf costume that he had been wearing, the Texan quickly drew the attention from the crowd which was cheering and laughing. Based on their reactions, they likely thought that what was taking place was a part of the program . . .

With the crowd sticking around like they were, rather than seeking safety, it was going to make this a lot more difficult . . . not to mention a lot more essential that they stop the assassin before he could get a shot off. If he fired the weapons, there was a strong chance that someone could get hurt or killed.

The con man couldn't afford to wait for Murdock to back him up. With how Kramer was repositioning himself a second time to take a shot, he had to act and he had to act now. He tapped the assassin on the shoulder to grab his attention. As he turned around, Face gave a smile that could charm the skin off a snake and said, "Hi there." A second later, his right fist lashed out like a cobra, connecting solidly with the left side of his opponent's jaw.

What was this guy's jaw made out of? Solid rock? Although he had managed to get Kramer to stumble backwards off balance and drop the weapon when he hit him, it hurt a lot harder than he thought it would have. It wasn't like he hadn't landed punches before on an opponent, but he hadn't expected it to really hurt this much. His jaw dropped due to the pain and he shook his right hand to try and get rid of the sting.

That distraction was enough to give the assassin time to recover. He shook his head to clear it following the unexpected punch, and then rolled over on the ground. Within a matter of seconds, he was back on his feet again, his eyes glinting with anger as he spotted the man who had spoiled his mission. Kramer knew that if he could fight off his attacker, perhaps he could have just enough time to try again to take a shot at the Mayor before he was totally ushered to safety. With a snarl of rage, he charged head first into Face's midsection.

As the assassin slammed into him, the con artist felt the air in his lungs leave him with a rush. Taken by surprise at the choice of tactics, both he and Kramer fell to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs as they grappled for control. He could see the mousey-haired hit man try to reach for the camera, which carried the concealed weapon that was lying on the ground just a few feet away.

What made matters worse was the fact that those around them had no clue what was going on or how dangerous the situation was. They were enjoying the fight between the two combatants, and circled around them to form a ring around them as they cheered both of them on. Unfortunately, the mass of people was making it difficult for Murdock to make his way through to where his friend battled the assassin so he could assist him.

Face drew in a gasp of air and managed to get in another solid punch on Kramer . . . one that allowed him to pull himself free and scramble back to his feet. What surprised him was the speed by which the assassin was able to recover and also get back to his feet again. He watched as the hired gun tried again to lunge for the concealed weapon. If he managed to recover it, he could quickly get a shot off before anyone could stop him.

Acting quickly, the Lieutenant dived for the assassin again. He managed to grab onto his legs as they both tumbled to the ground once more. The weapon thankfully was just out of reach, although just barely. This time, Kramer managed to wriggle out of Face's grasp and threw a solid punch that slammed against the left side of the con man's head.

Templeton Peck cried out in immense pain. The assassin had managed to strike gold, so to speak, his hit connecting with the exact spot where the Supply Officer's head wound was located. He had endured a tremendous amount of agony due to the torture in the POW camps, and this came really close to that level of pain. A combination of black specks and stars filled his vision, dancing in front of his eyes similar to how the wind-blown snowflakes had fallen from the sky the past few days in Chicago. He shook his head to try and clear it from the effects from where he had been hit and regain his focus.

Ignoring the writhing blonde-haired man, Kramer got back to his feet and quickly made his way toward the camera. He glanced over to the stage, and saw several people huddling around Mayor Washington, but he hadn't been escorted yet from the area. Good. That meant that they believed that this was an isolated fight and there wasn't an immediate danger to the Mayor's life. If he could get to one of the other locations that he recalled from the map, he would likely get another chance to make the shot. He wasn't willing to abort the mission yet and have to pay back the cash he had already been given.

He bent down and grabbed the concealed weapon, his mind racing with the various ways that he could try to escape through the milling crowd and take up position in one of the other spots. When he stood up, he came face to face with a tall, lanky, ridiculous looking elf who bore a threatening look of fury on his face. His mind raced for a moment as their eyes locked, trying to recall where he had seen the green clad man before he recalled that he had been on the platform standing next to Santa a few moments ago.

"I don't think so, Kramer," the elf spat with a Texan drawl. Murdock glanced briefly past the assassin where his best friend had managed to pull himself into a kneeling position, and held his head in the same spot where he had been shot in the Museum. He knew it wasn't his fault that Face had been hurt, especially with how hard it was to try and weave through the crowd, but if he had somehow managed to have gotten there a few moments earlier . . .

Inwardly, Kramer grinned. The guy in the elf costume was distracted by the sight of the guy who he had just fought with. Perfect! It was just what he'd need in order to be able to get away until things calmed down and the ceremony resumed.

Murdock noticed Kramer's attempt to dart past him and knew that he had one chance to stop him. He reached out and grabbed a hold of the one thing that the assassin was carrying that he could reach . . . the concealed weapon. His hands wrapped around the lens, which hid the barrel of the weapon, as they began to struggle over it. The Texan pulled himself closer to the hit man, just to be safe. The last thing he needed was for the weapon to be aimed at him during the struggle and for the trigger to be pulled.

Kramer let out an angry curse as they wrestled over the weapon. The guy in the elf costume sure was stubborn and he needed to get the camera case away from him. Unfortunately, he was holding on tight and refused to let go. As they continued tussle, the assassin knew that there was going to be only one way to shake the guy. He got a better grip on the camera and brought a hand around to the trigger . . .

Without warning, a blinding flash of light suddenly erupted from the lens of the camera, ripping over the heads of the crowd to slam into one of the scraggly trees. It exploded into flames! Realizing that there was a weapon, the crowd around them was sent into a panic with people screaming. Many started to run from the scene, and others pushed their way through the massive sea of people to try and escape with their lives.

The force of the weapon was immense, and although Murdock had a grip on the weapon, it wasn't strong enough. He was flung backward due to the force of the discharge, although thankfully he hadn't been blasted off his feet. Even though he was the A-Team's pilot, he had shot his fair share of weapons and had experienced the recoil from doing so, but this . . . this was beyond anything that he had felt before, which attested to just how powerful of a weapon it was. It was enough to momentarily disorient the lanky Texan.

Murdock shook his head to try and clear it and regain his bearings. His brown eyes quickly scanned the crowd as he looked around him, trying to locate where the assassin had fled to in that moment of recovery. His wry form turned around, as he tried to protect himself from the fleeing crowd. After a moment, his warm brown eyes briefly spotted Kramer running through the crowd. He was about to let out a yell when he saw a slender form with blonde hair jump out of nowhere, tackling the assassin once more and throwing him to the ground.

The pilot recognized the man instantly. It was Face! He must have recovered while the Captain had been struggling with Kramer.

This time, the Lieutenant was fully prepared for the underhanded tactics and wasn't about to let the assassin get the advantage. He turned Kramer onto his back and straddled him in order to pin him and prevent his escape. The con artist slammed his fist again and again into the hired killer almost relentlessly, panting due to the exertion. The beating he was unleashing wasn't intended to kill him or seek revenge for being hit on where he had been wounded, but instead was intended to knock the mousy-haired man senseless.

After a moment, he felt a gentle hand upon his right shoulder. As he spun around to look at the source, his mind raced and wondered if Kramer had an associate that the others didn't know about. He let out a sigh of relief as he saw the grinning visage of his best friend, who was still dressed in that ridiculous elf costume.

In a way, the A-Team pilot was relieved that Face was okay . . . relatively. There was some fresh blood that stained the left side of his face. Not a lot, but enough to be noticeable and made it clear that it came from the wound where he had been shot during the Museum break in. He noticed the weak smile from the con artist, and then also took note of the unconscious assassin.

"Whaddya say we drag this sleazeball over to the main party and see what Hannibal and BA are up to?" Face suggested, knowing what Hannibal had in mind with how to gift wrap Kramer and Spencer up for the authorities. The two of them would be a nice present underneath the police department's tree.

"Sure thing, Faceman," Murdock responded jovially, his eyes twinkling with glee. He reached down to help the Supply Officer back to his feet and then noted, "I've got the legs."

The moment his house of cards started to collapse, Spencer's dark ebony skin started to pale. He watched the chaos as it unfolded around him. Everything was going wrong, but why? What happened with Kramer and how could he miss shooting the Mayor that badly? And why did the Zamboni driver pull onto the ice when he did? The A-Team was supposed to be rotting away behind bars, so who were these guys?

Before he even realized it, Mrs. Baracas had pulled free from his grasp and ran to the others that were still standing on the red carpet near the podium, including Mayor Harold Washington. "Come on," he heard her call to the group before trying to usher them back towards the hockey boards. If she managed to get them by the boards, they could take cover behind it . . .

"Addie!" Spencer yelled, trying to get her to stop. He took a step in her direction to try and grab his pawn, but stopped short when he spotted a cop running towards the group. Obviously, they were intent on protecting the Mayor, which meant that the opportunity was lost . . . especially with the crowd in a panic after the weapon had been fired.

He knew that Kramer was skilled, hence why he even hired him in the first place, but if he failed to elude capture . . . Spencer didn't even want to think about that, since if that happened the whole thing could be pinned to him. He couldn't go after Addie and use her as a human shield. That'd really cause the cops to descend on him in a hot second. No . . . for now it was best for a strategic retreat. If he could get away, then maybe he could still find a way to salvage this business deal with Scarlotti, among others. Still, he inwardly cursed Kramer for missing his shot and messing up this deal since now it'd make things much more difficult.

Due to the way the crowds were fleeing in a panic, there was only one direction left for him to go without being crushed in the stampede . . . toward the platform where Santa had been sitting. Hopefully, that would put him on the path to freedom. Gingerly, he stepped off the red carpet by the presentation stage and onto the ice. His progress was slow as he moved across the smooth surface in his polished black dress shoes, trying to make sure that he didn't slip and land on his backside, but soon he began to approach the hockey boards where the platform was located.

As he drew close he stopped short, taken by surprise by an unexpected sight. The Santa that had been sitting on the platform had leapt off of the chair with an incredible amount of grace and agility, climbed over the hockey boards and onto the ice. Not just that, but the large Santa, who looked like he could have been a linebacker for the Chicago Bears, stepped right into and blocked his path of escape.

A moment later, he saw the Santa pull off his red hat and fake white beard, revealing a Mandika and a deep scowl that belonged to only one person. The enraged look on the larger man's eyes clearly meant trouble for anyone dumb enough to try and cross his path . . . much less get past him. Both of their brown eyes seemed to stare each other down for what seemed like an eternity, with neither of them giving an inch. It was Spencer who broke the tense silence between the two of them in a breathy voice, one that showed how much he was struggling to retain control, as he stated, "BA . . . I thought you were in jail."

"That's where you gonna be when we're done with you, sucka," the burly Sergeant threatened firmly. He didn't show any signs of flinching under the Director's withering stare, nor any signs of backing down either. It was clear that he was a man on a mission . . . a mission to stop the guy before him from not only committing any more crimes, but also to keep him from hurting his mother.

"We'll just see about that," Spencer shot back viciously. He was a fairly large man himself, and took pride in working out. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to match the brute strength of Adele's son, but he hopefully could come close plus he had a few tricks of his own. He widened his stance to enhance his balance on the slippery surface beneath his feet, and leaned forward slightly to try and create a lower center of gravity so it'd be much harder to knock him off his feet.

The Ordinance Officer took a similar stance, his eyes not once leaving that of Spencer's. It was clear that he was waiting for the older man to make the first move. His muscles bulged underneath the Santa suit and he let out a threatening growl. They circled each other for a moment, as if trying to size the opponent up the way two wrestlers squared off in the ring at the start of a match.

Sure enough, BA's patience paid off. The Director of Museum Exhibits and Security made the first move as he reared back and then lashed out with a fist toward Adele's son. Moving with a speed that he didn't seem capable of, the Sergeant easily dodged the blow, countering with a powerful swing with his left fist. His aim was perfect as he connected with Spencer's mid-section. "That's for hurtin' Face," the gruff Ordinance Officer announced.

"Oooof!" The older man with slightly greying black hair had the wind knocked out of him by the force of the blow. He had been in fist fights when he was growing up in school, but he had never felt such incredible strength directed at him like that. He instinctively wrapped his arms around his abdomen in a feeble attempt to ease the pain from where he had been hit. As he did so, he looked up at the ominous figure that seemed to tower over him.

What was the old saying . . . that lightning doesn't strike the same place twice? Well, apparently the person who coined the phrase didn't have the muscular might of BA Baracus in mind. The master mechanic didn't give Spencer time to react. His face scrunched up in a snarl as he declared with tremendous force, "And this is for my Mama. NO ONE messes with or hurts my Mama."

Those words were barely out of the muscular Sergeant's mouth when he grabbed the Director by his belt and lapels. In an incredible display of brute strength, he lifted him up over his head and then tossed him over the hockey boards into Santa's chair, almost as if he had been throwing around a rag doll.

"BA!"

At the sound of Face's voice calling his name from behind him, he turned around and spotted the con artist and Murdock trying drag Kramer across the ice. The two A-Team members had each grabbed onto an arm and were pulling him along, making no attempt to keep the unfortunate man's backside from being pulled across the cold surface. The assassin's head listed slightly to the side, the first indication that he was starting to stir.

"Got this one for the chair, big guy," Murdock chimed in with a contagious grin, which shone through in spite of the strain he and Face were using to drag Kramer.

The Sergeant didn't hesitate at all. He grabbed the groaning assassin and tossed him on top of Spencer. The way he did so made the slender hit man look like a feather since there was barely a grunt that emanated from the Ordinance Officer. Once that task was done, he looked around and spotted his Mama, who was still trying to get some of the officials at the ceremony to safety. A slight grin of satisfaction crossed his face, which seemed to match that of his teammates.

Their moment to relish the apparent victory was short lived, however, as the unmistakable wail of approaching sirens filled the air. BA immediately looked at Murdock and Face, who seemed dismay by the potential arrival of the authorities.

His dark eyes then sought out and found the Colonel, who was still on the Zamboni . . . but he wasn't sitting. No, instead he was standing and looking west along Washington Boulevard. One of his trademark thousand gigawatt smiles filled his face which meant that he was reveling in a serious case of the Jazz at this turn of events. A sinking sensation developed in the pit of his stomach as Sergeant Bosco Andre Baracus instantly knew that could only mean one thing.

Decker . . .