Freeze, Smith!

I'm sorry, our store Santa Claus has gone home for the day. You'll have to come back if you want to tell him what you want for Christmas.

My Christmas present is you, Smith.

You have expensive taste.

- Colonel Decker and Hannibal, "The Battle of Bel Air"

Chapter 28: Cold Shoulder

Over the roar of the Volvo engine on the massive ice making machine, Colonel John Hannibal Smith had heard the approaching siren. He stood up from the seat and looked around to try and spot the source. That's when his ice blue eyes spotted five green sedans approaching the area, each with a mars light bar mounted on the roof. They were closely followed by at least six white sedans, also with mars lights on the roof.

So, the Chicago Police was joining forces with the Military Police . . .

A huge smile appeared upon his face at the possibilities. Spencer and Kramer were boxed up, but now they just had to finish wrapping them up and put a nice little bow on them for the authorities . . . the A-Team's version of a Christmas present. And with Decker practically breathing down their necks worse than a Chicago wind chill . . . well, that was just going to make this that much more fun!

First thing was first, though. He had to secure their escape plan and also make sure that their secret weapon remained a secret. "Time to scramble, Murdock!" the strategist barked into his concealed microphone as he sat back down on the driver's seat of the Zamboni. Even from this height, it was still enough to give him an unobstructed view of what was taking place around the rink. "Our favorite Grinch is coming. Go get the Suburban and be ready to pull in low and fast to pick us up."

"You've got it, Colonel," the pilot responded with his familiar and melodic Texan drawl. Murdock started to run across the ice . . . well, it wasn't running, but more skidding and slighting while remaining upright . . . toward the hockey boards on the other side of the rink. Instead of climbing out through the door in the boards, he actually picked up an object and started heading back to the platform!

As he drew near, the tall, lanky man called out, "Catch, big guy!" He then tossed the object toward the Sergeant . . . and it wasn't any ordinary object, but actually the ENG video camera that Kramer had used to conceal the weapon. BA deftly caught it the same way Dennis McKinnon, the punt return kicker of the Chicago Bears, would catch a punted football.

Once the Ordinance Officer had a firm grasp on the camera, Murdock turned around and again started running . . . well . . . sliding upright across the ice. As he did so, he snapped off a crisp salute to the Colonel before vaulting over the hockey boards on the other end of the rink with incredible grace and agility, and then pushing his way through the crowd to where the Suburban was parked.

In a way, the crafty leader of the A-Team couldn't help but to chuckle slightly as he returned the Captain's salute. As he watched the pilot, he had to admit that he was impressed by how well Murdock was able to blend into the crowd as he darted away, despite that costume he was wearing. Even though he was confident that their insane comrade would be able to pull through, as he always did, the strategist knew how crazy Chicago traffic could be. The Captain would be tied up for a while, which meant that there was little chance that Decker would be able to spot him and peg him as still continuing to work with the A-Team, jeopardizing his ability to stay at the VA, before this whole mess could be wrapped up.

As he drove past the stage on the ice, where the Mayor had given his speech until he was interrupted by the commotion, Colonel Smith pulled off the wig, sunglasses, hat, and fake mustache, revealing his silver-white hair and sparkling ice blue eyes. He tossed those elements of his disguise onto the red carpet as a huge grin filled his face. Although his gut instinct was yelling at him to have his men follow Murdock to the Suburban for a strategic withdrawl, he couldn't resist the temptation or the poetic justice of what he had in mind.

"Okay, guys, let's gift wrap these two before the party poopers spoil our fun," he announced into his microphone for his other two men. He eased the Zamboni around to a stop right in front of the platform where BA and Murdock had been stationed earlier, and then pushed one of the controls forward, opening the dump tank. The back of the dump tank lifted up on an angle, as the hood opened in a way that would remind someone of the famed shark Jaws and how it opened its mouth before devouring the victims. Had there been any snow and ice inside, it would have slid out right away when the tank opened, but it was bone dry . . . for now.

BA and Face moved around to Santa's chair, looking at the two the Sergeant had hefted onto there a few moments ago. Spencer was still out cold, sprawled out over the red velvet and ornate gold chair. He didn't look like he was going anywhere soon without a rude awakening. Kramer, however, had managed to stagger back to his feet although it was clear that he was still groggy.

Templeton Peck immediately noticed the assassin getting to his feet. With an almost arrogant stride, he walked over to Kramer and delivered a strong uppercut, which connected squarely with the hit man's jaw. The force of the blow caused the mousey-haired man to stumble backwards and land on top of Spencer once more.

The Lieutenant wiped his hands off on his parka, almost as if trying to brush any dirt off that he may have gotten onto himself after hitting Kramer once more. Once he had done that, he reached into the right pocket of the assassin's parka and removed the crumpled piece of paper from it . . . the same paper that he had seen him read before he was about to fire the concealed weapon.

The con artist then pulled out a small black box from the right pocket of his parka. His slender fingers of his left hand grasped and extended a tiny antenna from the device and his blue eyes were cast upon the red button that glowed on one of the sides. He reached for the button with his left index finger, but hesitated as his gaze came to rest upon Sergeant Baracus. Instead of pushing it, he held out the small electronic trigger to the master mechanic as he mentioned, "Here BA, I think you deserve the honor."

"Thanks," the muscular mechanic responded, his eyes locking with Face's in a moment of understanding. All of this was a result of wanting to protect his Mama. If anyone deserved the satisfaction of activating the device and making sure that Spencer and his crony were going to be put away for a very long time, it was him. He accepted the little black remote, and a shy grin appeared upon his face as he jammed his left index finger into the button.

The antique-looking gold and red Santa chair suddenly lurched forward through a combination of hydraulics and the release of tension on some well-hidden springs. Both occupants of the chair were catapulted through the air, directly into the mouth of the beast itself . . . into the open dump tank of the waiting Zamboni.

As soon as he heard two loud thumps from the front of the Z, Hannibal's hand quickly reached over and pulled one lever backward. Like the jagged teeth of a great white shark closing around the flesh of its prey, the gigantic white dump tank lowered back into place, trapping Spencer and Kramer inside before the two passengers could slide out and escape. As the Colonel slid the gearshift into reverse, his face filled with a grin that almost seemed to outshine the brilliance of the sun as he eased the Zamboni away from the dasher boards.

Face glanced down at the crumpled paper that he had relieved from the assassin, but when he looked up he saw the look on his Commanding Officer's face and recognized it immediately. A dismal groan escaped his lips as he knew that his leader was up to something. Hoping that the Colonel would listen to the voice of reason for once, the Lieutenant called out, "Come on, Hannibal, we don't have time for this!"

The con artist's protests were drowned out by the loud Volvo engine of the massive ice making machine, as well as the insistent metallic pounding that now emanated from within the dump tank. In one fluid motion, Hannibal showed his skill at operating the Zamboni as he eased the gearshift to move the vehicle forward, lowered the conditioner on the back of the machine, activated the horizontal and vertical conveyers, and then opened the valve for the wash water and the ice making water.

Hannibal's grin got bigger as he drove, the distinct sound of shaven ice traveling up the vertical conveyer and being expelled into the now occupied dump tank with some force. He knew from his experience that, by using the wash water, the snow that was being thrown at Spencer and Kramer wasn't just dry shaven snow. This stuff was heavily laden with moisture, which meant he was literally giving the two a very cold shoulder . . . among other things.

The muffled cries from within the tank, along with the increase in the frequency of the banging, told the cunning strategist that his two passengers were protesting literally being put on ice . . .

While the A-Team were taking care of the two criminals, five green sedans whipped around the corner of Washington Boulevard onto State Street. Each of the vehicles skidded to a stop along the curb, right across from the majestic and legendary Marshall Field and Company flagship store. Behind the sedans were several Chicago Police units, which pulled to a stop along Washington.

The front passenger door of the lead green sedan opened, and a tall man emerged from the car. He straightened his thick olive green winter coat, and then adjusted the green baseball cap that rested upon his blonde hair. His piercing blue eyes surveyed the scene around him for a moment before Colonel Roderick Decker looked to the other MPs, "I want this entire area sealed off. Get the Chicago PD to set up a perimeter and cover the whole block. Nobody gets in or out of the area without going through them or us. The A-Team is not going to get away this time."

He pulled out his sidearm from the holster, his face hardening as he spotted the one person who had bested him time and time again, and had been the source of frustration for him for two long years now . . . Colonel John Hannibal Smith. Although his face remained stoic, the fact that the crafty Colonel was up on that machine meant that he left himself vulnerable to capture. Even so, he couldn't underestimate his adversary since there were numerous times in the past when he had the A-Team in his clutches and some mystery man showed up and freed them. But that was always around Los Angeles . . . this was Chicago, so the chances of that happening here was likely much slimmer.

He watched as an African American man with a well trimmed moustache emerged from the driver's side of the car. He gave a nod of understanding to his trusted aid of the last several years and simply said, "Captain Crane." No sooner had the words left his lips, with his breath being carried into the air in a white puff, he started to make his way through the panic-stricken crowd toward the rink and the man who had been a thorn in his side more often than he could count.

Captain Marcus Crane looked around for a moment as he assessed the situation, and then also spotted one of their targets driving the Zamboni. He looked at the other soldiers that had accompanied them from Fort Sheridan. "You three, come with me," he immediately ordered to the three MPs that were standing close to him. He then turned to the other men and instructed, "The rest of you, work with the Chicago police. Remind them that we have wanted fugitives here who armed and dangerous. Don't let anyone leave the area until you search them. Smith is still here, so Peck and Baracus won't be too far away."

Crane pulled out his own service sidearm as the other MPs dispersed to carry out the directions he had delivered. He could literally feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins with the excitement and potential of finally being able to not only apprehend the A-Team, but do to where they couldn't escape. If they tried to in this crowd, innocent civilians would be hurt . . . and from what he had observed while working alongside Colonel Decker, Colonel Smith and his men took extraordinary precautions to make sure that bystanders wouldn't be caught up in the crossfire or wounded. He couldn't believe that the cunning Smith would have miscalculated so badly to where he literally handed the advantage to the Military Police . . .

Turning back to the men he had designated to be with him, he simply said, "Let's go." Confident that they would be able to keep up, he started to push his way through the crowd, deeper into the chaos. As he did so, his eyes darted back and forth, scanning the scene to try and find some sign of the other members of the A-Team. They had to be here . . . somewhere.

He stopped as his gaze game to a rest on a platform on the north side of the rink, about 50 yards from where he was standing. He instantly recognized the blonde hair and countenance of Lieutenant Templeton Peck, as well as . . .

Captain Marcus Crane literally had to do a double take, unable to believe what he was seeing. If his own two eyes hadn't spotted it, he would never have believed it in a million years. He bit his lower lip to keep himself from bursting out in laughter at the sight of the gruff Sergeant BA Baracus dressed up as Santa Claus.

It didn't take him long to compose himself, knowing that there were more important matters at hand. The quicker that he could put those two into custody, the less likely that anyone trying to flee the area within a panic would get hurt. Not hesitating, he started to weave his way through the crowd again toward the platform. In spite of the danger to them, the presence of the crowd helped to serve a purpose. It kept Peck and Baracus from spotting him or the other MPs through the sea of people, so Crane knew that they had the advantage. They would be able to get right up to them on the platform before they could be spotted, which would give no time for the A-Team members to react.

It took a few moments, but he got as close as he could while still using the crowd as cover. Marcus made eye contact with the other MPs, nodding his head slightly as a silent signal for them to move when he did. Once he noticed each of the three men nod in acknowledgement and ready their weapons, Captain Crane emerged from the crowd and rushed the platform. He heard the boot steps behind him, affirming that the men had followed, positioning themselves around the platform and focusing their weapons on the two A-Team members.

"Freeze!" the African American MP shouted at Peck and Baracus, aiming his gun at them.

Templeton Peck couldn't help but to grumble a bit when he realized that he and BA were cornered, although the presence of the MPs wasn't entirely unexpected. After their arrest last night, all of them knew that it was only a matter of time before Decker would show up. He had his revolver on him, but it was inside his coat. If he even dared to reach into the parka and pull the gun out, it'd only serve to provoke the MPs and give them a reason to fire. Plus, even though the crowd was still dispersing in a panic, there were too many innocents around to risk a fire fight. Still, he had hoped that Hannibal wouldn't have taken so long in putting Spencer and Kramer on ice to where they'd have to rely on Murdock for yet another rescue.

In spite of the severity of the situation, a sly and charming smile appeared upon Face's lips. He slowly raised his hands in surrender, realizing that he had a golden opportunity to alleviate the mood slightly. "Could you use another word other than freeze? As long as we keep standing here, I'll be frozen stiff in a matter of minutes with these temperatures," he quipped.

Captain Crane simply rolled his eyes at the con man's response. "Cut the comedy, Peck," he ordered gruffly, a clear indication that he wasn't about to play any of their games. He waved his gun slightly in the direction of the Zamboni doors as he told them, "Now move."

Still holding the news video camera in his arms, BA Baracus simply looked at Face. He had hoped that the Supply Officer would be able to come up with some idea to get them out of this mess since the Colonel was still on the Zamboni. He noticed the Lieutenant shrug and comply with what Crane had ordered, which caused the Sergeant to let out a small sigh. So much for Hannibal's plans . . .

Colonel Roderick Decker gingerly stepped out onto the ice, directly into the path of the Zamboni. His crystal blue eyes narrowed as he raised his handgun and pointed it directly at his long-time adversary. The expression on his face was drop dead serious, and clearly indicated that he had no qualms about firing his weapon despite the presence of innocent civilians. "Freeze, Smith!" he shouted over the engine of the ice resurfacer.

Hannibal shut down the conveyers, lifted the conditioner, and brought the machine to a stop on the ice, coming within inches of running over the one MP that had been a formidable opponent for himself and the A-Team. He ignored the loud banging and muffled cries for help that was emanating from within the dump tank of the Zamboni. His eyes twinkled with merriment as he playfully countered, "What's the matter, Decker? Did Santa give you coal instead of presents this year?" He drew in a last puff of his cigar and threw the stub defiantly at Decker's feet.

"You're my Christmas present, Smith . . . to the US government, and I intend to deliver," Roderick pointed out firmly, still yelling over the noise from the engine. He waved his gun slightly before ordering, "Get down from there, now!"

The grin on Colonel Smith's face simply grew that much bigger, as he opened his mouth with a hot retort. He knew how much cities and towns had it in for the MPs with all of the destruction caused by their ongoing pursuit of the A-Team . . . and no doubt, Decker was likely starting to catch some heat over it as well. The military wouldn't be happy with another public relations fiasco, especially during this time of the year. "Now, if I did that and left this thing running, it'd melt a hole in this beautiful ice rink. You wouldn't want to disappoint the kiddies this close to Christmas, would you?" Hannibal countered brightly.

Not taking his steely, determined gaze off his opponent for a moment, Decker flicked the tip of his gun in the direction of the two large open doors in the dasher boards. Out of the corner of his eye, as he moved out of the way, he could see that Captain Crane and a few other MPs had been successful in rounding up the other members of the A-Team. Not only that, but his trusted assistant was herding them over to the same area where he was now trying to get Smith to head.

From his vantage point on the resurfacer, Hannibal noticed the predicament his men were in . . . surrounded by MPs, and being herded over where he would have to park the Zamboni. He saw that BA was carrying the fake news camera, which was probably a good thing since it kept him from using his fists and taking a swing at the Army officers, which would only make matters worse. Shifting the control forward, the Colonel slowly inched the large machine off the ice and through the open doors within the hockey boards, careful to ramp down the RPMs to further help slow the vehicle . . . but not too much to cause it to stall.

The moment that Decker saw the Zamboni exit the ice itself, he crossed the few steps to get back onto solid ground. With sure footing once more, he walked right up to the driver's side and kept his weapon aimed at the driver. "Shut it off and climb down, Smith. No tricks," he spat with contempt, not wanting to take a single chance with the crafty Colonel.

As he turned the key in the ignition, silencing the powerful engine, Hannibal's mind raced. He had to formulate another plan and fast . . . one that would consider all contingencies and help them to escape to where their pilot would be waiting for them. But, there was also Murdock to think of as well. The Colonel knew that the Captain would do whatever he could to help his teammates escape, no matter what it took. But, if the MPs spotted and recognized him as he raced in to foil Decker's plans, it would not only blow the insane man's cover but also destroy the life he had at the VA.

Casually and discretely, the cunning strategist pocketed the key for the Zamboni. He inwardly grinned at the thought of having Spencer and Kramer chill out for a while . . . literally . . . while Decker had his fun. Slowly, he climbed down from the driver's seat, careful not to make any moves that would give his foe a reason to fire. The crowd was in enough of a state of panic that the Colonel didn't want to be responsible for adding to it. And some of those MPs that were with them? They looked like they were fresh out of basic training, so there was a strong chance that a shot of theirs would go wild and hit an innocent bystander.

The A-Team's Commanding Officer looked at his men as they were ushered beside him at gunpoint. "Hi guys!" he said brightly, not at all letting the gravity of the situation affect his mood. Even with the barrel of a gun being aimed at him and the other members of the A-Team, he quickly observed the area around him. He noted that Captain Crane, Decker's ever present sidekick, moved to stand beside his commander. There were MPs covering the sides and their flank, so they were literally surrounded.

He glanced over to the door in the hockey boards closest to the stage, where the Mayor had previously been delivering his speech, and immediately spotted Mrs. Baracus. She was safe, along with the others that she had managed to usher over to that area for cover. There were several uniformed police officers surrounding them, providing ample protection . . . especially now that the hard work had already been done for them. The news media had already converged around them like rampaging horde . . . an implosion right before a massive explosion. From what Hannibal recalled, several within the news media called it a gang bang situation due to the jockeying of the reporters and news cameras to get a better position for a perfect shot, to have their question answered, or even for the ideal sound bite.

From the way it looked, the horde was starting to head in their direction . . .

"Hannibal, I told you we didn't have time, but would you listen to me? No," Templeton Peck started to complain. His tone of voice wasn't whining, but took on more of an 'I told you so' type of attitude.

The Cheshire cat type grin that was on the face of the West Point trained leader only seemed to broaden a bit as he watched a few of the MPs and police officers descend upon the Zamboni. From the way it looked, they were trying to figure out how to open the dump tank and let the two men out that were trapped inside. With the engine turned off, the pounding noise and muffled yells had increased in frequency, but without the key, they didn't have a hope of getting it open. "Come on, Face. Don't tell me that you didn't enjoy the poetic irony of trapping Spencer and his hired gun in the very machine that he donated for the rink, and quite literally putting him on ice."

Overhearing a conversation start up between the A-Team members, Colonel Roderick Decker decided to bring it to a swift and abrupt end. After numerous escapes in the past, especially right out from underneath his own nose, he couldn't afford to allow them to continue their discussion, much less do anything that could allow for an exchange of a secret code or a plan that would enable such an attempt. "I want silence, now!" he commanded firmly.

Despite the order from his adversary, Hannibal couldn't resist. He enjoyed pushing Decker's buttons and getting under his skin, just to watch the reaction from his very formidable foe. He also loved being able to really stick it to those that oppressed or tried to harm others, like Spencer, and seeing them get just what they deserved. All of it just helped to fuel the Jazz that much more for him. He had noticed the con artist roll his eyes at his comment, which prompted him to continue in a playful tone, "Lieutenant, sometimes you have to live in the moment and forget the consequences."

Hearing the banter continue, Decker narrowed his eyes at the members of the A-Team. Baracus wisely was remaining quiet with not even the slightest hint of a growl, but Smith . . . hearing Smith defy his orders just made his blood boil. "I said silence!" he bellowed, trying to make it more than abundantly clear that he was not about to stand for such disobedience from a fellow military officer.

Ignoring the demand, the Colonel's eyes twinkled with the Jazz. "What's the matter, Decker? Someone shove ice down your shorts?" he taunted, finding a great deal of amusement in the whole situation in spite of being held at gunpoint.

Fuming, Decker stepped forward until he was practically in Hannibal's face. White puffs of Roderick's exhalations danced inches from his adversary's nose, and his eyes flared with sheer fury. "You know what your weakness is, Smith? You take on these bleeding heart cases, and then stick around to see how it all ends," Decker pointed out smugly and with confidence. "Well, I can tell you how this one will end . . . with all of you behind bars in Leavenworth, where you rightfully belong."

Hannibal's eyes hardened, but the sparkle never faded from his ice blue eyes and the insolent smile remain plastered on his face. Although he yearned for a fresh cigar at this point, he wanted even more to come up with a witty comeback to put Decker in his place and get under his skin that much more. Besides, what did he know anyways? The missions the A-Team took now, helping out innocent civilians who were being oppressed or threatened, were far more important than any that had been assigned to them in Vietnam. He was about to speak when a voice from the crowd interrupted . . .

"Daddy!"