Every Thought Captive
Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.
Chapter 33 A Useful Tool
After two hours of quiet, Murdock squinted over at the Lieutenant on the other cot.
The pilot had not been pleased with the sleeping arrangements. He wanted more than anything to stay awake and sit outside in the dark but the Colonel made it clear he had absolutely no choice. The conman seemed equally displeased, longingly gazing at Sky as he grumbled under his breath.
Or at least that's what Murdock thought he saw and heard. His grasp on reality lately was not firm at all.
"Just in case you have trouble sleeping during the night," the Colonel put it, worriedly scrutinizing the pilot's belligerent expression. Then his gaze turned to the Lieutenant as he said with a trace of amusement, "And to keep you out of trouble during the night."
Jus' so I don' go for a run 'n' forget t' come back, ya mean. 'N' why th' Lieutenant's got 'is eye on Sky's more th'n I can figure out.
Sky was sweet and innocent, still a virgin from what Murdock had been able to ascertain from their conversations, and the pilot intended on keeping it that way. She would not be another casualty of the godforsaken war, if he could help it.
He would have to keep watch over the young Vietnamese girl. He could not let the handsome blonde-haired womanizer charm her into compliance. Just thinking of it made him clench his fists and glare at the man in the bed opposite him.
To all outside appearances, the conman seemed to be soundly sleeping.
Finally!
Not that the man in the other bed hadn't tried to stay awake. He continued to attempt to engage Murdock in conversation for at least a half hour.
Yammerin' 'way 'bout ol' missions 'n' gals he's been with. I don' give a shit 'bout all those women he took t' bed. He ain' gettin' his lousy hands on Sky.
Murdock remained impassive, occasionally grunting a small acknowledgment. More often he glared at the man in silence, especially at the tell-all way the man described his sexual encounters.
When the Lieutenant recalled the times he utilized Murdock's help in scamming something or the narrow escapes they had in the past, the pilot recognized something else that bothered him.
He didn't remember the missions quite the way the conman did. Their two versions didn't mesh and he didn't think he could blame it all on intermittent memory loss. He was certain one of them was either lying or not remembering correctly.
He's always puttin' on a mask 'n' lyin' through 'is teeth so why should this be any diff'rent?
The pilot slid a long-sleeved dark brown plaid flannel shirt on over the plain gray T-shirt and navy blue sweats he had worn to bed. Topping it with his jacket, he slipped on his tennies. He removed his cap from where it was stuffed into the pocket of his jacket and jammed it onto his head.
There was still some swelling around his temple. He had an injury of some kind in that area but he couldn't remember how he got it. The hair above his ear had been shaved back a little and a gauze bandage was taped in place over the wound. He gingerly touched it and frowned.
How come I can't 'member where I got somethin' like that?
He shook his head and concentrated on getting out of there as quickly and quietly as possible. Positioning the ear buds in his ears and turning on the transistor radio, he carefully crept to the door of the tent. Through the earpieces, he heard Creedance Clearwater Revival singing "Fortunate Son."
But it ain't me, it ain't me
I ain't no senator's son, son,
It ain't me, it ain't me,
I ain't no fortunate one, no . . .
Pausing, he scowled down at the conman once more before quietly leaving the canvas structure.
Jus' keep sleepin', boy. Ya ain' gonna get within ten feet o' Sky t'night if I can help it.
The moon had barely crested the mountains. If he was going to make his move, it had to be before the campground was fully bathed in its light. Somewhere on one of the slopes either the Colonel or the Sergeant kept watch over the road leading in to their section of the campground. They would be keeping their eyes peeled for headlights or any other suspicious movement. He would have to be careful while he did his own surveillance.
He wished he had a weapon of some kind and then narrowed his eyes as a thought came to him. He couldn't secure a gun but he might be able to get into the black van to find a knife. The other weapons would be in that gun locker he saw in the back and the only one who had the key was the big Sergeant.
No way 'm I gonna try t' get it from 'im neither.
Memories of a fist to the jaw that laid him out cold prompted him to tentatively rub that side of his face.
More muscle th'n brains but I still ain' gonna try t' outwit 'im t' get that key.
He sneaked over to where the van was parked and peeked in the driver's window without touching the door.
Damn!
The white-haired Colonel occupied the front passenger's seat. He was either fast asleep or resting his eyes. Murdock wasn't about to find out which it was.
I try messin' with th' van doors, he's gonna wake up.
Giving up on the idea of arming himself with a knife, he wondered where Doctor Stafford and Sky were sleeping.
Th' car? Or on th' floor o' th' van?
It was Sky he needed to protect. He had to find her. If he had to, he would fight off her attackers, especially that promiscuous Lieutenant, with his bare fists.
Forget th' doctor. He's on 'is own.
He could hear Mick Jagger of The Rolling Stones begin to sing "Paint It Black" over the transistor radio. Absently, he wondered why all the music playing that night was songs he heard during his time in Nam.
He scanned the campground for any sign of movement, then tiptoed soundlessly to where the rental was parked beside a wind-twisted pinyon pine. The front seat was empty. Peeking in the rear side window, he sighed in relief.
The moon had risen sufficiently to illuminate the person in the back seat, curled on her side under the blanket. He stood for a few seconds in the shadow of the tree, smiling and watching her sleep, a peaceful expression on her face. Her skin was milky white in the moonlight.
She is sleepin', ain' she?
The question bothered him. He had to check it out. Shading his eyes with his hands, he pressed his face up to the window to look in at her. His breath fogged the glass for a few seconds. As the condensation faded, a cruel image transposed itself upon the sleeping woman.
The transformation was so sudden, he stumbled back wide-eyed with alarm and fell clumsily onto the ground. The ear buds dangled around his neck, the music still faintly playing. A keening wail escaped from his lips before he could contain it. His chest heaved with his alarmed breaths.
Sky! Oh God! What'd they do t' ya?
Before he could scramble away from the bloodied corpse, he heard the sound of someone rushing down the rocky slope toward him. The van door opened. The sound of gravel crunching underfoot told him he was about to have company. People were shouting, coming toward him, surrounding him on three sides.
The scene shifted. He staggered to a half-crouch and frantically glanced around. The smell of rotting garbage and dank earth invaded his nostrils. The moon glinted off puddles in the alleyway beside the Hanoi bar. He ran because standing his ground would be a fatal mistake.
Three o' them 'gainst li'l ol' me ain' good odds in anyone's book.
The men in the olive drab fatigues ran after him. He heard their pounding footsteps and their heavy breaths as they tried to keep up.
They catch me, they're gonna pound me 'til I'm part o' th' dirt in this alley.
He had always been a fast sprinter but he wasn't quick enough to evade them. The biggest one backed him up against a wall that appeared out of nowhere. Staring into the ugly mudsucker's face, into the dangerous threatening eyes, Murdock hunched into a defensive posture and waited for the enraged soldier's next move.
The black hulking attacker lurched toward him and grabbed his left arm. The pilot threw all of his weight behind an evasive maneuver. Ducking down low, he drove his left shoulder into the burly soldier's hips to knock him off-balance. He let the massive body crash to the earth to his left as he backed up and turned to run again. He couldn't let the Goliath get to his feet and have the opportunity to chase him down.
The man's two friends were in front of him before he could take a single step.
Shit! Oh shit, no!
He swiveled around slowly, trying to keep his wild terrified eyes on all three attackers at once. The man he had just dropped muttered "Crazy fool" and scowled at him.
"Murdock! It's me, buddy!" another of the soldiers said, his arms outstretched as if to grab the pilot if he attempted to get past him.
He shook his head to clear it but couldn't get rid of the feeling he was about to be killed. He gulped breath after breath of rancid air, knowing each one might be his last.
The giant black soldier was on his feet again and Murdock cursed himself for not being quicker to make his escape. A half-rabid angry growl sounded from deep inside him.
Maybe if he knocked one of the men down and was nimble enough to twist out of any attempt to tackle him, he would get away. It was a last-ditch effort to avoid capture and he knew it. As he allowed the craziness in his mind to dictate his actions, he chose who looked like the weakest link among the three.
Murdock put his head down, his left arm bent and chest-level in front of him, and rushed the white-haired Colonel.
He wasn't surprised when his arms were gripped on either side and he was wrestled to the ground. The black giant straddled him and held him down, a meaty hand around both forearms.
"Listen, fool! Ya ain' in Nam anymore. We ain' in Nam!" The gruff angry voice was familiar. The man cuffed him across the injured spot on his temple and his vision was briefly filled with intense white dots. He stared up into the soldier's face and watched it transform from one of the Marines in the Hanoi alley to that of Sergeant Baracus.
He didn't know which was worse.
His mind slipped into blind panic as he waited for the man's hands to grip his throat and squeeze out his life. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see the Sergeant's rage-contorted face anymore.
"Không giết tôi! (Don't kill me!)" he begged repeatedly. "Không giết tôi! (Don't kill me!)"
Hysteria overwhelmed him. His pleas became unintelligible howls.
The three men seemed to be debating something among themselves but he couldn't distinguish their words. His head was filled with the deafening sound of his own terror-filled cries.
"Murdock." A pair of soft cool hands cupped either side of his face.
Cyndy?
He heard her but the part of his mind in control over his actions wasn't allowing him to respond to her. The irrational thoughts refused to be tucked back into the dark hiding places he had so carefully constructed over the years of misunderstanding and abuse.
"We gotta get outta here, Colonel. He's raisin' enough of a ruckus, the authorities'll be here before long checkin' things out." The black man holding him down raised his voice above Murdock's howls.
"Agreed. You have the needle, Face? Hand it to me."
Moments later Murdock felt a sharp prick of pain in his neck. His muscles numbed and he futilely attempted to prevent his mind from slipping into darkness. The last thing he felt was the Sergeant standing and carefully lifting him across his shoulders to carry him somewhere.
oooooo
Colonel Jackson was pleased when Murdock left the tent to check on the woman he thought was the Vietnamese girl. Maybe the Captain could take care of that particular loose end before they got to Vegas. He projected suggestions to the pilot's mind and made sure the radio tunes would remind Murdock of Vietnam.
Find a weapon you can use.
It wasn't for the pilot's own protection. Jackson had a far better use for Murdock to be armed with something deadly. If the pilot believed he was responsible for his Vietnamese girlfriend's death, maybe it would further encourage him to follow through with the plan to dispose of Cazador. And the reporter would either be so badly injured she would not obstruct the plan or she would be dead.
Guilt. What a useful emotion.
Jackson had purged all unnecessary feelings like that from inside himself long ago. Not having those feelings himself did not mean he wasn't aware of how powerful a tool they could be in influencing someone to do his will.
Overwhelming guilt can make the strongest mind contemplate suicide.
The military man cursed to himself when he sensed through Murdock's thoughts that the van and its weapons could not be accessed.
Instead, he projected the image of the Vietnamese girl into Murdock's mind so he saw the dead girl when he looked at the reporter. The pilot's reaction was much better than he could have hoped for.
That should destabilize his mind a bit more, make it more pliable.
He did not realize how quickly the men in the team would react. Before they could begin to carefully bring him out of what they must believe to be a flashback, Jackson pushed Murdock into a memory he was certain would further drive a wedge between him and the men who wanted to help him.
The Army Colonel had seen Murdock's medical history, knew he had been attacked by three assailants in an alley outside a bar in Hanoi. He read Murdock's vague descriptions of the men. The account was so hazy, he was certain Sergeant Baracus could pass as a reasonable facsimile of the leader of the attackers.
He kept pressure on the pilot, savoring the near-insanity he sensed in the man's mind and knowing he alone controlled how far he would let it proceed. It was a power trip Jackson relished.
But something happened as the black Sergeant pinned Murdock to the ground. Jackson couldn't be certain what it was but Murdock's thoughts began to blur.
He heard the black man warn the others that they had to leave the Simpson Springs campground. Smith talked about a needle.
That was it. They injected the pilot with something to knock him out. On one hand, Jackson was pleased they were leaving the area. It meant they would be in Vegas sooner than originally expected, but it also meant he would have to make sure the pilot's waking thoughts were carefully monitored.
He set the alarm clock for two hours and allowed himself to drift to sleep. That was all the rest time he could safely allot himself. He would need it for when the A-team got to Vegas.