Every Thought Captive
AN: Sorry for the long wait. My laptop had to go into the shop for some much-needed repairs. But it's back now and so is the story.
Disclaimer: I do not own The A Team movie or television series or any of the delightful characters found on The A Team.
Chapter 48 Surrender
When they arrived on the outskirts of Kingman, Arizona, Jackson immediately sought out a motel. He would have driven further but Murdock showed signs of waking. The muttered Vietnamese curses and anguished moans warned the Colonel that until the pilot realized where he was and who he was with, he might be violent.
Even then, he doesn't trust me so he might still put up a fight.
The motel was near enough to a railroad crossing for Jackson to hear the whistle as each Santa Fe Railway train approached on its way through town.
The deteriorating structure had been a fixture on West Beale Street for many years. More recently, its more attractive motel chain cousins that dotted Route 66 stole the visitors the business once serviced.
Paint chips were missing in several places on the exterior walls of the two-story building. On some of the doors, adhesive-backed vinyl digits replaced the original gold unit numbers. Weeds populated cracks in the parking lot. Jackson got a room on the ground level as far away from the street and motel office as possible.
Perfect for what I have to do. Not many ears to hear if the Captain resists my methods of getting him to comply. Those blasted train whistles will help smother any loud sounds he'll make. Even then, I'll have to make sure he isn't too loud.
After half-dragging, half-carrying Murdock's limp body into the rented room, the military man securely bound Murdock's wrists and ankles. Now that they were over two hundred miles away from Saint George, the Captain might believe he could make it on his own running away from what he believed was a murder rap.
He doesn't want to stay with me either. He'll have to remain this way until I know for sure he won't bolt.
The second thing the Colonel did was to make a quick phone call to his man waiting in Arizona.
"Yes, you heard me, Hanson. I got Captain Murdock back. We're on our way. Be ready at your end. Cazador's pilot must not show up at the ranch to take him and the shipment to Gema Escondida . . . No, you know by now I don't care how you do it." Jackson listened for a few seconds longer and smiled. "Good man. I'll let you know when we've arrived in Tucson."
He replaced the receiver in the telephone cradle and glanced at the motel bed where his captive lay.
Probing the restless man's mind, Jackson smirked. He didn't have to 'see' much of Murdock's current thought processes to know he was having a brutal nightmare. The pilot's grimaces and muffled cries over the threadbare towel gag in his mouth told him that much.
Those hidden memories are going to be the factor that pushes him over the edge. He won't have any problem sacrificing himself to try to make amends for what he did in Nam and what he thinks he did over the past few days.
Jackson allowed himself the sadistic luxury of watching the pilot's nightmare from the edges of his mind. In Murdock's waking dream, a man who looked like an older version of the Captain towered over him, a length of rope in one hand, an almost empty whiskey bottle in the other.
The pilot curled up in a corner of a horse stall in the manure and straw, protecting his face with both arms. The Colonel was certain the plaid long-sleeved shirt hid several bruises from the beating the boy Murdock already had received from this man.
Even as Jackson 'observed,' the drunken man raised the bottle to his lips and took a deep swallow. He winced as the alcohol burned his throat but finished the contents anyway. Tossing the empty container to the side, he slurred, "Ya ain' tol' nobody 'bout our li'l secret, have ya, boy?"
The glass shattered into several shards. The older man smiled and picked up one of the larger pieces. Murdock drew himself into a tighter ball and cringed when he saw the glass in his father's hand.
"No, Pa. There ain' no one knows 'bout it. Not even Gramma 'n' Grampa. I wouldn' tell. You know that." The boy's voice was a whimpered plea for mercy. Jackson knew from all the times he had watched this particular nightmare there would be none given.
The pilot's memory of this event ended with him waking in the hospital, bandages covering stitches in both arms where he had defended himself. Well before that, Murdock would wake to reality, screaming and sobbing his fear of the man in the dream.
Murdock thrashed around as he slowly regained awareness of his situation. Twisting his wrists to try to escape his bonds, the pilot craned his head around to figure out where he was. When his eyes fell on Jackson, he moaned in resignation and quieted his struggles. The only thing that told Jackson Murdock was not going to cooperate fully was the cold stare he received from his captive.
"That was quite some series of dreams you had since we left the hospital. So who was worse? Your own father or the guards in the POW camp?" The Colonel shook his head in mock sympathy. "No wonder you turned on Smith, Baracus and Peck the way you did. They're as dead as that guard Ferret you murdered over in Nam. A shame really. They were good friends at one time, weren't they?"
Jackson's words pierced Murdock exactly where he wanted to hurt him most. The pilot's breaths were harsh gasps of pure anger and hatred. He wrestled with the ropes around his wrists and ankles until by accident he fell from the bed onto the floor. Wriggling around until his back and bound hands were against the wall, he sat glaring up at his captor.
Don' touch me. Leave me 'lone.
Murdock's heated warning sent by thought amused Jackson. He sensed the pilot's battle with his memories and his hatred of the man in front of him was sapping his strength.
"Come now, Captain. You know my mind is stronger than yours. I've been at this psychic crap longer. If you don't do what I say, I can send you over the edge into full-blown insanity. You'd be a wide-eyed raving lunatic in a straight jacket for the rest of your life." To make sure Murdock understood what he meant, Jackson forced the memory of the lifeless bodies of his three friends lying on the floor to resurface.
The pilot squeezed his eyes shut in pain and bit down hard on the gag in his mouth. A shuddering muffled sob escaped. As Jackson made the mental images clearer, the bound man hit the back of his head against the wall. He followed the first blow with yet another forceful enough to knock himself senseless. It didn't work, and Murdock growled with savage fury at his failure to rid himself of the memory.
Chuckling at first, Jackson frowned after the third blow left a smear of blood on the yellowed wallpaper.
"Stop that! I won't allow you to take the easy way out. Do you hear me, Captain?" The military man knelt in front of Murdock. Before the pilot could hit his head again, Jackson gripped the thicker brown hair at the base of his skull and pulled him forward away from the wall. He forced the pilot to look into his eyes. "There's one thing and only one thing you can do to make amends for what you did to Sky, to your friends, to every one of those you killed or failed to protect. You know what I want you to do."
It was time to prepare Murdock for his part in disposing of Cazador. The nightmares had served their purpose. The pilot was too weak to try an escape and too convinced he had killed his four friends to want to continue to live.
Even so, Murdock attempted to pull away from Jackson's grip. As the Colonel released his hold, the pilot slid sideways along the wall and lay in a heap on the floor. His chest heaved with pent-up grief and guilt but he no longer struggled against the ropes that bound him.
Listen to me, Captain. The time to complete your mission has come.
Murdock shook his head violently and let out something between a growl and a muted scream into the worn stained carpeting of the room. He showed no signs of stopping. Jackson probed the pilot's mind and found confusion, pain and chaos. The gag-stifled howls sent a chill down Jackson's back as the bound man continued his spiral into a full-blown breakdown.
"That's enough. Did you hear me? That's enough!" The military man was beginning to wonder if he had pressed too hard.
I can't give him a sedative. Not now. The deadline for Cazador's next flight is too close.
His self-confidence shaken, Jackson struck the pilot across the side of his face with his open palm.
With all of that blistered burned skin, that's got to hurt pretty bad.
He thought he would have to slap his hostage again to get him to quiet down but after a few more seconds the muffled screams and sobs lessened significantly. Soon enough even those stopped.
Getting to his feet, the Colonel shakily moved away from the man on the floor and perched on the edge of the bed. Jackson took a deep breath to compose himself. In a hoarse mutter he said, "That's better. Now I want you to listen to something to help you relax and then we'll talk about your mission."
The pilot let out a low whining sob but otherwise showed no signs of resistance. He glanced at the military man through swollen bloodshot eyes, then closed them and seemed to completely lose his strength. When Jackson checked, Murdock's mind was clear again. There were no antagonistic thoughts, just surrender.
With trembling hands, Jackson switched on the transistor radio, adjusted the earpieces in the pilot's ears and sat back to monitor the completion of Murdock's programming.
oooooo
B. A. maneuvered the black van along US 93 toward Kingman. He occasionally looked across to Amy who slept peacefully in Hannibal's usual seat. The blisters and reddened skin on her face, hands and arms looked painful.
Hell, of course it hurts. Gotta give it ta Amy. She ain' complained 'bout it. Poor li'l sis. If we hadn' found her when we did . . .
He shook his head to dislodge the thought. Passing by the outermost motels and businesses on West Beale Street, his mind turned to Murdock.
What're we gonna find when we get ta Tucson? We ever gonna get the fool back? Fool can't die on us.
There was a soft grunt of pain somewhere behind him. B. A. looked in the rearview mirror to see Face twist Stafford's arm higher up on his back in response to a bad answer to one of Hannibal's questions.
Even though smoke lazily curled from the Colonel's cigar and Hannibal himself seemed to be calmly enjoying his favorite pastime, the black Sergeant could see the dangerous icy blue menace in his CO's eyes.
"Let's try this again, Doc. What sort of implant did you put in our friend's brain and how do we keep it from controlling what Murdock does when he meets Cazador?"
B. A. saw the medical man tighten his lips in response and shake his head.
"Sorry. I didn't quite hear your answer. Face?" Hannibal gave the Lieutenant a short nod.
"My pleasure, Colonel." Doctor Stafford yelped as the con man jerked his arm up again.
Just thinking about what Jackson and Stafford had already done to Murdock made B. A.'s blood turn as hot as lava. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Several miles back B. A. suggested to the Colonel that Face take over driving and he be allowed to act as the muscle behind Hannibal's interrogation.
The Colonel had refused. "We need our doctor alive for when he has to remove the thing he put in Murdock's head."
Made sense in a way. But they been workin' at him for three an' a half hours an' ain' got a whole lotta information. Wonder if th' Colonel's reconsidered by now. If Faceman can't get th' truth outta him, I know I can. May be th' only chance we got ta help th' crazy man b'fore he does somethin' he can't undo.
With that thought, B. A. scowled back at the three passengers and headed straight ahead through the intersection of West Beale Street and Route 66, bringing the van to a stop beside a small park.
"Here, Faceman. Let me take over an' you drive," he growled. Before Hannibal could say anything to the contrary, B. A. was at the rear passenger's side door stepping up into the van to take the con man's place. With one more dark glance at the doctor, the Lieutenant left the van and walked around to check on Amy before climbing in to the driver's seat.
Stafford took one look at the black man's menacing expression and gripped the Colonel's arm. "Can't we be reasonable about this?"
Hannibal smiled at his cigar and stuck it jauntily in the side of his mouth. "Sure, doc. B. A. here's good at making sure everyone's reasonable. Aren't you, B. A.?"
The Sergeant's scowl deepened.
As Face drove away from Metcalf Park and back toward I-40 heading around north Kingman, Stafford began to talk.