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 65 A Brother's Hand
Amy clutched at Hannibal's arm as he opened the door to the library. "What are you going to do, Hannibal?"
Stafford sat silently in the seat he had been in since Cazador ushered the trio into the room. In that time, he had smoked through almost a full pack of cigarettes. The ashtray beside him was overflowing. He remained absolutely still and detached.
He raised dull eyes to his two companions and then looked down at the floor again. His mind seemed preoccupied with something other than the emergency in the guest room.
"Not that I don't trust our gracious host to have made sure Jackson is out of commission but . . . "
Amy grimaced at the thought. "But you're not sure Cazador has taken the precautions to make sure Jackson doesn't do something else to Murdock's mind."
"The doctor's had his hands full taking care of Face and Murdock's injuries. I doubt there was enough time to give Jackson any more sedatives before he got to work on them." The Colonel briefly scanned the other man in the room. At the mention of the military man's name, Stafford flinched.
"You don't even know where that Scanlon guy took him." Amy held on to Hannibal's sleeve and forced him to make eye contact. "Cazador may not like you wandering around."
Hannibal thought of the snipers on the roof. Amy was definitely not coming with him on this venture. But he had to know. He owed it to Murdock to keep that leech Jackson from exploiting his thoughts and memories anymore.
"And since when has someone else's restrictions kept me from doing what I need to?" The Colonel took Amy's uncasted hand and squeezed it. "I'll just check and then come right back. He won't even know I'm gone."
"Hannibal!" Amy protested as he left the room, closing the door behind him.
oooooo
The Lieutenant felt every bit of color drain from his own face as he reached for Murdock's hand. Without boosting himself higher on his knees, he couldn't get to it. The top of the bed was too high off the floor and his upper legs were like two columns of jello. If he pushed himself up so his upper chest rested against the top edge of the mattress, they wouldn't support him for a second.
I must have lost a lot of blood.
"B. A. Help me." His voice came out as a weak croak.
The black man peered at him, his attention torn from the dying man beside him. "What ya need, Faceman?" The tone hinted of hope.
Maybe he thinks I have a plan to keep Murdock alive . . . but I have nothing. Nothing at all.
The thought tormented him. He was great at running scams, at requisitioning anything anyone needed, but not this.
I can't scam a miracle. I can't sweet talk death and make it stay away from my buddy. But I can make sure, if Murdock's aware of his surroundings, even in the state he's in, that he knows he's not going to die alone.
"Move Murdock's arm closer to the edge of the bed, toward me. He needs to know I'm here . . . that we're here." The con man felt the room spinning around him. The sound of the ocean was in his ears and he knew if he tried to position himself any differently beside the bed, he would pass out. Cazador stood directly behind him, maybe to brace his body if he collapsed to the floor.
"How can he not know we're here? You been talkin' at him, ain't ya? I been hooked up to 'im for the last hour or so." The Sergeant took a deep breath and Face interrupted before he could argue anymore.
"B. A., remember in the POW camp when they brought him back to us more dead than alive? What did we do? Did we leave him to lay there on the dirt floor to take care of himself? You even took a turn holding onto him, making sure he knew he wasn't alone. We don't let our brothers die alone." Face spat the words at the Sergeant, not caring anymore how he would react.
B. A. met his protest with stony silence as the big man thought it over.
"At least move his arm so I can touch his hand. Just talking to him won't do it. Human touch is what he's responded to in the past and you know it." Face forced his tone to be more patient even though, if he had the strength, he would have shaken B. A. like a rag doll to make him listen to reason.
B. A. scowled at the other man. Murdock's next breath gurgled in his throat and hung for a second before unsteadily escaping through his parted lips. "Alright! Fine! As long as the li'l lady there can still take his vitals when she needs to."
The doctor's assistant nodded curtly at Face. "I can get to the blood pressure cuff if I sit on the bed beside you, Lieutenant."
"Well, B. A.?" The con man kept his eyes on his best friend and his struggling breaths.
"Okay! I'll help ya. But don't expect me ta grab holda his other hand. I don't do stuff like that . . . "
oooooo
The first obstacle to Hannibal's plan to find where Jackson was being held presented itself early. At the front door, Scanlon himself stood watching the Colonel as he approached. With his hand tucked beneath his jacket, Hannibal knew instinctively the man was not reaching toward his shoulder to scratch an itch.
That is, unless Scanlon's trigger happy and I make a good target. I wonder if he has an itchy finger.
But now was not the time for humor.
Hannibal continued to stroll toward Cazador's man, biting the end off a new cigar as he did. Spitting the tip out on the floor, the Colonel smiled. "Hey buddy. Ya got a light? I have an extra cigar here if you'd like to join me."
They're good cigars, too. Probably wasted on someone like this, but if that's what it takes to make sure Jackson is sleeping peacefully . . .
Scanlon's eyes narrowed but he patted his jacket pockets for a lighter. All the while he kept an eye on the white-haired man standing within a yard of him grinning at him.
"Mister Cazador said I wasn't supposed to let you leave." He found what he was looking for and lit Hannibal's cigar.
"Here, pal. It's Cuban. The best." The Colonel offered one of his cigars to the security guard. He shrugged. "I'm not leaving the ranch. My three men and Miss Allen are still here. I'd be a real slimeball if I was to abandon them, wouldn't I?"
"Then what're you doin' leavin' that room?" Scanlon lit his own cigar and inhaled appreciatively. "Nice. Very nice."
"Well, I remember Cazador saying that Jackson needed to be taken care of. He has to be kept sedated and I know Cazador wanted that to be done. Was it?" He watched as Scanlon frowned, clearly trying to remember exactly what his boss's orders were. He glanced over his shoulder at the wrought iron and glass door, uncertainty etched in his expression.
This guy's muscles, not brains. He likely thought just locking Jackson away in a room somewhere would fill Cazador's order.
"I can make it easy for you and do it myself. Then you can escort me back to the library." The Colonel raised his hands shoulder level, his cigar firmly clamped in his mouth. "Don't worry. I won't try anything. I know how dangerous this Colonel Jackson can be. You don't want anything to happen because Mister Cazador's orders weren't carried out, now would you?"
Scanlon thought for only a moment and then took Hannibal by the elbow and led him outside.
oooooo
The Sergeant carefully moved Murdock's arm until it was perpendicular to his body. He gently straightened the thin arm and stretched it toward Face. The Lieutenant sandwiched the chilled fingers between both hands and shivered at the cold he felt.
"Thanks, B. A.," he whispered. To his best friend he murmured, "I'm right here . . . and I'm not leaving you."
The big man scrutinized the pilot's face. Murdock's lips were tinging blue again. As he gripped Murdock's other hand in his, B. A. growled at the con man. "You say a word 'bout this to him when he wakes up an' you're a dead man."
Face smiled weakly at the threat. "Sure, B. A. Not a word." To Murdock, he whispered, "Come on, buddy. Stay with us. Don't die."
oooooo
Scanlon brought Hannibal to the small empty utility shed and nodded at the guard posted at the padlocked door. "Everything quiet, Randall? Mister Cazador's guest hasn't woke up, has he?"
"Not a peep out of him." With impassive eyes, Randall surveyed the Colonel. "Who's this?"
"Just call me an interested observer. Can I see the prisoner?" Hannibal flashed the guard a smile equal to any that Face would have used to get what he wanted.
Randall raised questioning eyebrows at Scanlon.
The other man shrugged. "Let him in. Let him set his mind at ease."
Unlocking the door, Randall slowly opened it. Hannibal squinted as he peered in the darkened interior.
Moments later, he stormed in and gripped Jackson by the front of his shirt, lifting him up to eye level. "That's what I thought. You bastard," he growled around his cigar.
Cazador's two men were too surprised at the sudden action to react at first.
Hannibal had too much anger pent-up over what this man did to screw up Murdock's mind to hold himself back from expressing it. If he was right, Jackson was trying to manipulate the pilot's mind again.
Before either Scanlon or Randall could stop him, Hannibal drew back his fist and delivered a punishing blow to Jackson's chin. The force of the punch sent the military man's head back into the wall. As soon as the Colonel released Jackson, he slumped unconscious back to the tarp.
"Now follow your boss's orders. Get a sedative from Doctor Willis and use it on this man to keep him this way until your boss tells you to stop." Hannibal turned his enraged gaze on the two men behind him. "Or do you want me to tell Cazador about this?"
Scanlon gestured with his head toward the house. "Do what he says, Randall." As soon as the guard left, Scanlon scowled at the unconscious military man. "We'll wait for Randall to return and give him the stuff and then you're going back to the library."
"No problem, pal." Hannibal stood over Jackson and calmly smoked his cigar. He couldn't help but wonder if Jackson was the reason it was taking so long for Cazador to return and give them news about Murdock and Face.
Now if I can trust these bozos to keep a better eye on this clown . . .
oooooo
C'mon, brother. If yer goin' with me, ya gotta let go o' this world 'n' be willin' t' go into th' nex'. Jus' do it.
Murdock frowned. Billy's always wanted me t' fight fer life, not give up so easy. Ain' makin' sense, him so eager t' have me die 'n' be with him.
He hesitated to answer out loud and Billy's voice came again, more insistent than the last time.
What're ya waitin' for? I can take ya where ya wanna go t' 'scape those soldiers. If yer dead, they won' take ya t' that POW camp. Major Trinh won' ever get a chance t' torture ya.
"Somethin' ain' right. If this's here 'n' now, how d'ya know I'm gonna be in a POW camp? How d'ya know they ain' gonna shoot me on th' spot? 'N' who's this Major Trinh?" Murdock forced himself onto his hands and knees, ready to get to his feet and run. All he had to defend himself was the handgun he was issued. That against . . . how many? . . . soldiers, all armed. He felt like a rabbit dumped into a kennel full of hunting dogs.
Moments later he was face down in the grass, sprawled out between B. A. and Face's corpses. Turning himself over on his back again, he groaned softly. I musta got hurt in th' crash fer my legs t' give out like that.
At the same time, he remembered Billy sometime saying he had a choice of whether to live or die. So all of a sudden, he's changed 'is mind? That don' seem right.
Brother, hurry up!
As he listened more closely to the voice, it started to sound less like Billy. It was a familiar voice but he didn't remember where he heard it before. It was faking a Southern drawl. Now that he analyzed it, it was a good impression but it was just that: an impression, not Billy.
The foliage around him quivered with the approach of the soldiers. He had waited too long to escape. Sucking in a panicked breath of fear, he forced his eyes closed and tried to pretend to be dead.
"Bọn chúng tất cả đã chết? (They're all dead?)"
He kept his breathing as shallow as he could and prayed the soldiers did not look too closely at any of them, especially not him.
"Kiểm tra xem chúng! Kiểm tra xem chúng tất cả! (Check them! Check them all!)"
Oh God, no, no, no . . .
A swell of manic horror churned inside him. In his head, he envisioned himself vaulting to his feet with one of his patent whoops and attacking the nearest soldier. If he was lucky, he would make the move without falling back among the corpses again. If he was really lucky, he would wrestle the weapon away from the soldier before any of the others used their guns on him. It was certain suicide to try it.
But it's certain death t' let 'em check 'n' see I'm still breathin' . . .
At that moment he felt someone clasp both of his hands on either side of him. Maybe it was two someones. The Vietnamese voices, the rustling of the foliage, the odor of burning wreckage and leaking fuel, all disappeared so suddenly he was afraid to open his eyes.
If I do, am I gonna see Charlie smilin' down at me? Or somethin' else worse 'n that? Is there anythin' worse 'n that?
A small whisper came from the side where Face's corpse was. "Come on, buddy. Stay with us. Don't die."
It was then he wondered if he had finally gone totally insane. The only way to know was to overcome his fear, open his eyes and look.