A.N. – I have apologized so many times before for leaving this story unfinished for so long, I don't think it's necessary to apologize again.
Just enjoy the new chapter, and thank the last reviewer that nagged me in the right direction, so that I stopped procrastinating.
As usual: many thanks for reading, and please, take a little time to review if you can.
(Hint: reviewing works two ways, in general. It shows appreciation and keeps the writers motivated to keep writing.)
– 9 –
(41)
I parked the van a few blocks away from the hospital and waited for Hannibal's news on Face, as agreed, but listening to Murdock's non-stop ranting was giving me a feckin' headache.
"Do you think he'll be all right?" he went on and on, all jittery, unable to settle. "It's all my fault, B.A. Only my fault. Mine, because I didn't see them. I didn't see them!"
At some point, he got so agitated with the guilt he grabbed the handle to get out. |Damn!
"Where do you think you're going, fool?" I snapped, leaning over him to smash the passenger's door shut. "We wait for Hannibal here, out of sight! As agreed!"
"But I need to know if Face is all right!"
"Me too, but that place must be full of MPs by now! Murdock, do as you've been told, and shut your trap already!"
"What if Hannibal needs back-up?" the crazy lunatic insisted. "I'm going in!"
"No. I'll go."
"I know my way around hospitals way better than you do!"
"Quit that jibba jabba! If Hannibal needs back-up, my fist knows its way around any place much better than you do, fool!" I replied, waving my jewelled fist on his face. "You stay here, out of sight, in the van. I'll check if everything's OK."
I grabbed the handle to open my door, but the annoying fool dared to complain one more time.
"But that's so unfair! Listen, why don't we…?"
I scowled, growled, and showed Murdock my fist again, this time even closer to his nose. That convinced the sucka' to shut up and stay put.
AAA
(10)
There we go. All set to play catch with Decker one more time.
I opened the side door. The four of us were clearly visible in the van, including Bob, the dummy dressed like Murdock, who would stay behind to retrieve the Vette with Face.
As expected, the MPs got out of that garage to surround us the moment we showed up there. I used a machine gun to send a round their way, and off we went, once again chased by those clowns. I even saw Decker getting into the first Jeep. Perfect.
I smiled, chomping on my cigar, already on the Jazz, heart pumping. However, not everybody in that van was so keen on a classic, good ol' car chase. Or to follow the plan.
"Do I really have to jump?" Face whined. "Can we just stop for a moment, and I'll ease myself out in an orderly fashion instead?"
"They'll see you this time, Face." B.A. said, drifting at the next bend he took at speed. "Damn, they are too close, Hannibal! Those MPs are getting wiser!"
He was right. Maybe Decker had their men taking lessons on speed driving or something, as they had no problem following us pretty close that day.
"No, Lieutenant. Just follow the plan. You know how: take a deep breath, relax, let go, and roll… It's all in the rolling."
"Yeah, right: the rolling. Of course."
Unconvinced, Face got up to stand by the door, in position. I opened it again, getting ready, giving him my regular, A-Team thumbs-up. At the next sharp bend, B.A. cried:
"Now, Face! Jump!"
Face jumped out straight away, following orders, despite his complaints. Attaboy!
AAA
(47)
I couldn't take it any longer. No matter what B.A. said, I had to know. I had to know what happened to Face. Not knowing was killing me.
And… no. Hell, no. The mudsucker's jewelled fist doesn't know its way into a hospital the way I do! After all, I lived at the V.A. for years, and I sneaked in and out of that crazy ward as I pleased.
Yes, I know all the ins & outs of hospitals, especially the outs, while the Baracan fist only knows bullying —in the form of hostile intimidation and empty threats whenever I'm the recipient of such ill-treatment— and pounding. Lots of rough pounding. No Sir, no finesse whatsoever in that gold-rigged paw!
I got out of the van to rummage in the boxes at the back, the ones that contain the multiple props our very own masters of disguise, Hannibal and Face, use to con their way in any given situation. After all the years watching them, I knew their best-kept secret: attitude and props, so I quickly selected a wig, glasses, and the mustache that would transform my looney self into a respectable doctor. However, I couldn't decide between the pristine, white coat, or a pair of ketchup-stained, green scrubs. What a dilemma! But I had to make a solid, informed choice fast, so...
"Eeny, meeny, miny, moe…"
The scrubs won.
All set, I secured the van and ran to the hospital, just a few blocks down the road. When I arrived there, the MPs were all over the place, as B.A. said.
Unfazed by so many uniforms, I confidently made my way in.
Attitude! Attitude is the key, that's what Face always says.
"Code red! Code red!" I heard someone scream at the end of a long corridor. It sounded promising, so I headed that way to have a peek. There, I found Colonel Decker on a gurney, surrounded by medical personnel with a crash-cart. They rushed him my way, with a couple of MPs in tow.
"Doctor! What do you think?" a nurse asked me when she spotted me, stopping for a moment. Several white-coat guys were there with her, probably dermatologists and urologists, so they had to ask the competent surgeon in scrubs, obviously. Damn! What a bad choice of clothing I made!
One of the white coats removed Decker's oxygen mask and flashed a pen torch in his right eye. He pawed at it furiously.
"He's awake!" that man said, stepping back.
I pretended to have a quick look at Decker's bleeding head, checking that same eye, and then gave them a pointer.
"Take him to X-rays! And get a CT scan of that skull. Pronto!"
Decker looked at me. I could see suspicion in his eyes, so I quickly slapped the mask back on his face, cranked up the anesthetic, and sent the group away before he could say my name.
AAA
(7)
Fair weather. Warm and cloudless. The perfect night to take the Vette for a ride.
I returned to the garage to change into civilian's clothes. Nothing too flashy, but quite smart. Classy, I would say. Too much to impress a hooker, I know, but… I just felt like it. It was a special occasion, after all, because I got the best, trendy ride, so why not?
Instead of retiring to my quarters, like every night, I hopped into that beauty. I loved the smell and the soft touch of all that red leather, and once again, I resented Peck, consumed by pure envy.
Ah, the sound of that outstanding, roaring engine… Excellent!
I got out of that filthy joint in a flash. But cruising on the streets of Reno wasn't enough, so I headed to the highway to put that beast to the test, hitting it.
As I reached the ramp, I felt so jealous of the A-Team, when I felt like passing wind I just let go, farting on that leather seat in petty revenge. But that was a bad move, because it really reeked, worse than a skunk's. Good job I was on my own, and nobody will ever know such stinker could come out of my rear end, like a rotten exhaust.
Wow. At the interstate, that car set off like a rocket, running smoothly at 160 miles per hour after the arm bushes and the damaged suspension got fixed. What a difference from that bumpy, first ride!
After a while, satisfied by the exhilarant experience, I headed back to Reno, straight to the Fourth. The moment I parked the Vette, a bunch of prostitutes ran to offer me their services. Some had no chance in hell, like that brawny redhaired, plumped up with silicone all over, because I always favoured the minute, flat and prepubescent looking, Asian-type ladies. Like the ones I enjoyed in 'Nam. God, how I miss those Thai hookers!
Among the motley assortment of ladies of the night, I spotted the one for me: a very young, Asian girl. I could be in double trouble, as she could hardly be of age, but… Who cared? I gestured her and she made her way to the window.
"Wanna ride with me?"
Without a word, she got into the passenger's seat quickly, as all the others complained loudly, disappointed.
Luckily, I didn't hang out there much, because as we set off, the vice squad arrived. I hit it again, and we got the hell out of there, heading for the hills. The police didn't bother following us, busy as they were with the regular johns and whores, although, they would have never caught up with us.
I loved that daring escape from the law. However, that girl didn't look impressed with the speed. If anything, she looked scared of my driving, and only relaxed when I stopped the car at a deserted lay-by at the hills.
"Don't you feel the need?" I asked her in my deepest, and I want to believe, quite sexy voice.
"What need?" she said with a high pitch tone that belonged to a canary.
I pressed down the accelerator, making the Vette roar a couple of times. The kind of exciting sound that could make a bloke shoot his load anytime.
"The need for speed."
"Do you like speedy work? Great, 'cause I'm always down for a quickie. 30 bucks," she squealed, with the sort of funny sound someone makes after breathing helium from a balloon.
Damn! That was the most irritating voice I had ever heard in my entire life.
"No, that's not what I meant," I said, killing the engine.
"Drugs then? Great! Yes, please, give me some, because I didn't take any ice tonight."
I looked down at that meth-head, pitying her, but not much. Despite her truly annoying voice and her mononeuronal conversation and attitude, I was keen to try more one-liners with her, like the ones that provocative lieutenant often uses in any occasion, but with that girl, it would be a complete waste of time. Besides, I could hear police sirens going off down at the foothills, so I had to hurry up in case they crawled up there. Without further ado, I opened my fly, and got down to business.
"You know why they call me Tylenol?" The girl shook her head while looking at my stiff, totally unimpressed. "Because I'm famous for my rapid release."
I grabbed her by the hair and pushed her down. She was obviously used to that kind of move, as she wasted no time to get going, suckling like the pro she was.
My dominant nature made me handle her quite roughly, pulling from that hair, shaking her head up and down to a more satisfying speed. Soon, I had enough, ready to spurt, but I wanted to make the most of my money, so I held her down as I came. She had no other choice but swallowing.
"Get out," I ordered after throwing the 30 dollars to her face. The police sirens kept getting louder, and closer. Definitely coming our way.
"What? Here? No, you take me back to my spot at Fourth!"
"GET OUT!" I barked, unwilling to listen to that screechy voice for a further second. She abided, stepping out of the Vette, probably thinking I was a psycho.
"Wanker!" she squeaked as I left, spatting leftovers of my sperm.
AAA
(46)
Maybe Murdock is right, 'cause I don't know dilly-squat about hospitals.
I hate hospitals. I'd do anything within my power to avoid them. As both, patient or visitor, doesn't matter. I just hate them. Their revolting smell of antiseptic and bleach makes me sick.
I'm sorry, but I must admit it: I lied to that crazy fool. My fist has no idea how to find its way inside a sick bay. No friggin' clue where Face could be.
Damn! Where the heck are the operating rooms in this joint?
I started a random search, wandering around the long corridors, careful not to bump into Decker or any MPs, hoping Hannibal had everything under control. But my bubble burst when I heard a gunshot and Maggie's cry.
"NOOO! Hannibal!"
Damn!
I ran, even faster than I could, following that sound. When I got there, I could not believe my eyes: Hannibal was down, and in dire need of back-up while Decker punched him non-stop. Angry as hell, I grabbed that bastard and slammed his head against the wall, glad my fist could be of use after all. Considering what the son of a bitch had done to Face, and now to Hannibal, I could keep using his head as a hammer to break a hole on that wall, but I let go of him instead, rushing to check on our C.O.
"Hannibal! You all right?"
What a stupid question! Damn! Of course he wasn't.
"Hannibal! Oh, my God! Look at the state of him!" Maggie said, kneeling by him to check his wound. At least, that slag had only hit his shoulder, going through, and he should be OK, but he looked even worse than Face. "Hannibal, can you hear me? Stay with us!" she insisted, gently slapping his battered face. "Stay with us, please!"
But the colonel didn't flinch.
"Damn! He's out!"
"He's gonna be all right!" I said, wary of the incoming doctors and security personnel. Decker's minions would also arrive soon. "He has to! We need him!"
"We have to go! Come on!"
I lifted the colonel and got him on my shoulder before I followed Maggie down the corridor, away from the incoming soldiers and all the people gathering around Decker. At least she knew her way in that hospital, and soon we got into a treatment room, where she collected all the stuff she needed to treat Hannibal.
"We have to get away now, or you'll never leave this hospital," she said then, dead serious.
"What about Face? Is he OK? We can't leave him here!"
"He is in theatre. There is nothing else we can do for him right now, but if we don't leave at once, you three will end up in prison, or worse."
She was absolutely right. The MPs would recognize me the moment they laid eyes on me, and then it would be game over. Unfortunately, we would have to leave without Face, and think of a plan to rescue him later.
"Give me that coat," she said, pointing at the jacket someone had left in the hanger behind the door. I helped her to put it on Hannibal, making sure it covered the gunshot wound, and then we placed him on a wheelchair, that she fitted with a small oxygen cylinder. She put the mask on his face, propping him up in a more natural position, and off we were.
"Code red! Code red!" someone cried at the end of another corridor, as we passed by.
"Wait!" she said, urging us into another room immediately. We waited until a surgeon in green scrubs rushed by, and then we carried on quickly in the opposite direction, making our way to the rear exit.
Nobody paid any attention to us all the way to her car. Then, it took us no time at all to get to the van. But when I pulled from the handle, I couldn't open the door. It was closed.
"Murdock! Open up!"
But the fool didn't answer. He wasn't there!
"I'm gonna kill 'im! I asked him to stay put!"
"Are you sure he's not there?" she said, having a look through the windscreen. "Murdock!"
AAA
(49)
Darkness.
The mother of all headaches, banging in my skull like a hammer.
Then, a light at the end of the tunnel, coming fast, like a runaway train. A light too bright, and too annoying, damaging my retina. I pawed at that light like an angry bear.
"He's awake!" someone said, releasing my pried-open eyelid.
For a moment, I didn't know where I was, or what had happened. Until I remembered: I was chasing the A-Team at high speed. Did we crash? Probably, with that inept Corporal Dempsey at the wheel.
Smith! You won't get away this time!
I tried to get up, but many hands held me down.
"Calm down! Take it easy!"
A surgeon in green scrubs leaned over me, checking my eyes again. Enough with that already! Leave me alone!
But, wait a minute… That face looks familiar… I'll be damn! That's Captain Murdockplaying doctor!
The crazy bastard placed a mask on my face before I could cry his name out loud. I fought, struggling with the other medical twats, who pinned me down until the sweet anesthetic knocked me off, back to the dark limbo. Damn!
AAA
(54)
Who put a fecking pillow on my face? I can't breathe!
I just woke up, but when I opened my eyes, I couldn't see shit. Or breathe. Well, no, I could get some air in, actually, but I didn't like it. It's hard enough to breathe like that, with a pillow on your face. Too much effort. And my ribs hurt. Everything hurt, especially my nose. But, wait a moment, that's not a pillow… It's lighter. A towel then?
Whatever it was, I tried to take that annoying cloth off my face, but I couldn't move my right hand. When I tried with the left, it was the same, I couldn't get far. I couldn't reach.
I shook both hands then, pulling, panicking when I heard the rattling, metallic noise of handcuffs. Am I handcuffed? Why? Where am I? What the hell is going on?
Just before I resorted to yelling, all worked up in a panic, I remembered: I was handcuffed to a chair, at the garage. And those bastard MPs kept hitting me. Yes! That's why I'm aching so much.
Wait… Did they think I was dead, and left my corpse covered by a sheet at the morgue? Then, I tried to scream, but just as I started, someone covered my mouth over that cloth, suffocating the noise, and suffocating me.
"Shhhh! Don't cry! You are OK!" someone whispered, close to my ear. "Be quiet!"
It's hard to follow instructions while you gasp for air, thinking someone is smothering you, so I kept struggling, shouting muffled cries and desperate whimpers.
"Calm down! It's me!"
Me? For crying out loud, could you be more specific? Still, I thought I recognized that voice, so I stopped struggling and concentrated on the breathing, which I could manage to do much better when that hand got lifted off my face.
"Murdock?"
"Yes! Shut up and play dead!" he urged, still whispering, tapping on my shoulder.
Only then I realized we were on the move.
AAAAA