CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

November 29, 1968

"Wait a minute." Major Steven Wren's brow was furrowed deeply as he stared at Hannibal. "You want to send an American in there to negotiate?"

Face and Hannibal exchanged glances, then both looked back at the 40-something soldier who was staring blankly at them. "Yes," Hannibal said simply.

Wren gaped. Then, picking his jaw up off the ground, he turned to the man who was calmly but seriously watching. "General, I don't mean to speak out of turn..." He hesitated on nearly every word. "But this is suicide."

If Face was concerned about his impending suicide, he didn't show it. Nor did General Westman, who merely answered with a calm, "He's done it before, Major."

Face just smiled as the MP stood there gaping. Unbuttoning his shirt, he turned his back to Cipher. His neck and shoulders were wet from the heat, and even after drying them, the tape didn't want to stick. "Don't worry about it, Sergeant," Hannibal said as Cipher tried to fasten the gun more securely between his shoulder blades, just beneath the collar of Face's shirt. "He's got to be able to get it off anyways."

"Yeah, but we don't want it falling off," Cipher said, with more concern than he usually allowed to show. He'd been very quiet about the stupidity of this emergency mission, which meant only one thing: it was supremely stupid, and he had nothing to say in response.

"There will be snipers watching you the entire time," Hannibal reminded as Face shrugged his shirt back on, trying not to fidget at the uncomfortable, inflexible bulge on his back. "All they'll need is a signal."

"If we could get a line of fire on these guys," Wren snapped, "we would've taken them out already. Just what the hell are you playing at?"

"My guess is that they're a couple of young VC kids in over their heads," he said, trying to convince himself of the confidence ringing in his voice. "The Viet Cong are terrorists, but this just isn't how they work. They blow up bars and toss grenades into crowds but they don't go in and take over a building and hole up in there."

Wren grit his teeth. "I know that, Sergeant." He seemed thoroughly insulted by the implication that it had to be explained to him. "What I don't understand is what you plan to do about it!"

Face sighed. He didn't need this right now. Wren had made his opinion clear from the start: storm the front door. People could die in the crossfire; they could die in the jungle, too. Either way, they were all ultimately there to die anyway, and it was best not to negotiate with terrorists.

Realizing he wasn't going to get a satisfactory answer, and not wanting to risk insubordination towards General Westman, Wren finally stormed off.

"Are you okay with this?" Hannibal asked, fixing Face in a hard stare.

Face raised a brow as he looked up at his commanding officer. "Standing out in front of a bunch of VC as bait and waiting for them to shoot me? Why shouldn't I be okay with that?"

Hannibal studied him for a long moment, ignoring the sarcasm on the chance that he might get a real answer if he simply waited. Face caught the look, and sighed as he turned away again. "Yeah, Hannibal," he finally said, dryly. "I'm fine."

"Are you sure?"

Shaking his head in disbelief, Face threw up his hands. "What do you want me to say?" he demanded. "No?"

"You could," Hannibal said seriously. "I'm not ordering you to go out there."

"Will that ease your conscience?" Face snapped.

Hannibal stared at him hard, and Face saw the first flicker of real doubt cross the colonel's expression. With a frustrated sigh, Face shook his head again. "Fuck you," he growled. "I'll be fine."

On either side of Face, his entire team was checking weapons. Face and the translator - an ARVN lieutenant - needed only to buy a few minutes of time, to allow the team access to the building without interruption from the AK-47s that occasionally peeked out the door at anyone who came too close. As long as they - and their operators - were focused on Face, they would be less aware of the impending attack.

"Are you sure you don't want more men?" Westman asked in his thick southern drawl. "We've got plenty."

He gestured around him at the small crowd in fatigues who had gathered to watch these proceedings. Face was acutely aware of the audience. In a way, he appreciated it. It made it impossible to show - or even feel - fear.

"No," Hannibal said firmly. "If we go in there with automatic weapons blasting, hostages are going to get killed. Full manual only." He glanced around at his team, to make sure they understood, and got a few nods. But nobody looked up. Hannibal turned back to Westman. "I know my team, General. I know what they're capable of. I don't want to take men I don't know."

It was a simple explanation. Westman required no more. He nodded in agreement, and Face made lingering eye contact with the translator. "You ready?"

The man put his shoulders back and nodded firmly, hiding his securities well. "Yes," he answered with confidence.

With one more deep breath, Face turned and set his eyes on the do-or-die task before him.

He was quite some distance away when he started calling out towards the bar. "Khong ban!" The cry of "don't shoot" was the only bit of his quick Vietnamese lesson he actually remembered. It was, quite simply, too important to forget.

Hands above his head, he walked slowly, watching the windows and doors carefully for anything that looked like a threat. The snipers on the rooftops around him were watching too. He had a feeling that was supposed to reassure him. But the simple fact was, if the men in there opened fire, he was going to die.

"Khong ban," he called again as he saw the curtains move. "I just want to talk."

The translator, a half-step behind him, called out in Vietnamese. The curtains rustled again, but no one fired. "Just want to talk," he repeated. "Can we talk?"

Negotiations with the enemy never went well. Not here. The last man he'd seen try to negotiate was dead before he could utter chu hoi. Of course, he hadn't been wearing a bullet proof vest. And he'd been in an active combat zone. But just how much reassurance was that supposed to provide? All of Vietnam was a war zone...

Hannibal knew it. He knew damn well the risk Face was taking. If he'd had cared just a little bit more about the prospect of returning home, he would almost be offended that his life was worth so little. But he didn't care. He might care when the adrenaline wore off and he felt the weight of just how close to death he'd come, but right now he was more than ready to meet his maker. He wasn't offended by the low price on his head, either; the chance of success, however small, was worth him taking a bullet. He was numb, void of feeling as he stood toe to toe with death. If he died, he died. Nobody would miss him.

"I want to talk," he yelled again, pausing this time until he got an answer. He was easily within range of their weapons, and he didn't want to push his luck. To say he didn't care if he lived was not to say that he didn't care about the success of the mission. After all, his reputation was at stake. That was worth far more than his life.

After several long moments of silence, a voice finally called back. "He says he doesn't want to talk," the translator relayed in perfect English. "He has nothing to say to you."

But in the answering call, he was talking. Face could work with that. He turned his head toward the translator, but kept his eyes on the building. "Ask him if there's anyone he does want to talk to."

The exchange was filled with tense silence. When the translator spoke again, he kept his voice low. "He says he doesn't want to talk to anyone. He sounds... unsure. The way he worded it. He's maybe... afraid?"

"Does he sound as young to you as he does to me?" Face asked quietly.

The translator nodded. "He does sound young, yes."

"Ask him if there's anyone else who might want to talk to me."

Out of the corner of his eye - he was careful not to look - he saw Cipher scaling the side of the building two rooftops over. Hannibal was on the other side, moving quickly. "He says to move back or he'll kill you," the translator said with impeccable calm in spite of the fact that if the enemy fired, they'd almost certainly hit them both.

Face suddenly realized how loud his heart was beating in his ears. The adrenaline flowing through his veins was almost euphoric. "He's scared, isn't he?" he whispered. He could hear the waver in the boy's voice, even if he couldn't understand the words.

"That doesn't mean he won't shoot," the translator warned softly.

Let him. Let him fucking shoot me. Maybe the colonel would actually feel guilty enough to care.

Face's eyes remained locked on the empty doorway. "Tell him that the only reason he's still alive is because he has innocent people in there," Face said flatly. As the translator relayed, Face paused only briefly before continuing. "And tell him that if he won't talk to me, we're going to assume that he has nothing to bargain with. And blow that building to holy hell."

Face was glad when the translator's voice didn't falter on the bluff. It was so damn much harder to read someone he could neither see nor understand. But he'd find out pretty quick if he'd made the right call. Either the boy would relent, or he'd start shooting.

Long moments passed. On the rooftop of the bar, Hannibal and Cipher were both in position and waiting on him. He was waiting on the damn VC.

Make your fucking move already.

Finally, the voice came back. "What kind of bargain?" the translator asked.

Bingo.

"Tell him to come to the door. I'm out in the open. I can't try anything. I know he has guns in the windows and he can put those on me too. I'll come within easy range. All I want is for him to come outside and talk."

Wait. Silence. Then, slowly, the door opened. A boy no older than thirteen peeked around the corner with an AK-47 in his hands. Curtains shifted. Guns appeared. As soon as they did, Hannibal and Cipher had a lock on their targets' positions. They dropped off the roof to the top windows at the front of the building, rappelling down and disappearing inside. Face held his breath. No sound. No shots. Phase one, complete. They were in.

August 30, 1978

"Man, where did you put that transmitter?" BA demanded, holding the headphones tightly against his ear. "I can hardly hear a thing!"

Face sighed, sipping from the bottle of water as he leaned against the wall inside the van. He hadn't been thrilled about the bulky black van when BA had bought it. But it did provide a mobile workstation that was worth having. Even if the exhaust fumes got to be intoxicating and the back of the van was like a hotbox in the summer sun, it gave them a place to set up inconspicuously. Sometime soon, BA kept saying, he would buy a real van.

"There wasn't exactly a good place to hide it," he answered, knowing which of the three transmitters BA was talking about. "I'm just glad you're getting a signal at all."

"Hey, Face, can you focus your eyes yet?" Murdock teased with a slight grin.

Face glared back. "Very funny." It had only been one drink. But it had gone down way too fast, and Face wasn't used to hard liquor anymore.

The side of the van was open, and Hannibal stepped into view carrying a two-liter of Coke and a bag of ice. "Got anything?" he asked as he set them both down on the floor of the van.

"Yeah." BA handed the headphones over to Murdock so that he could continue listening while BA gave his report. "They play twice a week. By invitation only. They got another player, Jerry Cocker, who on vacation in Florida. Left 'em a player short."

"Sounds promising," Hannibal observed. "You get any of the names of the players who are there?"

"One of 'em is named Roy," BA reported. "Rest I don't know. Bartender's brother is a cop. He in the bar now. They just about to finish their game."

"How high are the stakes?" Face asked, curious.

BA cast him a quick glance. "Last guy went all in at a hundred."

"That's not so much," Jessica observed, confused.

"Hundred thousand," BA clarified.

Her face fell. "Oh."

"When's their next game?" Hannibal asked.

"Wednesday night," BA said with confidence. "Seven o'clock."

Hesitating for a moment in contemplation, Hannibal filled a red plastic cup with ice before speaking again. "Face, how much cash can we have available before then?"

Face frowned. "As in... how many investments can we back out of so that we can gamble with them?" Clearly, he was not thrilled with that idea. "Are you talking about going for broke? Or keeping a safe cushion just in case everything goes wrong?"

"How much can we liquefy?" Hannibal clarified.

"Well we can..." He considered it for a moment. Stocks, bonds, investments that were better left alone for a few more years. Collectively, they kept about twenty-five thousand in cash readily available for use as needed. Beyond that, the money was tied up and he didn't like the idea of cashing in on it. They'd only had enough money to start investing for about six months. Before then, they'd lived hand to mouth. And he'd be damned if he went back to that.

"Fifty thousand?" he guessed. "Maybe? I can make a few calls and find out, but..." He frowned deeply, hoping to communicate how he felt about the idea of putting everything they had on the line.

"Relax, Face," Hannibal assured him with a smile. "We'll get it back. Trust me."

The frown remained fixed. Getting it back was not the same as not risking it. "Is that supposed to make me feel better?" he asked uneasily.

"Have Jessica drive you to the bank," Hannibal directed. "Bring back twenty thousand. That should be enough to get the doors open at least."

Reluctantly, Face nodded his agreement - slowly, as to keep the world from sloshing around him - and followed Jessica out of the van, handing over his keys on the way to the car. Behind him, he could just make out the sound of Hannibal's deep-south accent. "I think it's time to give these guys a player they can have some real fun with."