CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

August 30, 1978

Face could not believe he was doing this. Considering all the insane, unnecessarily risky, and frankly death-defying stunts he'd pulled over the years, the current plan didn't even make the top ten. But that didn't make it any easier to appear relaxed, or to answer Jessica's terribly reasonable question: "Why not just call the police?" Attempts to defend the plan against her skepticism would fail; he knew that before even trying. There was no way to make her understand that if he wanted a crazy plan to work the crazy way that it would for a jazz-crazed Hannibal, he had something of a formula to follow. It wasn't hard to figure out what Hannibal would do in the circumstances; he used a lot of the same tactics over and over and Face knew them pretty well after ten years. All they had to do was aim for a performance that was way over the top and have a decent enough reaction time to catch the pieces when they fell. And since the "military wild card" hadn't failed Hannibal yet, it was a pretty good guess that it would've been his move if he was out here making the calls.

"The military will be much more interested," Face answered as he dialed, then waited for the phone to be picked up. "It'll also take them a little longer to get here than the police, and we need the time."

"Not that much longer," Murdock said quietly, hovering beside Jessica with eyes darting up and down the street. "Lynch set up residence right in the LA Air Force Base." He was more approving of this plan - at least, more convinced of its likelihood of success - than Jessica. But he was still as tensed and ready as Face for anything to go wrong.

"You're wanted by the military!" Jessica reminded, a bit frantic. "How can you -"

Face held up a hand to silence her as the ringing stopped with a quiet shuffling sound. "Colonel Lynch speaking."

"Colonel Lynch, this is Detective Paul Better from the Alabine police department," Face started in a voice just slightly higher than natural. He could not believe he was doing this...

"What can I do for you, detective?" Lynch replied dismissively.

"We just received an emergency call a few minutes ago," Face reported. "Protocol says we're supposed to contact you with anything pertaining to the A-Team, right?"

Lynch paused for just a moment, interest suddenly peaked. "Yes, that's right."

"Well, apparently, they've taken a hostage of some kind," he continued. "She managed to get to a phone and call 9-1-1, and we called you right away."

"A hostage?" The frown on Lynch's face was audible in his words. "That doesn't sound like the A-Team."

Face was almost flattered. There was some level of depravity Lynch didn't think they'd stoop to. "Hey, I'm just following protocol," he answered. "If you want me to just send a couple of guys out there to check it out, I can do that. I don't want to waste your time."

"No, no," Lynch protested quickly. "If it is them, they'll try to get away as soon as they realize we're onto them. Do you have the address?"

Face grinned. "Absolutely."

He hung up a moment later and looked to Jessica, whose concerned stare was still boring into him. "Does this plan have a phase two, I hope?" she asked anxiously.

"It does," he assured her. "Now, how much money do you have in the bank?"

August 30, 1978

Jessica was slightly less able to hide her anxiety than years of practice had taught Face to do. It wasn't a bad thing, for the role she had to play, as long as she could keep it together and remember her part of the plan. Shifting nervously from one foot to the other, wringing her hands together and appearing generally uncomfortable in her own skin, she looked every bit the part of a woman who was about to give away her life savings.

"You're sure you can do this?" Face checked, eyeing her carefully.

She swallowed hard as she nodded. "All I have to do is go in, give them the money, and tell them I'll pay the rest and clear Paulie's debts as soon as the stock exchange opens on Monday."

The amount of money wasn't really substantial, and it was every last penny she had after her ex had cleaned her out. More surprising was the ease with which she withdrew it, placed it in a briefcase, and handed it over to Face without so much as a squeak of protest. He knew she'd worked hard for it and they both knew she'd be destitute if anything happened to it. But millionaires had offered more resistance to the potential loss of ten thousand dollars.

"They won't buy it," Paulie mumbled, covering his face with his hand. He'd found a new mantra, and had been repeating it over and over again since Murdock had returned with Jessica and the money. "They won't buy it. You don't know how much money I owe them. They'll take her to try and make me pay. I know they will."

Face ignored him. "When they take you hostage, what do you tell them?"

She took a deep breath. "That Hannibal is a very important person - I don't know who or why he's so important so they'll have to ask him - and the Army paid me to come in and find out if he was still alive."

Nodding slowly, Face waited for her to continue. When she didn't, he prodded gently, "And if you don't report back?"

"If I don't report back," she said in a rush, as if suddenly remembering the answer to a pop quiz, "they're going to come and shoot the place to hell."

"Good," Face concluded with a nod.

But Jessica frowned, wringing her hands tighter. "You realize that sounds even harder to believe than the truth," she pointed out nervously.

"You don't have to sell it," Face assured her. "All you need to do is say it."

The lines in her furrowed brow grew even deeper. "So they're not supposed to believe me?"

"Not really," Murdock answered with a grin. Face was hiding his apprehension well but Murdock seemed to be genuinely enjoying this now that he'd slipped into the role. "We're just trying to get you to Hannibal."

"And when they put you with him," Face cut in, "what do you need to tell him?"

Jessica closed her eyes and took a breath before reciting with uncertainty, "Um... something about Colonel Lynch?"

"Colonel Lynch is coming to get him out," Face clarified. "And if they don't put you with him?"

Another deep breath passed in and out, then she opened her eyes and looked directly at Face. "Just stay calm," she said firmly.

"You think you can do that?" Face asked.

She nodded, and her look of cool determination almost convinced him. It would have to do, in any case. She was the best tool they had for getting into that building.

"What happens if something goes wrong with this big elaborate plan of yours?" she asked uneasily.

"You think this is elaborate?" Murdock chuckled.

"Look, why we gotta send her in there?" Paulie demanded, cutting in with another frantic, darting look between them all. "They could kill her."

"She's a legitimate go-between with a legitimate reason to buy you out of debt," Face reminded him. "That validates her story. She's also valuable - to you - as a hostage, so they won't kill her."

"I thought they weren't supposed to believe my story," Jessica said anxiously.

"They're not." Face smiled. "But you need to make them believe that you expect them to."

"We'll be listening to you the whole time," Murdock reminded her, sensing the uneasiness as she wrestled with that logic. Without thought, her hand drifted to the tiny transmitter on the inside of her jacket collar. "We can't talk to you, but you can talk to us."

"And if they find it?" she asked tensely.

"Don't panic," Face said. "The transmitter is just a backup, and it's perfectly reasonable if the Army is sending you in to check on Hannibal. It'll actually help you with that hard-to-believe story."

She took another deep breath, then swallowed hard. "God, this is so crazy, Face."

"Hey." He held both of her shoulders and tipped his head down until she looked up and met his stare. "If you don't want to do this, you tell me now. We'll find another way. I don't want you going in there unless you're a hundred percent sure you can do it."

She studied him for a long moment, then turned to glance at Murdock. The same serious expression was on his face. Finally, she nodded. "I can do it," she said confidently.

December 12, 1968

If anyone could've done it, it was Face. Hannibal lingered outside of the bar, staring through the grated window as Face waved the bartender away. His glass was still half full, and he hadn't touched it in the past five minutes that Hannibal had been watching him. Clearly, he wasn't there to get drunk.

"What're you drinking, kid?"

The sergeant turned, eyes narrowed. "What's it to you?"

Hannibal smiled to himself. The flash of anger and wary distrust was plainly visible even though the kid was plastered. "Is that your way of saying you're too drunk to remember?"

A roll of the eyes, a dismissive gesture. "Go to hell."

"That'd be 'go to hell, Sir.'" Hannibal gestured to the bartender. He could feel the kid's eyes on him, and gave him a quick glance. "Colonel John Smith."

He offered a hand, but Sergeant Peck had already turned away. "You'll forgive me if I don't salute."

Hannibal had seen it from the start. The wariness, the cold distrust. But surely that must have faded. It was natural to be wary of someone unknown. But it had been nearly five months now - working together, living together - and that was a hell of a long time in a war setting. Surely his own conclusions should have overruled the rumors. It made no sense that the old wounds, the secondhand testimony of other men, should be held in higher regard than Face's own experience. Face knew for a fact that Hannibal would put his life on the line for him. He had to know it. How could he not know it?

The trust in the field was implicit; they all relied on each other for their next breath. If Face had lacked that trust, he would not have been able to function. Hannibal had worked with those soldiers - the ones who weren't able to trust. He was always relieved to see them walk away... if they lived that long. Unfortunately, they often didn't. Knowing that was what ultimately had convinced Westman that it was not only beneficial, but prudent to authorize Hannibal's team. If Hannibal found the right team of soldiers who could trust that deeply, that team would be unstoppable.

That team had been unstoppable.

The memory of Finch - and the team that had died with him - still lingered in the dark, haunting his dreams. It was a failure that he would never forgive. Westman had forgiven it. He'd even allowed Hannibal to rebuild his team. "Soldiers die," he'd said. "Just thank God that you're not dead yet and get back out there." It had been easier said than done, and Hannibal still lived with the constant fear that someday, it would happen all over again. But it was a risk he had to take. If he let that fear cripple him, he would be worthless to the Army, let alone himself.

The second team he'd formed - Harring, Brenner, and Peck - was solid. At least, he'd felt that it was. The men had no fear, and complete confidence. And nothing stood in their way. Bullet wounds here and there, shrapnel and broken bones, all of that healed in time. And after every injury, they got right back up, and right back out on the field. He'd never ask any of them to stay when their six or twelve month tours were finished, but he knew they would. They'd all acted on their own to sign on for voluntary indefinite status. It was unspoken, and yet they all knew it - they were in this together, come hell or high water.

How could he have so misjudged Face? And how could he have so failed, in all this time, to establish trust, even if it had not been there in the beginning? He didn't understand. And if nothing else, he needed to understand. If it could be fixed, he would give his right arm to fix it. Too many months, too many drops had bonded him to that kid just as strongly as to the rest of the team, and he couldn't simply write him off even if he wanted to. He frowned as he considered that. It was quite possible that he was even more bonded to Face. He saw his own eyes when he looked at that sergeant - passionate, reckless determination that threw caution to the wind. But he'd always expected, always thought, that he saw trust there, too. Loyalty. Dedication. All of those things that the kid somehow seemed to lack.

He was young. Hannibal had to give him that. He didn't know just how young he'd been when he'd fraudulently enlisted, and he went through eighteen months of training before he'd ever set foot in Vietnam. But if he had to guess, Hannibal didn't expect that he was older than nineteen even now. That would've made him about seventeen when he came over, and Vietnam sure was a fucked up place for a seventeen-year-old. Hell, it was a fucked up place for a nineteen-year-old, or a thirty-year-old.

He'd never asked why Face had joined so young; Face had never offered. But Hannibal suspected there was even more to the story of distrust and self-sufficient anger in the sixteen years - give or take - before the Army. What the hell had that kid been through, that he could put his life in the hands of another man... but he couldn't trust that man to have his best interest in mind without blackmail?

Hannibal sighed as he glanced up and down the street, then checked his watch. How long before the MPs realized Face was missing? How long before they came for him? As Hannibal looked back through the grate, the words echoed in his mind.

"It's going to take an awful lot of string-pulling to get you reassigned to me and with a clean slate. I can think of quite a few soldiers who are more available, and less insubordinate."

The sergeant's eyes flashed. "Then why the hell are we talking?"

"Because when I came looking for you in the stockade, I found you in a bar."

That was where he found him again. His reasons for considering Face worthy of a place on his team hadn't changed. But all of that meant nothing if the kid didn't have trust. And if Face couldn't explain that - with a good explanation, one that Hannibal could actually do something about - then he would not have him under his command. Even if that meant losing his command. There were some things Hannibal just couldn't live with, and risking the lives of everyone on his team to save the one who didn't want to be saved not a risk he could take.

August 30, 1978

Roy's reaction to the news of Paulie's escape was amusing, informative, and suitably enthusiastic.

"What do you mean he got away!" The burst of anger was followed by the crash of boxes from nearby. Although Hannibal couldn't see anything from where he and BA had been neatly deposited in the corner - conveniently out of sight and well within earshot - the sounds painted a picture of the short, heavy man's temper tantrum. "What do I pay you for!"

BA's look was impassive, but Hannibal couldn't quite contain his smile. He hadn't even spent the time and energy to think of a plan for escape yet, far too amused by the empty threats of excessive force aimed at the absent Paulie. In fact, the two undercover police officers - or so Roy and his collaborators assumed - seemed almost uninteresting in comparison. Wrists tied and dropped into the corner, they'd been ignored for the past several hours - plenty of time and privacy to escape if Hannibal had felt the need. But he was far more interested in hearing the outcome of Face's plan, whatever it might be, to rescue Paulie. All but forgotten in the corner, Hannibal had been gathering information better than any short range radio could've done.

"There was a guy there," an unfamiliar voice reported.

Roy was unimpressed by the explanation. "What guy?"

"I dunno," the man continued uncomfortably. Hannibal could almost see his nervous expression. He could certainly hear it in the low, uncertain voice. "He was blond, not real tall, early twenties..."

Hannibal and BA exchanged glances, and smirks. Early twenties? Face would be flattered.

"He had a gun," the man finished, as if that might satisfy the need for explanation or maybe even pacify Roy.

"You all had guns!" Roy yelled back, furious. "What the hell do I pay you for?"

"Yeah, but he shot Johnny," the voice reported, slightly indignant. "And then the cops came. We got outta there as fast as we could."

The response was muffled, an angry growl that Hannibal couldn't understand from this distance. A moment later, to his surprise, Roy Smith rounded the stack of boxes and placed the barrel of a pistol weapon against Hannibal's forehead.

BA jerked to attention, instantly. For his part, that thing buried inside of Hannibal - put there by his wartime experience and used all-too-frequently in his current line of work - switched on in an instant. Stone cold and ready to die, he nevertheless faced down his executor with defiance and determination that made it clear he wasn't expecting to.

"Who the hell is your blond friend?" Roy demanded, pushing Hannibal back on his bound hands.

Hannibal was careful not to take too long to respond, but not to answer so flippantly that the man might actually feel as though he'd lost control. He was already teetering on that edge, and there was no telling how much pressure it would take to actually snap him.

"Blond friend?" Hannibal answered coolly. "I don't know what you mean."

Roy growled, pressing forward on the gun and forcing Hannibal's head to tilt back. "Don't play games with me," he warned. "I could shoot you right here and now!"

"You don't wanna do that, man," BA warned.

"Oh yeah?" Roy snapped, casting a quick glare in his direction. "Why not?"

"Because you'll never get your money back if you're in jail," Hannibal replied, drawing the man's attention back. "And that's what you're ultimately after, isn't it? From what I hear, Paulie Verdeaux owes you a lot of money."

Roy glared down at him, untrusting. But Hannibal could tell he'd caught the man off guard. Although the conversation had been overt and Paulie's name had been thrown around plenty, the candid suggestion that Hannibal might have some personal interest in it didn't escape the man's notice. "What's it to you?" he demanded.

"Maybe I could help you find Paulie." Hannibal grinned - a secretive smile that promised nothing but insinuated plenty. "And maybe not. But either way, killing me isn't going to get you any closer to finding him, now is it?"

Hannibal saw the blow coming as Roy tipped over the edge. He was already too far from finding Paulie for his over-inflated ego to handle. Hannibal didn't try to avoid the burst of anger. As the gun cracked against the side of his skull, he turned just ahead of it to avoid a concussion. Immediately, he felt the blood drip down the side of his face, but it was nothing a bandage wouldn't heal.

Roy spun angrily back to the men standing behind him, just out of view. "Find him!" he ordered, too furious to give any further direction as to how he expected them to comply. "Find him and bring him to me, dead or alive! I'm not about to just let that man walk away after all he's taken from me!"