CHAPTER THREE

April 18, 1985

Face had almost made it out of earshot of the car when the phone rang. With an irritated growl, he turned back. He'd had a hell of a time getting out the door this morning, and was already running late. But there weren't many people who'd be calling that phone, especially when Hannibal was up in the mountains of Colorado. Under the circumstances, it was probably better not to ignore the incessant ringing.

Not bothering to sit back down, he reached across the driver's seat, grabbed the handset, and greeted the caller with as much patience as he could manage. "Hello?"

"Hello, is this Joseph Ranger?" an unfamiliar male voice asked.

Immediately, he wished he'd just let it ring. Joseph Ranger was the emergency contact listed for Murdock at the VA, and if he'd taken the time to think about it, he probably could've figured out they'd be the ones calling. "Speaking," he answered distractedly, glancing around in search of his stockbroker's car. It didn't seem to be parked in the normal place and maybe, just maybe, Face was lucky enough to have made it to their usual diner before him, even in spite of all the delays.

"Mr. Ranger," the man began with the utmost professional courtesy, "I'm calling in regards to HM Murdock."

"No, wait," Face interrupted, although clearly, the caller wasn't finished speaking. "Don't tell me. He's missing again. You know, you guys really should look into beefing up security."

The moment of stunned silence on the other end of the phone suggested the man wasn't entirely sure what to say. Internalizing his sigh, Face checked his watch and prayed he would find the words to end this conversation soon and with as little awkwardness as possible.

"Mr. Ranger, I am not with the VA hospital," the man clarified after a moment's pause. "I'm with the FBI."

Face stopped suddenly, thoughts interrupted. "The FBI?" he asked, genuinely surprised and suddenly interested. His stockbroker could wait. "What do you want with Murdock?"

"We need to speak with him regarding a very important matter," the man continued obscurely. "Do you know where we might find him?"

The non-answer was annoying, but expected. Face had an answer ready. "You're asking me?" he challenged, still not sure whether cooperation or confrontation was more likely to extract answers. It was always harder to read people over the phone. "Last time I saw him, he was in a psych ward with a door that locked from the outside."

"According to the nurses here, he didn't make it to breakfast yesterday morning," the caller reported, with the slight hesitation of a man checking his notes.

Actually, Face could remember exactly what Murdock had eaten for breakfast yesterday morning. But that amount of cooperation definitely wouldn't make the answers any more forthcoming. "Well, if I see him, I'll certainly let him know you're looking for him." Face paused briefly, then tried once more. "Can I tell him what this is about?"

"It really is best we speak to him as soon as possible," came the scripted response.

Whatever they wanted, they weren't going to tell Face about it. Although he could've entered into a heated argument about power of attorney and his right to know Murdock's business, he would probably have far better luck satisfying his curiosity by other means.

"Well, luckily he usually comes back on his own," he answered the caller casually. "You have a number where I can call you if I see him?"

He took the number down on a small pad of paper from the glove box, then plopped back down into the driver's seat as he hung up the phone. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught his reflection in the rearview mirror and fixed the slightly windblown hair with a brush of his fingers. What the hell did the FBI want with Murdock? Although he'd had plenty of dealings with law enforcement of all types, Face could honestly say the FBI was relatively unfamiliar to him. He would've thought they were equally unfamiliar to Murdock.

Tapping fingertips against the steering wheel a few times, Face debated his next move. Stockbroker, or FBI. It didn't seem like much of a choice. With a sigh, he closed the door and just for the hell of it, dialed the number to the van. He wasn't surprised when he couldn't get through; the Corvette was a secondary contact and would've only been tried if the van wasn't taking calls. If Hannibal didn't realize they had no reception, he'd figure it out when he didn't receive the obligatory check-in call at 6:00 this evening. Face could deal with that later. The more he learned in the meantime, the better.

The hospital was only a few miles away, and he drove at a leisurely pace, enjoying the morning sunshine through the open top of the Corvette. Finally pulling to a stop in the parking lot, he grabbed a locked briefcase from behind the passenger seat. Inside, he found the identification he was looking for - fake, but convincing at a glance - and set the case aside again.

He was surprised to find the FBI agents still there, roaming around in business suits and with badges displayed. It made him pause for a second, and rethink his approach. He'd only figured he would have to charm a few nurses - something he was quite accustomed to doing - and hadn't really even bothered to come up with a plan as to what he was going to say. He thought well enough off the top of his head and the weekend shift nurses wouldn't recognize the "doctor" who'd just been there two weeks ago to transfer Mr. Murdock to another facility for some neurological testing. He hadn't even bothered to make an appearance yesterday, when Murdock vanished in the middle of the night all on his own.

"Can I help you?" The nurse at the station had already seen him before he had a chance to think through the marginally more complicated story he would have to utilize. He smiled, faking the confidence until it was genuine. No one would ever know the difference.

"I'm looking for an HM Murdock." He definitely had the attention of the suits as he flashed the police badge. "Detective Jeff Aniston, LAPD."

Before she had a chance to answer, an official-looking man in a cheap suit was already approaching, hand outstretched in greeting. "Mark Colburn, FBI."

Face raised a brow questioningly as he shook his hand. "FBI? Don't tell me you guys are involved in this, too."

"Might I ask what your business is with Mr. Murdock?" Colburn asked, not reacting in the slightest to the feigned surprise.

"We have reason to believe that he was involved in a shooting on Wednesday night," Face said flatly. "Two people were killed and his fingerprints were found at the scene." By the time they figured out that the story was complete bullshit, Face would be long gone with his answers.

"Wednesday night?" the nurse at the station cried. "Why, that's impossible! Mr. Murdock was right here on Wednesday night!"

"As I understand it, he's been here for the past ten years, ma'am," Face reminded. "So perhaps you can explain to me how his fingerprints turned up at my crime scene. Or where he is now?"

Caught without a comeback, she stammered for a moment, then scowled as she turned away. Face directed his attention back to the FBI agent. "What are you guys here for?" he asked. "I didn't think anybody would've had reason to call in the feds."

"We're following up on an unrelated matter," Colburn offered. "We just have a few questions for Mr. Murdock."

That was about as vague as it could possibly be. Face frowned. "An unrelated matter?" he prodded.

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss it, Detective."

Of course he wasn't. Face had seen that coming a mile away. He was getting nowhere and the longer he hung around, the greater chance he had of being caught in the lie. "Well, if I find him before you do, he'll be answering my questions before yours."

Colburn smiled politely. "And if we find him, we'll be sure to send him your way when we're through."

Face left the hospital undeterred, but well aware he needed a different approach. That was okay; he appreciated the challenge every once in a while. Still considering options for his next move, he'd just turned over the ignition when the passenger side door opened. Almost before he had a chance to turn his head, there was an enormous man - the kind who could give BA a run for his money - sitting in the passenger seat.

There was no time for questions. The sandy-haired giant raised a pistol, and it clicked as he pulled back the hammer. "You're Templeton Peck?"

Face laughed nervously, hands raised in a defenseless posture. What was the safest answer to that? "Who's asking?" he questioned, increasingly suspicious that his own plans were once again about to take a backseat to circumstance.

"I want to hire the A-Team," the menacing stranger said gruffly. "And I don't got a lot of time. So you'll forgive me if I don't go through the proper channels but you're going to take me to Hannibal Smith. Right now."

September 22, 1969

The seat beside Murdock should've been filled with a copilot. Murdock had never flown a UH-1 without a copilot. Or a maintenance engineer, or a gunner for that matter. This was a new experience indeed - one that didn't seem to faze anyone else. A shuffling sound nearly drew his intensely alert stare away from the illuminated gauges, but he was too anxious with the fate of this chopper and all its occupants resting solely on him to give the newcomer a glance.

"You know," Face began, flopping down beside him, "from the death grip you've got on those controls, I'd almost think you were a little nervous."

Murdock didn't acknowledge the commentary. What would be the point? Murdock would've been a fool if he hadn't been at least slightly unnerved. This operation went against everything he'd ever been taught about protocol.

"You're not supposed to be up here, you know," he finally said when silence had stretched too long. "But if you insist on being here, I'm going to have to ask that you leave the drivin' to me. And don't touch anything."

Face gave a smirk, and a quick glance over his shoulder at the rest of the team, huddled around a flashlight in the dark cargo area of the Huey. Murdock had spent the past twenty minutes trying his damnedest to ignore all of them and simply focus on the task at hand.

"You've done a lot of combat drops," Face prodded. "And a few rescues, too. What makes this different?"

"Not real sure what you mean," Murdock replied tightly.

Face was silent for a moment, until Murdock could feel the weight of his stare. Finally resigning himself to the inevitability of conversation, Murdock glanced up briefly and caught the boy's gaze. Shirt half-unbuttoned and drenched in sweat, greasepaint smeared over his face and neck, it was harder to tell him apart from any other soldier who got dropped into this hellhole. But it was still everything Murdock could do to keep himself from asking just how old he was. Boys so young should not be on the battlefield and seeing him here, in a position that took years of training to achieve, was an enigma.

"Hannibal told me you hijacked a Skyraider to answer the call for help from A Shau," Face continued.

"Hannibal?" Murdock raised a brow as he stole a quick glance at the younger man. He could guess to whom Face was referring, but he wondered at the nickname. Not the fact that the colonel had one; every man in SOG did. But it was an unusual title, and blatant in its significance.

Face smirked back at him. "I guess BA was right. You don't even know who you're working for, do you? I thought you had experience with Special Ops."

"I do," Murdock replied flatly. In fact, his unit was known primarily for their work with Special Ops. But he didn't know this team.

After a moment of tense silence, Murdock turned his attention momentarily to the moon and the shadows it cast over the trees below him. There were enemy soldiers down there, armed with weapons of all sorts, eager to prevent their opponents' return home. In a few minutes, he'd drop these soldiers right down into the midst of them, and he may or may not see them again. But that was the nature of the job, and he needed to keep his attention on flying this bird.

"Hey, listen, when this is over, let me buy you a drink," Face offered, catching him slightly off guard.

Murdock didn't have a chance to answer before Colonel Smith yelled from the back, "Face! Get your happy ass back here. You need to be a part of this."

Clapping a hand over Murdock's shoulder, Face jumped up and between the seats, narrowly avoiding the control stick. The instant of panic sent a hot flash through Murdock, but he quickly recovered as he realized the chopper hadn't been sent careening wildly out of control. He could hear them talking and laughing like old friends going out for coffee as he focused intently on the instruments. It was hard to believe those soldiers were about to jump out of a helicopter over enemy territory.

Murdock's eyes faded out of focus for a moment as he listened to Harring, laughing hysterically over some joke he'd not heard from the cockpit. That sound was so foreign to him, so out of place. How could anyone laugh here, now, in this hell? Why would anyone want to? As his gaze swept the emptiness of the trees below, he wondered how many bodies were down there, unrecovered and rotting in the sweltering heat. How many fathers, sons, and brothers. The thought left him with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

The Green Berets could laugh. Murdock would never laugh again.

April 18, 1985

The laughter was loud enough to attract Hannibal's attention from fifteen feet above, where he was leaning on the rail of the large deck. He watched with a quiet smile as the two grown adults in the yard below chased each other like children. With a scotch in one hand and a cigar in the other, he was happy just to bask in the warm sun and survey the serenity all around them.

"Man, I don't get it."

Hannibal smiled, casting a quick glance at the man standing beside him with arms folded defensively. "What's the matter, BA?" he asked. "You're beginning to sound jealous."

BA's arms dropped and he took an affronted step back. "Man, I ain't jealous of that fool!"

"He's happy, she's happy." Hannibal gestured at the two of them, then brought his hand up to set the cigar between his teeth. "I'm glad she came along."

"Yeah," BA answered with obvious skepticism. "I give it three weeks and he'll be cryin' all over the place 'cause she found out how crazy he is."

Hannibal shrugged as he considered the possibility with vague interest. "It's already been two months," he mused. BA grumbled, his frown deepening as the two of figures below rolled head over heels down the slight hill, laughing loudly until they came to a stop in an embrace. Hannibal looked away with a smile, giving them some privacy. But they knew they were being watched, and they were keeping it clean. Puppy love, all of it.

"I give it another six months," Hannibal mused, turning his back to the railing and exchanging the cigar for a sip of the whiskey.

A quiet sound of disgust was the only answer he got, quickly followed by the sound of Murdock's voice below. "Hey, Hannibal?"

Glancing over his shoulder, Hannibal saw Murdock regain his footing, shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked up. Kelly was right behind him, wearing his hat. "Gonna go for a walk down by the lake," Murdock informed.

Hannibal reached into his pocket for one of the walkie-talkies. "Here, take this," he ordered, dropping it down. Murdock caught it easily. "Keep it on, just in case."

"Walk down by the lake" was Murdock's way of saying "don't come looking for me" if last night was any indication. Their "walk" had lasted until just before dawn, and Hannibal had drifted in and out of awareness all night waiting for the sound of the door opening. It wasn't that he didn't trust Murdock, or that he felt particularly threatened out here in the middle of nowhere. And it wasn't that he felt the need to know where Murdock was at every moment; he was a grown man, after all. But danger seemed to follow them around, and there was no reason to give it an opportunity to catch them off guard. Even Face knew to check in every night.

*X*X*X*

Face wanted to try calling the van again, but considering the speed they were travelling down the long, straight stretch, he would have to slow down. Besides, he'd just tried a few hours ago, and the van was definitely out of range up in the mountains. The call had gone through just fine last night, but they hadn't gotten all the way to the cabin yet. If he wanted to talk to them, he'd simply have to wait for them to realize they had no reception and drive closer to town. Then they'd call him.

Glancing over at his stony-faced passenger, Face evaluated the more immediate problem than the simple communications failure. The brutish man, unshaven and probably sporting twice Face's muscle mass, seemed to alternate between incredibly jumpy and ridiculously over-confident. They'd stopped twice. Either time, Face could have easily gotten away. For that matter, he probably could've gotten away with the car and left this jackass stranded. He chose not to, morbidly curious as to what kind of petition the stranger had for his team. And, of course, the fact that Face was dying to ask Murdock why the FBI was looking for him had a part to play in his decision to drive out to Colorado as well.

"How much further?" the man demanded with a glare, still cradling the gun in his lap.

"You might as well get comfortable," Face replied casually, glancing up at the mid-afternoon sun. "We've still got a long way to go."

The man's attention turned to the flat desert outside. "We should've taken a plane," he muttered under his breath. "Why the hell are we driving?"

Smiling at the patently stupid question, Face gave a little shrug. "Ah, but if we'd taken a plane, you wouldn't be able to hold me at gunpoint."

The passenger turned and glared at him menacingly. "You're a real smartass, you know that?"

Had he not been accustomed to such intimidation tactics from BA, Face might have given the implied threat more than a fleeting disregard.

The sun beat down through the open top of the car, the temperature climbing steadily to uncomfortable levels. Out of the corner of his eye, Face saw the man shift and writhe out of his jacket. Face's gaze immediately fell to the tattoo on his left forearm, and lingered there.

"How many tours?" he asked carefully.

"What?" the man asked gruffly.

Face nodded to the rough, green tattoo on the stranger's forearm. If he had to guess, he would've said the tattoo had been done with a needle and ink from a ballpoint pen: a prison tattoo. "Fuck the NVA?" he read aloud. He gave a slight smirk in answer to the man's scowl. "You can't get much more obvious than that."

"Yeah?" The man was immediately defensive. "What's it to you?"

"You also have a POW flag on the back of your neck," Face pointed out, ignoring the hostility. That one had been done professionally, and retained its colors. "Just curious."

The man's eyes narrowed into slits. But finally, unexpectedly, he answered. "Just one tour."

Face was ready with the question to keep the conversation going. "Who were you with?"

"Does it matter?" the stranger immediately shot.

Backing down silently, Face raised one hand to show he didn't want to fight. The other remained safely on the steering wheel as they shot through the glaring desert at nearly 130 miles-per-hour. The defensive answer piqued his curiosity. Although it wasn't at all uncommon to meet Vietnam vets with a grudge, the man undoubtedly knew he was in like company. There was no way in hell he'd sought them out without knowing who they were and where they'd come from. Especially if he'd served in 'Nam himself. Even on guard against painful memories, there was a certain understanding that existed between veterans: they'd all been through it and they got through it together. When you couldn't tell who might be enemy, you at least knew that an American soldier was an ally. At the moment, Face was being regarded more like the enemy. He was dying to know why.

Patiently, he waited until the passenger turned to glare out the window again, stealing a few glances at him between watching the road.

"You still in?" Face tried again.

The answer was instant, clipped, and ice cold. "No."

Smiling at the man who reminded him more and more of BA with every passing minute, Face's tone was light as he replied. "Well, I guess we have something in common after all."

The man was quiet, glaring out the window, and Face sighed. It was like talking to a brick wall. Finally giving up, Face's shoulders slumped as he set both hands on the steering wheel and focused on the mountains in the distance. Not expecting to hear anything more, he was caught off guard when the man suddenly spoke again. "We got more in common than you think."

Face raised a brow, processing slowly and hazarding a few quick glances in the man's direction. Noting the attention, the man sighed loudly. In one quick motion, he jerked the sleeve of his shirt up to his shoulder, revealing the familiar blue insignia with the gold sword and lightning bolts. Face's eyes widened just slightly.

"Special Forces," he thought out loud. He looked again at the writing above and beneath it. "A-503, Nha Trang. That's Mike Force, isn't it?"

This time, it was the stranger's turn to be surprised. "Very good, LT," he managed. "I'm surprised you know that."

"I'm surprised to see it tattooed on your arm," Face answered instantly and without thought. He wasn't sure why the simple statement was perceived as a threat, but there was no mistaking the reception as the man growled under his breath. He glared out the windshield, tightening his hand around the grip of the gun sitting in his lap.

"Just shut up and drive," he ordered icily.

Face set his eyes firmly on the road ahead of him, and drove on in silence, mind racing. The man wanted something, and there was a good chance it would be completely unrelated to the war. Vietnam was ancient history now - or at least people liked to pretend it was. Sooner or later, Face would find out what this was all about. He was willing to wait. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gone for a very long drive in a very quiet vehicle.