CHAPTER FOURTEEN

April 9, 1971

If Hannibal noticed the looks of pure horror he received from every direction in the moderately upscale restaurant, he didn't acknowledge them. In dress greens and sporting a dark tan, his body well-toned from months of active service, he definitely stood out among the fat and pale-skinned civilians. A few paused to stare but - perhaps just because of the way the man carried himself - nobody in the restaurant dared speak in a tone he could actually hear. Hushed whispers and murmurs permeated the silence, but the soldier and his civilian companion were purposefully ignored.

Sitting across from his former commanding officer and nursing a scotch on the rocks, Murdock didn't feel much like eating. But the pasta helped to soak up the liquor and it was easy enough on his stomach. Besides, it would've been a shame to go through the trouble of putting on clothes suitable for this restaurant - cutoffs and a T-shirt wouldn't have been quite sufficient - just to sit here and stare at his plate. Or, perhaps more accurately, to be stared at by the wary and confused patrons, unsure of why a soldier would be advertising his association with an unpopular war and why his companion was so damned emaciated.

Hannibal had nearly finished his meal before offering any conversation beyond the casual comment on the restaurant's decor or the distinctly overcast weather. But Murdock had been bracing himself for it since the moment they'd set foot out of the sleazy motel room.

"So, what are you doing now that your service is over?" came the question he'd been anticipating with dread.

He sucked in a breath, steeling himself for an interrogation. "Better be careful what you tell him," the familiar voice in his head whispered, low and hot in his ear. "You know what he wants if he came all this way."

"I've been working on finding a job," he lied, trying to ignore the intrusion. "And thinking about going back to college."

Hannibal raised a brow and Murdock's eyes lowered. Honorably discharged from the military and given a clean bill of health after only a few weeks in the VA hospital, he'd been handed a nice severance package and a free ride to the university of his choice for any degree he wanted. But it wasn't really a consideration.

"Why just thinking about it?" Hannibal pressed.

Murdock shifted nervously. He could think of nowhere he'd enjoy less than in a classroom full of draft-evaders, but he didn't feel like discussing the betrayal of the general public. "Well, I don't really know yet," he offered with a shrug, planning out his liberal list of vague excuses. "I've had a lot to think about. I mean, I already have a bachelors in aerospace engineering. Just... don't really care to use it."

Hannibal remained silent.

"Tick tock, tick tock..."

Growling at the voice in his head, Murdock clenched and released his fists under the table, safely out of sight. "Knock it off," he warned silently. "There's just nothing to say."

As the lines of doubt and distrust continued rehearsing in his brain, Murdock did his damnedest to ignore them. Still, as the silence stretched, he grew more and more uncomfortable.

"How is everyone?" he finally asked. Even discussion about the situation in Vietnam would be preferable to a rehashing of his own troubles. And anything at all would be better than the nothingness that filled the air between them.

"They're fine," Hannibal answered casually, pausing for a sip of water. "BA still has problems with his shoulder from that bullet wound. Face broke a few ribs falling out of a McGuire rig."

Murdock's eyes widened. "He fell out of a McGuire rig? From how high?"

"About thirty feet," Hannibal replied with the faintest hint of a grin. "Right through the trees."

"And he only broke a few ribs?" Murdock asked in awe. How lucky was that man?

"Luckier than you..."

"He also sprained his ankle," Hannibal added dismissively. "But he's alright. We all took a few overdue days of R&R to recover."

Murdock snorted with laughter. "You mean to tell me you came here on R&R?"

"After a short stay in Hawaii, yes."

Blinking in surprise at the answer to his facetious - and not very well thought-through - question, Murdock laughed tightly and shook his head. "Why?"

"To find you."

The quick, firm answer was even more stunning, and far more confrontational, than the first. Looking up at the colonel, Murdock set his jaw and waited for more. "Told you," that taunting voice in his head mocked, and Murdock's tight fists nearly shook beneath the tablecloth.

"You've been given a clean bill of health," Hannibal noted, ever-so-conversationally as he took another drink.

Murdock looked away, toward the window and the evening light outside, to the door and the well-dressed, carefree patrons wandering in to take their reserved tables. He tried to find something to focus on, but instead found his eyes darting from one snapshot to the next to the next, recording them all in a photo album of someone else's life.

"I've been discharged, Hannibal," he said flatly, finally reaching for his glass and taking a much deeper drink than he really needed.

"So re-up."

Murdock shut his eyes at the ludicrous simplicity of those words. He knew how this conversation should go; he had it with himself - and with Alan - often enough. He'd gone to the Air Force Academy with every intention of making a career out of the military. What else did he have? What else had he ever wanted, except to fly? They needed him; he needed purpose and meaning to his life. The equation seemed simple. But in fact, it was anything but. He'd not counted on Vietnam affecting him the way it had. His decision to choose the military path - for reasons he both did and refused to accept - was naive and regrettable. Who in their right mind would choose a life of blood and gore and hell and hopelessness? Who would go back to that hell hole knowing what was waiting for them? More importantly, who would have the audacity to ask someone else to do it?

Slowly, Murdock looked again at the colonel seated casually across the table. "You're out of your mind," he said dryly.

Hannibal chuckled with the familiar, devil-may-care laugh that warned just how out of his mind he really was. "Yeah," he admitted with a grin. "I get that a lot."

Murdock shook his head, not sure what the hell he was supposed to say. There were other pilots; Hannibal didn't have to come all the way to LA to find one. Murdock was good, but the last time he'd flown, he crashed into the jungle, killed two people on impact, and ultimately got them all dragged off to a POW camp. And he didn't even remember how it had all happened; the whole thing was a black spot in his muddled memory. Frankly, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to fly again, much less in a combat setting. He certainly hadn't lived up to the expectation that had landed him on Hannibal's team in the first place. Why the hell was he here? Murdock had nothing worthwhile to offer even if he wanted to.

Finally, after a long, lingering silence, Hannibal sat forward. "You know, I came out here not knowing what I would find," he began. His tone was still conversational but suddenly it held an authority that made Murdock sit up straighter on instinct alone. "If I'd found a man who was making something of his life, we wouldn't be having this conversation. But I found you in some God-forsaken roach motel drinking yourself to death. So tell me, Lieutenant, is this what you want out of life?"

"It's my life," Murdock growled defensively.

"Yeah?" Hannibal challenged, brows raised. "And where's it gonna go when the money runs out? You've got to be getting pretty close..."

Drawing in a sharp breath, Murdock drew himself up tall, shoulders back, fists clenched hard beneath the table as the anger surged through every fiber of his being. It wasn't just the anger at an officer who would come to dress him down after he'd already given everything he had and everything he was to his country. Far more infuriating was the fact that Hannibal was completely right. He didn't have a clue where he was going or how he would get there.

"Do you realize what you're asking me to do?" Murdock demanded with a vicious glare.

"I'm asking you to pick yourself up off the floor and get your shit together," Hannibal answered with calm authority. "Because I'm not willing to lose the best goddamn pilot in Vietnam to a cesspool of liquor and self-pity. At least not without a fight."

"I'm a civilian now," Murdock growled. "You have no authority."

"I'm not saying this as your commanding officer," Hannibal corrected, rising to his feet. "Commanding officers don't come halfway across the world to talk to their subordinates. I'm here as your friend. Just think it over, will you?"

And then, setting his napkin on his plate Hannibal took just a second to jam the knife in one last time, loud enough for half of the restaurant to hear, "Enjoy your evening, Lieutenant."

Murdock shut his eyes, jaw clenched as the room's attention turned toward the pair of them like a spotlight. Angry and indignant, he looked up again to burn holes into the back of Hannibal's head. But the colonel only walked three steps, paused, and turned back as if he'd just thought of something else.

"By the way," he said, clearly aware of his audience, but ignoring it entirely. "What we did for you, you're not obligated to repay. You've served your country well and you don't owe anyone a damn thing - not me, not your government, and certainly not these ungrateful slobs." Hannibal gestured around the room, making eye contact with a few people who quickly looked away.

"What's your point?" Murdock asked coolly.

"You're a free man," Hannibal concluded with a cynical look in his eye. "No reason, no responsibility, and no one to care if you live or die." He smiled wickedly before he concluded with the sharpest dagger in his arsenal. "How's it feel?"

Without waiting for an answer, offering no parting words of well wishes, no handshake or gesture, Hannibal simply turned and walked away. Staring after him for a long moment, Murdock finally realized he was holding his breath and let it out in a rush, leaning forward to cradle his head in his hands. Although the murmurs continued in the restaurant around him, he suddenly felt very alone.

April 20, 1985

Being out in the open, ten feet off the ground, apparently unnerved Face as much as it thrilled Murdock. Huddled against the wall to secure their footing on the narrow ledge, they were wide-open targets if anyone should happen to see them. It made Murdock's blood pound through his veins, intoxicating him with a feeling of danger he didn't ordinarily seek out. One member of the team "on the jazz" was enough, and Hannibal was always ready to fill the role. But just now, it somehow calmed his anxiety to place his life in the hands of fate and simply watch for signs of movement while Face checked the locks of the windows.

What were the chances they would find Alan's daughter in this house? Murdock's mind wandered over the possibility as Face moved on to the next window and he followed behind. The goal of recon was to get in and out without being seen, and Hannibal had made it clear that this was "strictly recon." But Murdock couldn't imagine that if they actually found the girl that they were supposed to leave her there. For the first time, he thought to wonder what she might be like. He'd never given any thought to having a niece.

They continued along the ledge, checking locked and alarmed windows, to where the roof sloped down. When they ran out of ledge, they climbed onto the rooftop on hands and knees, careful not to slip on the shingles, and stopped just before the peak of the roof. It was a good vantage point, and Murdock lay flat on his stomach, squinting into the darkness and wishing the moon was just a bit more full.

"Hey, Hannibal, you copy?" Face whispered into the walkie talkie.

It took a few seconds for the response. "Go ahead."

"How far out are you?"

Again, Hannibal paused before responding. "We're coming up to the last gate. Had some trouble with the dogs that held us up for a while. Why?"

"This place is locked up pretty tight," Face said into the radio. "There's cameras and alarms all over, and the alarms are on the inside, so I can't get to them. Either we're going to set one off or we're going to need to cut the power. How do you want to do this?"

Murdock considered the possibilities quietly. Cutting the power wouldn't be hard. Making it look like an accident would. The people on the first floor would know something was wrong if the power went out all of a sudden. It appeared that their "silent" recon was facing immeasurable odds. More than likely, they were going to have to trade silence for efficiency and hopefully a bit of luck.

"Just sit tight if you can't get in," Hannibal ordered. "I have a plan."

Face gave a quiet half-groan, half-whimper. "Why did I know he was going to say that?"

With a smirk, Murdock nodded to the skylight on the other side of the steep pitch. "You think that one's alarmed?" he asked. Dropping through the ceiling was bound to be more subtle and probably less dangerous than whatever plan Hannibal was cooking.

Not answering, Face climbed over and inched his way down to peer inside. After several minutes of tipping his head one way and then the other, he finally grabbed the walkie talkie again. "There's a skylight window we can get through," he said quietly. Murdock took the cue and crawled carefully down the steep slope. "It's over a bathroom and there's a fifteen-foot drop inside, but I think it's our best bet. All the surrounding rooms are unoccupied."

Hannibal took a long moment to answer. "Alright, go for it," he ordered. "But stay out of sight."

"Copy that," Face answered quickly.

Peering down into the dark room below, Murdock could just make out the shape of a bathtub directly beneath them. The skylight had been installed in spite of the tall attic, and the narrow corridor heading straight down would be just wide enough to squeeze through until they reached the open room. Holding the barrel of his pistol, Face cracked the grip against the windowpane - hard. The glass shattered, deafeningly loud, and both men turned to lie flat against the roof, out of sight if someone came into the bathroom and looked up, or if someone came outside to check for their silhouettes against the night sky. Murdock shut his eyes as he stopped breathing for a few seconds, as if his enforced silence might somehow counteract the loud crash of tinkling glass into the room below.

They waited, but everything remained still. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Face turned and cleared away some of the glass with the pistol, then wrestled out of his shirt, using it to protect his hands as he dropped down into the bathroom. He hung suspended for a moment before letting go and dropping as gracefully as he could manage into the glass-filled tub.

Murdock followed, crunching glass under his sneakers as he landed harder than he would've liked and prayed no one was in the room directly below. Straightening his jacket, he paused a few steps behind Face, who checked the hallway then moved out, against the wall and into the next room, closing the door behind them.

It was a large and sterile bedroom; nobody occupied it. In the shadows, Murdock could see the outlines of the furniture: a bed, tall wardrobe, and desk.

"We're inside." Face's whisper into the radio made him jump.

"Where are you?" The volume was so low, Murdock almost couldn't hear Alan's reply.

"A guest room, it looks like," Face hissed. "On the second floor."

"Corrolini conducts all of his business either in the office or the study. The office is on the second floor, on the west side, just to the left of the big hallway window if you're looking from the backyard. The study is on the first floor. Going in the back door, it's down a hallway to the right, first door on the left."

"If we go down the stairs," Face whispered, "which way is it to the study?"

"Down the main steps into the foyer, you'll need to turn back the other way and head toward the back door, then go left."

Murdock was already checking the hallway again. It was pleasantly quiet and dimly lit. His guess was that Corrolini wasn't even here. Maybe there was no one here, except of course for the security guards and the driver who mysteriously hadn't been dismissed yet. Perhaps he was waiting for Corrolini.

"We should check these rooms," Murdock whispered. "If he's keeping her here, she won't be in the places where he does business."

Face nodded, but didn't speak.

The office was easy to find, but the door was locked. Murdock stepped aside and tiptoed down the hallway, leaving Face to work on the doorknob. Further on down the hall, the next thing he came to was a long, well-lit wrap-around that overlooked an empty, sparkling clean foyer. Two guards were stationed at the door, sitting and talking quietly. Murdock ducked back out of sight.

By the time he got back to the room, the door was open. He followed Face inside, and shut the door behind him with a quiet click. Instead of turning the light on, Face opened the curtains to let the dim light from outside filter in. Murdock went immediately for the filing cabinets as Face planted the bug inside the phone. Several minutes later, having rustled through the desk, Face joined him.

"Find anything interesting?"

Murdock shook his head. "Either this guy doesn't keep records or he doesn't keep them here." He sifted quickly through another folder before carefully setting it with all its contents back into the cabinet.

"He's got to keep records," Face whispered back, glancing around. "Probably in his safe."

Murdock continued to shuffle through the uninteresting papers. Warranty information on various household items and diagrams of buildings that he guessed Corrolini owned. Tax information - somewhat interesting but all so beautifully doctored that there was no indication Corrolini was involved in anything but legitimate business trading. Receipts from charitable donations and estimates for construction work. The files were well-organized and yet random. But one thing they had in common: there was nothing illegal about any of them.

"Bingo."

He turned and saw Face with his hand inside of the safe that he'd located inside the cabinet. Figuring Face's discovery had to be more interesting, Murdock shoved the papers back into their folder and closed the drawer. He crossed the floor in a few short steps and crouched down. "Whatcha got?" he asked, grabbing some of the papers still left inside.

"Contacts," Face answered, distracted by his find. "The people he's selling to."

"Face?" The quiet voice through the radio startled them both, even as low as it was turned.

Face reached with one hand to grab it. "Yeah, Hannibal?"

"Keep your head up. Corrolini just passed us on the road and he's got a bit of an entourage with him. Did you plant those bugs yet?"

"In the office," Face answered, looking over the papers. "Not the study."

"Get it done quick," Hannibal ordered. "Any idea if the girl is there?"

"Murdock is checking the rooms on the second story right now." Face glanced at Murdock, and he nodded before heading to the door. "I'm getting pictures of these contracts."

"Be careful," Hannibal warned, his quiet voice fading as Murdock headed to the door. "Until we know where the girl is, I'd rather not instigate a shootout."

Just before slipping out, Murdock heard Face answer with an equally quiet and equally serious, "Understood."

*X*X*X*

"Did you get the receivers planted?" Hannibal asked as Murdock and Face ducked down behind the shed at the far north side of the lawn.

"Piece of cake," Murdock smiled, casting a long look at BA and his portable receiver. Holding one side of a pair of headphones to his ear, he was tuning a dial on the little black box, trying to pick up a signal.

"We also got photos of his business records," Face informed, holding up the small camera in demonstration. "From what I can tell, this guy's got a whole smuggling ring going. Drugs, people, cars - going both ways across the border. But he's also got a lot of legitimate business. Charitable donations, pays taxes on his American properties, and owns a handful of small businesses."

"And the girl?" Hannibal asked, looking past them as the windows illuminated to signal the movement of Corrolini's entourage through the house. Murdock followed his gaze. They'd waited for the small crowd to enter the house before making a break for it, but hadn't been able to tell much about the newcomers. Corrolini himself was easy enough to pick out, but were the others clients? Employees? Associates?

"No sign of her," Face admitted as Murdock dragged his wondering, wandering thoughts back to the situation at hand. "But there were too many guards to check everywhere."

Hannibal nodded. "Did you manage to -"

"I got him!" BA interrupted, low and quick. "He in the study room."

It took only seconds for Hannibal to reach for the other set of headphones, only to be greeted with a string of rapid-fire Spanish Murdock could hear from where he sat. "Murdock, come here," Hannibal ordered quickly, shoving the headphones into his hands as he crawled quickly closer to BA.

"Por supuesto es malo para el negocio!" A door closed, and an angry man heaved an angry sigh as he sat down near the receiver. The man's voice rose to a yell as he continued in rapid Spanish, pounding on the desktop - a sound that rattled deafeningly in the headphones and made Murdock jump reflexively. "Como diablos está que bien para el negocio!"

"What is he saying?" Hannibal asked.

"Uh..." It took Murdock a minute to slip into the role of a translator.

BA was faster. "He got a guy in Argentina who wants a car tomorrow afternoon," BA relayed as the angry man continued. "He says it's bad for business if he can't get him that car."

Murdock closed his eyes, concentrating on the sing-song tones of the northern Mexican accents. "The guy he's talking to says they'll find it," he translated.

"Find him," BA corrected. "They talking about Alan."

Murdock nodded in agreement as he listened further. "They want the car he stole. A 1984 Saleen Mustang Prototype."

"And they need it in less than twenty-four hours," BA added.

"I still think he'll show." A third voice, in English, startled Murdock in the midst of the quick and angry tones in Spanish. He'd only thought there were only two men in the room. "We've got his daughter."

"Third guy speaks English," BA informed, then relayed the comment.

"I told you. I don't care about that son of a bitch. I want the car!" Corrolini replied, switching to English. It took a moment for Murdock's brain to catch up.

"Well, maybe he actually has the car," the third man suggested. "He might not have brought it if he thinks we're going to kill him."

"I am going to kill him," Corrolini growled angrily. "If I wasn't, why do you think I would have hired that crazy mercenario?"

Murdock and BA exchanged brief glances. Then Murdock looked to Hannibal, perched anxiously on the balls of his feet. "He's hired someone to find Alan," Murdock said solemnly.

Now that they were speaking in a language all four of them could understand, BA pulled the headphones away from his ears and turned the volume up as loud as it would go. Face and Hannibal both leaned in to hear as Murdock slipped his headphones off as well.

"Maybe we can boost one of the other two cars," the second man suggested with a thick accent that was much more difficult to understand than if he'd spoken his native Spanish. "We know where they are."

"In twenty-four hours?" Corrolini reminded, his voice dripping with sarcasm. His English was far more fluid, and carried the nuances of a man thoroughly disgusted by his hired help. "I don't have the manpower for that! I still have to find a man to replace Parker!"

"My brother could do it, Mr. Corrolini." The voice belonged to the man who'd spoken only English. "He got that Porsche for us when Rayner fucked up last month."

Hannibal and Face exchanged interested glances, and Face reached for his walkie talkie. "A-Team to base, copy?"

Alan answered immediately. "Go ahead, A-Team."

"You recognize this guy's voice?" Face questioned before holding the walkie up to the blaring headphones as the possibility of a backup plan to get the car was discussed in vague hypotheticals.

"Sounds like Kyle Jackson," Alan finally said when the conversation broke briefly. "He's got a brother named Chris who's a car boost, too. But Chris doesn't work for Corrolini. At least, not officially."

Face and Hannibal exchanged another long look. Murdock knew what they were thinking. But it would only work if Corrolini had never met Chris and, more importantly, they actually had a prayer of stealing this car.

"Alright, that gives us a start," Hannibal said. "We've cleared a path from the outer gate to here, so we should be able to travel with relative ease except for the dogs. Let's get back to the van. I've got a couple ideas on how we can get in right through the front door."

Murdock sighed in resignation and nodded his agreement. Retracing their steps out of here would be faster and easier than getting in, but he wasn't as enthusiastic about getting out of enemy territory as the others. The further he got from Corrolini's mansion, the closer he got to the man who reminded him about everything in his past he wanted to forget.