CHAPTER NINETEEN

December 4, 1971

It was still dark when Murdock touched down in North Vietnam. The team had less than two miles to walk before they would hit the outskirts of Hanoi. Then they had to find the bank, formulate a plan, and execute it before returning to this spot. After refueling the chopper with the canisters in the back - just as they were doing now - they would fly back to Da Nang. And if they were all still breathing at the close of this mission, it would be an absolute miracle.

"You're sure you only want six hours to do this?" Murdock yelled as he poured fuel into the chopper. He didn't like that they were standing on the ground in the middle of a jungle in North Vietnam. Nor did he like that he was refueling hot with a jerry-rigged hose and gas can, spilling JP4 on his boots. But most of all, he didn't like that when he came back again in six hours, he would be doing this alone, and then waiting in a clearing - surrounded by jungle and deep in the heart of enemy territory - for the rest of his team. Without contact.

"We'll be here," Hannibal assured him, clapping a hand over his shoulder.

Murdock cast him a worried look. "You'd better be." There were so many ways this plan could go wrong, he couldn't even count them all.

Hannibal reached for his cigar and Murdock's eyes instantly widened to the size of saucers as he nearly lost his grip on the gas can. "Don't even think about it!" he cried, stock still.

Hannibal chuckled, and made no attempt to find his lighter. "Relax, Captain." Chewing the end of his unlit cigar, Hannibal glanced around at his team, then back at Murdock. "You okay?"

"No," Murdock answered honestly. "Not in the least."

"Just hang in there, Captain," Hannibal said reassuringly, with an odd sort of seriousness in the foundation of his tone. "We're all going to take a few days off when this is over."

He was lying. Murdock could hear it in his voice. But instead of calling him on it, he forced a smile. "Right, Colonel."

Murdock looked them all over. Dressed in NVA uniforms with only AK-47s and small, over-the-shoulder packs for gear, they might have passed for enemy soldiers if they weren't so obviously Americans. Murdock shook his head. He hoped to God Hannibal knew what he was doing.

"See you in a few hours, Captain," Hannibal reassured, heaving the gun over his shoulder. He pulled his hat down low to cover his hair and as much of his face as possible. "Let's move out!"

April 20, 1985

The two guards in the secondary security room - including the solid wall of muscle Hannibal had resolved to keep in mind at all times - were too near the door to the basement to simply slip by. Sipping black coffee and dealing well-worn cards around a small round table, they didn't immediately notice when Face stepped into the room, holding a gun to the spine of the hostage from the front security suite. Hannibal had the larger of the two men covered before they had an opportunity to look up. The realization they'd been infiltrated still hadn't fully sunk in when Face, with practiced efficiency and speed, disarmed, tied, and gagged both of them, and the hostage from the front room to match.

It took longer than Hannibal would have liked to find the right key to the basement, and the door's hinges squeaked a little too loudly. Nevertheless, it opened without difficulty and he went first down the wooden stairs, gun ready just in case he needed it. This whole operation had been far more subtle than his usual style, and he felt a bit out of his element sneaking around like this. But he had both a hostage to think about and a rogue element masquerading as part of his team. Alan would've led the charge had they come in guns blazing, and it wouldn't have been pretty, let alone successful.

At the bottom of the steps, Hannibal stopped when his feet touched rough cement. The basement was dark and damp - a large, open area lit only by a single bulb hanging from the ceiling. Clearly, since it came nowhere close to the width and length of the house, it had been designed as a mere wine cellar. Still, it was a sizeable one. On the far wall, thick wooden doors - old but not rotted - were built into cinderblock frames. Holding cells - three of them. Hannibal and Face both scanned the room, and found it empty, before moving from the safety of the stairwell.

Hannibal's first step on the gritty floor was answered by a hushed, "Psst! Hey!"

Startling in the otherwise silent room, the hiss from Alan went unacknowledged. As his eyes adjusted fully, Hannibal noticed only the single line of wet footprints - Alan and his escorting guard - in the thin layer of dirt and grime. By the look of it, the hostage they'd come for might not be here after all. And if that was the case, Hannibal didn't have the first clue where to start looking for her.

While he took a moment to improvise the next portion of the plan - taking into account the position of his men and considering the potential difficulty of taking Corrolini himself hostage while appealing to his loyal guards to reveal the whereabouts of Alan's daughter - Hannibal nodded for Face to get the door to Alan's cell open. It seemed a safe assumption that he was the one trying to get their attention with his muffled, "Over here!" Already halfway through a scenario which involved plowing through the main gates with Corrolini tied and gagged in the trunk of one of those pretty cars in the garage, Hannibal checked the cell beside Alan's. Peering through the hole in the door where the guards checked on their prisoners, he found it empty. But no sooner had he taken a step back then he heard a cracking female voice manage a weak, "Who's out there?"

"Tia, it's okay!" Alan called loudly.

"Shh!" The reaction was instantaneous from both Hannibal and Face, and Alan stage-whispered a hasty "Sorry!"

"Geez, are you trying to get us killed?" Face hissed angrily, finally pulling the unlocked door open.

Bursting out of his room and nearly plowing Hannibal over, Alan ran to the cell obviously containing his daughter. "It's okay," he whispered through the bars. "They're here to help."

Moving Alan aside with an arm, Hannibal made room for Face to try the keys in the door. Although the girl's features were obscured by the darkness, he could see the whites of her dark eyes as she stared out through the small rectangular hole.

"Hello," he greeted quietly. "You must be Tia."

"Tia, baby, it's okay," Alan interrupted, pushing Hannibal aside to insert his hand through the hole, desperate to touch the girl. "I'm here; you're safe."

Hannibal cast a look at the arm Alan wasn't trying to shove through the door and frowned. "That's broken," he announced confidently.

Not even acknowledging the pain, Alan jumped back as Face finally opened the door and a dark haired, fragilely thin teenage girl stumbled out to collapse against her father wordlessly. Dirty and disheveled with matted hair and torn, bloody clothes, she nevertheless appeared unharmed if undernourished. The blood was old, and probably her mother's. With no obvious bruises - even around her wrists - it seemed she'd been treated with surprising kindness. Most importantly, her eyes weren't glazed with the detached fear of someone utterly consumed by post-traumatic stress.

"Thank God you're okay!" Alan whispered, burying his unhurt hand in her knotted hair.

"We've got to go," Hannibal reminded, on edge. They only had so many minutes to work with before the risk of the whole plan unraveling was compounded exponentially by too many variables and too much luck. There would be plenty of time for the family reunion later.

Face dropped the keys on the floor, grabbed his gun again, and took the girl's arm, pulling her along as he raced up the stairs. Although reluctant to let her go at first, Alan was pleased to get a pistol back in the one hand he had use of and his daughter was more than willing to be led, reassured by the sight of her father. Up the steps and around the corner, Hannibal suddenly stopped so fast that Alan ran right into him.

"Face, get them to the car," he whispered roughly. He exchanged quick glances with Alan. "Go with him and do exactly as he tells you."

Alan nodded his understanding. Face and the two prisoners disappeared into one of the rooms. From there they would most likely leave through the window, but Hannibal knew he could leave that to Face's discretion. In the meantime, he tucked his gun away and headed for the door at a leisurely pace.

The muffled sound of the single man gagged and locked in the front security room made him hesitate just for a moment, debating whether or not it was too great a risk to leave him conscious, so near a door where others might overhear his frustrated attempts to gain attention. But time was of the essence, and Hannibal kept walking, out the door and down the steps.

The man standing just outside the garage seemed surprised to see him leave the house without an escort. He didn't say anything, but Hannibal could see it on his face as he came closer. "I hope you don't mind," Hannibal explained, walking at a leisurely pace, "Jose had to use the restroom. He showed me to the door and I figured I could find my way from there." He held out a hand in greeting. "Chris Jackson."

"Wally," the man answered, leaving off his last name as he shook Hannibal's hand.

Hannibal knew better than to give him any more time than strictly necessary to consider the likelihood of Jose leaving him alone. With a smile, he continued quickly, "You the man who's supposed to drive me out of here?"

"Yes, that'd be me," Wally agreed, quickly dismissing the scrutiny he'd afforded Hannibal just moments before.

"Excellent." Hannibal smiled, and gestured to the black sedan parked in front of the garage. "Shall we?"

*X*X*X*

Alone in a room with his enemy - perhaps more accurately, his mark - Murdock initially thought the potential for conversation could only lead to a great deal of amusement for all. He was not what Corrolini had been expecting, and that was bound to make things interesting. The all-powerful crime lord kept a safe distance, and took pains to ensure his back was never turned.

"You're very efficient," Corrolini noted as he negotiated a path to the safe in the corner. Secure in his fortress, he hadn't bothered to hide it behind books or paintings. It simply sat on a low shelf, in plain view.

"It's my job," Murdock replied with a long, lingering glare. Antisocial personality disorders were always fun to play. "What you're paying me a lot of money for."

"So I am," Corrolini agreed. "Ten thousand, was it?"

According to Hannibal's surveillance, that was only half of what they'd agreed upon. Murdock's eyes narrowed into slits, guard raised as he suddenly considered the possibility that Corrolini may suspect something wasn't right. Was he testing him?

"Twenty," Murdock growled back. "Unless you would like to pay me the rest in blood."

"My mistake," Corrolini smiled pleasantly, crouching to twist the combination lock.

Murdock wasn't entirely sure what was in the safe; Face hadn't had time to crack it during their earlier surveillance. His sincere hope was that Corrolini would retrieve money and not a weapon. He had to buy the guys time, and wasn't anxious to grab the cash and run. But at the same time, he wanted to keep the conversation moving - to lead his target on a leash and not the other way around.

"Where did you find him?" the man asked, withdrawing a sealed orange envelope. He closed the safe again before standing and Murdock let out a well-concealed sigh of relief.

"Does that matter?" Murdock challenged.

"Not particularly, but I am curious." The man's scrutinizing gaze raked Murdock up and down. "You were so quick, it's as though you knew right where he'd be."

Warning bells rang loudly in Murdock's head. Concern over being baited and tested was quickly overcome by the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. The look in Corrolini's eyes made it clear enough that the man not only suspected but felt sure something wasn't quite right. Caught, and aware it was only a matter of time before his cover was blown, Murdock kept his cool by sheer force of will, holding the character of Joseph Linus tightly in his grip. Until he knew how much trouble he was in, it was best not to show his hand.

"You hire, I find," he sneered. "Are you saying I'm too good at my job?" Without waiting for an answer, he held out a hand, palm up. "Money. Now."

Corrolini hesitated, studying him for a long moment before stepping forward and setting the envelope on the desk. He slid it across, remaining on the other side. "I'm not complaining," he clarified. Folded hands on the desk meant they weren't on a weapon beneath the desk. Whatever he suspected, he didn't seem to consider Murdock a physical threat. "I was warned that your methods were... curiously unorthodox."

This was not a point on which Murdock needed to prod the conversation along. Nor was it a point where he intended to hang himself if it was another test. Snatching the envelope, he ripped it open, and began flipping through bills quickly.

"Tell me," Corrolini baited, "where did you learn to be so good at your job?"

Murdock was satisfied the money was all there, but counting it bought him a moment to think. Somewhere along a very short line, he'd lost the upper hand. He cast a glare at the man holding the conversation's leash as he tucked the cash back into the envelope.

"You don't pay me enough to answer such questions," he growled.

"I pay you plenty," Corrolini shot back instantly, with the tone of a man very much used to being in charge.

Murdock raised a brow at the quite-obvious threat. On the outside, he maintained the perfect image of relaxation in the facade of his character. But his mind raced as he considered all the ways Corrolini might follow through.

"I don't pay people to play games with me," the man finally finished, the darkness in his voice reflecting the shadow that had fallen over his face. "And it seems to me, that's exactly what you're doing."

Ordinarily, intimidation tactics were some of the least effective against Murdock's calm and control. But just now, he wavered slightly. It wasn't because Corrolini was more terrifying than any one of a thousand other thugs he'd stared down before. Nor did it have anything to do with the fact that he appeared to be at the man's mercy, alone here in a room no doubt guarded on the outside. He was well enough able to handle himself under pressure. His team knew exactly where he was and apart from shooting him in the head right here and now, Corrolini posed little long term threat. But even convinced of his security, he could hear his heart pounding in his ears, sweaty palms itching as he struggled to maintain the slow, even breathing of a man in complete control.

Part of him was appalled at his inability to maintain the lie to the ordinary degree of perfection. The other part felt proud that he was still managing to breathe at all. Perhaps it was simply the memories, the voice whispering in his head just close enough to be heard but still too far away to make out. He'd pushed that voice down for nearly two decades, ignored it, tried to forget what it sounded like. Now it was back again, taunting him, threatening, reminding. Spewing forth all the evidence of who he used to be, Alan's presence over the last few days had unnerved him in a deep and visceral way he hadn't quite realized until now. His inadequacies were stacked to the ceiling, and he felt very small staring up at them.

"Let me be clear," Corrolini stated, leaning back in the oversized leather chair behind the desk. An instant later, he lowered his hands, reached into the drawer on the right, and casually leveled a pistol at Murdock. "I don't know what possessed you to impersonate a man you do not resemble in the slightest. Certainly, I cannot begin to think why you thought it would be a good idea to come into my house and lie to my face."

Murdock drew in a slow breath, eyes on the man and not the gun. Ironically, he was almost glad for the open threat. Now they could stop pretending, and it was somehow easier to think when the pressure reached this level of intensity. Survival was the only consideration, and anything else could be worked out in time.

"You are alive right now because you brought me Alan Parker," Corrolini continued calmly. "But if I do not receive a suitable explanation for your behavior in doing so, you will be the one paying me in blood."

Digging his hands into the pockets of his jacket, Murdock drew in a deep, calming breath.

December 4, 1971

0823. Murdock checked his watch before heading away from the chopper. The B-team base Colonel Morrison operated out of was larger than most camps he'd been stationed in - here, there, and everywhere across South Vietnam. With semi-permanent structures, mostly-clean jeeps, and uniformed soldiers milling around as if they hadn't a care in the world, it was an atmosphere both unfamiliar and uncomfortable. Murdock wasn't sure why his skin crawled when their gazes lingered too long, why he didn't wave back... why he felt as though he shouldn't.

"You're paranoid," Alan criticized, keeping pace with him. "Get a fucking grip on yourself before they tie you up in a straitjacket and throw you back in a dark room."

Breathing slowly and calmly, he closed his eyes for a few paces, then put a fake smile on his face before continuing toward the general headquarters building. He'd nearly reached the door when an unfamiliar voice called out his name.

Startled and not entirely sure if the voice was one the general population could hear or if it was a new addition to the chorus in his head, Murdock glanced around. His gaze came to rest on a private in well-worn but clean fatigues, vaguely familiar at a glance and more so the longer he concentrated on where their paths might have crossed before. Concern for his team - while still present - was pushed to the back of his mind where it remained a dull pain, nagging him. The more immediate problem was staring him in the face.

Suddenly putting a name to the face, his smile turned more genuine as he reached out to shake hands with the approaching man. "Carl! Long time no see."

"Man, I have been trying to find you forever," Carl laughed, pulling Murdock into a loose embrace. He paused as he stepped back and looked the pilot over, holding him at arm's length. "What the hell happened to you?"

"It's a long story," Murdock sighed, not sure whether the question referred to his sudden disappearance from the 20th SOS or the fact that he looked as though he'd recently been tossed into a tumble dryer.

Casting a lingering look at GHQ, he debated just how much he wanted to cut this conversation short. He needed to report to Morrison, and he needed to remind himself of the story he rehearsed to curious buddies from long ago. But the general sort of apathy that had settled in made him reticent to give either his best effort.

"Look, I've gotta go give a report," he tried casually, "but I should be back in -"

Carl tapped his shoulder and he flinched, fighting the unexpected reflex to jump back and defend himself. Startled, he watched as the oblivious soldier spun and took a few steps in the direction of the barracks. "Hey, c'mon, I got something for you!"

Looking back at GHQ, Murdock didn't move. Carl was already a few steps ahead, and didn't stop. "It'll only take a second," he assured, over his shoulder. "I'm headin' out and I don't know when the next time I'm gonna see you is. Already been almost a year I've been tryin' to find you."

A year? Drawn by the leash of his intrigue, Murdock followed reluctantly. "What for?" he asked.

Carl didn't answer, just led the way into the barracks and down the hall. Hands buried deep in his pockets, Murdock kept pace behind him. "Someone told me you got promoted," Carl said. His eyes swept over Murdock's shirt, but there were no patches there.

"I did," Murdock answered. "Switched to Army, too."

"Seriously?" Carl laughed. "Man, I never would've figured it. Your brother would shit a brick."

Alan laughed. "Tell me about it!"

Murdock lowered his head, but didn't answer. As Carl turned into one of the rooms, he followed a step behind. Carl walked to one of the beds - Murdock presumed it was his own - and reached under it for an olive green pack. "Sorry to do this so quick but, heh, like I said. I'm headin' out and God only knows when and if our paths will cross again."

"It's fine," Murdock assured, glancing around the empty room anxiously. Being here made him distinctly uncomfortable, not least because Morrison was still waiting for a debriefing.

"Here."

Murdock blinked as a wad of brown was suddenly shoved at him. As soon as he touched it, he realized it was leather. "Your brother got this for you - don't ask me where or how - right before he..." Murdock glanced up and met Carl's eyes. The other man shifted uncomfortably, shrugging as he lowered his gaze. "Well, yeah. You know."

"Before I died," Alan interjected. "You like that part, remember?"

Frozen in place by an unexpected wash of confusion, Murdock stared down at the bundle for a moment before he unfolded it slowly. Black eyes stared up at him, and he found himself looking into the face of a tiger, hand-painted onto the back of the brown leather jacket.

"He didn't really have any other personal effects," Carl said quietly. "What he did have was shipped back to the States. But I know he would've wanted you to have that since he... well, he got it for you in the first place. He was going to give it to you for your birthday or something. I don't really remember what."

Murdock swallowed hard as Carl clapped a hand over his shoulder. "I..." Not sure what to say, utterly confused by the gift, Murdock shook his head. "Thanks."

"Like I said, sorry to have to do this so fast," Carl continued. "But I gotta run. And you gotta go give report. Maybe we'll catch up sometime later?"

Murdock's feet were moving, but he wasn't entirely sure where he was going or why. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Sure..."

Outside. Morning sunlight. Carl left with a wave, heading to where his team was waiting impatiently. Murdock watched him go, then stared back down at the jacket in his hands, slowly unfolding it further and turning it. Alan had bought this? Alan had bought this for him?

"And you thought I didn't care," Alan mocked.

He shook his head, shoving his awareness of that voice into a far corner of his mind. Still gripping the jacket, he glanced over at the large building he'd been heading toward, and suddenly remembered why. With a shake of his head to clear the confusion, he held the jacket in one hand and walked toward GHQ, to Morrison's office.