The ambulance ride felt longer than Hannibal expected. Every pothole and bump in the road jarred his aching ribs and bruised muscles. Rain hammered relentlessly on the roof, creating a steady, loud drumming that echoed in the confined space. He lay on the stretcher, strapped securely but loose enough to avoid aggravating his injuries. The pain from the fight and crash landing radiated from his ribs, shoulder, and head in rhythmic waves.
A medic sat beside him, periodically checking his vital signs and adjusting the IV line that snaked into his left arm. Hannibal watched the clear fluid drip slowly, knowing it was supposed to dull the pain, but hardly felt its effect. A dull ache throbbed persistently behind his eyes, and each breath reminded him of his bruised ribs. No, they were probably cracked or broken, judging from the pain.
The medic leaned over again, shining a penlight directly into his eyes.
Hannibal jerked away from the painful light. "Shit. Stop doing that!"
"Still with me, Colonel?" the medic asked, clicking off the light. "You clearly have a concussion."
"Unfortunately," Hannibal replied. "How much longer?"
The young man smiled, adjusting the IV line again. "Five minutes, sir. Try to relax."
Hannibal smiled. "Oh, I'm relaxed with what you're pumping into me."
"Yes, sir. That's the morphine. Once we get to the hospital, they'll give you a higher dose." The medic noted something on his clipboard.
Hannibal closed his eyes, focusing on his breathing, trying to push away the throbbing in his head and ribs grew sharper with each passing mile.
Finally, the ambulance slowed, taking a gentle turn before rolling to a stop. The rear doors opened, allowing the cold night air to pour in.
Two uniformed MPs appeared at the back of the ambulance. Neither said a word as they stood aside as the medic guided the gurney out onto the wet pavement.
Cold raindrops splattered on Hannibal's face, clearing some of the fog from his mind. He looked at the stormy night sky, briefly disoriented. Voices echoed around him, muffled by the steady downpour.
"Careful with him," Keller snapped. "He's already been through hell tonight."
Hannibal felt amusement at the irony. Keller had initially distrusted him, and yet now he was the one making sure Hannibal received decent medical treatment.
Keller stepped closer, falling into step beside the stretcher.
"You keep surprising me, Sergeant," Hannibal whispered.
Keller glanced down, rain dripping from the brim of his soaked cap. "Yeah, well, don't get used to it."
The stretcher jolted to a stop, forcing a sharp grunt from Hannibal as pain flared in his ribs.
Keller turned sharply toward the MPs who had carelessly let the stretcher strike the curb. "Watch what you're doing! The man just saved everyone on that plane!"
"I'm sorry, sir," One of the MPs said.
"I catch you treating him rough again, and you'll answer to Colonel Decker personally," Keller barked.
Hannibal saw the tension in Keller's jaw and suppressed a smile. Keller had more backbone than he'd realized.
They wheeled him through the brightly lit hospital entrance. The bright glare of fluorescent lights forced Hannibal to squint. Nurses and doctors moved around him, talking in medical jargon Hannibal only half understood. His head throbbed from the concussion, and the bright overhead lights amplified the ache behind his eyes.
A doctor approached the bed. "What's his condition?"
"Rough landing," the medic said. "Possible concussion, bruised ribs, cuts, bruises, maybe worse."
The doctor nodded, turning his attention to Hannibal. "We'll get you patched up, Colonel Smith."
Hannibal nodded. "Much obliged."
A nurse pulled the curtain around the bed, blocking out the bustling ER and providing some small measure of privacy from the MPs as they cut off his clothing and dressed him in a flimsy hospital gown. At least they didn't remove his underwear or socks.
Hannibal finally allowed himself a moment to simply feel the pain he'd been fighting to keep at bay. He was safe for now, but it wouldn't last. The Army wasn't about to let him walk out of there. Decker had MPs everywhere. The window of opportunity to slip out was slim to almost nonexistent.
But Hannibal wasn't concerned. He'd slipped through tighter spots.
And right now, he had one plan: wait for Decker to slip up, then make his move. Because if there was one thing Hannibal Smith knew, it was that Decker always made a mistake…eventually.
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, running scenarios in his head.
It was going to be a long night. And he planned to enjoy every moment of it. But right now, all he wanted to do was to take a nap. He would need the energy later.
###
Hannibal lay still on the hospital bed, propped up by pillows. The stiff mattress pressed uncomfortably into his battered body. He traced the cracks in the ceiling tiles with his eyes, methodically sorting through the situation. The throbbing in his ribs had intensified, matched by the dull, persistent ache behind his eyes from the concussion. A wave of nausea rolled through him, and he swallowed hard, fighting it back.
The room was quiet for the first time since he'd arrived. Only one MP remained stationed inside the door. The soldier leaned against the wall with his arms folded loosely over his chest and eyes half-closed from boredom. Hannibal watched him, considering his options as possibilities formed and dissolved again as he assessed the odds.
"Code Blue! Room three! Code Blue!" the intercom blared on the wall.
Then came the sound of running feet by his room.
The MP turned, ducking his head out into the hallway through the half-open door.
Hannibal's pulse quickened. This was the only opportunity he'd get to escape. He eased himself from the bed, fighting the stabbing pain radiating through his ribs as he stood, pausing to brace himself against the sudden dizzy spell. Gathering himself, he moved silently, his bare feet making no sound on the tile floor.
The MP never heard him. Hannibal brought the heel of his hand up hard under the MP's chin, snapping the man's head back. The move mimicked what happens when a boxer knocks out an opponent by disrupting the Reticular Activating System responsible for maintaining consciousness.
The MP sagged, unconscious, into Hannibal's arms then he eased the young man to the floor.
Hannibal's head swam with dizziness as he stripped off the MP's trousers, shirt, jacket, boots, and hat, tugging the uniform on over his sore body. He couldn't slip out of here wearing only an open-backed hospital gown. Someone would notice.
The nausea surged again, but Hannibal pushed through it, breathing steadily as he secured the belt around his waist, careful not to disturb his aching ribs. He grabbed the MP's ID and wallet, pocketed the cash, and took a final glance at the room. He saw the empty cigar wrapper on the bedside table. He picked it up, then carefully laid it on the pillow, smoothing it flat. A message Decker would instantly understand instantly.
He stepped through the doorway, moving carefully, ignoring the dull ache radiating from his ribs. Outside the room, nurses and doctors ran to the emergency down the hall, their attention entirely focused on room three.
Hannibal straightened his borrowed uniform, pulling the cap low over his eyes. He stepped into the corridor, blending into the wave of medical personnel rushing past him.
He walked steadily toward the exit, maintaining a relaxed pace despite every muscle screaming in protest. The pain was intensifying now, growing sharper with each step. He knew adrenaline alone wouldn't hold off the discomfort forever.
Outside the doors, rain hammered down in relentless sheets. Hannibal stepped out into the night, pulled the uniform jacket tighter around him, and moved toward the darkened street beyond the hospital lights.
He breathed the damp night air, pausing to regain control of the nausea that threatened to rise again. He scanned the street, spotting a small neon sign in the darkness advertising the "Redwood Inn." Next to it, another sign announced a liquor store that was open late.
Limping now, feeling every injury with renewed intensity, Hannibal crossed the street, stepping through puddles shimmering under the streetlights. He moved slowly in the direction of the motel, feeling the exhaustion building heavily in every step.
Inside the liquor store, the attendant barely looked up. Hannibal grabbed a bottle of whiskey, paid with the cash from the MP's wallet, and tucked the bottle inside his stolen jacket. Minutes later, he stepped into the motel lobby. The clerk barely glanced at him as Hannibal placed the bills on the counter and took the offered key to room 112.
###
Hannibal shut the motel room door behind him and slid the chain lock into place. His bruised ribs protested with every movement, sending a sharp spike of pain through his chest as he leaned forward to catch his breath. He drew the thin curtains closed, shutting out the glare of the streetlights, leaving only the dim glow of a yellowed lamp on a chipped wooden nightstand. For a moment, he stood, breathing carefully and slowly, trying to regain a measure of control over the nausea churning in his gut.
The wallpaper was faded and peeling at the corners. Hannibal glanced around, noting the cracked tile floor and the sagging mattress covered in an old, frayed quilt. It wasn't much, but right now, privacy was all he cared about.
Slowly, Hannibal moved to the small, chipped table near the window, setting the full whiskey bottle down with a trembling hand. He'd bought it next door, paying the clerk quickly, ignoring the suspicious glance while handing over damp cash from the MP's wallet. He handled the interaction quickly, not giving the young clerk more than a glimpse at his battered face beneath the uniform cap low over his eyes.
He winced as he eased off the jacket and tossed it onto a nearby chair. Moving gingerly, he sank onto the bed, fighting the sharp agony flaring through his ribs. A wave of nausea rolled through him, and he leaned forward, closing his eyes and gripping his knees tightly with swollen, bloodied knuckles, breathing through the intense discomfort.
He opened the whiskey bottle, fumbling it at first as the pain and exhaustion made even that simple task difficult. Carefully, he tilted the bottle, splashing a small amount of the amber liquid onto a fresh cut along his forearm. The alcohol stung fiercely, like a line of fire igniting beneath his skin.
Hannibal clenched his teeth tightly to silence the groan trying to escape his throat. When the burning subsided to a dull ache, he took a long swallow straight from the bottle. The fiery warmth spread through him instantly, chasing away the chill and numbing the relentless pounding behind his eyes.
Setting the bottle on the table beside him, Hannibal closed his eyes and tried to breathe slowly. A wave of dizziness swept over him, leaving him feeling nauseated. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees and forehead pressed into his hands as he waited for the sensation to pass. He was likely dealing with a mild concussion, and mixing alcohol with that was foolish and could even turn deadly. But right now, easing the pain mattered more than caution.
After a few long moments, Hannibal straightened, opening his eyes again. The room had stopped spinning for now. He needed to let Face know where he was and how badly he was hurt. Carefully, he reached for the telephone beside the bed. Picking up the receiver, he dialed the number of the phone in the van.
It rang only twice.
"Smith's laundry service, how may I help you?" Face asked.
"Face," Hannibal said quietly. "It's me."
"Hannibal? You don't sound too good. Where are you?"
Hannibal rubbed his eyes, glancing toward the motel's faded stationery lying on the bedside table. "I'm at the Redwood Inn, room 112, just off Highway 41. About two miles from St. Mary's Hospital in Bakersfield."
"BA and I just heard about the hijacking on the news," Face said. "Are you hurt?"
"Not my best day," Hannibal replied softly. "Nothing serious, a few broken ribs, cuts, bruises, and maybe a concussion. I really need a lift."
"We're not exactly in the neighborhood, Colonel," Face admitted. "It'll take us at least four or five hours to reach you."
Hannibal sighed, expecting as much. "I'll stay put. But don't drag your feet, okay?"
"Copy that," Face assured. "Just stay quiet. We'll be there."
Hannibal hung up and allowed himself another sip of whiskey, savoring the way the sharp burn chased away some of the worst pain. It wasn't a good idea to drink with a concussion, but right now, it was either that or feel every bruise, cracked rib, and aching muscle. He settled into the lumpy pillows and reached for the bottle. This time, he took a longer gulp, letting the whiskey ease the tension in his shoulders and smooth out the sharp edges of the pain.
Time passed unevenly as he drifted in and out of awareness. The half bottle of whiskey took hold of his senses, and he had a pretty good buzz going. He watched the faded patterns of light from passing cars on the ceiling. He was safe for now, but he had no illusions. Decker would be looking for him the moment he found the empty bed.
An hour or two slipped by, and Hannibal grew steadily more detached from his aching body. He'd intended to stay alert, but exhaustion and whiskey had other plans. The warmth of the alcohol gradually eased him into a foggy, relaxed state. His eyelids grew heavier and more challenging to keep open. Finally, Hannibal surrendered to the fatigue and whiskey and drifted off into a hazy sleep.
He wasn't sure how much later it was when a soft knock at the door pulled him awake. He opened his eyes, and his vision faded in and out when he tried to rise. A second knock, more insistent, followed the first one.
"Colonel, you in there?" Face asked.
Hannibal groaned, forcing himself to his feet with effort. The room spun, forcing him to grab the edge of the bed for balance as he stood. His head throbbed steadily, and nausea threatened to overwhelm him again. Taking a breath to steady himself, he moved to unlock the door.
Face waited on the other side. BA stood behind him, frowning.
"Are you all right, Hannibal?" Face asked, throwing an arm around Hannibal's shoulders to keep him upright. "Most people would be passed out cold after what you went through."
"Yeah, most people aren't me," Hannibal whispered. "Most people aren't me. Just a little...medicinal whiskey."
"You're drunk. You smell like a brewery." BA shook his head. "Man, you're lucky you're still standing. You look like hell."
"Classy, Hannibal. Real classy, a top-tier recovery strategy," Face said. "Come on. Let's get you out of here."
"No pain. No worries. And I feel so fantastic." Hannibal leaned on BA, who steadied him as they moved slowly toward the van.
Face took point, glancing around cautiously as they stepped into the rain. "BA, do you think that's the whiskey or the concussion talking."
"The concussion," BA replied.
Hannibal stumbled, nearly landing on his knees. His head spun, but BA's strong arm caught him easily, supporting his weight as they guided him into the back of the van.
Settling heavily onto the seat, Hannibal felt himself slipping again. He stared up at the van's ceiling, his vision blurring as exhaustion retook him. With the last of his energy, he offered the team a tired chuckle. "I love it…when a plan comes together," he slurred.
Face glanced back at him, shaking his head. "We're taking you to Maggie's. You're not getting out of it this time. Do you think he'll remember this tomorrow, BA?"
"Not a chance," BA replied. "But he'll remember the hangover, and he probably got his bell rung too, so he'll have the headache of the century to go with it."
"So he's concussed and drunk. Another day in the park for Hannibal Smith."
Hannibal didn't respond, already drifting back toward sleep. For the first time all night, he felt safe enough to fully let go. And within moments, the world faded gently away.
###
Hannibal drifted in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of the time as BA drove the familiar roads toward Bad Rock. The whiskey had dulled most of his pain, but he still felt every jarring bump, each one reigniting the aching fire in his ribs. He rested his head against the seatback and closed his eyes, savoring the small mercy of the liquor's numbing effect.
When the van slowed to a halt, Hannibal forced his eyes open, wincing as harsh porch lights spilled through the windshield, amplifying the steady throb in his skull. He blinked, focusing enough to recognize Maggie Sullivan's clinic. Her wrap-around porch and flower boxes were illuminated softly by the sunrise.
Face opened the side door, letting in a gust of chilly morning air. Hannibal shivered, suppressing a groan as the sudden cold sharpened his senses, bringing the pain back to the surface. He tried to move on his own, but his limbs felt heavy and uncoordinated.
Face's gentle grip under his elbow steadied him. "Easy, Colonel. Let us help you."
Hannibal nodded, grateful for the support as Face and BA carefully guided him out of the van. His legs wobbled as the ground felt uneven under his feet. He staggered, thankful for BA and Face's firm grip on his arms for keeping him upright.
The clinic door swung open, framing Maggie Sullivan's slender body he knew so intimately against the interior lights. Her expression was complex to read through Hannibal's blurred vision, but he could easily imagine the combination of worry and irritation in her eyes. She crossed the porch, stopping directly in front of him. Even in his drunken haze, Hannibal recognized the set of her jaw and the narrowing of her eyes.
"Whiskey, Hannibal?" she asked quietly. She touched his chin, pushing his head up toward the porch light. He squinted at the sudden brightness as she examined the bruising and dried blood around his temple. "And a concussion, from the looks of it."
"And just enough whiskey to get here," he mumbled, managing an apologetic grin. "Seemed like a good idea at the time."
Maggie released his chin, sighing. She motioned for them to move inside.
Face and BA guided Hannibal through the doorway into the warm interior of the house. The familiar smell of Maggie's strong coffee comforted him.
Maggie tossed extra pillows on the couch. "Set him here."
Face lowered Hannibal slowly onto the cushions.
Hannibal's ribs immediately protested. He clenched his teeth to avoid a groan but couldn't hide the pained grimace as he settled into the pillows.
Maggie leaned over him, probing his ribs through his shirt. The contact brought sharp pain, and he flinched.
"I'm sorry," Maggie said, pulling her hand back. "You've done quite a number on yourself this time. You have at least two to three cracked or broken ribs, Hannibal."
"Feels like it," Hannibal whispered, closing his eyes. The dizziness was stronger now, the whiskey and concussion working together to fog his mind. He struggled to stay alert.
Face stood beside the sofa with his arms crossed over his chest. "He insisted he was fine."
"You didn't believe him, did you?" Maggie asked.
Face shook his head. "No, but you know how he is."
"Yes, I do," Maggie replied. "Stubborn as a mule and about as sensible."
Hannibal smiled despite the pain radiating through his chest and skull. "Are you sure you're not a veterinarian?"
"Don't push it, Hannibal," Maggie said, clearly exasperated at him.
Hannibal watched Maggie through half-closed eyes as she retrieved supplies from a cabinet. He felt strangely detached, observing as she knelt beside him, cleaning the dried blood from his forehead. Her touch was careful, familiar, almost comforting despite the sting of antiseptic.
"I thought we agreed you wouldn't do things like this anymore," Maggie said quietly.
"Occupational hazard," Hannibal replied slowly. "And it wasn't my fault."
Maggie gently applied a bandage to his head, smoothing it with her fingers. He felt the warmth of a blanket settle around him as she tucked it gently around his shoulders. She whispered to Face and BA. Hannibal couldn't quite make out the words through the whiskey-induced haze. He was only vaguely aware of when Face and BA left the room.
Maggie brushed her hand through his hair. "You're safe now. You're staying put until you've recovered. No arguments. "You're lucky you're charming, or I wouldn't put up with you every time you show up here half-dead."
Hannibal forced his eyelids open once more, gazing up at her. "You drive a hard bargain, Doc."
Maggie placed her hands gently on either side of his face. "You scared me tonight, Hannibal. Do not do it again."
"I'll do my best," he whispered.
"I'll be here when you wake up," she whispered. "Get some rest now, Hannibal."
Hannibal nodded, allowing his eyes to close. The dizziness and pain faded gradually as he slipped closer to sleep, lulled by Maggie's presence beside him.
His breathing steadied, growing slower as sleep overcame him, and as he drifted off, he was vaguely aware of Maggie settling into a chair beside him.
Then, there was nothing but warm and comforting darkness, pulling him deeper into a deep sleep. In those last fleeting moments of awareness, he felt safe, something he rarely allowed himself to feel.