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B.A.: We gotta find the fastest way possible to get to my mother.
Murdock: That’s gonna mean flying, Big Guy.
B.A.: That’s right! Flying.
Hannibal: You sure that’s what you want to do?
B.A.: Yeah. This time no commercial flight, they’re always late. We can’t be late. Faceman, I want you to scam a plane. Better yet, make that a jet.
Face: 2000 miles in a private jet, the fuel’s a buck 85 a gallon, that’s expensive, BA. Maybe we should consider driving to Chicago.
B.A.: I wanna fly!
-- "Lease With an Option to Die"
Chapter 1: Adventurous Landing
Rays of fading sunlight arched around the towering buildings, cutting through the crisp air and casting the city in a dazzling aura of gold. Thin wisps of gentle white smoke rose from the top of the various high rises, where many sought refuge from the cold winter air.
A gentle blanket of white snow covered the ground, with only the blacktop of the city streets and the famous Lake Shore Drive standing in stark contrast. Cars could be seen driving along the winding roadway, which separated the tall buildings from the various parks and the shore of Lake Michigan.
Normally filled with scores of bikini-clad sunbathers and swimmers during the summer, the popular North Avenue and Oak Street beaches had chunks of ice being pushed about with the flow and ebb of the water. Closer to the heart of the city, waves lapped up against the manufactured seawall, teased by a wind that danced within the atmosphere.
Boat docks around the famous Lincoln Park, Benton Harbor, and even south of the world famous Navy Pier, all lay vacant and empty . . . the private sailboats and cruisers had all been relocated for winter storage months prior.
The picturesque lakefront was the crown jewel of Chicago, the grand design of Daniel Burnham. A few buildings that had been part of his architectural plan for the World's Fair still stood, including what was now the Field Museum, the Museum of Science and Industry, and the Art Institute. Each of those buildings were beautifully designed in their own right, with marble columns and other adornments that reminded one of the classical buildings found in Greece and Rome.
The famous Buckingham Fountain rested proudly at the center of the city's premiere lakefront park, named in honor of General Ulysses S. Grant. Normally, water flowed down its three tiers and spouted high into the air . . . with the central spout of water shooting to 150 feet into the air every hour on the hour for approximately 20 minutes. During the winter, the tiers were adorned with lights that seemed to flow down, almost like the water would during the summer.
A small, white two-engine private jet streaked through the air, banking as it slowly began its descent. A couple of lights on the tips of the wings glowed steadily, and another light under the fuselage blinked consistently. The approach took the plane south along the lakefront.
The wry figure of Captain H. M. Murdock gently held the controls of the plane within his expert hands. He was wearing his trademark brown A-2 bomber jacket, tan slacks, and dark blue baseball cap. Underneath the jacket was a yellow shirt with blue lettering on it that proudly boasted, "I'm not crazy. I'm just creatively insane."
Next to him, Colonel John Hannibal Smith climbed into the co-pilot seat. His silver-white hair almost seemed to match the color of the snow on the ground, and there was a sparkle within his icy blue eyes. He buttoned up the top button of the light blue button down shirt he was wearing, and then pulled the safari jacket a bit tighter around him. In spite of the plane being heated, there was a bit of a chill that could be felt, permeating from outside of the fuselage of the plane.
Murdock glanced out the window past the A-Team's leader, as his brown eyes caught sight of the city below. He let out a low whistle, and then remarked with appreciation, "Sure is pretty down there, Hannibal."
Hannibal followed the pilot's gaze out the cockpit window, his eyes filled with the stunning sight of the Christmas lights along the Magnificent Mile. Fond memories began flooding back to him, which brought a smile to his face. "Sure is, Captain," he added. "I remember that our family drove to Chicago just before for Christmas for a couple of years. We got up really early . . . so early it was dark out, and it was an 8 hour drive from Detroit, but we made a whole day of it whenever we did come here. My mom used to go shopping at Marshall Field's. There was nothing like a freshly made box of Frango mints."
"Seriously? An 8 hour drive just for a box of chocolate mints?" Face's voice could be heard from the passenger area of the plane, sounding a bit incredulous. Even though this was the first time that they heard Hannibal share this small morsel from his past, a rarity for him, the con artist still found it very hard to believe.
Hearing the con artist chime in with his own comments from the cabin, Hannibal turned toward the back of the plane and asked, "What do you think, Face?"
Lieutenant Templeton Peck looked out the window from the passenger section, and saw all of the sparkling lights below which seemed to burn more intensely as the evening sun set. Having been raised in a Catholic orphanage, he recalled how big of an event Christmas was . . . almost too big. Granted, it was a time of year where everyone was into the spirit of giving, but too much was made of the holiday with the decorations, the music, the last minute rush to buy gifts.
Letting out a bit of a sigh, he pushed himself up from off the seat and made his way to the doorway that separated the cockpit from the cabin. "I don't know, Hannibal," he began to say, the tone of his voice fairly melancholy. "When you've seen one Christmas, you've seen them all."
Hannibal looked back to his second-in-command and frowned slightly. This wasn't going to be another one of those years, was it? Based on the response from the young Supply Officer, there was a pretty good chance that it was, although each year seemed to get progressively worse than the year before. He'd have to have a good, long, and hard talk to put this to rest for good, before it made the holiday season miserable for all of them. "I've found that Christmas depends on where and how you see it . . ."
He was just about to continue his statement when static broke through the radio. "Private jet, Meigs control. Please identify," a deep male voice stated.
Hannibal narrowed his eyes a bit and gave the con artist a look that indicated that this discussion was not over yet . . . not by a long shot. In fact, this was a topic that they had tried to discuss several times before over the years, but Face always managed to finagle his way out of it. Only this time, he was saved by the voice of air traffic control . . .
Murdock reached forward to the radio on the center console and flipped a button to activate his microphone. He wore a thin black earpiece, which hung over his left ear, and had a microphone that extended from it toward his mouth. "Alpha Tango One-Niner-Seven-Two, requesting permission to land."
After a brief moment, the air traffic controller's voice could be heard once more over the radio as he informed them, "One-Niner-Seven-Two, you are not on our landing schedule. We need to put you into a holding pattern. Take a heading of Oh-Two-Niner and start a wide circle."
"Meigs, One-Niner-Seven-Two, roger," Murdock replied, gently turning the yoke of the plane to the heading indicated by the tower. Holding pattern . . . that was never good. Either they had too many flights on the schedule, or something else happened like an emergency that needed priority landing clearance. At least that was what he had hoped . . .
Hannibal looked back toward the young Lieutenant, trying to study him with a questioning gaze. Normally, he implicitly trusted Face, but he couldn't help but to be worried by this turn of events. Even seeing Murdock look at him confirmed that being put into a holding pattern was something out of the ordinary. All he could do was hope that, somehow, the Army hadn't caught on and contacted the Chicago police department to hold all of them until the boys in olive drab arrived. "Face," the Colonel began to say, "I thought you had filed those fake flight plans which would have cleared us for a landing here."
Templeton sighed, and then quickly complained, "Do you realize just how hard it is to not only hack into the FAA computers, but also to put something like that in without having it look suspicious?" In a way, the con artist wasn't sure that the others fully appreciated the extremes he sometimes had to go through, the hoops he had to jump through, in order to make some of these scams come off almost flawlessly. He cast a nervous glance toward the cabin behind him, and the sleeping giant that was strapped into one of the seats. Face shuddered at the thought of what would happen if BA woke up while they were still in the air . . .
As he thought about it, if nothing else, Face knew that BA had brought this upon himself. He had told the other members of the A-Team that this winter was the 20th anniversary of his father's death, which would have been especially hard on his mother. Despite the fact that she was watched by the military, especially around the holidays, he wanted to be there for her. Unfortunately, there was something personal that BA chose to attend to which delayed their departure for Chicago, forcing the Team to acquire air transportation if they wanted to arrive in the Windy City in time for the holidays.
Pulling out a cigar, Hannibal stuck it into his mouth but didn't light it just yet. He always was able to think more clearly with one wedged between his teeth, regardless of whether or not it was actually lit. Time to start assessing the situation just in case things took a bit too long with the tower. "How much fuel do we have left, Murdock?" he wondered.
The Texan looked at the gauge above his head and saw the amount. 600 pounds. He quickly calculated the weight of the plane, the passengers . . . adding a bit extra for BA since had gotten some extra gold . . . and figured out just how long that would keep them in the air. Unfortunately, everything he was coming up with didn't leave him feeling any better about this. "'Bout 8 minutes, Colonel. You'd better hope they find those flight plans, ore we're gonna be taking a swim."
Face gulped upon hearing that. He didn't know what Murdock had meant by that . . . by taking a swim. Did he mean it for real, or if they had to land in Lake Michigan? He had never been in Chicago during this time of the year, although he heard BA mention how brutal winters here could be sometimes. He could only guess that the water would be freezing right about now, which definitely wasn't too appealing. Shifting uncomfortably, he suggested, "What about re-routing to O'Hare or Midway?"
"Not enough fuel for that, Faceman," Murdock noted solemnly, his voice clearly indicating that he was a bit preoccupied with their current situation. His eyes were scanning the lakefront in order to try and come up with an alternative landing spot. "With how much fuel we have left, we'd end up going down in a residential area before we get to either airfield. 'Sides, Midway and O'Hare have more security. We'd all be in cuffs before you could sing 'Jingle Bells.'"
Face looked to Hannibal as he began to worry. It clearly showed with the look of uncertainty that spread across his face. He still wasn't sure why Murdock had mentioned taking a swim before, but now with the fuel that remained they couldn’t reach either of the two major airports that served the city? The whole reason why he filed these flight plans, in the first place, was to avoid O'Hare and Midway, since Murdock had echoed the exact reason why he had gone with Meigs. The prospect of getting thrown in jail by the local authorities until Decker could arrive was less than appealing.
Hannibal looked from Face back to Murdock, his calm expression not revealing the thoughts that swirled around within his cunning mind. He was formulating several alternative plans . . . places that he could order Murdock to set the plane down if it came to it. The long stretches of Lake Shore Drive or Columbus Drive around Grant Park could act like a runway. Columbus Drive would be even riskier due to the high rises to the north of the park, including Prudential Plaza and the Amoco Building. The later building was a single towering white tower, which actually was very similar in appearance to one of the World Trade Center buildings. Either way, they'd risk clipping some trees and knocking down some light poles and traffic lights, so the city wouldn’t be too happy with them.
Murdock was just about to inform the tower about their fuel situation when the voice of the air traffic controller burst over the radio once more. "One-Niner-Seven-Two, Meigs Tower. Our computer system had a glitch and just came up with your flight plans. You are cleared for a shoreline visual approach to Runway One-Eight. Winds are out of the southeast at ten knots."
"Meigs, One-Niner-Seven-Two, roger. Clear to land," the lanky pilot replied before shutting off the microphone. Inwardly, he let out a sigh of relief. Although it was touch and go for a while there, Face really did come through for them, didn't he? Reaching to the switches above him, he flipped a couple to lower the landing gear. He then brought his hand down to grab onto a lever and then pulled that down to the first notch. He could feel the plane begin to slow as the flaps lowered to the first position.
"Oh ye of little faith," Face remarked, a smug confident smile appearing upon his lips almost as if he had known, all along, that the flight plans would turn up. Of course, he didn't want to necessarily admit that he was worried about whether or not their flight plans would have turned up. The sign of a good con man was someone who could keep his cool, even when it seemed like everything was about to turn against him.
Murdock turned the yoke of the plane, causing it to bank once more, until he lined it up for an approach to the lakefront airport. Their path took them past several notable landmarks, including the Tribune Tower, Wrigley Building and Navy Pier. From what he had recalled, Navy Pier had actually been used as a Naval training base for about 10,000 officers, and actually started the first group of trainees in the days before the bombing of Pearl Harbor. Now, the pier was neglected and a shadow of its former self . . . probably nothing like what Daniel Burnham had intended when he had meant for one of two municipal piers to be included within his plan for Chicago's lakefront.
Hannibal looked out of the front windshield of the plane as a twinkle appeared within his eyes. He glanced back to the Lieutenant and grinned. He was on the Jazz. He knew something about the upcoming landing that Murdock would have to make, and was basking in the thrill of it.
Templeton Peck also looked through the front windshield of the cockpit, but his reaction was very different from that of Hannibal's. His jaw practically dropped when he spotted the airport. The runway lights glowed intensely, but there was still enough of the last strains of daylight for him to see the runway. Except for one small strip of land that contained a parking lot and an access road, it was completely surrounded by water. Was this what Murdock meant by them taking a swim if they couldn't land? From the looks of the landing strip, if the plane missed the runway or didn't stop in time at the end of it, they'd end up in the drink! Letting out a bit of a nervous laugh, Face asked, "We're landing there? You're kidding, right?"
Pulling the lever down once more to increase the flaps to 30, Murdock took on a regal British accent as he used the con man's own words against him, "Oh ye of little faith." His hands expertly ran over the controls in final preparations, as it wouldn't take too much longer before the wheels would touch the runway.
Hannibal turned to look at Face with amused interest. The expression of shock on the con man's face was absolutely priceless right now with what he saw. If the Colonel had a Polaroid instant camera, he would have taken a picture just to preserve that moment. He let out a slight laugh as he asked, "Where's your sense of adventure, Lieutenant?"
It's bad enough when Murdock flies one of these things, but at least he knows what he's doing!
-- BA, "In Plane Sight"
Chapter 2: The Giant Awakes
Howlin' Mad Murdock pulled the lever down for the flaps control one more notch, to flaps 45, as he scanned the instruments. The dome-shaped Adler Planetarium and the hexagonal Shedd Aquarium loomed briefly in the windshield ahead of them before they soared over the two lakefront attractions at close range.
To the right, on the other side of the harbor, was the Field Museum . . . and just behind that was the historic Soldier Field. The stadium was built in the same spirit of the Daniel Burnham design, with tall columns that lined the massive structure, and served as the home of the Chicago Bears football team. During the fall and winter, anytime the Team was together on a Sunday and there wasn't a mission, there was often a battle for the remote control, which BA usually won and he made sure that the TV was tuned in so he could watch his hometown team.
The plane passed over the parking lot as they quickly approached the runway. It was only a matter of feet now . . .
At the instant that Murdock thought that the plane was going to touch down, he pulled back on the yoke. A couple of slight bumps confirmed to him that the rear tires had made contact with the runway. He then pushed the yoke forward until he could feel that the nose gear had also touched down. With no time to lose, he began to apply the brakes while cutting back on the engines.
The aircraft slowed and gently came to a stop at the end of the runway with only a few feet to spare. A wild grin appeared upon Murdock's face with how thrilling that landing was for him, which was matched by Hannibal with one of his famous "on the Jazz" grins. The two of them looked at each other for a second, and then looked back toward the cabin. Templeton Peck was still there in the opening that separated the cockpit from the passenger area . . . but he had covered his eyes! Hannibal could only laugh as he told the con artist, "You can look now, Face. We're on the ground in one piece."
Face parted a couple of his fingers on his hands, which he had used to cover his eyes, just to be sure that they weren't trying to pull one over on him. He didn't feel the plane moving anymore, and he could not only see the very tail end of the runway . . . which was closer than he would have liked . . . but also the water that lay beyond it. Letting out a very visible sigh of relief, which almost seemed to emanate throughout his entire body, he lowered his hands. "Next time to we have to fly to Chicago, security or no security, I'd rather take a commercial flight and land safely at O'Hare," he complained. "Anything so I don't have to see another landing like that again."
"You didn't see much of anything with your eyes covered," Hannibal laughed at the obvious discomfort of his Lieutenant. In spite of Face's reaction to the landing, the Colonel was actually enjoying all of this. Of course, Chicago had always been magical to him around Christmas since the time he was a kid.
Murdock returned his focus to the controls of the airplane, increasing power to the engines and began to taxi the craft over to the taxiway and the apron where other planes were parked. It gently rolled where he directed it as he tried to reassure his friend, "Awww, come on, Faceman, that landing was as smooth as silk . . . a laugh a minute . . . a walk in the park."
"Alright, Murdock!" Face quickly spouted, trying to keep the pilot from continuing to rattle off those little sayings. Sometimes, when Murdock got started on something, it was difficult to get him to stop, especially if it seemed to be his current obsession or fixation. Sometimes they could be helpful, especially when giving the hospital staff an excuse when busting him out of the VA, but other times it got on his nerves since he often had to be the one that dealt with them more directly than the other guys. He cast a glance toward the cabin behind him, and then returned his attention to the Colonel and the pilot, "Um, we may want to get this plane parked before sleeping beauty back there comes to."
Almost as if on cue, albeit a bad one, the snoring giant in the back began to wake up. His head, which had lulled to the side during the flight, began to right itself as his eyes fluttered open. As soon as the blurriness cleared from his vision, he began to look around. Based on the seats and the windows of the fuselage, he realized that he was in his worst possible nightmare! "I'm on a plane!" he bellowed.
Hannibal and Face exchanged a look that said a lot without any words being spoken. They knew that someone as going to have to calm down the muscular Sergeant, and they definitely didn't want to leave that task to Murdock. BA would probably end up strangling him, as he often threatened to do, which would put a crimp on his ability to fly them back to Los Angeles when this visit was over. Even if they had to drive back to warm, sunny, southern California at this point, they'd never hear the end of it at this point which would make the trip very unpleasant and miserable.
"Hannibal, I'm on a plane!" BA continued to shout from the back as he struggled against the seatbelts that kept him secured to the seat. Grunts could be heard as he continued to struggle, although if left to his own devices it wouldn't be long before he freed himself and took it out on the others. "I'm on a plane! You guys are gonna pay!"
Easing the plane into an open spot on the apron, Murdock ignored the threats from the mechanic as he started to power down the engines. BA was such a grouch about flying, mainly because of his fear of it. With such an intense fear, it was a wonder that he had even earned his paratrooper badge. Then again, a lot of things that Murdock had to do in the air while in Vietnam, in order to keep them all alive, just played into that fear.
There was one incident in particular that he recalled . . . the evacuation from Kham Duc. It was his first time back with the Team following his first CIA mission while in 'Nam, and he hadn't officially been assigned as their pilot. But, when Boomer got shot and was rendered unconscious, it had been up to ol' Howlin' Mad in order to save the day. He wound up having to climb into the front of the chopper from the back and tried to get them out of there . . . but not before a shoulder rocket was fired at them, causing Hannibal to fly out of the open door. Thankfully, he had managed to grab onto a skid to keep himself from plummeting to the ground, but that incident was more than enough to intensify and justify the Sergeant's fear of flying.
He began to shut down the power as he turned to the Colonel and suggested, "Do you think music would soothe this savage beast?"
Hannibal's eyes practically lit up at the idea from the pilot. Murdock may have been deemed insane by the state, but he was a certifiable genius! Sometimes, the ideas that he had were absolutely brilliant, a true testament to the extraordinary level of intelligence that he often hid behind the mask of his crazy antics. The two of them often related to each other in ways that the others couldn't quite understand, much to BA's dismay, especially when the Colonel often played along with and encouraged the Texan's various personas and obsessions. "Thanks, Murdock! I think a touch of Christmas cheer is just what our resident Grinch needs at the moment."
Climbing out from the co-pilot seat, Hannibal stuck his unlit cigar back in the left breast pocket of his safari jacket. He knew that smoking a cigar at the moment would only serve to make BA that much more irate. The Sergeant had said on more than one occasion how he didn't like those "smelly cigars," but like the others he put up with it because the Colonel was the man with the plans, and they had all seen how he often thought better and came up with ideas when he had a fresh cigar wedged between his teeth. His grin grew bigger than ever as he passed Face, strolling into the cabin of the plane as he merrily hummed, "Deck the Halls." Inwardly, he hoped that his choice of a Christmas tune wouldn't give the muscular mechanic any ideas . . .
Spotting his commander walk into the cabin, BA wiggled against the tightened seatbelts that much more forcefully. He clearly wasn't happy, and his face was scrunched up with anger as he growled, "I warned ya, sucker! I warned ya what I was gonna do if you got me on a plane again!"
Ceasing his
humming, Hannibal
pointed an accusing finger straight at his Ordinance Officer. "Stow that, Sergeant!" he ordered
in an authoritative tone. One thing
about Sergeant Bosco Baracus . . . although he didn’t necessarily like or agree
with certain things, especially when it came to flying, anytime Hannibal issued an order
he followed it. Time to use that to his
advantage. "You were the one who
wanted to come to Chicago
and be with your mom this Christmas, and you were the one who insisted that we
take the last mission. If we hadn't
taken that case, then we could have drove here with plenty of time to
spare. Because we did, we wouldn't have
made it here to Chicago
in time for the holidays if Murdock didn't fly us."
BA glanced down to the floor of the cabin and let out a bit of a sigh. The expression on his face relaxed as he
softly apologized, "Sorry, Hannibal." He knew the Colonel was right. A kid from the Watts Challenger's Club had been
in trouble, and BA couldn't say no to helping him since he often pitched in
around the center whenever he had an opportunity. He had practically threatened the others to
join in and take the case. If they
hadn't helped him, the kid would have ended up in jail, and they would have had
plenty of time to drive to Chicago.
Seeing that the
mechanical genius wasn't about to knock his head off, Hannibal undid the straps that securely kept
the Sergeant in place. "You know,
BA," Hannibal began to mention as he unfastened the top strap, giving the
burly man a bit more breathing room, and then started working on the straps
securing his arms. "This would be
so much easier if you could get over your fear of flying."
Once his arms were free, BA reached up to rub his sore neck. He growled a bit at Hannibal's suggestion, and then noted, "No
way, man. If people were meant ta fly,
they would've been born with wings."
In spite of his intense fear of flying, he certainly had a point. People were not naturally made to fly, but
there were some like Murdock who took to it like a fish to water and seemed
most in their element when they were behind the controls of a plane or a
chopper.
Hannibal nodded to the Sergeant, finding logic within his words, and then turned toward the front of the plane when he heard movement up there. He noticed Murdock and Face, preparing to open the airplane door and lower the steps. He tried hard to suppress a grin as he watched their reactions upon opening the door. A blast of bitter cold air hit the two of them, causing Murdock to jump around so much that he looked like he had swallowed a whole jar of Mexican jumping beans. Face instantly wrapped his arms around his torso for warmth, but to no avail. He shivered so much that his teeth were chattering loud enough for Hannibal and BA to hear!
Once the stairs were fully lowered, both the pilot and the con artist made a mad dash for the warmth of the tan and glass terminal building. Colonel Smith watched the two scurry off like they had bullets flying in their direction and let out a hearty laugh. He proceeded to the back of the plane and pulled out some of the bags they had put on board before taking off from the Van Nuys Airport in Los Angeles.
After watching Murdock and Face, even BA managed to crack a small smile and giggled slightly at their hasty retreat from the plane. Unfortunately, that moment of enjoyment in their discomfort faded as he recalled how miserable and unpleasant both Face and Murdock were when they got sick. And then, in typical fashion, they would pass their colds off to the rest of them. Hannibal . . . oh jeez, when he got a cold? He was the definition of extremes when he got nailed with an illness. The normally bright, cheerful, and playful leader was worse than the rest of them combined!
Unzipping the first bag, Colonel Smith reached in and pulled out a warm winter parka! In fact, from the look of it, there had been four of them within the bag. He handed BA one of the parkas, watching as he slipped it on, and then started to put the other one on, making sure to zip it up to block out as much of the cold as possible.
As BA watched Hannibal put on his winter coat, he noticed the other three bags that hadn't been opened. They were bigger than the rucksacks they used to have while in the Army, and seemed to be packed to the gills with how the fabric was jutting out in various different spots and at different angles in at least two of the bags. The third was a complete mystery, causing the Sergeant to ask, "What's in those?"
Hannibal didn't react when BA had asked that question and zipped up the bag that held the remaining two jackets. He gathered that one up, along with the other bag that was packed, but not with objects sticking out from it. "Well, since you asked BA, this one here has some ordinance. Your mom did say that she was watched during the holidays, so it's better that we brought some firepower, just in case," Hannibal began to mention as he gestured to one of the bags that he hadn't picked up. He then pointed to the other one that he didn't grab as he noted, "That one has the presents we picked up for your mom."
There was one bag that Hannibal hadn't mentioned yet . . . one of the two that he had slung over his shoulder. The Colonel had already anticipated the potential of running into the MPs or other authorities, but he didn't think that the strategist would automatically want to get into a firefight with them if he could avoid it. No, for situations like this, Hannibal usually preferred a more subtle approach . . . and that thought made BA shudder slightly since things usually backfired. "What about that last bag you got?" he decided to ask.
"Oh, this one?" Hannibal asked with a mischievous grin on his face, feigning innocence. He knew the exact contents, and wasn't going to let the cat out of the bag with this one just yet. They'd all just have to wait to find out what he had in store . . . but one thing for sure, it was going to be fun, and he couldn't wait to see the expressions on their faces once they realized what was inside. "This one has a surprise that'll help us get past the MPs to see her."
BA recognized the look on his commander's face and shook his head. Hannibal was clearly on the Jazz, and BA had a feeling he wasn't going to like the surprise that the Colonel had lined up. The leader was just as crazy as Murdock was sometimes, and this time probably wasn't going to be an exception. And here he thought that Hannibal sneaking Mike, the skunk, into the van was bad . . .
Jer, trust him. He’s made a career out of bending the rules.
-- Hannibal, "Where is the Monster When You Need Him"
Chapter 3: Warm Trust
Murdock stood at the counter, briskly rubbing his arms in an effort to warm up. He had heard about Chicago winters, but had no idea that it could be THIS cold. He thought leather jackets were supposed to keep the people who wore them warm . . . but his jacket did just the opposite. It seemed to capture the cold within its fibers, further chilling him to the bone. The building provided a some welcome heat, but he had been so frozen just from that run to the plane to the terminal that he thought he was going to turn into a popsicle!
As he waited for Face to return to the counter, he took in the décor on the inside of the terminal. Large white columns stood at various spots, sweeping upward toward the ceiling. He couldn't really call how they connected to the ceiling as flying buttresses, but in a way it almost seemed like the funnel with the large open end a bit flattened and the spout elongated.
The central area of the terminal building bore large panes of glass windows, which ran from the floor to the ceiling, ignoring the fact that there were actually two levels to the structure. As a result of all of the glass, it afforded spectacular views of the airfield and Lake Michigan to the east, and then the city itself to the west. The walls to the north and the south in the terminal were covered with a teal mosaic tile, which looked like it would have been more of a choice for a bathroom floor than the wall within a building. Along those walls were a line of black bench seats, with armrests at strategic points dividing it up to allow for several people to sit upon them as they waited for their flights to arrive or to depart.
In essence, everything on the inside seemed like a bad throwback to the 1960s art deco.
Looking around, he saw Face hang up the pay phone and start heading back to join him. The con artist, who was California born and raised, seemed to be just as relieved as he was to be within some warmth. Who he was talking to, and how he managed to get his teeth to stop chattering long enough to make his phone calls was anyone's guess.
One thing he had to admit, though . . . he had been impressed so far by the plane that Face had managed to get them for this trip, along with the contingencies to go along with it. He was right about what he said on the plane . . . trying to hack into the FAA computers in order to file the flight plan, and make it look legit, was a major challenge, but only someone of his caliber was able to pull it off as he did. He even managed to get the landing and storage fees waved here at Meigs, but the one thing he hadn't thought about was bringing winter coats.
Of course, Chicago's weather was sometimes very fickle. He had heard the weather casters in Los Angeles occasionally note temperatures in other cities when delivering the forecasts, and sometimes they'd mention the Windy City. There were a few times when the temperature was into the 50 degree range, sometimes even around 60 degrees, with no snow at all. And other times, it was just like how it was outside when they arrived . . . absolutely freezing, with a wind chill colder than the air temperature, and more snow than the city seemed to know what to do with it. What was the saying that he heard about it . . . if you don't like it, go inside and wait fifteen minutes? Well, he doubted that'd be long enough to melt all of that snow out there and return the city to some sense of normalcy.
Just as Face returned to stand with him, the A-Team pilot noticed Hannibal and BA entering the terminal . . . bundled up in very warm winter coats. His jaw dropped as if it had turned into a solid block of ice! Face probably didn't think it was going to be this cold and forgot about bringing any coats, or he would have made sure he grabbed them before they even opened the door to the plane. So, where in the world did they come from . . . unless . . .
Hannibal . . .
Didn't he mention during the flight about driving from Detroit to Chicago for Christmas a few times? Well, if that was true, he'd know what Chicago winters were like, and Detroit was not that far away so they'd also get hit too by whatever cold and snow that the Windy City got. He must have been the one that thought about bringing winter coats.
He watched as Hannibal set down the two bags he was carrying, and unzipped one of them. He pulled out a blue winter coat and handed it to Face, and then a red one and tossed it to Murdock, emptying the bag. Face slipped his coat on and started to zip it up, while Murdock couldn't put his on fast enough. As he did so, he exclaimed joyfully, "Oh, Colonel, I just want to kiss you!"
That kind of a comment was not something that the Colonel expected from his pilot. He gave Murdock a strange look, and then suggested, "Uh, I don't think that will be necessary, Captain."
BA snickered a bit as he set down the two bags he was carrying due to the exchange between Hannibal and Murdock, but especially with the Colonel's reaction. He had to admit that it was pretty funny, although he knew that the pilot would never do such a thing toward their leader. But, it was a rare moment whenever someone could make Hannibal squirm a bit. After a few seconds, he urged, "Come on, man, let's get goin'. I wanna see my Mama."
Templeton Peck cupped his hands together and blew into them, trying to warm them up just a bit more. Pulling his hands away from his mouth, he rubbed them together as he started looking a lot more comfortable with the thick coat on. "Well, guys," the con artist jumped in with measured tones, his teeth thankfully not chattering anymore. "I had to bite the bullet on this one, but I managed to scam us a nice vehicle. We won't be riding in the lap of luxury, but I think you'll find it very comfortable."
Murdock rolled his eyes slightly upon hearing that from the Supply Officer. The last time Face scammed them a car that he said was comfortable, the only thing that fit that description was the seats . . . provided they could have stopped themselves from bouncing out of them with how bad the suspension, shocks, brakes and transmission were.
Apparently, Murdock wasn't the only one that had recalled the last car that he had managed to scam for the Team. Colonel Smith's eyes narrowed slightly, his own skepticism rising within him as he also recalled the last vehicle that the Lieutenant had managed to procure. "Face, just what kind of a car did you manage to get for us?" he questioned, his voice very firm.
BA let out a growl, and then added in a gruff tone, "This one better not be like the last car, sucka. I don't like havin' my kidneys bounced aroun' like a rubber ball." As a highly skilled mechanic, he took pride in whatever vehicle he drove, and could fix up most jalopies from being on the edge of the engine seizing to one that purred like a kitten. That last car that Face got, though . . . there was just no way that he could do anything to make it run better. That's just how rusted out it was. They were lucky that the thing even just held together! It would have been better to put that thing out of its misery and get another car.
Murdock studied his fingernails for a moment, trying to blow on them to warm them up even faster. "You know, Faceman, the big guy's right. The last car you got us was a wreck!" he complained, building up into almost a higher pitched whine.
Templeton's face took on a look of mock hurt, almost as if he couldn't believe that the others would question his skills with acquiring free transportation. He let out a bit of a nervous laugh as he pleaded almost innocently, "Come on, guys. Don't you trust me?"
All three men
looked directly at the Lieutenant and replied in unison, "No!"
Face simply shrugged his shoulders. If they didn't want to believe him, that was fine, as he had a bit of a surprise of his own. They'd soon find out what it was the moment they walked out the doors of the terminal and toward the parking lot. Shrugging off their disbelief, he turned and made his way to the exit, pushing against the metal handle to open the door and slipping out into the cold night air.
Hannibal watched his Supply Officer and let out a chuckle. He unzipped his black parka slightly to pull out a cigar and a lighter from the breast pocket of his safari jacket. Flicking the lighter open, the small flame sprung to life, dancing gently within the warmth of the terminal. He held it up to the end of his cigar, allowing the flame to lick at the tip of it. He took a few puffs and then closed the lighter, returning it to the breast pocket of his safari jacket. He zipped his winter coat up again and then grabbed the empty bag and the other remaining bag while suggesting, "Come on, guys. Let's follow him before he accuses us of making him wait in the freezing cold and getting him sick." He grabbed the empty bag, plus the bag with the supplies, and slung them over his shoulder before heading out the door.
BA grabbed the bag with the ordinance, and Murdock picked up the one with the presents, and they followed suit by following their leader out the door. The moment they stepped outside, they were met by a stiff breeze, which made the air around them seem that much colder. They quickly caught up to Hannibal and, between the three of them with the bags slung over their shoulders, they looked like a rag-tag group of Santas without the red suits and white beards.
They made their way to the parking lot nearby, where they spotted Face, leaning against a black Chevrolet Suburban. It sparkled beneath the artificial light and looked to be band new. The wind whipped through the Lieutenant's blonde hair, which he quickly tried to put back into place . . . or at least as much of it as possible considering the elements he had to endure. A smug smile appeared upon his lips as they approached, knowing full well that they likely felt dumb for ever doubting him. He came through this time, and in a big way.
"I don't believe it," BA noted with admiration as he appraised the vehicle. He approached and watched as Face held up a finger, allowing a set of keys to dangle from it. Grabbing them from his hand, BA opened the back of the Suburban and hefted his bag inside. Murdock and Hannibal also placed their bags back there as well before moving around to the doors of the utility vehicle, opening them and climbing inside.
Hannibal climbed inside the front passenger seat and scanned the dashboard. A small smile appeared on his face, and the tone of his voice echoed his satisfaction as he commented, "Nice, Face." He was impressed that Face was able to get such a vehicle . . . big and comfortable, with more than ample room for all of them and plenty to spare, but with enough horsepower under the hood to make BA smile like a kid on Christmas morning.
Murdock hopped
into the seat behind BA and closed the door behind him, again blowing on his
fingertips to try and warm them. Even
those few minutes out in the cold, going from the terminal to the car, returned
his hands to the cold state that they were in prior to getting the jacket. Of course, Hannibal brought them the winter coats . . .
but did he think about gloves? Maybe he
did, but for right now all Texan wanted to do was to get in out of the cold,
and he wasn’t talking about in a car either.
"Hey, Face, where'd you say that the hotel was where we were going
to be stayin' at?"
BA started up the engine and listened to the melodic purr. A slight smile touched his lips. Turning the heat on in the car, however,
would have to wait until the engine was warmed up a bit more. Canadian cars came with a separate system for
heating that was independent of the motor's engine, but he didn't see anything
labeled in French, so they'd have to endure the cold just a bit more until they
got moving.
"Well, I managed to scam us a nice penthouse at the Chicago Hilton and Towers at the corner of Michigan Avenue and Balbo," the con artist noted, settling into the seat behind Hannibal and closing the door. His tone of voice indicating how much he appreciated even his own work to be able to scam something as fancy as that without it costing them a single penny. The Hilton and Towers was a very notable establishment, with the penthouse usually booked for weeks and by big names in entertainment, politics, and more. Yes, this was going to be a very nice stay. Returning his focus to the inside of the vehicle, he asked, "You know where that's at, don’t you, BA?"
BA, a shovel, now that’s no disguise.
-- Hannibal, "Showdown"
Chapter 4: Cons and Disguises
The sitting room of the penthouse suite at the Hilton and Towers was exquisitely decorated. The cream colored walls complimented the light blue plush Persian carpet. These lighter tones tastefully contrasted with the black leather couch, loveseat, and chairs, but also with the cherry wood and gold accents, including the floorboards, end tables, coffee table and the desk.
The wet bar also bore cherry toned woodwork, but also a polished black marble top with specks of gold within the lines. Standing behind the bar was Templeton Peck, who looked to be much warmer than he had been during the mad dash from the plane. His wind-blown hair was back in its perfectly combed state, with nary a strand out of place, before his encounter with the unofficial reason why Chicago was called the Windy City.
The real reason for the nickname was because of the politicians within Chicago. Most of them were blow hards that were full of hot air. Of course, this came from the long debates that they had in the council chambers of city hall. But, as the city rebuilt after the great Chicago fire and scores of tall buildings went up, lining the city streets, it created a wind tunnel effect. Sometimes the winds could be so strong that people were, quite literally, swept off their feet, hence the more popular reason for the nickname.
Pulling out a bottle from behind the bar, Face examined the label with an appreciative eye. "Hmmm . . . Chardonnay, and not a bad year either," he appraised. If he could, and they didn't have to visit Mrs. B, he'd spend most of the time here in this penthouse suite, wining and dining the beautiful women of Chicago. After all, it wasn't often that they had a chance to visit this beautiful city. Reluctantly, he returned the bottle to the small wine fridge underneath the counter of the wet bar and then wandered over to the sofa where he sat down.
Hannibal sat on the love seat, rooting through the one of the two bags that he had personally carried. This was the one that hadn't been emptied at the airport when he pulled out the jackets. A cigar hung from the corner of his mouth, although his face didn't betray whatever thoughts were rolling around in his mind as to what was in the bag or how they were going to use it. He had told BA that it contained a surprise so they could get past the MPs to see his mother. The others would find out soon enough what was inside as he revealed his plan to them.
BA paced the room almost like a caged tiger. From the moment he regained consciousness on the plane, his only thoughts were going to see his mother. He had wanted to go there directly, but Hannibal insisted that they check into the hotel first, which only delayed that visit. Face and Murdock were from warmer environments, southern California and Texas respectively, so they weren't used to the cold harsh winters like he and Hannibal were. The Colonel wanted the con man and the pilot to have a chance to warm up a bit so they wouldn't get sick. But, they had been in the penthouse for nearly an hour now. Wasn't that long enough for the two of them to warm up? Turning to Hannibal, he glared at the Colonel and reminded him, "C'mon, man, I wanna see my Mama."
"In a bit, BA," Hannibal responded, unfazed by the muscular Sergeant's fierce scowl. In fact, he had never even looked up from the mystery bag that he was rummaging through. "I'm just finalizing our plan and making sure that we have everything we need to get past the MPs."
Murdock had been wandering around the room, picking up various items to look at it, and then returned them to their proper place. Once he had gotten bored with that, he opened up the expansive entertainment center and grabbed the remote control. Turning on the TV, he flipped through the channels until he settled on WGN and a rerun of "Hardrock, Coco, and Joe." The classic stop-animation show was a holiday classic around Chicago and aired every single year on the station owned by the same paper that produced the Chicago Tribune. "Nice place, Face. How'd you scam it?" he asked with his thick Texan drawl.
BA and Hannibal both stopped what they were doing and looked directly at the con artist. They were just as eager to find out how he managed to secure the luxury penthouse at such a reputable establishment without it costing them a single red cent.
"What can I say, guys?" Face asked innocently, as a grin spread across his lips. He couldn't just go out and share all of his tricks. As a con artist, he had to have a few aces up his sleeve . . . even quite literally when playing cards. It was best to have them believe that he could perform virtual miracles with obtaining places to stay, supplies, and transportation . . . to keep them in awe of his sheer talents. "It takes charm, wit, and the ability to know what to say when. If you guys only knew the timing it takes to pull these off . . ." he began to mention.
"What was her name, Face?" Hannibal asked, grinning around the cigar clenched between his teeth. There was something that the young Lieutenant wasn't telling them. His most successful scams often meant pulling the eyes over some poor girl, who would be ready to bear his children if he so much as said the word by the time everything was said and done.
"Megan," he admitted with a bit of a sigh, almost as if mentally recounting her beautiful features like she was standing before him right then and there. She really was beautiful . . . a slender figure in great proportion, great curves, golden hair that seemed like the sun caught on fire, and emerald green eyes that sparkled like jewels. Inwardly, he was slightly disgusted because the guys just had no appreciation for the 'intricacies' of his job, or the lengths he had to go through in order to get them whatever they wanted. But, depending on how long they ended up staying, there was a chance that he could get a date with her . . . a thought that brought another smile to his lips.
Hannibal laughed and returned his focus to digging around in the bag at his feet. Ah! There it was . . . the first bundle that he wanted to pull out. And the others were also in there as well. He had taken the time in Los Angeles to prepare these things, with all of the necessary items to go with it, and put the bundles together to make it easier for once they got here to Chicago. He hadn't told anyone about what he did though, keeping it as a surprise as he continued to formulate his plan.
Murdock was the first to notice the Colonel digging around within the bag. Their esteemed leader had never said a single word about what was inside, so this brought about an intense curiosity. What exactly did he have in that bag, and why was he keeping it a total mystery from all of them? Plus he looked like he was on the Jazz already, and they hadn't even done much of anything yet besides landing in Chicago and getting settled into the hotel. Using the remote for the TV that was still in his hands, he muted the volume and then turned to his Commanding Officer, "Hey, Hannibal, what'cha got in that bag?"
"Well, Murdock, I thought you'd never ask," Hannibal noted, almost as if he had expected someone to have asked that question some time ago. After all, he had been keeping the bag and its contents a total mystery from everyone. This was going to be good. "In here, I have the tools that'll allow us to sneak past the MPs watching Mrs. B's apartment so we can get in to see her."
Hearing the word tools was enough to draw BA's attention, thinking that there was something he'd have to build. Knowing Hannibal as he did, he had always preferred the front door approach. He wasn't going to do something that'd blow up half the neighborhood just so they could get in there, would he? "What kinda tools, Hannibal?" BA wondered, hoping he wouldn't regret asking about it.
Without even saying a word, Hannibal pulled out the first bundle . . . something that had red fabric. He tossed it over to BA, who deftly caught it. There was a mischievous grin on his face, and a twinkle in his eye as he saw BA untie the bundle and look at what he was just given. He dug around in the bag, not even waiting for the response, in order to pull out the rest of the items for BA.
The master mechanic untied the bundle and unfolded it. He examined the fabric with an almost disgusted look. He couldn't believe that the Colonel was going to have him do this, just to see his Mama. He was going to look ridiculous! "Aw, Hannibal," BA groaned, his voice dangerously close to a whine. "Not the Santa costume. Why can't I be a repairman or somethin' like that?"
"Now, BA," Hannibal started to say, his voice very patient as he fished the rest of the items for the Santa costume out of the bag. He pulled out the white beard and black boots and got up from where he was sitting. He handed it to his Sergeant who grumbled under his breath and looked practically disgusted that he had to do this just to see his mother. "You know you're the hardest one to disguise. Those MPs watching Mrs. B's apartment building are looking for you specifically, and the repairman costume just wouldn't work. Besides, it's Christmas," he added with a devilish grin.
"C'mon, big guy," Murdock crooned with a grin on his face that practically matched Hannibal's. "I think you'd make a great Santa!" There was a threatening growl from BA hurled at his direction, which caused the pilot to act swiftly. He shot up from the chair and danced out of reach of BA's threatening fists before the menacing muscular Sergeant could do him any physical harm.
"Yeah, BA," Face agreed, trying to bring his fashion sense into the banter. "Red is definitely your color."
"You gonna be seein' red in a minute, suckas," BA shot back threateningly, as he moved toward both the Supply Officer and the pilot. There was some stuff that he could put up with, but teasing was not one of those things. The guys did it often and, while they really meant no harm, it reminded him a bit too much of the old neighborhood and being bullied. That was obviously before he made it a point to become strong, physically and mentally, so he would never be bullied again.
Hannibal walked over to the bag and pulled out another bundle. He stepped between the pilot and the approaching Sergeant, and handed the Texan what he had just pulled out from his bag. He turned back to BA for a moment and held up a hand to him, almost as if a silent indication that he was going to love what was about to come next, and then returned to face the institutionalized member of the Team. If BA thought his costume was bad enough . . .
"Here, Murdock," Hannibal
told him with a grin. "You can be
his elf!"
Murdock untangled the bundle and held it up.
His eyes became as wide as saucers, and his jaw dropped as he looked
over the forest green outfit. He
couldn't believe that the Colonel was going to make him wear this! "Tights?!?" he asked
incredulously. "Hannibal, you've
got to be kidding!"
Upon seeing Murdock's outfit, BA's anger was immediately gone and he dissolved into giggles. He sat down in one of the chairs, unable to stop his high pitched snickering, his own disguise forgotten as he realized that the pilot actually had the more ridiculous costume of the two of them. In a way, it seemed just like Hannibal to pull a surprise like this.
Templeton Peck had also joined in with the laughter as well. In fact, he was laughing so hard that his
face was turning red! He hated to laugh
at his best friend's misfortune, but that disguise was just too good of an
outfit to pass up. He really had to hand
it to Hannibal
with his selections so far. The MPs
wouldn't recognize either one of them.
Finally, after a moment, he was finally able to catch his breath as he
told the pilot, "Look at this way, Murdock. The ladies will love it." No sooner had he said that, he burst into
another fit of laughter that almost doubled him over.
Murdock glared at Face for a moment. It was bad enough for Hannibal to have given him that outfit, but for his friend to be laughing at him like that? That's when he realized that Hannibal had only pulled out two disguises, and the bag still had some shape to it so there had to have been more to come. He looked pleadingly to the Colonel, who had returned to the bag and was already digging out something else from it.
Hannibal had almost an evil gleam in his eyes as he looked at his red-faced Lieutenant. He pulled out the last bundle from the bag and stood up, walking over to hand it to him. "I certainly hope so, Face, because you're going to get a first hand chance to find out," he chuckled.
Curious as to what the Colonel had meant by that, Face started to unfold the nondescript gray bundle that had been handed to him. Once it was unfolded enough, he realized what was right in his hands . . . an ugly gray dress and a gray wig to go with it. While Murdock's jaw dropped at the thought of wearing tights, Face's practically hit the floor!
Momentarily forgetting about his own ridiculous outfit, along with the shock of having to wear tights, a grin started to return to Murdock's face as he saw what Face had to wear. Although Murdock had dressed like a woman before a couple of times, this was going to be the first time that his friend would have to do so. Not just dress like a woman, but an old hag! With his rich tenor voice, he began to sing, "Grandma got run over by a reindeer . . ."
Although normally he was annoyed by Murdock's antics, this time around BA giggled even harder due to what the pilot started singing after seeing Face's outfit. Compared to the other two, his wasn't so bad. After all, he would be representing the most iconic figure in the world during this time of season. He was starting to enjoy this, and they hadn't even left to go see his Mama.
Face scowled viciously at the Texan and gave BA a baleful glare. For someone as dignified as himself, having to wear the outfit that the Colonel gave him made the term humiliating seem like a gross understatement! This was as far beyond humiliating as one could possibly get. But, as he looked to BA and Murdock, he started to realize something. They had all gotten outfits to wear except for one person. Speaking up in order to be heard over Murdock's singing, he asked sharply, "What about you, Hannibal? What are you going to be wearing?"
Hannibal pulled his cigar out from his mouth and waved his hand around a bit casually, "I'm going to be your poor blind husband." If Hannibal's grin could grow any bigger, it sure did right then and there. He was on the Jazz in a major way, and the others could all see it. But, his response only meant one thing. The rest of them were going to wear those get ups to alter their appearance however, the strategist would be wearing simply a hat, wrap around glasses, and carrying the cane of a blind person.
"What?" Murdock spouted upon hearing Hannibal mention his outfit. Here Hannibal gave them all these crazy costumes to wear, and he'd go in looking practically normal?
Face also picked up on this too, waving his hands in the air as he started to sputter, "You mean we have to wear these ridiculous disguises while you . . ." For the first time in a long time, the con artist was at a complete and total loss for words.
"We all have to make sacrifices, Lieutenant. Besides, it's the best I can come up with. If any of you have a better idea on how to get in the building without the MPs seeing us . . ." Hannibal grinned, offering them a challenge. It was a rare opportunity when he'd give the others a chance to come up with a better plan, and when they simply glared back he knew that he had won. "Good then," he said briskly. "Let's get moving."
Oh, momma, nobody calls me Scooter anymore!
Well, you’ll always be Scooter to me. I don’t care how much jewelry you wear.
-- BA and Mrs. Baracus, "Lease With an Option to Die"
Chapter 5: Dark Reunion
Mrs. Adele Baracus puttered around in her
kitchen. The scent of chocolate chip
cookies filled the apartment. She
flipped on a light within her over and bent over to take a look through the
window at the next batch of cookies, which were already starting to brown
up. It was only going to be a few more
moments before they were ready, although the smell emanating from them made
them nearly irresistible.
Letting out a sigh, she straightened up and stretched, digging a fist into the small of her back to relieve the ache that started to grow. She looked around her apartment in approval.
She loved Christmas. Not only did the snow and Christmas lights transform the city into a sight to behold, but the preparations always delighted her. She loved to hang the lights and put up the tree with garland, tinsel and ornaments, buy and wrap gifts for her friends and neighbors. And, as always, there was her specialty . . . cooking goodies for anybody who would take them. She couldn't understand why some people couldn't see the season as a wonderful and happy time.
The normally sparse furnishings were gaily decked out for the holidays. Christmas cards sat upon the shelves that separated the living room from the kitchen, intermixed with the fine dishes and other knickknacks. A couple of vases also sat on those shelves, filled to overflowing with brilliant red poinsettias. A white cloth sat on top of the settee in the living room, in front of the windows, and on top of that sat nativity scene complete with gorgeous hand-painted figurines. A Christmas tree sat in the corner by the radiator, the lights winking and sparkling, setting the ornate glass ornaments and the gold garland practically aglow within the multi-colored light. Decorative figures of Santa Claus and snowmen were in various spots throughout the apartment, along with additional ornaments that never made it onto the tree.
The only thing she hated about Christmas was the fact that her son couldn't be there to share it with her. Watching Scooter's reaction to the presents and the decorations had always provided many happy memories for her, especially after the death of her husband almost twenty years ago. But, he couldn't be there with her . . . not with the military watching her apartment as they always did this time of year. At least, wherever he was, she knew that he was with his family . . . with Hannibal, Face, and Murdock.
Her gaze fell upon a gold wrapped present beneath her tree. As she looked at it, a smile appeared upon her face and her eyes became a bit misty. This Christmas was going to be even more splendid. After many years of spending the holidays alone, she finally had someone to share it with. Just that very thought caused her heart to practically overflow with happiness, especially during one of the most joyous times of the year.
The timer on the stove let out a soft ding, bringing Mrs. Baracus out of her reverie. Pulling on an oven mitt, she opened the door and was greeted with a blast of warm air. Reaching inside, she grabbed onto the cookie sheet and pulled it out, gently lifting it to sit on top of the burners on the stovetop itself. Another cookie sheet sat beside it, with round orbs of raw cookie dough ready for the baking. Once she had slid the other sheet onto the top of the stove, she grabbed onto the unbaked sheet and slid it into the oven.
The doorbell ringing drew her attention immediately. She quickly set the timer on the new batch of cookies and set down the oven mitt as shivers of excitement ran up and down her aging spine. Although there were no official plans, she knew that could only be one person at the door . . . and that thought caused her heart to nearly start palpitating. She removed the apron that was tied around her waist and draped it over the back of a kitchen chair before she rushed to the door.
A greeting was already on her lips as she grabbed the door knob and twisted it, pulling the door open. But, her brown eyes widened with surprise when she saw not the person she was expecting . . . but Santa Claus? Not just Santa, but an African American Santa who looked like he could have been a linebacker for the Chicago Bears without that red suit. But who in the world would dress up as Santa and visit her? Over his shoulder, she could see a tall Caucasian man, dressed in a green outfit to make him appear to look like one of Santa's elves.
She took a moment to study the elf's facial features as a confused look settled across her face. Who were these guys at her doorstep? It wasn't that she was about to turn anyone away during the holidays, but this was definitely a first for her. But, as she continued to look at the elf, she thought that she recognized him. It couldn't be . . . could it? But they were normally in Los Angeles . . .
Just at that moment, Santa reached up and pulled down the white beard. With a small smile upon his face, and a gentle tone, he greeted her, "Merry Christmas, Mama."
A look of complete shock formed across her face, rendering Adele Baracus speechless. She had to reach up and rub her eyes, almost as if she couldn't believe that she was seeing who she was standing in front of her. But, when they hadn't faded from view when she drew her hands away, her heart started beating rapidly with a tremendous amount of joy and happiness. She reached up to gently caress his cheek just to make sure that she wasn't dreaming. Once she realized that he was really there, she found it hard to hold back the tears as she threw herself into her son's arms while she exclaimed, "Scooter! It's you . . . you're actually here!"
"'Course it's me, Mama," he said, smiling shyly at her delight. In spite of the somber anniversary, he was really happy to see her so thrilled at his visit, although he knew that her spirits would brighten even more in just a few moments. "Who else would come ya bringin' gifts for Christmas?"
Mrs. Baracus paused for a moment. If he was actually here, then how did he get past the MPs? The costume? The Santa outfit did disguise him pretty well, and nobody would have thought about him wearing something like that . . . especially if they knew what his gruff personality was like. Did they even suspect that the Santa was him? Either way, she had to get him inside before any of them turned up knocking at her door. Pulling out of the embrace, she guided him inside her apartment and noticed the sack that he was carrying.
He went inside and immediately moved to the tree, putting the sack down and opening it up to pull out four beautifully wrapped gifts. He gently put them under the tree, and then looked back to the doorway, where his mother was still standing.
Adele put her hands to her face in delight as she finally recognized the man in the green elf costume. Her eyes twinkled with laughter at the sight of the green-clad man's awkwardness and very embarrassed look. She could tell that he obviously didn't like being in that get up, since the tights showed off almost everything. Thankfully the green top had enough flair at the bottom to cover up the most essential parts, but it still amused her to no end. She drew the pilot into an embrace, pretending not to notice his embarrassment with his outfit, as she told him with a tremendous amount of joy, "And Murdock! It's so nice to see you again. This is such a wonderful surprise! Come in, come in!"
"It's nice to see you too, Mrs. B," Murdock responded, not hesitating to take up her invitation to move inside once he had pulled away from her hug. The sooner he could get out of this ridiculous costume, the better. Normally, the Texan was one of the first ones to fully back up Hannibal's crazy plans . . . but it never had him wearing tights that showed off nearly every single curve and bulge below his waist! He quickly scurried over to the couch and pulled one of the accent pillows over his lap.
"But where'd you boys come from?" Mrs. Baracus asked as she closed the door behind her, puzzled as to how they suddenly showed up on her doorstep. From the last time that they had visited, she recalled Murdock saying something about how he'd love to fly BA anywhere, which meant that he was a pilot. Her Scooter, however, was such a wimp about flying that there was simply no way that they could have flown all this way to Chicago, could they? Scooter would have wanted to drive, but . . . if BA and Murdock were here, that brought to mind only one other question. Before they could answer how they got to Chicago, she wondered, "Where are Hannibal and Face?"
Almost as if on cue, before either the Sergeant or the Captain could reply, the doorbell rang again. The soft melodic chime filled the apartment, and BA watched his mother take a few steps and reach for the door handle once more. When it swung open, two figures stood in the doorway. One was an older man with grey hair, a hat, and wrap around sunglasses that covered his eyes. He had on a black, warm winter coat, leather gloves, and held onto a red white cane for the blind within his right hand. The person to his left was a woman with mottled gray hair, a blue jacket that was open, and wearing one of the ugliest gray dresses she had ever seen. It looked like it was worse than anything that'd come out of a thrift store. The muscular mechanic tried not to giggle at the sight of the two figures.
"Excuse me," she started to say, slightly flustered at the appearance of the two new visitors. She certainly hadn't expected her son and Murdock here at this time of year, and now for two total strangers to be standing there in front of her . . . an older couple by all appearances. Normally some of the others within the apartment complex might stop by to check on her including Karen, but she didn't recall an older couple living in the building that looked like this before. "Can I help you?"
Right at that moment, both figures pulled off their wigs, and the gentleman pulled off his sunglasses. Hannibal's twinkling blue eyes shone back at Mrs. Baracus and his silver-white hair was almost as bright as snow. Face's blue eyes met that of BA's mother, and his blonde hair practically seemed to glow, a vast contrast to the gray wig he had pulled off a few moments ago. They both grinned like Cheshire Cats as they said at the same time, "Merry Christmas, Mrs. B."
Adele Baracus felt the urge to giggle at the two of them, and urged, "Hannibal, Face! Come on in, make yourselves at home." She stood on the side to allow the two of them to enter into her apartment, and was rewarded with a small peck on the cheek from each of them. She closed the door and then laughed as she surveyed the four men in their ridiculous costumes. She couldn't believe that they managed to surprise her like this. This was turning into the most wonderful Christmas ever.
As Hannibal and Face moved into the living room, Murdock pushed the pillow on his lap off to the side and got up from his couch. Moving over to the Sergeant, he grabbed the bag that BA had carried in with him and discreetly snuck into the bathroom to change. Hannibal probably thought that it was funny, but wearing tights in the middle of winter in Chicago . . . the Texan shivered, remembering just how cold it was outside before he and BA had entered the apartment building. There was no way that the Colonel was going to get him back into that costume, which meant that they would just have to find another way out of the building and avoid the MPs.
Face noticed the pilot walk off and take the bag with him. Silently, the con artist cursed to himself and followed Murdock toward the bathroom, hoping to intercept him and have a chance to change first. He didn't want to spend another moment in this dreadful thing and wanted to get into some more civilized clothes as soon as he possibly could. When he found the bathroom he grabbed the door handle and tried to twist it, only to find that it was locked. Damn it! Murdock beat him inside. He knocked on the door and said, "Hurry up, Murdock! I gotta change too. I don't want anyone to think I've had a sex change. Think of how that would ruin my social life!"
Inside the bathroom, the pilot snickered as he continued to strip off the dreaded elf costume. With the way the Supply Officer sounded, one would tend to think that he wanted to use this opportunity to stop by Karen's apartment . . . the upstairs neighbor of Mrs. Baracus . . . and see if he could charm her into having dinner with him or something. "Hold onto your wig, Faceguy. I'll be out in a few minutes," he called back, deciding to change as slowly as he could to draw out Face's torment.
******
A short while later, everyone had changed and settled around the living room with warm cookies and milk. Mrs. Baracus had pulled out the last batch of the cookies a few moments prior, so the smell of freshly baked sweets permeated the air. The reunion with Mrs. B was like a homecoming, and she didn't hesitate to whip them up a meal. It had to have been a long flight to Chicago, so she was sure that they were all tired and hungry, and she wanted to make sure they all felt welcome.
Face and Murdock were busy in the kitchen helping Mrs B, which allowed Hannibal crystal blue eyes looked around the apartment. It was a habit of his, almost as if driven by pure instinct due to their many years on the run and needing to protect his men . . . surveying any room they were in for anything that could be quickly used if they had to escape from the MPs or local authorities, or for any possible dangers or information that might come in use later on. Although it had been several months since they were here last, something was bothering him. He couldn't put his finger on it, though.
His gaze fell upon the entertainment center along the wall. That hadn't been there the last time they were in Chicago and had helped Mrs. B from being run out from her apartment by some scum. In fact, it looked brand new . . . not just the cabinet, but the television, VCR, and the stereo that sat within it. Mrs B didn't have a lot of money, so how in the world could she have afforded something like this on her own? He continued to look around and his trained eyes began to find other things that didn’t fit in with the modest surroundings . . . a fancy cuckoo clock on the wall, an expensive crystal vase with a dozen roses in it sitting on the table, a landscape painting in an ornate gold frame. Something was starting to click, although he wasn't quite sure what it added up to yet.
The Colonel looked to BA to see if he was also noticing the same thing. He found the muscular Sergeant crouched down by the Christmas tree, examining a gold wrapped present that hadn't been among the gifts they had brought. It had to have been there prior to their arrival . . . but who else would have brought a present by for Mrs. Baracus?
Although the Supply Officer and the pilot were busy helping Mrs. B, BA was doing a little checking of his own. He had noticed the present that had been under the tree at the time of their arrival and had picked it up. He examined it closely . . . not daring to open it, but more so to try and figure out who had brought his Mama such a beautifully wrapped gift. Even the gold wrapping, ribbon, and bow seemed to indicate that the gifter spared no expense for Mrs. Baracus.
There it was! He found a tag with a hand written note, which hopefully would reveal the identity of the person who had given it to his mother. His eyes narrowed as saw that it read, 'My dearest Addie, Merry Christmas. Love, Spencer.' Seeing that note was enough to cause some major suspicions. Standing up he walked over and joined Hannibal on the couch as he asked curiously, "Mama, who's this Spencer guy?"
The Colonel turned, his eyes flicked to Mrs. B to see how she would react to BA's question. Her entire face practically lit up at the mention of Spencer's name, which he found to be very unusual.
"Oh, that's from Spencer Jackson," she answered casually as she walked out from the kitchen with a serving dish that had a large stack of sandwiches on it. She placed it down on the table in the dining area, her sparkling eyes betraying how much she liked the man that she spoke about. "He's the one I started to work for a couple of weeks ago when I got that new job as a secretary at the Museum of Science and Industry."
"New job?" BA asked, his voice clearly indicating his confusion. For as long as he could remember, his mother volunteered at the Museum, donating her time to helping the children that visited the popular place grow and learn. It was this dedication that had fostered BA's love for children, and his subsequent work in youth and daycare centers. "I thought you volunteered in the Imagination Station, with the kids."
"Oh, I still do," Adele responded. A small, sweet smile appeared upon her lips as she remembered the way he had waltzed into her life and how things had developed since then. She turned to see Face and Murdock emerge from the kitchen, each bearing their own serving dishes with food, and placed them on the table. She looked back at her son and continued, "In fact, it was my work there that caught Spencer's attention. He offered to let me work in his office part time, and spend the rest of the time with the kids. I thought I could use the money, so I said yes."
Templeton Peck immediately picked upon the looks between Hannibal and BA, who were standing at various spots around the room. Whatever was going on, they were obviously concerned and it likely had something to do with the gold gift that was under the tree he had seen earlier, before he changed into more presentable clothes. Instinctively, he knew he had to jump into the fray and try to ask a few questions himself to divert things. If Mrs. B was anything like BA, she was going to get riled up and he didn't need to have her take it out on Hannibal or BA. Grabbing a sandwich from the plate, he walked over to sit on the couch and asked, "So, how did you meet this guy?"
"I actually stood up for him a few months when one of the employees was complaining about him to the Museum President. The poor man might have lost his job, and not that far off before Thanksgiving and Christmas. He's such a sweet fellow, and so pleasant to work for," she explained. Her tone wasn't as joyful as it was a few moments ago, even though she explained what was going on. What she didn't understand was why the others started asking her about Spencer. Then again, they hadn't had a chance to meet him yet, and she really wanted to prove to them that he was everything that she needed in her life.
Murdock wandered over to the entertainment center and examined it, admiring the size of the television which was pretty big for the size apartment she owned. He also noted the VCR to record programs . . . this wasn't one of the double units that had a side that could also be used with a video camera and the other for a tuner, but one of the newer models that integrated everything into a single rectangular box. Even the stereo seemed to be pretty expensive, with several components to it and a number of speakers designed to enhance the sound from not only any radio stations or cassettes that were played, but also for anything watched through the TV and VCR as well. For the pilot, this was the type of set up he'd die to have back in his room at the VA. "How about this here entertainment set up, Mrs. B?" he asked innocently.
"Spencer got me that," she answered hastily, almost to the point of getting defensive. Although she didn't show it in her mannerisms or the expression on her face, she was starting to get a bit upset by all of these questions. "He bought me that lovely television and entertainment center as a gift to say thank you after I helped him out with that employee. I told him it wasn't necessary, but he insisted."
Hannibal moved over to examine the cuckoo clock. Every internal alarm bell was ringing at this point, and he hadn't even met the guy in person yet. Why would a man give a woman he had just met such obviously expensive gifs? One thing the Colonel knew was that if women were emotionally attached to someone or something, and you pushed them hard enough, they'd push back in their own way . . . usually first by getting defensive, then angry, and then finally throwing them out on their rear ends. Keeping his voice neutral, he stared intently at the clock for another moment before asking, "I noticed this is new too. Did he give you this as well?"
Mrs B nodded, grabbing a sandwich and stepping away from the table to give the others a chance to get some food. Why they hadn't moved to grab a sandwich or something already had mystified her, especially if they had flown all this way and probably hadn't gotten anything to eat. "He has a lot of money, and he is ever so generous. He says that he likes to give nice things away to people he likes," she explained, hoping that what she said would be good enough for them.
BA had enough. Just like Hannibal, he was growing increasingly suspicious about all of this, and he wasn't liking what he saw for one minute. He hadn't even met the guy, and the anger inside of him welled up to the point where he was like a volcano, ready to explode. "Mama," he spoke up. "You don't even know this guy and he's givin' you stuff like this."
"I do know him," she shot back defensively, putting down her sandwich and putting her hands on her hips. She glared sternly at her son with the accusations that he made against Spencer, as well as the rest of the A-Team. "He's a very sweet man. We started to see a lot of each other since he offered me a job in his division and I really like him. Besides, I am a grown woman. I know how to be careful about who I see."
BA exchanged a guilty look with Hannibal before putting the gold wrapped present back under the tree. It was true, though . . . he hadn't seen his mother like this since before his father died twenty years before. Maybe this guy, Spencer, would be good for her. For the moment, he ignored the nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach, firmly believing that his Mama was perfectly capable of taking care of herself. "I'm sorry, Mama," he told her solemnly. "It's nice to see you so happy again."
Hannibal moved over to the table and grabbed one of the sandwiches, and then moved back over to the couch, where he sat down next to Face. They knew that they had hit a sore spot with her, so it was going to be like walking on eggshells for a bit. Mrs. Baracus could still be very feisty for a woman of her age, and it was obvious from the way she had started to respond to their continued questioning.
An uneasy silence settled over the apartment, which was shattered by the sound of the doorbell. The heads of all four men jerked sharply toward the door, before turning questioningly toward Mrs. Baracus. Was the person at the door Karen or another neighbor within the apartment complex? Or could it be someone else entirely? The MPs checking up on her, perhaps? Instinctively, Hannibal was about to order his men to scatter and find a place to hide within the apartment until Mrs. B could get rid of whoever was out there, but she had swiftly made her way over and opened the door before any of the men could move.
As it swung open, they were treated with the sight of the man who stood outside the doorway. He was a tall African American, dressed smartly in an expensive grey suit, white button down shirt, and a red tie. Even his shoes looked polished and expensive. His hair was oiled back, and he sported a well groomed mustache and beard. The grey in his hair indicated that he was right around Mrs. B's age, or perhaps just very slightly younger.
"Spencer," Mrs. B said breathlessly as a huge smile appeared upon her lips.
The man smiled and greeted her with a deep and passionate kiss upon her lips, which caused her to practically melt into his arms. They continued to kiss for what seemed like forever until he broke it and handed her a bouquet of a dozen red roses. "These are for you, my love," he told her in his deep baritone voice, flashing her a smile that showed off his pearly white teeth.
"Oh, Spencer, they're beautiful!" she exclaimed joyfully, the questions that had been levied at her a few moments ago by her son and her friends totally forgotten from her mind. She brought the roses up to her nose and breathed in their rich scent before turning to head into the apartment. "I better get them into water. I'll use that crystal vase you got me last week," she told him. She grabbed the vase from the shelf and walked into the kitchen. Holding the vase under the faucet, she turned it on and watched the water flow into it.
While she worked to put the roses into a vase and made sure they had fresh water, Spencer Jackson stepped into the apartment and closed the door behind him. When he turned back around, he noticed the eyes of the four other occupants, seated and standing around the living room, looking straight at him. "Oh, I'm sorry, Addie, I didn't know you had company," he noted, his tone of voice making it sound more like an inconvenience rather than an apology.
Hannibal regarded the appearance of Mr. Spencer Jackson carefully. Even though his voice and appearance were cultured and well bred, the easy going Colonel disliked him immediately. Or perhaps it was because of those qualities, making him seem too much like a mask to hide his true intentions. He looked to be too similar to the greasy slimeballs that the Team dealt with on a regular basis. In fact, he didn't even look the slightest bit repentant of the interruption . . . just curious as to who he and the others were that she had in her home as guests.
Face glanced over to BA and Murdock for a moment, and then returned his gaze to Mrs. B's new visitor. Was this the guy that Mrs. Baracus had been talking about? The Lieutenant appraised the expensive clothing that Spencer wore. The suit . . . clearly an Armani due to how well it was tailored. The shoes, well based on the design they had to be Gucci. The shine on the shoes was almost like a mirror to where you could practically see your reflection off of them. Even the tie seemed to be hand crafted and made of the finest silks, likely exported from Israel. Clearly this guy took pride in his appearance to where he could fit into most of the high society circles that Face tried to insert himself into, but was it just due to his nature, or was there something more behind it?
Murdock immediately picked up on the uneasiness from the others and also looked at Mrs. B's visitor. His training made him highly alert to body language and other things that allowed him to easily read into another person. This helped the normally fun loving pilot to be a pretty good and instinctual judge of character, and it wasn't often that his first impression . . . his first read of a person was wrong. He had observed Spencer's stance, his gait, and the way he had kissed BA's mother . . . and all of it gave him some very bad vibes, setting him on high alert around this guy. He just hoped and prayed that Mrs. B wouldn’t get hurt in all of this.
BA was practically seeing red, and it wasn't from the Santa costume that he wore in order to gain access to the apartment complex. Like with the others, every alarm bell was ringing loudly for him, causing him to scowl darkly at the man his mother was infatuated with. What concerned him even more was the nickname. Nobody had ever called his Mama, 'Addie,' not even his father, who he remembered to have always been very respectful of his mother. His eyes narrowed at the man, not liking any of this one bit.
Returning from the kitchen with the clear crystal vase, filled with roses and water at the bottom of it, she set it on the table next to the other one and then walked over to Spencer. She was totally oblivious as to the assessment the A-Team had made of her new beau as she wrapped her arm around his. "No, no, you're not interrupting anything," she hurriedly told him, hoping that he wouldn't want to leave right away. Gently guiding him into the living room, she smiled at him and then turned to the others, "Spencer, I want you to meet my son. This is Bosco, and these are his friends that flew in with him."
Although Mrs. Baracus didn't tell him the rest of their names, Hannibal's thoughts were dark as he considered the consequences. If Spencer Jackson was in a notable position, he likely had access to information. And it wouldn't take much checking at all to discover who they really were. In all of the years with the MPs hanging around during Christmas and other important dates, Mrs. B should have known better . . . either that, or this guy was clouding her senses.
Now, Hannibal, this sounds like one of those plans. And whenever we use one of those plans, somebody always gets mad at us.
Yeah.
-- Murdock and Hannibal, "The Out of Towners"
Chapter 6: Assessing Observations
As soon as Templeton Peck opened the door to the penthouse suite, he and the others dredged inside. He pulled off the blue winter parka and hung it up in the closet, wanting to keep the place as immaculate as possible. It wouldn’t bode well for his scams if they left the place a mess, as hotel staff were like restaurateurs . . . they talked to others within the trade, and often within the same union, even though they worked at various locations all over the city. Word would get out, which would ruin any chance of being able to scam good hotel rooms for future visits to the Windy City.
He left the door to the closet open, not out of laziness, but as a reminder to the other members of the A-Team that they should follow suit and hang their coats in there. He then made his way to the leather chair in the living room and sat down upon it with a sigh.
Murdock hadn’t bothered taking off his coat before throwing himself face down into the leather couch near where Face was sitting. For the pilot, it had been a very long day. Heck, it had been a long day for all of them, starting with the tricky landing at Meigs Field, then having to wear costumes just to sneak into Mrs. B’s apartment building, and finally meeting what seemed to be her new boyfriend. He didn’t want to say it in front of her, in her apartment, but Spencer Jackson gave him the creeps! That made him very worried about her safety, a sentiment that the others also echoed.
To top it all off, they had to sneak through a back alley full of rotting garbage that was so horrid that it made the Texan want to retch. Even the rats, which were of considerable size, ran away due to how awful the smell was. But, by taking that route, they were able to avoid attracting the attention of the MPs and, more importantly, they didn’t have to don those disguises again. The Colonel had wanted them to put those outfits back on, but both he and Face vehemently vetoed the idea. He wasn’t going to be seen again in that elf costume if he could avoid it!
Hannibal sat down on the loveseat where he had been pulling out the disguises from the bag earlier that day, and unzipped his winter coat. Plopping the bag with the disguises on the floor next to where he sat, he watched Murdock roll over a bit in order to observe all of them, and then reached into his safari jacket to pull out a fresh cigar. He chewed off the end of it and was about to spit it out, like he normally did, when he noticed the fierce stare from his Lieutenant. Not wanting to test his patience and hear an earful from him, the A-Team's leader spat the end out into an ash tray that sat on the accent table next to him. He pulled out a lighter and flicked it open, holding it up to the end of the cigar. Once he was able to pull a flavorful drag from it, he closed the lighter and stuffed it into the breast pocket of the tan jacket.
BA wasn't as calm as the others were. In fact, he was like an angry thunderhead that was more than primed to be volatile considering the atmosphere they had just been through, and the veins that stuck out on his muscular biceps were like streaks of lightning . . . a force of pure power that could do significant damage. He looked like he was ready to strike out at anyone or anything that dared cross his path as he paced up and down the length of the room. There was one person that he really wanted to strike out against right now, and have him feel the full force of his muscular might . . . Spencer Jackson. Even just the sheer sight of the rich surroundings of the penthouse suite reminded the Sergeant of him, causing him to glower.
The silence in the room said it all as Hannibal looked around at each member of his unit. They each likely had their own thoughts with regards to Mrs. B's new beau, and based on their reactions at the apartment, the questions they asked, and even how sullen they were acting now, it was clear that those thoughts were not good at all. "Well, guys," Hannibal started to say, hoping that those two words alone would get the discussion about what they observed flowing.
"I don’t like it, Hannibal," BA growled as he hit his fist against the open palm of his other hand, which made his biceps bulge with just the sheer force he was using. He stopped pacing and made his way over to the couch. He watched Murdock scramble into a seated position so he wouldn't get squashed, and then plopped down beside him. "I don’t like him, and I don't like it that he's seein' my Mama."
"I think you're right, BA," Hannibal nodded in agreement. He took a long draw on the cigar and let out a few puffs of white smoke. His crystal blue eyes watched as the smoke rose within the air as his mind reflected upon what he had heard and observed. "Something's not right with this guy. He's more than he seems to be."
Face looked around at the others as he recalled the conversation from Mrs. B's apartment. Reaching up, he ran his fingers of his right hand through his hair, almost as if subconsciously trying to smooth any stray strands back into place. One thing left him unsettled, and really stood out to him. "Is it just me, or did he seem kind of vague about what he does for a living?" the con artist pointed out.
Murdock nodded slowly in agreement and teepeed his fingers together. He flexed his hands closer together, and then further apart, almost as if trying to burn off nervous energy. His eyes darted over to BA, and noticed how the master mechanic was practically fuming. If this had been a cartoon, he probably would have actually seen smoke coming out of his ears. "Ya know, I saw that too. And he got reeeeeeeeal uncomfortable when we started askin' him questions," the Texan pointed out.
Hannibal suddenly grinned as a familiar light began to shine within his eyes. The beginnings of the Jazz was starting to flow within his veins and a plan was starting to hatch within his mind. But, before he could solidify that plan, he needed to hear more from his men about their thoughts on the matter. Not just all of his men, but especially Bosco Andre Baracus, his trusted Sergeant, mechanic, and Ordinance Officer. This was his mother after all, and while they all wouldn't hesitate to help her out, the final say in this rested upon his burly shoulders. "Whaddya say, guys? Think we should investigate?" he asked his men.
"We wouldn't be who we are if we didn't help someone in need, Colonel," Murdock pointed out, his words filled with the light of truth and carried to their ears by his smooth tenor voice. He had to admit, the last time they were here to help out BA's mom, he really did take a shine to her. Then again too, she put up with his antics kind of in the way that Hannibal did and found them amusing. It kind of made him think of her as his adopted mother, in a sense. "Mrs. B may not know it, but she's gonna get herself hurt by that scuz bucket if we don’t step in and do somethin' 'bout it to protect her."
The anger that had been present on BA's face earlier dissipated, and was now replaced by a look of sheer determination. He was very worried about his mother after seeing that guy. Ever since his dad's death, she had become a strong and independent woman, more than capable of taking care of herself. But, inside, he knew that she was lonely and needed to fill the hole in her heart that existed . . . not just from his father's death, but also with how BA himself had joined the Army, went to Vietnam, and then wound up becoming a fugitive. He just hoped that she could somehow see past all of that charm and money, and see what the others were picking up on. "She's my Mama. We help because I say we help," he announced firmly.
"What if we're wrong, Hannibal?" Face asked, only to be met with a loud growl from BA. He pushed off the chair and started to walk around the room himself this time as his mind filled with doubt. He had no doubt about wanting to help out Mrs. Baracus, but he wondered if maybe they were reading Spencer Jackson all wrong because of how sharply he dressed. He held up a hand to try and forestall any further interruptions before he could get the rest of his thoughts out. "Let me finish. If we're wrong and this guy is genuine, we might end up causing more harm than good. Right now, all we have to go on is the fact that some rich guy is interested in Mrs. B, and has given her a lot of gifts. There's nothing really wrong with that."
"There's nothing wrong with that, but our guts are all screaming 'fake' right now," Hannibal quickly pointed out. Although he should have said something more for his Lieutenant potentially questioning the plan, the cunning strategist actually saw what the con artist was trying to do. He was playing Devil's advocate and providing them with something else to consider in all of this besides just going on gut instinct alone. He wanted them to look at logic, and not automatically judge Spencer Jackson based on first impressions.
Face moved back to the chair and sat back down, letting out a bit of a sigh. He didn't want to be seen as an obstructionist or have any of them think that he didn't care about Mrs. Baracus at all. No, it was just the opposite. She was a very sweet woman who opened her doors to all of them, but he didn't want to see her hurt by their efforts just as much as he didn't want to see her hurt by whatever they managed to find out about her new beau. Drawing in a breath, he clarified, "I'm not saying we shouldn't investigate. I'm just saying that we should be careful not to ruin something that is obviously making Mrs. B very happy . . . at least not until we are sure we're right."
BA listened carefully to everything that the Lieutenant had said, and the anger that had originally welled up within him had abated once he finally understood why the con man said what he did. He wasn’t fighting against the idea of checking into that slimeball. He was concerned for his mother, her feelings, and ultimately her happiness. "Faceman’s right, Hannibal. I ain’t seen Mama this happy since Papa died. What if we’re wrong, man? I don’t wanna hurt her," the Sergeant agreed.
Hannibal pulled the cigar out from between his teeth and looked at the glowing end of it. The red hot ash reminded him of BA’s rage and how intense it could get sometimes, but after it had gone through the inferno, eventually it would cool down. Only, in this case, if their suspicions about Mr. Spencer Jackson turned out to be true, the Colonel doubted that he'd be able to stop the ferocity of his Sergeant from literally breaking the man's neck in two. He waved his hand that held the cigar around in the air a bit as he calmly answered, almost as if he had planned for this, "Then we'll just have to be careful, like Face says."
"Ya know," Murdock spoke up, this thick Texan drawl filling the air of the room. "One of us is gonna have to tell Mrs. B what we're doin'. If we keep it from her, she ain't gonna trust us for anythin' in the future." Even though this was only their second time around Mrs. Baracus, he knew that they owed it to her to tell her what they were up to whether she accepted it or not. But, it wasn't going to have to be just any one of them to tell her. There was only one person among them who would have to do this.
The A-Team's Commanding Officer nodded in agreement as he shoved the cigar back into his mouth and took a few long puffs. He savored the rich flavor of the Cuban imported stogie as he considered the pilot's words. Someone would have to tell Mrs. B what was going on, and try to do so in such a way where she would accept their help. He glanced over to the master mechanic and informed him, "BA, that'll be up to you."
"Awww, Hannibal. Not me," BA groaned. He couldn't even believe that his leader was even considering the possibility. The others were far better at talking to people, or even talking them into things, than he was. The only talking he ever really did was with his fists, something he could be very persuasive with in his own way ever since he had first learned to defend himself on the streets so long ago. "Man, you know I ain't good with words, not like you, Face, and Murdock."
The Sergeant had a point, but Colonel Smith wasn't going to give up on that too easily. They would have to prepare Mrs. Baracus for the eventuality of what they could find out about Spencer Jackson. "BA," the strategist started to explain. "You know that it's going to be easier for her to hear this coming from you than the rest of us. When the time is right, you'll know what to say."
As the others tried to encourage BA to talk to his mother, the Supply Officer leaned forward within his seat, trying to think of ways that maybe they could get an edge on this guy. They'd have to do it in a way to where they could try to get as much information as possible without raising the ire of Mrs. B, much less making him suspicious either. If he suspected anything was going on, he could easily hide any evidence that could incriminate him before they could even find it. "I have a couple of contacts that should be able to run a background check on Spencer. It may take a day or two, but they'll find out if there's anything shady in this guy's past," Face noted to the others.
"I got an idea," Murdock spoke up. He stretched out his long legs, propping them up on the expensive coffee table in front of him and then crossing them at the ankles. He noticed a withering glare from Face for putting his feet up on the furniture, and could have sworn he heard the con man grumble a few times under his breath. Face never did like it when any of them did something that made it difficult for him to maintain the high class lifestyle that he often tried to procure for himself. "I've always wanted to see the sights around Chicago. I heard its real pretty here at Christmastime. Plus, we didn't get much of a chance to look around the last time we were here."
"We don't have time for no tour, fool!" BA instantly complained. The deep scowl from the muscular Sergeant was enough to cause Murdock to take his feet down from the coffee table. In a way, BA couldn't believe that the pilot would even suggest something like that, when he knew like the rest of them that they all had concerns about his Mama's new boyfriend.
"I think I know where you're heading with this one, Captain," Hannibal remarked. The grin on his face almost seemed to get bigger, and the sparkle within his crystal blue eyes almost seemed to grow stronger. This was definitely going to turn out to be one very interesting visit to Chicago after all. "One of those sights would just happen to be the Museum of Science and Industry, and the office of a certain Spencer Jackson?"
A huge grin appeared on Murdock's face as he nodded, his rich brown eyes locking on with the Colonel's ice blue eyes. Due to their long history together, the pilot almost had an innate way of sometimes knowing what his Commanding Officer had in mind, although a lot of that was due to how their thought processes sometimes were very similar. Hannibal often played into Murdock's obsessions and various personalities, even though it annoyed BA and sometimes Face to no end.
The Colonel stood up from the loveseat and began to walk back and forth across the room. The Jazz was pumping wildly through his veins. He could feel it . . . he thrived on it, and it exhilarated him. When the Jazz was freely flowing, his plans were sometimes outrageous and often ended up having a few bumps in the road, but ultimately they were still able to make it work. Stopping suddenly, his eyes fell on the con man where he sat. "Face, first thing tomorrow, I want you to get BA the materials to build a couple of bugs. That way, we can keep an eye on Spencer until you get the info from the background check," he instructed.
"And if we don't turn up anything with the background check?" Face questioned. The tone of his voice still indicated that he was skeptical about all of this. Even though he agreed that something was amiss, he couldn't be sure if they were on the right track, or if maybe they were just looking into things too much.
"Then we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Lieutenant," Hannibal pointed out firmly, trying to alleviate some of the concerns of his second in command. He flashed him a huge grin, which was electrified with the Jazz, causing the con artist to groan. The Colonel's voice was light and airy as he quickly added, "Lighten up, Face. This'll be fun!"
Oh, how I wish BA were here to shut you up.
-- Face, "The Taxicab Wars"
Chapter 7: Snowballs
A black Suburban eased into a spot in the
expansive parking lot. The driver looked
at the time displayed on the new digital tuner on the dash board and noted that
it was 8:55am. Looking out the
windshield, he spotted a virtual sea of cars, trucks, and vans, crowding the
lot on what would likely prove to be a very busy day. Families exited their vehicles, and quickly
walked across the large area toward the marble steps that led to the entrance
of the Museum of Science and Industry, wanting to take
advantage of the one day in the week when the Museum waived the admission
fee. The line to get in was already long
and snaked down the light gray steps.
The wind kicked up, rocking the Suburban where it sat in the lot as a blast of cold permeated through the windows. Bosco Baracus reached for the ignition and twisted the key, shutting off the engine of their rental vehicle. The melodic purr gave way to nothing but silence . . . silence, and the sound of the wind howling around outside of the car. He opened the driver’s side door and was the first to step out, drawing in a deep breath of the crisp, cold air. By doing so, he noted the moisture that seemed to cover the atmosphere like a wet blanket. Combine that with the blasts of wind, and it created what meteorologists called a wind chill. Essentially the additional moisture within the air, once it touched one’s bare skin, would make it seem colder than it really was.
Chicago could get damned cold during the winter, as he recalled a few times where there were sub-zero temperatures, but the wind chill . . . now that could sometimes make conditions deadly with prolonged exposure without some kind of shelter. His dark eyes glanced to the gloomy, cloud-covered sky as he muttered, "Looks like snow."
A groan could be heard from Templeton Peck as he exited the vehicle from the door behind where BA had gotten out. He obviously had overheard the Sergeant’s comment, which made things even more dismal for him. He was a warm-blooded California boy. He’d prefer the sun, surf, and sand of the beaches of Malibu over these conditions any day. Even that sprint from the plane to the terminal at Meigs Field, with his first real taste of Chicago’s winter cold, was more than enough for him to last a lifetime. The sooner they could get back to sunnier and warmer climates, the better. "Please don’t say snow, BA. I can hardly handle the cold as it is," he whined.
Murdock slid out from the middle seat within the back and got out through the same door that Face had just used, and then closed the door behind him. He bounded over to the snow-filled curb with a wicked grin on his face that made him look like he had been given a massive overdose of the Jazz. His warm, brown eyes settled on the sight of the Museum building, as the anticipation built within him. No amount of cold could extinguish the fires of excitement that welled up inside. "Is this the place, BA? It looks like drove to Rome or Greece!" he pointed out.
"It sure is, crazy man," BA responded warmly, as his own eyes caught site of the familiar building that inspired his love for cars, engines, and machinery.
The door on the passenger side opened, opposite of where Face and Murdock had exited the vehicle, and Colonel John Hannibal Smith stepped out. A light wind teased his silver-white hair, which seemed to compliment the snow that lay on the ground. Closing the door behind him, he took a step forward and opened the front passenger door. The constant and perfect gentleman, he extended his gloved hand to Mrs. Adele Baracus to help her exit the vehicle. After she stepped out into the cold morning air, he closed the door and took a precursory glance over the parking lot to be on the safe side. No sign of MP vehicles or even cop cars . . . at least marked ones that he’d be able to obviously see. If any of them were around, even in unmarked cars, the size of the crowd that was building could play to their advantage if it became necessary.
Satisfied that they’d be fine for now, and they didn’t have to worry about a confrontation in the parking lot, his ice blue eyes appraised the vast marble façade and massive colonnades of the Museum. "Impressive," he commented.
Hearing the Colonel's remark, Mrs. B gave a gentle but knowing smile. Her heart surged with pride at the fact that her son and the other A-Team members were finally going to not only have a chance to see the city, but also see where she had volunteered her time and worked. Chicago had a lot of amazing sights to see, and a lot of things to do, and even those who visited from time to time found something new that they could walk away from with admiration. "Just wait 'till you get inside, Hannibal," she noted, her voice clearly indicating how much she was looking forward to this. "This ain't nothin' compared to some of the exhibits the museum has. I used to take Scooter here once a week when he was younger. There was always something new to explore . . . although he always wanted to spend hours in the car exhibit and the chick hatchery."
"Awww, Mama," BA murmured, clearly embarrassed by her revelation. It was bad enough during the last visit when she had not only called him Scooter, but also shared with the guys how he earned that nickname. They kept ribbing him about it for a couple of weeks afterward, especially Murdock. And now she had just shared this little piece of his past. What was next? Showing the others his baby pictures? He'd never hear the end of it if it ever got to that level.
"Chick hatchery?" Face inquired, raising an eyebrow. What in the heck was a chick hatchery? Was it a place where they took women that were ugly and made them look beautiful or something? Or a boutique where women could buy very skimpy clothes? If it was anything like what he was thinking about, he knew that he was going to enjoy it. All he'd have to do is stop by, turn on a bit of the charm, and they'd be eating right out of the palm of his hand.
"It ain't the kind of chicks you're thinkin' 'bout, Faceman," BA clarified with a grin. Being around the young con man all of these years, he could almost tell what he was thinking about anytime he heard certain words . . . especially words like chick.
Women.
Every time Face was with a woman, whether it was someone he saw on the side, or even a female client, it got the blood of the master mechanic boiling. Although the Lieutenant tried to wine and dine them, eventually their hearts would be broken when their mission was complete or he moved on to see someone else. Either way, BA didn't agree with that. He firmly believed that women should be treated with the utmost respect, and not used in the way that Face used them.
Templeton Peck was about to reply when he was hit with a gust of wind that whipped his well-groomed hair around. The sheer force of it caught him by surprise, causing him to stagger in order just to remain on his feet. He had never experienced a gust of wind that strong before, not even from the famed California Santa Ana winds. He glanced toward BA, Mrs. B, and Hannibal, who all looked to be unfazed by the blast of air current.
The wind was more than strong enough to cause the dark blue baseball cap to fly off of Murdock’s head. His receding brown hair was also whipped around The wry Texan quickly made a wild grab for it, thankful that Hannibal had actually seen to making sure to include gloves in the pockets of the coats . . . something they hadn’t known about when they had first put the winter jackets on the day before . . . as it kept his hands warm, allowing him to deftly snag the prized hat before it could be totally whisked away by the stiff breeze, never to be seen again.
He returned the cap to his head and pulled it down a bit harder as if to try and prevent it from flying off again. He didn't want to lose it here in Chicago. Once he was sure that it was secured on his head, and the wind had died down a bit, he glanced over to the con man, who was still trying to straighten his hair. "Hey, Face! I gotta joke for you. Wanna hear it?" the pilot asked innocently.
The Lieutenant let out a long sigh as he struggled to make his hair return to a state of semi-normalcy. It was bad enough that he had to put up with all of the yuletide joy and junk like that this time of year, and now Murdock wanted to tell him a joke? Especially out here in the freezing cold? Why couldn't he have waited until they were within the warmth of the Museum? He warily eyed the pilot, knowing that he was up to something and he probably wasn't going to like the results. "Since you probably won't stop asking me until you've told me, go ahead, Murdock," he said, sounding a bit disgusted almost like he did when Murdock was starting to adopt the Captain Cab persona.
Face's dismal attitude didn't serve as a put-off for the Texan. As his best friend even he had noted how, every year around this time, he was always in the dumps and it was growing progressively worse every single year. He had to try and do something to cheer the con artist up, so he thought a joke would help. "What's the difference between a snowman and a snowwoman?" he asked with his usual bright enthusiasm.
"I have no clue. What?" Face asked, his mind clearly pre-occupied and focused on his own problems to even make a connection and come up with some logical response.
"Snowballs!" Murdock jovially exclaimed. Before the con man could react, the Texan scooped up a bunch of snow into his gloves hands and shaped it into a ball. Once it was packed well, he hurled it at the unsuspecting Lieutenant. The orb of crystallized water soared through the air, and hit Face squarely on his left temple, showering him with snow.
"Murdock!" Face protested, trying to brush the snow out of his hair. He wasn't sure how the Texan was able to acclimate himself to the colder weather so quickly, but the handsome con artist was certain he was never going to get used to it . . . especially not the extreme cold and all of the snow.
"Bet you can't get me! You probably can't hit the broad side of a barn with a snowball!" the lanky pilot challenged with his normal exuberance. He let out a laugh and ran across the parking lot, weaving his way between cars to get to the marble stairs leading up to the massive copper doors of the museum.
Face shook his head in annoyance at the pilot's antics, still brushing snow off his face. As he looked at the others, he heard Hannibal's hearty chuckle, and even Mrs. B was laughing too. BA shook his head, as the con artist knew how much the Sergeant regarded the Texan as a fool, as well as how much Murdock could make a fool of himself. It was nice to know that they were finding humor in his misery.
"Come on . . . let's catch up with him before he tears the place apart," Hannibal remarked in a jovial tone, still chuckling. He hated seeing Face this miserable, but he couldn't help but to get a kick out of Murdock's almost infectious enthusiasm. There were times when the Colonel wondered who was on the Jazz more . . . him, or Murdock.
"Once we get inside, you boys can put your coats in my office," Mrs. B suggested with a warm tone of a loving mother to all of them, and a smile that seemed to melt through the cold. She considered all of them as her boys, not just Scooter. She even thought of Hannibal in that way, even though he was pretty close in age to herself, and likely old enough to be a dad to any of the other boys. She gently walked up to face and looped her arm around that of the young Lieutenant and began to lead him toward the entrance.
"Sounds good, Mama," BA chimed in. In spite of everything that was going on, he was actually looking forward this visit to the Museum . . . the first one in a long time, since before he had enlisted into the Army and was shipped off to Vietnam.
As the Sergeant started to follow is mother, Hannibal reached forward and gently touched the arm of his coat. The two of them locked eyes for a moment before the Colonel lightly jerked his head in a wordless signal for his Ordinance Officer. BA nodded in understanding, and while they continued to walk toward the front entrance, they allowed the distance between themselves and the pair in front of them to lengthen. Once they were far enough back, Hannibal kept his voice low as he asked, "Did you check the apartment for bugs?"
BA gave a slight nod. "Yeah, man. I did it when she went to pick up the mail. The only bug was in the phone . . . Army Intelligence issue," he pointed out in hushed tones, noting how Hannibal was trying to keep others from overhearing them and also doing the same with his responses.
The strategist nodded thoughtfully, stuffing his gloved hands into his pockets as he again took the time to scan the people around them, who were all milling toward the ornate copper doors of the Museum. They had talked about this in the past, even before the visit to see Mrs. B over the summer, which made any calls to her brief at best. "We've suspected her phone has been bugged for a long time," he noted somberly.
BA remained silent for a moment as he drew in a breath of the icy cold air. "I disabled it so they can't listen in to her calls anymore. I didn't find anythin' else. Her place is clean, Hannibal," he pointed out, satisfied that the military wouldn't be able to spy upon his mother's private calls. That just made his blood boil that they went that far to try and find them as to bug her phone, and potentially overheard her discussions with others.
He looked at his Mama, with her hair done up in a tight bun atop her head. She was chattering away, slowly but surely drawing the reluctant con man into a conversation with her. No one could resist his mother for long. He smiled tenderly for a moment, but then his expression grew worried as he recalled the visitor to her apartment while they were there the day before. "Hannibal, what if we're wrong, man?" he asked out of concern. As much as he didn't want to see his Mama get hurt by anyone else, he didn't want them doing anything that would ultimately hurt her as well.
"What if we're right?" the Colonel answered him with a question of his own. His gaze became serious as he fixed it on the figure of the woman his entire Team had come to love and considered almost like an adoptive mother. Inwardly, he vowed that they'd get to the bottom of this. They owed that much to her . . .
See, it all boils down to feelings.
-- Gail and Face, "The Only Church in Town"
Chapter 8: Christmas of Yesterday
The inside of the Museum of Science
and Industry was decked out for the holiday season. Behind the information and membership desk in
the grand rotunda, near the escalators, was a gigantic Christmas tree. It stood on a platform in the middle, and was
nearly as tall as the rotunda itself. It
had to have easily been well over 40 feet high, and every branch was laden with
decorative ornaments and thousands upon thousands of twinkling multi-colored
lights. It likely out-did the tree that
traditionally sat at Rockerfeller Center in New York City,
or even the National Christmas Tree in Washington
DC due to pure splendor alone.
Spread about through the rotunda, and into some of the nearby exhibits off of it, were almost 50 other Christmas trees. These weren't as spectacular or as large as the one in the middle of the Museum, but each one was unique . . . filled with items that represented the culture and how each country celebrated the holiday. There was the traditional American Christmas tree, but also ones from England, Germany, France, and even as far away as China and Japan. The entryways to some of the exhibits near the rotunda were lined with evergreen garland, which held bows and ornaments.
One popular exhibit in the east wing, off the rotunda, was the Great Train Story. The exhibit was displayed with old steam engines from the past, various locomotives over the years. One of the more notable ones on display was an old 1825 John Stevens locomotive, which looked like a portable moonshine set up on a flat bed, and four large wheels to allow it to move along the track. There was even a sizable HO-scale train set, with four engines running throughout what appeared to be a mountainous area . . . a set up detailed enough to give any model train enthusiast wet dreams. Besides the various cars, seeing those locomotives and the powerful engines that propelled them was what churned the love of mechanics for the young Bosco Baracus.
Just to the south of the train exhibit was another one that appealed to the Sergeant. Although the contents inside changed a bit over the years, the Wheels of Tomorrow always had been a favorite of his. He loved all of the car exhibits, including the ones from the past, but this particular section of the Museum made him look toward the future . . . at the potential models for new cars, and how engines, suspensions, and more would likely develop in the future.
Along the south wall near an entryway to another exhibit were two units, both of which were occupied at the moment. The two units looked like cars without driver side door, passenger seat, back seat or trunk. In fact, the windshield wasn't even clear at all, but a video monitor that the person could clearly see once seated inside. Another video monitor was perched on the roof of the unit, allowing those outside of it to see the progress the person inside was making.
The A-Team pilot watched the monitor on the top of the unit in amazement. Inside, the Sergeant expertly achieved yet another perfect score. Murdock's eyes were wide as he absorbed the interactive simulation, which seemed like a large video game . . . only, one didn't need to insert any quarters. This wasn't like any of the stand up consoles that he had in his room. "BA, let me try . . . please, please, please," he begged, eager for a chance.
With the simulation complete, BA looked out from inside the compartment at the Captain, his expression clearly indicating that he was ready to strangle the Texan if he kept it up. Murdock had been pushing his buttons all day with his antics, trying on one personality after another with every new exhibit they had visited. A quick glance to his mother made the burly mechanic reconsider. This was her day, and if making her happy meant keeping a lid on his temper, he was gonna do it. The irritated expression on his face seemed to melt away into a knowing smile. "Alright, Murdock," he agreed, pulling himself out of the unit.
Murdock's eyes widened to the size of saucers, unable to believe what he had just heard. Usually, when BA gave in to his begging, and smiled as he just did, it was because he had some ulterior motive in mind. Slowly and suspiciously, he slipped inside the simulator. It was a small compartment, but roomy enough for two people to sit inside if they squeezed in there, if necessary. The main rudimentary controls were present . . . the steering wheel, accelerator and brake pedal. Before him was a screen, which lit up almost immediately the moment he sat down.
After a brief introduction by a man in his late 40s with graying hair, the display changed to allow him to see what appeared to be the dashboard and hood of the simulated car, along with a country road. After a brief demonstration by the gentleman, who looked like he could have been some kind of a professor, it was clear that the goal of the simulator was to teach people how to get out of a skid. Once it got to the interactive part, Murdock eased down on the accelerator and increased the speed of the car until the simulated vehicle started to lose control. Although he tried to correct it, it kept spinning. He removed his hands from the steering wheel and flailed his arms around as he cried out, "It's a twister, it's a twister! Auntie Em!"
Mrs. Baracus watched the pilot and laughed. "Oh, Murdock, you are just too funny!" She was clearly enjoying not only his antics, but also the whole day. She heard the hearty laugh of Hannibal, who also found humor in what the Texan was doing, but she could have also sworn too that she heard BA snicker at the display as well.
Templeton Peck was another story all together. He rolled his eyes at what Murdock had just done, and his whole body language indicated that he clearly wasn't in the mood to put up with any more of his craziness. Spotting an entryway, he moved away from the group and walked through it.
The moment he stepped into the new area, Face was amazed by the sharp contrast from where he had just been. It was almost as if he had gone from the future into the past within a fraction of a second. Although the lights were low, the street was lined with cobblestone like it was during the turn of the century. He heard the muffled sounds of an old player piano that provided the soundtrack for a silent movie from the mock-up theater, and as he drew closer he could actually see people inside watching the film. Walking further along the street, he felt a chill in the air as he took in the sight of replicas of other storefronts native to Chicago . . . the Berghoff Restaurant, the Jewel Tea Company grocery store, Commonwealth Edison, and the Walgreens Drug Company. Each window contained memorabilia that provided a sample of what each store sold during that era. At the very end of the street, people entered into what appeared to be an ice cream parlor.
Even in this area of amazing simplicity from so long ago, which seemed to be frozen in time, he could not escape the holidays. The fake storefronts were adorned with Christmas lights and decorative garland, as were the old fashioned lamp posts that lined the cobblestone street.
He found an empty bench near the ice cream parlor and let out a sigh as he sat down. This had already been a long day, and was promising to get even longer. The Team had spent the last couple of hours looking at exhibit after exhibit, and he was beginning to cringe at each new sight. Thankfully the Christmas decorations didn't go too far beyond the entryway and the grand rotunda, into the furthermost corners of the museum, but he couldn't say the same when it came to Murdock's sense of wonderment and exploration . . . not to mention the diverse personas that welled up like a gushing fountain. To make things worse, they had talked about going to see some of the sights downtown after they left the Museum. Murdock would probably spend all of his money on the Magnificent mile, buying toys and other things to annoy the Team with. Though the Captain's antics normally amused him, the closer they got to Christmas the more it was getting on his nerves.
He rested his head within his hands and closed his eyes for a moment, oblivious to everything and everyone around him. All he wanted was for all of this Christmas stuff to go away . . . he wanted the holidays to be over with, so life could return to normal. Well, as close as normal as was humanly possible for someone on the run . . .
He was so engrossed within his own thoughts that he didn't even notice a figure approach and sit down on the bench next to him. His instincts were practically screaming at him to react, to try and look up to see who it was just in case it was a MP or a cop wanting to score a quick payday when he let down his guard . . . at a point where he was the most vulnerable he had been in a long time.
"Hey, kid, what's eating you?" the familiar voice next to him asked, filled with concern. Colonel John Hannibal Smith had followed his Lieutenant into this exhibit. Normally, he would have taken time to appreciate the sheer beauty of the street and classic storefronts, but his focus was on the young con artist that he sat next to . The Lieutenant hadn't been acting right lately. No, it was more than that, as this had become almost a regular yearly ritual. Either way, he was determined to get to the bottom of this, once and for all.
Face looked up and brushed a few loose strands of his chestnut brown hair back into place. He could see the crystal blue eyes of his Commanding Officer searching his own for a moment, almost as if trying to read deep down into his very soul to try and understand what was going on. He looked away from the Colonel as he responded, "Nothing, Hannibal."
John looked at the Supply Officer, able to see right through the false façade that the con man was trying to put up. It didn't even take his acting skills to know that his second in command was lying to him. He was running away from something . . . but what? His own feelings? Growing up as an orphan? What could have happened within the young Lieutenant's past to give him such a sour perspective of Christmas that rivaled that of Scrooge? The Colonel, on the other hand, thoroughly enjoyed Christmas and everything that came right along with it . . . from the yuletide, to the caroling, being with friends and loved ones, and sharing gifts with each other. The only thing he missed the most about it, himself, was the snow as they rarely ever got snow in southern California.
But, this wasn't about him right now and what he loved about the season. What worried him was his Lieutenant, and how they had to endure this right along with him. "Face, sometimes you can be a lousy liar," Hannibal pointed out, almost as if he was able to see right through him. He drew in a deep breath and settled his piercing gaze onto Templeton as he announced in a very firm tone, "The closer we've been getting to Christmas, the more you've been in the dumps. You've acted this way every year, and it's gotten worse each time. I'll be damned if I'm gonna let you suffer through another holiday without knowing what's going on."
"Oh boy," Face murmured. He knew that tone of voice from his Commanding Officer, and he knew he wasn't going to like it. He had been able to weasel his way out of the conversation in the past, but that wasn't going to be the case this time around. When Hannibal made something a mission of his, he became determined and wouldn't rest or be satisfied until the matter was resolved. "Look . . . Hannibal. I guess I just never really liked Christmas."
Hannibal saw the young Lieutenant shrug his shoulders a bit when he gave that answer, but he wasn't buying it so easily. Face was a good con man, but even he couldn’t con everyone all the time. The Colonel was on to him and could tell that there was more there . . . something far deeper than he wanted to admit. "Face, you grew up in a Catholic orphanage. Out of all of us, I thought you'd be the one to love Christmas the most," the strategist pointed out.
"It's kinda hard to enjoy Christmas . . . a family holiday . . . when you don't have a family to share it with . . . when you wonder if the orphanage, the only home you've ever known in your life, will be forced to close its doors because donations are down," the con artist snapped, his normally reserved self giving way to the anger and bitterness that had been simmering inside him for a very long time.
No sooner had the words left his mouth, he realized his mistake. Not only had he lost his cool, but he had very nearly taken it out on his mentor and Commanding Officer. Letting out a sigh, Templeton Peck added, "I learned the hard way that Christmas is nothing more than just a lot of pomp and circumstance, a holiday for those who have cash to burn and people to lavish gifts on." The burst of anger finished, Face once again shrouded himself . . . spiraling once more into his self-imposed gloom. He avoided Hannibal's eyes, instead watching people walking around and looking at mock up Walgreens storefront, which stood in stark contrast to the large black industrial equipment behind it. At this point, he really didn't want to know what the Colonel felt about his revelation.
Hannibal felt numb as he heard the raw emotion in the voice of his normally laid-back second in command. Although Face had never admitted it, he realized that growing up in an orphanage couldn't have been easy. The West Point trained strategist didn't know what it was like to not have a family, or to worry if he would still have a home. He also never considered the impact those experiences had on Face now, even years later. For the first time in his entire life, the normally wisecracking leader was completely speechless.
"Face . . ." Hannibal started to say in a somewhat cracked voice. He was still stunned and had a hard time trying to search for the right words in an effort to comfort the young man who was so much like he envisioned what his own son would be like if he were to have had one. He considered all of the members of his unit almost like his sons, and with being on the run he was more than glad to take on the responsibility of looking out for all of them, in addition to being their leader, mentor, and friend. But Face . . . Face was his special project, the person whom he was grooming to take over with leading the A-Team if something ever happened to him and he wasn't around anymore.
The con artist managed to crack a small, weak smile . . . but obviously a forced one. Now that Hannibal had gotten him to say something about what was bothering him . . . now that he had gotten the flood gates to open, it was time that he shared everything that was behind his Christmas blues. His Commanding Officer always seemed to come up with some kind of a solution that got them out of jams, but this was one thing that he wasn't sure that even Hannibal could come up with a plan to fix . . . not when it happened so long ago in his past. His eyes still avoided Hannibal's, but Face continued in a softer voice, "Every year, after classes resumed from winter break at the Catholic school, the other kids would brag about the gifts Santa brought them. In my class, I was the only orphan and when they found out that I didn't get any, they teased me saying that Santa didn't visit kids in the orphanage . . . that we were the forgotten ones since nobody cared about us. It wasn't until I was older and realized that Christmas gifts didn't come from Santa that I began to see the financial trouble the orphanage was in."
There was another long moment of uncomfortable silence between the two men. After a moment, Hannibal prompted curiously, "Financial trouble?" Face had a tendency to be somewhat secretive about his past, just as much as the Colonel himself, unless there was a major achievement that he chose to openly flaunt. Hearing this revelation that the orphanage was having financial trouble was nothing less than a shock. Still, it wasn't everyday that the con man chose to openly talk about his past, and Hannibal didn't want to say anything that would make him clam up. If the Lieutenant stopped talking about what was going on, there'd be no way he was going to get past this and he'd be miserable for the rest of his life every year around this time.
Dropping the fake smile, Face let out a sigh. He sat back on the bench and looked off in the distance, his blue eyes not really focusing on anything in particular. "There was one time . . . I don't remember why I was going there but I wanted to talk to Father Magill about something. I probably had to be about seven at the time, and it was a couple of years since I had turned up on their doorstep," Templeton began to explain, his tone of voice similar to when he had opened up to Amy about Leslie Becktall. "As I approached the door to his office, I could clearly hear him talking to somebody. I don't know who it was, but I do remember his voice. It was deep and very nasally, almost like he had something stuffed up his nose, really blocking his sinuses."
Hannibal leaned forward slightly, listening intently as the younger man told his tale. He didn't say anything, and didn't dare to interrupt. All he knew was that he was being told something that Face likely never told or admitted to anyone else . . . and something he may likely never share again with anyone. Not even the loud sound of a nearby whistle, which seemed to resonate through the area, was enough to stop the Lieutenant from sharing his story.
"I remember . . ." Face continued as soon as the sound of the whistle faded, leaving an almost eerie silence beyond the din from within the ice cream parlor. "I remember this other guy telling Father Magill that the orphanage owed a lot of money . . . and if he didn't pay it, the orphanage was going to be closed down. The kids that weren't fortunate enough to have people adopt them would be out on the streets. Father Magill told him that it would take a miracle for the orphanage to come up with enough money."
Hannibal took a precautionary glance around the Yesterday's Main Street exhibit, just to be on the safe side. With Face's guard down, one of them had to keep a careful eye out, just in case any of the Museum's rent-a-cops recognized them and decided they were going to try for a quick score by capturing two members of the A-Team. He didn't spot anyone that set off any alarm bells, so that set him at ease, allowing him to return his focus to his Lieutenant.
Face glanced over to Hannibal, trying to search the elder man's eyes for some kind of reaction to what he had shared already with the tale. He realized that he hadn't been paying attention to his surroundings and the people around him, and took a small amount of comfort that Hannibal was looking out for the both of them. Drawing in a deep breath, he allowed the story to flow to its conclusion, "I snuck way before the other guy left the office . . . before they found out that I had been outside the door, listening. I knew that was something I wasn't supposed to overhear, but I did . . . and I never told Father Magill either because I didn't want to get in trouble with him. That was the first time I ever really remember crying after my mom abandoned me and I first turned up on the doorstep of the orphanage. I vowed to myself, right then and there, that I was going to make a name for myself . . . to be financially secure so I wouldn't have to face such problems, and so I could try to help out the orphanage by sending them money regularly."
Colonel Smith realized that was the moment within Face's life that led him to become a con artist . . . to learn how to acquire things for himself so he could live comfortably, as well as to provide for others as well through his remarkable talents of persuasion. Of course, he knew while Templeton Peck vowed to make a name for himself and attain such a lifestyle, he likely didn't realize that it was going to result in him being on the run from the military. Still, all throughout this tale of the financial trouble, a burning question was etched in the mind of the A-Team Commanding Officer. He waited until Face paused before asking, "What about charities? Couldn't they do anything to help?"
"Hannibal, we're talking about the 1950s," the con artist countered with a bitter laugh. For a moment, he had forgotten that the Colonel was serving in Korea at the time, so he likely had no idea what things were like in the States. Even then, unless he had some kind of dealings with an orphanage, he wouldn't know the hardships. "People didn't give as much as they do today, and the few charities that did exist at that time had other groups they wanted to donate that money to. Orphanages survived only on what little money people gave to the Church, or left for them in their wills, which was few and far between. Usually it was former orphans who did that, if they didn't give it all to their kids. People would give to the Salvation Army bell ringers before they would give to an orphanage. We were the last place they thought about . . . if they even remembered us at all."
The Colonel knew little to nothing about orphanages, outside of the fact that Face had been part of a Catholic one. But, what the Lieutenant said about the funding made sense. People often forgot about orphanages when it came time to donating money, unless they themselves had been one. Catholic ones probably got a small funding stream based on Church donations, but even then it was likely a trickle rather than a well flowing river. Hell, even he forgot about orphanages himself, even though he had been almost half a world away, serving in a war at the time. As he continued to think about it, there were a couple of programs that came to his mind, which prompted him to ask, "What about Toys for Tots . . . or churches having a sister parish where gifts are donated at one church, and given to underprivileged families in the other church?"
"Where do you think they got those ideas from?" Face countered pointedly.
Despite the deadpan seriousness in Face's tone, Colonel Smith nearly burst out laughing with that remark. Somehow, it made perfect sense that Templeton Peck, con artist extraordinaire, would come up with the idea behind those two programs, even if he wasn't credited for their creation. Even though it was done with the spirit of charity behind it, underneath it all it had the markings of a scam with how it resembled getting items or money from one individual for the benefit of another. It became very obvious that Face learned the art of the con early in his youth as a method for survival . . .
Hannibal was
about to say something when he spotted what looked like the picturesque example
of a family walk by them, entering Finnegan's Ice Cream Parlor. The father was ruggedly handsome with a
strong jawline and sandy blonde hair. He
probably could have posed for the cover of GQ with looks like that. In his arms was a little girl who had to have
been no more than two or three years old.
Her head gently rested upon her father's left shoulder, causing her blonde
curls to cascade down his shoulder blade like liquid gold. Hannibal's
ice blue eyes locked onto the little girl, who looked back at both him and Face
with wide, innocent, deep blue eyes. To
the gentleman's right was a pregnant woman, with red hair that almost appeared
to be like fire with how it moved with every step she took. She seemed to beam with a radiance that was
only common to expectant mothers, and looked like she was probably about ready
to pop any day now by the looks of things.
A small hand was latched onto her right hand, and belonged to a young
boy who looked to be about five years old.
He had blonde hair, and was practically the spitting image of the older
man. A huge smile filled his face as he
excitedly called out, "Ice cream!
Ice cream!"
Hannibal had often heard Face talk about his greatest
wish . . . to be part of a family, and what his ideal vision of a family was if
he were to have had one. Glancing over
to him, he instantly recognized the look of longing, of yearning within the con
artist's eyes as he also watched the family.
He let out a bit of a sigh, which only served to further confirm that
family was a representation of that wish.
He knew that he had to say something before Face started to spiral into
the deep recesses of depression. He
wasn't a therapist like Dr. Richter was that Murdock saw at the VA, but there
was still a chance that . . . if he could get the young man sitting beside him
to see his line of thinking . . . maybe he could pull him out of this funk
before it got any worse.
"Lieutenant, I'm going to tell you this once, and only once, so you better damn well listen," the Colonel barked, making this an order as he knew that would be the only way to get the full attention of his Supply Officer. When he saw his second in command gaze at him with tired eyes, he softened his tone considerably and continued, "Face, a family doesn't have to fit your dream description. It doesn't have to be made of a mom, a dad, two and a half kids, and a dog. A family . . . a REAL family is ANYONE around you who loves and cares about you. They don't have to be related by blood or marriage."
Hannibal could see that Face looked like he was about
to protest, so he shot him a very stern look.
His ice blue eyes stared deeply into the blue eyes of the younger man,
almost as if searching into his very soul.
He had no idea whether or not he was getting through to him or not, but
he knew that he had to drive the point home.
He reached over and gently put a hand on Face's shoulder as a sign of
support as he continued, "You've had a family your entire life, but you've
been too blind to actually see that. You
wanted only wanted to see a family that matched your vision of one, overlooking
what was right in front of your nose the entire time. You've wasted your entire life, wishing for
something you already had in one way or another, and it made you bitter toward
one of the most joyous times of the year.
Face, Christmas isn't a holiday about what you get . . . it's about what
you give like love, friendship, and understanding."
Templeton Peck sat in silence, thinking about what his Commanding Officer just
told him. His mind kept reeling, finding
the logic behind Hannibal's
definition of a family as being totally and completely flawed . . . yet,
somehow, some of it made sense with how he had made his point. Was he right, though? Had he had a family this whole entire time
and completely overlooked it because it didn't match his ideal vision of
one? In spite of the crazy logic behind
it, which probably would make more sense to Murdock than it would himself, something
within him was practically screaming at him to accept it . . . that Colonel
John Smith had the right idea.
Before Face could say anything, the smooth tenor voice of Murdock could be
heard from the other end of the cobblestone street. It echoed off the fake storefronts as he
exclaimed, "Oh wow! This is like a
storybook town! Is it real?"
Mrs. Baracus gave
a light laugh at the pilot's enthusiasm as he bounded down Yesterday's Main Street. "Sorry, Murdock, but the only two places
you can go inside in this exhibit are the ice cream parlor and the movie
house. It
is beautiful, though. I can't get enough
looking at this place," she noted, her voice almost seemed to become lost
in thought. They reached where Hannibal and Face sat as
she tried hard to keep her eyes from misting up with the memory that filled her
mind. After a moment, she added, "Scooter's
dad . . . my late husband, Albert . . . he brought me here 50 years ago right
around this time of the year. We were
both in our late teens, and very much in love.
He proposed to me right here, outside Finnegan's, and I said yes."
BA wrapped a
strong, muscular arm around his mother's shoulder in support, knowing how hard
sharing that likely had to have been for her.
He remembered how happy they all had been . . . him, Mama, and Papa, and
how sad she was when she learned that Papa had died. It was right before he had enlisted to go to Vietnam,
and his dad had been working at an auto mechanics shop. In fact, an old buddy of his had an airplane
engine from a small private plane that he had wanted some help with. His Papa had turned it into a teaching
experience for himself and some of the other kids at the Cabrini Green that were
wanting to make something of themselves and escape from the notorious CHA
housing projects that was plagued by gangs, crime, and violence. He remembered how a gang member from the
Black Disciples entered into the shop to try and take the life of one of the
other kids there, who was a known gang member in the Cobra Stones. His Papa bravely stopped the member of the
Disciples from killing the kid from the rival faction, but BA had watched with
horror as his father was shot instead at point blank range. He held onto his Papa's hand as he died. He remembered how devastated Mama was by what
had happened, but was comforted by the fact that he had been with Papa when he
died . . . that he didn't die alone, and he had stood up for what was right.
Murdock's face was practically beaming with excitement, clearly enjoying this whole Museum and all of the exhibits that he had seen so far. But, they hadn't seen everything yet, and there was still so much more. "Hey guys! What are we gonna see next?" he asked enthusiastically.
BA noticed the slight, almost imperceptible nod from his Commanding Officer. He picked up on it immediately and knew exactly what that meant. It was time for the real reason behind their visit to the Museum of Science and Industry. Taking his cue, he looked at his mother and softly told her, "Mama, I gotta make a call." No sooner had he said that, he saw the confused look from the Lieutenant. No, it wasn't just confusion. He looked like he was about to open his mouth to ask why BA had to suddenly make a phone call, here and now. He shot Face a sharp look before he could actually get the words out, knowing that the Colonel didn't need anything that could happen that would derail their plan.
"Sure, Scooter. We can go to the office . . . you can use the phone in there," Mrs. Baracus offered with gentle tones.
"Good idea. I'll come with you," Hannibal offered as he stood up from the bench. He had his own reasons for wanting to go with the two of them, but he wasn't about to share that just yet. Turning to the others, he suggested, "Murdock, Face, why don't the two of you continue to take a look around. We'll meet you at the Chick Hatchery in 15 minutes. I don't know about you guys, but I'm dying to check out the U-505 they have here."
Mrs. Baracus looked at her wristwatch for a moment to check the time. She hated to disappoint one of her son's men, but the holidays always drew large crowds to the Museum and she knew how it impacted certain exhibits. "Sorry, Hannibal," she jumped in apologetically. "The Museum's gonna close in about an hour. The U-505's always got long lines. They start turning people away as much as an hour before closing."
The sound of a whistle pierced the air again . . . the same one that Hannibal and Face had heard earlier. That sound gave the Sergeant an idea. "What about the Coal Mine, Mama?" BA suggested.
"Good idea, baby," Mrs. B noted with a smile at her son's idea. She recalled how fascinated he was with all of the equipment on that exhibit, especially the huge elevator and the engine that lowered the car of visitors into the replica of a coal mine. "They never have a line at the end of the day."
Murdock brightened when he heard the pairing that the Colonel had recommended. "Come on, Faceman. I wanna go see the Fairy Castle. I hear they shrink you down 'till you're five inches high," he rambled excitedly. He moved over to stand next to where Face was sitting as a sign of encouragement for the con man to join him.
The Supply Officer rolled his eyes. The Colonel had often played into Murdock's various antics, even to the point of encouraging him, so why couldn't he have chosen to go with the Texan instead? With Face's dismal attitude of lately, he and Murdock would have been like oil and water . . . they wouldn't have blended together very well. He had a sneaky suspicion as to why Hannibal wanted him to go, and chose instead to accompany BA. "Alright," he sighed. "Come on, Murdock," he told his friend, hoping to get the pilot to quiet down so he wouldn't draw so much attention.
Hannibal couldn't help but to grin as he watched the two of them head toward the yellow staircase and descend into the lower level where that exhibit was. Murdock's bright spirit and infectious enthusiasm was probably the shot of adrenaline that Face needed right now. He glanced to his Sergeant, who simply shrugged his shoulders in response. He could tell that BA was curious as to why he and Face had gone off by themselves and what they had talked about, but after the deeply personal things that the Lieutenant had shared with him, that was one secret that the Colonel intended to keep.
I love kids.
Yeah, well, they seem to like you too. I guess they're not fooled by that scowl you're always wearing.
Look, lady, the way I am is the way I am. If I scare people, it gives me room.
-- BA and Amy, "Mexican Slayride"
Chapter 9: Christmas Angel
The climb up the yellow staircase to the Museum's offices was a short one from
Yesterday's Main Street. For anyone not paying attention, it was easy
to miss the entryway that led to the offices, since it was literally off the
beaten track. It was situated in between
the main floor and the second floor, where one wouldn't expect to find a
doorway. In fact, while most of the
entrances opened up toward the direction of the grand rotunda on the various
levels, this one didn't.
Mrs. Baracus opened the glass door that led to the series of offices inside, and held it open for the two men before she followed them. Once they were inside, she allowed the glass door to close and shuffled over to an oak door with a glass window. Gold letters that were painted on the window practically glistened as it read, "Spencer Jackson, Director of Exhibits and Security." She pulled out her keys and unlocked the door, ushering Scooter and Hannibal inside. "Who do you need to call, baby?" she wondered as she closed the oak door behind her.
"There's a little girl at the center I help out at. She's got the lead part in a holiday show they're puttin' on to raise money, and she'll get real nervous if I don't talk to her," BA admitted with a soft smile. He locked eyes with Hannibal for a moment, neither one of them having to utter a single word as the glance they exchanged confirmed the second reason why they were here in these offices.
Hannibal immediately took a moment to survey the office, noting with a small smile how much the décor reflected the woman who worked there. The desk, all of the shelves and cabinets were kept neat and tidy. If he had to guess, he probably wouldn't find a speck of dust on the highly polished oak furnishings. Numerous plants sat around the room, some bearing flowers, giving a comfortable and homey feeling to the place. A large poinsettia plant sat on the corner of her desk near the phone. A large cork bulletin board behind the desk was covered with various drawings that were etched with different colored crayons . . . probably gifts from the children that she spent so much of her time with. There was another door in the back of the room, this one affixed with a gold nameplate that bore the same wording as the glass door in the hallway. It was a pretty safe bet that this was Mrs. B's office, where she did her work as a secretary, and beyond that door was the private lair of her beau.
"You could use the phone on my desk," Mrs. Baracus offered, indicating the telephone neatly placed near the festive red holiday plant. She picked up the handset on it and was prepared to hand it to him.
"I don't know, Mama," BA said doubtfully, hoping that she'd believe him. The phone call was legitimate, but there was also something else . . . something more important that he had to do. And, if Hannibal's plan was going to work, he needed access to a certain area. "She'll probably get nervous if she hears you all talkin' in the background while I'm talkin' to her. I gotta make this in private."
Mrs. Baracus paused for a moment as she looked around the office. Her brown eyes spotted the door for Spencer's office as a thought suddenly filled her mind. It couldn't hurt anything, could it? After all, it was just a simple phone call and he was supposed to out at meetings for most of the day. "Why don't you use the phone in Spencer's office?" she suggested. "He probably won't be back for a while, and I don't think he'd mind. You can close the door behind you and get your privacy."
"Good idea. We'll wait out here for you, BA," Hannibal said brightly, realizing that this would give the Sergeant the opening they both were looking for. His eyes practically twinkled like the Christmas lights on the small four-foot tree that was located in the corner of the office. Turning to Adele, he gently put an arm around her shoulders as he suggested, "Mrs. B, tell me again how you started working here . . ."
* * * * *
Bosco Baracus stepped through the connecting door from his Mama's office into the office belonging to Spencer Jackson. He shut the door behind him and immediately took a look around. It was a spacious office, much more generous with floor space than his Mama's. Expensive oak paneling lined the walls, stretching from the ceiling to the floor. There weren't any windows, but numerous pictures of Chicago's magnificent skyline and the Museum of Science and Industry made up for the lack of them. Had this been any other time, he would have taken a few moments to admire the photos, but right now he had a job to do.
He continued to look around the office, and examined the oak desk. Papers were spread out on it, but it also contained a phone and a computer. If Face had been here, maybe he could have hacked into the computer and taken a glance to see what was on it . . . if there was anything incriminating that could help them with what they were trying to do. But, Face wasn't with him, so the muscular Sergeant still had to do what he needed to. He also didn't have a lot of time to do this before his Mama was going to start wondering what he was up to.
There were a couple of tall standing plants, along with a couple of tall black filing cabinets. He walked over to them and grabbed a hold of the silver handle. He gave it a tug, only to find out that the drawer didn't want to move.
Locked . . .
He moved back toward the desk and looked at the picture mounted on the wall behind the desk. The ornate gold frame of the picture served as an accent for the image, which showed Chicago's lakefront with the city itself in the background. He instantly recognized a few of the tall buildings in the sweeping picture, including the Sears Tower, the John Hancock building, the Amoco building, the red CNA building, and even the diamond-shaped Stone Container building.
His skilled fingers reached forward and fingered the edge of the frame, lifting it slightly away from the wall so he could look at the back of it. His dark brown eyes spotted it instantly . . . a small tear in the fabric that served as the backing for the picture.
He reached into the pocket of the green camouflage pants that he wore and pulled out a small box. Flipping the lid open, he spotted his creations . . . two very small listening devices. These tiny bugs were no bigger than the eraser on a pencil . . . much smaller than anything he had ever made before and were a challenge to create, but he found a lot of satisfaction in making them, especially considering the circumstances.
From what he recalled of Hannibal's plan, he knew that one needed to remain in this office at all times, while the Colonel wanted the other one to travel with Spencer. The first one would be easy since he had spotted that tear. He pulled out one of the two bugs and slipped it into the torn backing, confident that Spencer wouldn't find it there . . . unless he had a way to sweep his office for bugs and did so regularly.
One down, one to go. BA knew that planting the second bug was going to be the real challenge, especially with how Hannibal wanted this one to pretty much go with Spencer anywhere he went. What could he find around the office that Spencer might carry with him most of the time?
He glanced over at the expensive cuckoo clock hanging on the wall and took note of the time. He had been in Spencer's office for just under two minutes already. BA realized that if he didn't make the call soon, they'd start to wonder why he was taking so long.
The Sergeant moved over to the desk and lifted the handset from the cradle, and then punched in the phone number to the youth center from memory. As the phone began to ring, his thoughts drifted to the Challengers Club, Booker, Cynthia, and all of the kids. Whenever Hannibal didn't have him and the other guys helping a client, BA spent as much time as he could lending a hand around the center. He loved being around the kids, some of whom were former gang bangers trying to break free of the violence and drugs, and others were just homeless and had nowhere else to go.
"Hello?" the female voice answered.
A slight, almost shy smile crossed BA's lips when he heard the familiar voice answer the phone. He recognized the voice instantly as Cynthia Wilson . . . but if she was answering the phone, that meant that meant that her husband, Booker, was likely at yet another council meeting, trying to fight for last minute funding for the club to keep it afloat just in case they couldn't get enough donations. "Cynth . . . it's BA Baracus," the gruff mechanic spoke in a gentle voice.
"BA, I'm so glad that you called!" Cynthia said somewhat frantically. Her voice clearly indicated just how much she was on the verge of panic. "The holiday show is tonight, and Violet won't go on with you not here. She's the lead angel."
The shy smile faded and the face of Bosco Baracus contorted into a worried frown. He knew that the reason for Cynthia's panic was because the holiday event was the biggest show of the year, and brought in a lot of families, friends, and other supporters for the club in order to raise money to keep it going. The money that Booker got from the city wasn't nearly enough, and they were often scraping to try and get by and keep the center open for the kids. But, this time of year was always stressful for the Wilsons with not only running the center, but having to transform the place into a virtual theater complete with a stage, curtains, and holiday lights. One of the kids from the center had gotten into trouble, and he insisted that the guys help the kid out and also pitch in to set up for the show before they left for Chicago.
"Calm down, Cynth," BA said gently, but firmly. He didn't want her to totally panic, because if she did, then the kids would pick up on that and it would affect their performance for the show. It wasn't good to let the kids know just how bad off the club was sometimes when it came to money. They needed to have as much of a normal childhood as possible, knowing that there were people like Booker and Cynthia who would be there for them, no matter what it took. "I know how much this show means to ya, and raisin' money to keep the club goin'. Let me talk to her."
"Hold on, BA. Let me go get her," she said before setting down the phone.
Although he could hear the hustle and bustle in the background, with Cynthia going to get Violet, BA's attention returned to the office and trying to hide the last bug. He scanned the desk and spotted a couple of expensive ink pens. That'd be too obvious, and if he had to replace the ink cartridge, he'd easily find it. Besides, there was more than one to select from, so there was a good chance that Spencer could choose the one that wasn't bugged.
He crooked the phone between his ear and shoulder and searched the desk, keeping a close eye on the door. Although he knew that Hannibal could keep his Mama distracted, he still couldn't risk anyone walking in on him unaware. He just had to find something . . . anything that would work for the second bug and Spencer would likely keep with him most of the time.
"Hello?" the quavering voice of a little girl came through the phone, drawing BA's attention back to the conversation.
Violet was only six years old and had a face like a little angel with light brown curly hair . . . the curls weren't as tight as Shirley Temple, but it made her look that much more adorable. Her warm brown eyes captivated a person, and actually reminded the burly mechanic of Murdock's eyes. She was incredibly shy, and had never really been comfortable around anyone at the center and usually found her own quiet little corner to sit in and watch everything that was going on. She had immediately taken to BA Baracus, though, and her quiet shy persona had just seemed to melt away like ice on a day above freezing whenever he was around her. He had even been able to convince her to take part in the Christmas pageant the Challenger's Club was putting on. Another small smile crossed his face as he remembered watching her audition for the part of the lead angel in the production. When she first got on stage, she completely froze up . . . until her eyes caught his and he had nodded in encouragement to her. Just that small gesture was enough to bring her out of her shell, allowing her personality to shine through and help win her the coveted role. Now, with the show just hours away, she sounded close to tears.
"Hey, Violet," BA answered, his voice taking on the soft and gentle tone that he always used with her and other small children. In spite of his gruff and intimidating appearance, he was like a big teddy bear when it came to little kids. They just had a way of wrapping themselves around his heart, especially little Violet. "What's wrong, little Mama?"
"I'm scared, BA. I don't wanna be an angel if you're not here," her tiny little voice sobbed into the phone. Even though thousands of miles separated them, BA could almost see her brown eyes fill with tears and her little lower lip start to tremble. It just broke his heart to hear that, and he really wanted to be there for her, but he couldn't when he was so far away and needed to be here for his Mama.
As he listened, BA opened the drawers on the desk, one at a time, sifting through them to try and find something that could be used to hide the second bug that Spencer would likely carry with him most of the time. Just some more pens, a couple of loose papers . . . nothing that could be used to hide a bug and he'd definitely carry with him. Drawing in a breath, he returned his attention to the little girl on the other end of the phone and gently suggested, "It'll be okay, little Mama. Your mommy and daddy will be out there watchin' ya. Don't you wanna do it for them?"
"Yes," Violet answered in a very meek voice as her sobs began to dissolve into an occasional hiccup. No matter how upset she was, his voice always seemed to help calm her down. It was starting to work . . . but only just starting.
BA closed the last drawer, trying not to get frustrated, much less allowing that frustration to seep through over the phone. He didn't need Violet to hear that within his tone, especially since it could undo the progress he had just made with her in trying to ease her fears. Children were usually very perceptive, and she'd easily be able to pick up if there was anything wrong. Besides, he was able to hear a change within her voice, which meant that he was getting somewhere with her. "Don't worry, baby. I talked to Cynthia before I came to visit my Mama, and she's gonna videotape it so I can watch when I get back. We can watch it together. Would you like that?"
The last of the sobs faded away, and the young girl's voice started to regain some of the sparkle that had endeared her so much to the large man's heart. "Yeah . . . I'd really like that, BA," she told him. "You really gonna watch it with me?"
"Soon as I get back from Chicago," he told her gently as a small smile appeared upon his lips again. In a way, he couldn't help it. When Violet smiled, it was an infectious smile to where he couldn't help but to smile with her. Heck, it seemed like the whole world smiled when she did . . . that was just how cute she was when she did so. He absent-mindedly started to finger the gold chains around his neck before he remembered, "Violet, do you remember the chain with the teddy bear on it I gave you?"
"Yes. I've got it . . . I've been keeping it safe, just like you told me to," Violet told him, a bit of determination within the tone of her voice. One thing about the little girl that appealed to the Sergeant . . . when she set her mind to something, she didn't give up easily, much like the rest of the A-Team.
"You hold on tight to that while you're up on that stage, as the angel, and it'll be like I'm right there with you, okay?" BA suggested, trying to further reassure the young girl. He wasn't sure if it would work, but it sure sounded pretty good to him if he had been in her shoes.
"Okay," Violet responded, her voice brimming with confidence thanks to the master mechanic.
BA glanced at the time on the cuckoo clock on the wall and noted how many minutes had passed since he had entered the office. He hated to end the call with Violet, but if he didn't get moving, he wasn't going to find a place to plant that second bug before his Mama came to check on him. The last thing he needed was for her to walk in while he was planting the second bug. "Violet, I gotta go now, little Mama. You gonna be okay?" he wondered, trying to be sure.
"Yes. BA, will you be coming back soon?" she asked in an almost pleading voice that showed just how much she missed the big, burly mechanic.
Hearing that question wrenched at the big Sergeant's gentle heart. She sure had him practically wrapped around her finger, although he didn't mind with how cute she was. "As soon as I'm done seein' my Mama, I'll be back. I'll be thinkin' about you. You listen to Cynthia and Booker, okay?" he told her gently.
"Alright. Good bye, BA. I miss you," Violet said before hanging up the phone.
Once the line went dead, BA returned the handset to the base of the telephone. He paused for a moment and allowed the smile on his face to linger a bit before the smile faded into his usual scowl. He still had one more bug to plant, and not a lot of time to do it. His trained eyes fell upon the black high-back leather executive chair behind the desk and the suit jacket that was draped over it.
He moved closer and examined the jacket, spotting a name badge attached to the pocket with a clip just large enough to hide the miniature listening device. If he was going around the Museum, he'd obviously have it with him . . . or would he? Mama did mention that he was at meetings, yet he left the jacket here with the name badge. It wasn't guaranteed to follow him around everywhere, but it was the closest they were going to find without sewing it into his clothes or finding a way to have him swallow it.
His fingers moved surely and quickly as he slipped the bug into the clip, making sure that it was both hidden and secure. The last thing they'd need was for the bug to fall off and be left behind somewhere, or to be discovered. That'd ruin the plan in a major way, and could ultimately give Spencer something to use against them. The last thing they needed, right now, was to have this jerk turn his Mama against them.
No sooner had he finished securing the clip and smoothed the jacket out to make it look like it hadn't been disturbed, he recognized a new muffled voice, intermixing with his Mama's and Hannibal's, through the oak door from the outside office . . . Spencer Jackson.
It was a cow, a definite moo, exactly as I saw it in my mind. And don’t try and make me feel any better, Face. I know I’m supposed to have a zany fantasy life, but I have never had anything jump out of the woodwork and give milk like that. It was scary. I’ve encountered destiny.
-- Murdock, "The Maltese Cow"
Chapter 10: Chicks and Fairies
"So . . . now I work part time here, and
still volunteer at the Imagination Station," Mrs. B explained as she sat
in the comfortable leather chair behind her desk. A gentle smile appeared upon her face,
practically causing it to light up in much the same way that Hannibal's eyes twinkled when he was on the
Jazz. It was very clear that she enjoyed
her job and still being able to volunteer her time and be around kids. "I just love working with the kids, but
it's nice to have a real job so I don't have to rely on what little I get from
Social Security."
Hannibal sat casually on a corner of the desk and smiled at the elderly woman. He lightly fingered the bright red leaves on the poinsettia plant as Mrs. B finished telling the whole story of how she had met Spencer and came to work in his office within the Museum. Had it been anyone else romantically involved with BA's mother who hadn't showered her with expensive gifts and set off all of the alarm bells with their instincts, they likely wouldn't have given it a second thought.
The Colonel glanced at the door leading into the inner office, and then twisted his left wrist to look at the face of his watch to check the time. It had been about ten minutes since BA had gone in there to make the phone call. It was taking a bit too long, even for the comfort of the strategist. Although he knew the phone call was legit, he hoped that the Sergeant hadn't encountered any problems with finding places to plant the bugs.
Standing up, he was about to walk over and check on BA's progress when the door to the outer hallway opened. Spencer Jackson casually walked in, taking three steps into the office where Mrs. B did her work before he noticed their presence and came to an abrupt halt. His dark eyes narrowed as he stared at Hannibal for a moment in what almost seemed like a battle of wills. A flash of annoyance mixed with something else appeared upon his face before he changed his focus to Adele Baracus.
"Addie," Spencer began to state, clearly trying to make the tone of his voice sound as warm as he possibly could. A smile appeared upon his lips that was clearly forced, and although the look of annoyance faded as he looked at BA's mother, it was replaced by what seemed to be the appropriate amount of curiosity. "What are you doing here? I thought this was your day off."
"Oh, it is," Mrs. Baracus responded enthusiastically, her entire face lighting up at the sight of her boss. She didn't expect to see him back so soon, especially since his whole day was supposed to have been filled with important meetings about shipments, and security arrangements for an upcoming event. "Scooter hasn't been her in ages, and the other boys wanted to see the Museum and where I work."
Spencer's dark eyes darted once around the room, before settling back on Mrs. Baracus and Hannibal. She had mentioned the others, but it was only her and the older of the four men with her. "But where is your son? And weren't there two others as well?" he asked, sounding a bit skeptical.
"Oh, Face and Murdock went to look at the Chick Hatchery," she began to explain, not thinking too much of it as she divulged their names. She didn't see the potential harm in it, especially since Spencer had already met them the day before and nothing happened. "Scooter had to make a private phone call, and since you weren't here, I told him he could use the phone in your office."
Hannibal studied Spencer closely to see what the man's reaction was going to be to that bit of information. The security chief's smile faded, and the Colonel thought he saw a look within his eyes. A hint of anger? Maybe even a tinge panic? The cunning strategist was more convinced than ever that the man was hiding something, which made it that much more important that they get to the bottom of this before Mrs. B got swept up into something that would ultimately hurt her.
Right at that moment, the door to Spencer's office swung open and BA emerged from it. He took a couple of lumbering steps into his Mama's office and stopped the second he saw the man that was buying her affections. His face skewed into a scowl of obvious dislike, and there was an air of tension as the two men stared at each other for a moment. The Sergeant was the first one to look away as he glanced toward his mother and told her gently, "I'm done with my phone call, Mama."
"Mrs. Baracus," Spencer started with stiff formality in his voice . . . so stiff that he noticed her flinch a bit due to the fact that he didn't use her first name at all. He noticed the reaction from the muscular man that learned to be her son, who emitted a low growl of warning. The flash of annoyance was back, along with the glint of anger within his eyes. Easing his tone a bit, he affirmed, "Addie, you know that I don’t like people in my office if I'm not there."
Mrs. B's eyes widened at the tone that Spencer had used with her. He had never so much as raised his voice to her in the past, or gotten angry or upset with her, which really caught her off guard. It hurt her deeply that he didn't trust her with letting someone use his phone, and it showed in her expression. "I . . . I didn't think you would mind. He needed a quiet place to make a phone call and . . ." she tried to explain weakly, her voice trailing off as she tried to keep herself from rambling.
"Hey man, it was just a phone call," BA shot back angrily before letting out a low, rolling growl that almost seemed to reverberate off the walls. His muscles bunched up almost as if he was expecting some kind of a physical fight of some kind. He didn't like the way this sucka was talking to his Mama, and he certainly didn't like the look of hurt that had appeared on her face.
Sensing what was about to happen, Hannibal stepped forward and placed a restraining hand on BA's shoulder. He knew that he had to step in and diffuse the situation before more information was revealed than he wanted, or before someone was physically hurt. "We apologize if there has been any inconvenience, Mr. Jackson," the A-Team's leader said in smooth and measured tones, trying to be polite and professional without invoking any emotion. "We didn't mean any harm, and we certainly didn't want to get Mrs. Baracus into trouble."
Spencer took his eyes off of BA for a moment and looked again at Mrs. B. Upon seeing the hurt expression on her face, he let out a sigh and relaxed slightly. Although a small smile touched his lips once more when he looked at her, the glint of anger had not left his eyes. It was very clear that he wasn't happy that someone had intruded into his office. "I'm sorry, Addie. I shouldn't have gotten so excited," he apologized to her, trying to sound genuine and sincere. He then turned and studied Hannibal for a moment, almost as if trying to see something more there than was right in front of his nose. After a moment, he gave the Colonel a minimal nod and expressed somewhat stiffly, "I hope you enjoy your time at the Museum."
"I'm sure we will," Hannibal responded, his ice blue eyes never once leaving Spencer's face as he studied it for his reaction. There was something about that whole exchanged from the Director of Exhibits and Security that unnerved him. Their gazes locked for a moment, before Spencer shifted closer to the door to allow the rest of them to pass.
Hannibal watched as Mrs. Baracus stood from behind her desk and BA quickly moved to her side. He heard the Sergeant say something softly to her as he guided her out of the office. The silver-white haired leader pulled a cigar out of the breast pocket of his safari jacket and stuck it between his teeth, but didn't light it. He moved to the door and gave one more lingering glance back at Mrs. B's boss before closing the door behind him. Once he had done so, he found himself hoping that Face's contacts got back to him soon with the information on Spencer Jackson . . .
*******
"C'mon, Murdock," Face pleaded with a bit of exaggeration as he watched the pilot move along the inner walkway of the two tiered observation area. If Murdock had been able to get any closer, he would have likely plastered his nose against the glass that contained the massive miniature castle and all of the ornate decorations inside just to get a better look. "Hannibal, BA, and Mrs. B are going to be waiting for us, and we still need to find the Chick Hatchery."
His patience was beyond exhausted with the enthusiastic Texan, who went to each handset and held it to his ear as he listened to the automated recordings detail the story behind each room of the famous Colleen Moore Fairy Castle. Truthfully, while Murdock was totally and completely fascinated with the highly decorated display, which had exquisite rooms with items pertaining to various stories like Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty, King Arthur, Robinson Crusoe, and more, Templeton Peck was just plain bored.
The con artist did have some grudging admiration for the beauty of the miniatures, including the fine details that were put into each room. Apparently, the castle contained artwork that was hand-painted by Walt Disney himself, miniature books including the bible that was complete and readable with a magnifying glass, along with numerous pearls, diamonds, emeralds, and other precious stones. He had already calculated what the whole castle was worth . . . twice . . . and it didn’t even come close to the dollar figure that he would have liked to have gotten for it if he had tried to sell it to some poor unwitting sap. He got more for trying to sell the Brooklyn Bridge than he would have gotten for this thing.
Now, if it was a real castle that he could have lived in, then that would have been a whole other story all together. It would have well fit into the life of luxury and high-class society that he often tried to project.
Murdock completely ignored the Lieutenant as he stared at the Magic Garden, taking in the bas relief retelling of the Wizard of Oz, the story of Don Quixote that was etched on a balcony, and Aladdin and his magic lamp set in stone above an archway. A highly detailed and ornate gold carriage sat near one of the entrances within the garden, looking as if it had just brought Cinderella to the ball. On the weeping willow tree near the gate was a small basket, inlaid in gold with pearls, which caught his warm brown eyes. It swayed softly, almost as if rocking on the breeze, and seemed to give off a very soft glow. "There’s another one, Face! I told you there were fairies here," he triumphantly exclaimed as he pointed to tiny fairy baby basket.
"Murdock, there are no . . ." the con man groaned, clearly frustrated. When Murdock became obsessed with something, it was hard to get the pilot to back off that insistence. He recalled when the crazed man became insistent that he kept seeing a jade cow within his dreams . . . and then ultimately he did see one! It had been actually a worthless item, but it contained a microfilm that was being smuggled into the states by a returning criminal. Well, Face was going to have to take matters into his own hands, especially if they were going to get out of the darkened exhibit room anytime soon. He grabbed onto the Texan's prized leather jacket and pulled him out of the room and away from the dimly lit castle.
"But . . . but . . . but . . . I haven't looked at Cinderella's drawing room yet! We gotta see that before we leave," Murdock protested, twisting and turning his wry body to try and pull his jacket out of Face's grip. Once he had managed to wrangle his jacket free in the hallway, he stood up straight up and adjusted the black shirt that he wore. On the front of it was a green package with a red ribbon and bow, and red lettering over it that said "Nice Package." With his shirt straightened out, he then grabbed the fabric at the bottom of his bomber jacket and also straightened that up too. His warm brown eyes flashed a look of dismay at his friend for being pulled way before he could fully explore every inch of that exhibit.
"You can see that later. Right now, we have to meet up with Hannibal, BA and Mrs. B," he reminded his friend. After the talk he and Hannibal had earlier, the last thing he needed was for the two of them to not rendezvous with others. Failing to meet up would not only gain the Colonel's ire, but also disappoint BA's mother. And if Mrs. Baracus was disappointed, well, that would mean that BA would get upset . . . and Face shuddered to think of what BA would do to the two of them if he got upset, especially him since between himself and Murdock, Face was supposed to be the more responsible of the pair.
He reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and pulled out a map of the Museum that he had thankfully thought of grabbing from the information desk when they came in. "Now, where are we?" he asked as he glanced at the map.
Murdock moved closer and glanced at the map over his shoulder. He reached forth with a long finger and pointed out their exact location on the floor plan of the Museum and the various exhibits there was to see. "We're right here, Face," the Texan mentioned.
Templeton Peck rolled his eyes a bit. The question was meant to be rhetorical, not an indication that he couldn't read a simple map such as this. As he studied it a bit more, he found the location of the Chick Hatchery . . . but, in order to get there, they needed to go past the Paul Bunyan Cabin and up the red staircase. By taking that route, they could avoid all of the Christmas trees on the main floor.
"Come on,
Murdock, let's go," he said, folding up the map and sticking it back into
his pocket. He just hoped the pilot
wouldn't get too distracted by other exhibits along the way . . .
*******
Fifteen minutes and two wrong turns later, Face and Murdock arrived in the
Genetics exhibit where the Chick Hatchery was located. In spite of the extra bit of time that it
took them to get to where they were going to meet up with the others, he found
himself admiring the large Museum. It
was certainly one of the most interesting ones he had visited in some time, and
certainly had more than enough things to see and do to appeal to all ages.
This particular area had a number of displays set up around the room, all apparently designed to educate guests about DNA and the building blocks of life. It also touched upon some science fiction topics like cloning, which was something scientists were working to develop but was still years away. As he looked around, he noted that there weren't very many people in this area, likely due to the fact that there was less than an hour before the Museum was scheduled to close. What few people were present had gathered around a rectangular station set near the back of the room, near a hallway that would lead back to the train and transportation section.
Face spotted Mrs.
B, Hannibal and BA standing near that rectangular display. He nudged Murdock to follow him, and then
wove his way around some of the displays to join his friends. One thing he noted immediately, as he
approached, was the atmosphere surrounding that particular display within the
exhibit. It almost seemed to call for
silence with how everyone was looking at it, and hardly anyone said a
word. He walked up next to Hannibal and quietly
apologized, "Sorry we're late.
Murdock was chasing fairies."
"I was not chasing fairies," Murdock shot back. He turned to look at Face with an incredulous
look over the fact that he would tell the Colonel, Mrs. B, and BA something
like that. Although the muscular
Sergeant hadn't threatened to pound him yet today as he regularly did, probably
because of being around his mother, he didn't want to give him much of a reason
to put him in a world of hurt. "I
was . . ."
Hannibal held a single finger up to his mouth and shushed the pilot, not taking
his eyes off what was going on inside of the glass on the display. His crystal blue eyes seemed to practically
sparkle almost as if he was on the Jazz, although his mind wasn't brewing up
new plans at that exact second. It was
more due to the miracle that was about to take place before their very eyes.
"It's almost
out," Mrs. B whispered, her voice filled with anticipation of what was
about to happen.
Face looked at the rectangular display and the glass that covered it. Inside the glass was a metal grid, divided in half, in order to form two square compartments. On one side were a number of small, yellow, furballs that seemed to draw the attention of the kids that were there. A couple of them tapped on the glass, and the yellow tufts of fur practically flocked to their little fingers, stopped only by the clear covering.
On the other side, resting on the grid, were a number of eggs. Eggs? That is what Hannibal and Mrs. B wanted to see? A bunch of ordinary eggs? What was so special about a bunch of eggs? And why did Mrs. B said that it . . . whatever it was . . . was almost out? The talented con artist glanced back to Hannibal with an expression of disbelief on his face at the fact that they wanted to come and look at something like this.
Seeing the look on the Lieutenant's face, the Colonel grinned. Knowing Face as he did, the con artist was probably disappointed that the display wasn't devoted to lots of beautiful women in bikinis. With a small, soft chuckle, he stepped aside to give his second in command a closer view. There was a reason why he wanted the younger man to see this display . . . a deeper meaning, related to their conversation they had earlier at the Yesterday's Main Street exhibit. He just hoped that, by seeing this, Face would eventually make the connection himself and understand.
The blonde-haired Lieutenant moved closer to the glass on the side that contained the eggs. As he knelt down on one knee, he noticed three little creatures laying on the grid. Their tiny eyes occasionally opened and closed, and they looked to be exhausted. Their bodies were splayed out, flat on the metal surface, although there was the rhythmic rising and falling as they drew in each breath of life.
As he continued to look inside, he noticed that one of the eggs had become the focus of attention. It had a number of sharp cracks in the shell, and seemed to be rocking as whatever was inside fought to get out . . . to be free of its confinement. His blue eyes watched as a large piece of the shell broke off, revealing a tiny beak and a little head covered with wet, yellow fuzz.
He put one hand on the glass as he moved in closer until his nose was almost touching the cold material. Growing up in a large city, especially within an orphanage, he had never been around farm animals. As a little kid, he thought that milk and eggs were manufactured somehow and came from a grocery store or could be found in the refrigerator. Later he learned where it came from, but he had never witnessed the birth of such a tiny, but perfect animal . . . until now.
"No matter how many times I see it, it still amazes me how such a little creature, trapped in that shell, wants to live so much that it will peck until it is exhausted . . . just to get out," Mrs. Baracus noted softly. Her eyes practically shimmered at the sight before her, taking in the wonderment of it all.
Face continued to watch as the small creature, having accomplished such a major feat, rested for a few moments before using its beak to attack the rest of the shell with renewed vigor. It was almost as if it seemed to sense that freedom was near. In spite of his first reaction upon seeing it, he found himself fascinated by what was playing out before his blue eyes.
He was so focused that he hardly noticed Murdock next to him. He, too, was pressed up as close to the glass as possible to be able to see more clearly with his warm, brown eyes. Growing up in rural Texas, the pilot had seen plenty of chickens and watched as eggs hatched . . . but this was something he had always loved seeing since it was pure and innocent. No matter what troubles he was facing as he grew up, watching the birth of such a tiny little helpless creature always helped to remind him that there were things more important in life, and others out there that needed to be protected and looked after. A huge smile filled his face, and he found himself silently rooting inside for the tiny little animal that was working to break free.
Hannibal grinned as he watched the two men, especially Face. It was worth all the rest of the day combined just to see the look on the Lieutenant's face as the chick broke free of its shell and stumbled on wobbly legs out onto the metal grid. It took a few short steps and collapsed onto the surface, clearly exhausted from the effort to free itself from its prison. The yellow fuzz that was plastered to its body was already starting to dry, which would form a thick, soft down that would turn into feathers later.
He glanced over to BA, who had an arm around his mother, as they also watched the chick emerge from the egg. He held up his left wrist and glanced at the watch face on the inside of it as he noticed the time. He hated interrupting the moment, but time was going by quickly. "C'mon, guys. If we want to see the Coal Mine before the Museum closes, we'd better get over there."
Mrs. Baracus
looked down at her diamond crusted watch, which had been a gift from Spencer,
and her eyes widened. "My goodness,
yes! I didn't realize how late it
was. We'd better hurry," she urged,
before walking with her son toward the grand rotunda. She looked back and watched Face and Murdock
reluctantly pull themselves away from the display and follow after them. Once they caught up, she mentioned, "Just
wait until we're done here. We can find
something to eat, and then there's somewhere I want to take you boys. It'll be a wonderful way to end the day. You'll love it!"
"What is it, Mama?" BA asked curiously, wondering what she had in
mind.
Adele Baracus gave a knowing, yet mysterious smile as she led the group to the last exhibit they were going to visit for the day. "Just wait, Scooter. You and the rest of your A-Team are gonna love it," she noted in a light tone.
Templeton Peck took one last look back at the Chick Hatchery before they rounded the corner and left the Genetics exhibit. He wasn't sure what kind of a surprise Mrs. B could pull out of her sleeve that could possibly match what he had just seen . . .
Hold it. You mean you people gonna let this man continue to beat on your heads? There ain't nothin' in the world worth losing your pride for. Life don't mean nothin' unless you can hold your head up high. I know, 'cause I come from a place where the rats are as big as alley cats.
-- BA, "Mexican Slayride"
Chapter 11: Cold Steel
"I don't know about this, guys," Face
complained as his blue eyes took in the sight of the atmosphere of the outdoor
rink beyond the windows of the warming center.
He looked gestured helplessly at the thin piece of metal at the bottom
of the rented ice skates before running a finger along the side of one of the
cold steel blades. "Ice
skating? I mean, I don't even like
roller skating. At least roller skates
have four wheels to balance on. This . .
."
Murdock was lacing up his own skates as he turned to watch what the Lieutenant was doing. "Careful, Face. It's . . ." he started to warn him, only a few seconds too late. He heard the con man yelp and saw him stick his finger into his mouth to try and staunch the flow of blood from the fresh cut. ". . . sharp," the pilot finished weakly.
Hannibal pulled the laces tight on his own skates. He had chosen to rent figure skates rather than hockey skates for a reason, and had also recommended for Face and Murdock to do the same. For the other two, the toe picks on the figure skates would make it easier for the two men to become acclimated to being able to move around on the ice . . . but for himself, this was a chance to get back into doing something that he had enjoyed in his youth. He flashed his second in command a huge, disarming grin as he encouraged, "Come on, Lieutenant. It'll be fun! I used to skate all the time when I was a kid in Michigan, and a few times when we visited Chicago. It's a blast!"
"'Sides," Murdock interjected once more with a sly grin on his face as he glanced over the ice. His warm brown eyes spotted two girls out there, not even wearing a winter jacket. Both had earmuffs on that wrapped around their hair . . . one had jet black hair as dark as night, and the other with blonde hair that seemed to shimmer like gold. How she was able to withstand the cold, he had no idea, but he did appraise what she was wearing. "Looks like you might meet a couple of girls wearing some swimsuits with little skirts."
Face's gaze followed Murdock's out toward the rink and spotted the girls that the pilot had just mentioned, who were skating backwards in a circle. He also saw a couple of other young women who were well bundled up, who were casually skating around. There also seemed to be a young mother on the ice with her six-year-old daughter, and a couple of teenage boys who were playing tag with each other. The two boys wore a different type of ice skate compared to what Hannibal had them rent. The blades on their skates, from what he saw, didn’t have the toe picks. He still had no idea why Hannibal insisted on renting him the figure skates . . . much less any kind of ice skates for that matter. Sure, the Colonel claimed the figure skates were easier, but the last thing he needed was to break his neck.
"Yeah, plenty of girls where I can make a fool of myself in front of them," he responded dismally. He was not looking forward to trying this, although that sentiment quickly changed when he saw the two girls who had been skating backwards glance in his direction. They each gave him a very small wave and a shy smile before they turned to each other with a slight giggle. He flashed them a smile as he appraised their beauty, and inwardly thought that ice skating probably wasn't going to be as bad as he first assumed.
Hannibal chuckled at Murdock's observation and his Lieutenant's subsequent expression. "They're called skating dresses, Murdock, not swimsuits," he pointed out, grinning around his cigar. Even though this was Mrs. B's idea, the cunning strategist fully believed that this was exactly what Face needed to help him get into the holiday spirit. There was nothing in the world like ice skating in the middle of winter, especially at an outdoor rink with freshly fallen snow surrounding it.
"Looks like swimsuits to me," the pilot commented, shrugging his shoulders. His long, slender fingers pulled the laces tightly over the last of the eyelits, and then tied the laces off into a neat bow. Satisfied that both were snugly laced up, he stood up in order to become more acclimated to standing on two thin blades. He was very adept at roller skating, but ice skating was totally new to him. The balance on the blades came naturally to him, which caused a huge grin to appear upon his face. "C'mon, guys. Last one on the ice is a purple penguin!" Murdock said excitedly as he made his way to the door.
'Purple penguin?' Face mouthed before he shook his head. One thing he had to hand to his best friend . . . he was certainly imaginative. That sometimes proved to be his greatest asset, which helped with the various scams to bust him out of the VA. In spite of the two young ladies that seemed to have taken an interest in him, he still wasn't so sure about all of this ice skating stuff. As such, he decided to make one last stab at getting out of this. "Hey, guys, I'm really tired from all the walking we did at the Museum today. How 'bout I sit here and watch while you . . ."
"Lieutenant," Hannibal said sternly with a slight jerk of his head in the direction of Mrs. Baracus. This was her day, and he wasn't about to let the sullen second in command ruin it for her with his dismal attitude. She had opened her heart and her home to them . . . twice . . . and she deserved to have a day filled with as much happiness as possible. It was the least they could do for her. A bright twinkle began to dance in his eyes as he surveyed the glum conman. He had a way of getting Face to take part in this, and still make it his choice . . . although he likely wouldn't be too happy with what would happen if he chose not to join in this activity. "Besides, skating is a great exercise. Keeps us from getting flabby. Almost as good as a training exercise," he added with a broad grin . . . a victorious grin, knowing he had the upper hand.
Sure enough, Face's mouth immediately opened, ready with a hot retort. Seeing Hannibal's grin, he instead gave his Commanding Officer a withering glare. He hated the Colonel's training sessions . . . a fact that likely wasn't lost on the mind of the silver-white haired leader when he mentioned that. He knew that it was useless to argue with Hannibal when he was this way, and if he had tried to get out of this completely, he probably would end up having to pay for it at the next training session. Begrudgingly, he fumbled with the laces as he tried to tie his skates.
Murdock was the first out on the ice, stepping out through the door in the dasher boards. His natural grace and sense of balance, along with his skill with roller skating, allowed him to catch on quickly. He let out an ear-spitting howl of pure joy as he picked up speed and raced around the NHL-sized rink, not at all phased by the cold. A few of those already on the ice looked in his direction at the sound of the howl, but then returned to their own on-ice activities. For the lanky Texan skating wasn’t like flying, but with how fast he was going, he felt the same thrill and sense of control that he normally felt behind the controls of a plane or chopper.
Hannibal exited the warming center and discarded his cigar into a nearby ash receptacle before gingerly stepping through the door and out onto the ice. It had been a long time since he had been ice skating due to the time in the military and being on the run, but his mom had always told him that it was just like riding a bike. One may not do it for a while, but it’d always come back to them. Sure enough, after he skated a few feet, he quickly found the rhythm. His lips curled up into a smile as it all came back to him . . . a smile so bright that it seemed like it could light up the whole neighborhood. Feeling emboldened by how quickly this skill set returned to him, he considered trying to do something more advanced that he learned as a kid in Michigan, but decided to hold off for a bit until he had a chance to warm up.
As he skated around the edge of the ice near the dasher boards, he took an opportunity to admire the architecture both north and south of the Midway Plaisance, where this particular rink was located. The buildings were of a classical design, almost like some of the towering cathedrals one would find in France . . . the country where he had been stationed before being shipped to Vietnam. These buildings belonged to the University of Chicago, which was well renown in the field of medicine. Although the sun had set some time ago and illumination was provided to the skaters by some strategically placed field lights, he noted that there were only a small handful of windows on the buildings that bore any amount of brightness. With it so close to Christmas, the school was likely out on its winter break . . . which was fortunate for them, otherwise the rink probably would have had a lot more people using it.
As he circled back around toward where he had first stepped onto the rink, he saw BA help his mother through the doors and out onto the ice as well. Once they took to the cold surface and headed toward the center of the rink, he noted how at ease both of them were skating. He even marveled at how smoothly BA was skating, rather incongruous considering his large muscular size, but the Sergeant often surprised him with his speed and agility.
Templeton Peck, on the other hand, wasn’t faring as well. Although he had laced his skates up, he wobbled uncertainly with each step he took, almost like the newborn baby chicks at the Museum of Science and Industry. To a trained skater, the wobble was indicative of someone who either was wearing skates that were a couple of sizes too big, or they weren’t laced up properly to provide the ankle support that was needed. Face clung onto the door for dear life and let out a groan as he realized that he had to somehow get across a twenty foot span without anything to help hold him up just to get to the hockey boards and get onto the ice. Letting go of the door, he hurriedly took a few steps to try and get to the boards as fast as possible, so he could have something to hold onto. His steps were very uncertain, but he finally managed to make by practically throwing himself at the molded hard plastic boards that encircled the perimeter of the rink.
As he pulled himself up into a standing position, or at least as close as possible to something that resembled it, he spotted the two boys chasing each other and playing tag. Their movements were smooth and graceful, almost as if the blades of the skates were extensions of their own feet and legs. Well, if two kids could skate that well, he could do so as well, couldn't he? After all, Hannibal, Murdock, BA and Mrs. B were making it all look like there was nothing to this ice skating stuff . . .
He cautiously stepped out onto the ice, almost as if he was afraid that putting too much weight on it would cause it to crack under his blades. The blonde-haired con man kept a vice-type grip on the hockey boards in order to desperately remain upright. His blue eyes looked out over the rest of the ice rink, and he caught sight of Hannibal who deftly switched his position and started skating around the rink backwards. As the Colonel started to pass him by, the Lieutenant gave him a determined smile and let go of the dasher boards . . .
He drew in a breath and tried to take a step forward. The moment he lifted his right leg, he immediately started to lose his balance. Instinctively, he spread his arms out to his side, almost like a tightrope walker would do in the circus . . . although his effort looked more like flailing than a graceful attempt to restore some semblance of control. He tried to bring his right leg back down and almost doubled over as if someone had hit him in the gut before his feet flew out from under him, causing Face to fly backwards and land in an undignified heap on the ice.
Trying not to laugh at what just happened, John Smith performed a t-stop on the ice. He then skated up to the helpless con artist and stretched forward a hand to try and help him up. "Having a problem, Lieutenant?" Hannibal asked with a grin.
Face let out a sigh as he grabbed the Colonel's hand. Although his Commanding Officer tried to help him back to his feet again, he kept sliding forward due to the added momentum of being helped up. Although Hannibal had gotten him to his feet, he was able to stay there for about five seconds before he started to lose his balance again! "Whoa!" he exclaimed as he slipped, lunging forward in a wild grab to try and get something more stable to hold onto to keep himself from falling again. Unfortunately, that something just so happened to be the silver-white haired leader of the A-Team.
"Well, Face, I didn't realize you were that glad to see me," Hannibal chuckled, trying to make light of an obviously embarrassing moment for his Lieutenant. Still, with the younger man within his arms, he moved skated them closer to the dasher boards just so he'd have something else to hang on to and prevent both of them from crumpling to the ice.
Once they were close enough, Face automatically shifted to grab onto the hard plastic white boards that lined the rink. It took a bit, but eventually he was able to get his feet under him and get back to a relatively standing position. He glared at the Colonel, completely jealous of how graceful his Commanding Officer was on ice skates. There had to be some kind of a secret that he knew, which he wasn't sharing, on how to do this and not make a fool of himself. He glanced over to the two women who had waved to him earlier, and noticed that they were now giggling . . . and at him! His face flushed with embarrassment, as this certainly wasn't the way he had expected to get the attention of a woman. Ice skating was supposed to have been romantic, from what he had remembered hearing from others . . . but what he was doing was anything but romantic! Returning his focus to his mentor, he asked him with exasperation, "Hannibal, how do you get around on these things?"
A sparkle danced with amusement in the ice blue eyes of Colonel John Hannibal Smith. He was clearly on the Jazz, and practically loving every moment of this. He flashed a huge smile to Face as slowly skated next to him and leaned against the dasher boards. "You have to learn how to walk before you can run, Lieutenant. The same is true for ice skating. You need to learn how to maintain your balance and move around before you can try anything more advanced."
"More advanced?" Face parroted incredulously. He looked at Hannibal like he had two heads growing out of his body, instead of just one, wondering exactly what he meant by that. His blue eyes spotted Murdock as the pilot skated by in such a way like he had been born with ice skates on his feet. His movements were so smooth and natural, and the grin on his face showed just how much fun he was having . . . like he didn’t have a care in the world, which made the con artist jealous. The most he’d be happy for, at this point, was just staying on his feet and having nothing else bruised beyond his ego.
"More advanced," Hannibal repeated with a devilish grin on his face. He looked over to the pair of figure skaters and gestured to them just for a prime example. Almost as if on cue, one of them started racing around the rink to build up speed, and then headed back for their section of the ice. She turned around to start skating backwards and then launched herself in the air, spinning around with her hands drawn up close to her body, before landing solidly and gracefully on one leg. "You know . . . jumps, spins, skating backwards . . . stuff like that."
"Oh boy," Face moaned bleakly and then sighed. This was definitely going to be a long evening . . .
*******
Letting out a sigh, Adele Baracus eased her tired body down into one of the chairs facing the rink inside the warming center. She was still breathing heavily from the exertion with the skating and began to wonder if she was getting too old for this kind of exercise. That thought was soon cast aside as she watched her "boys" play on the ice. Ever since Scooter had introduced his friends to her, she had come to think of the entire A-Team as her boys . . . even Hannibal, in spite of the fact that he was almost as old as she was.
She had to figure that being on the run from the military had to be tough on all of them and they likely didn't get much of a chance to relax and just play around. That was why she had suggested reinstating the old family tradition of going ice skating right before Christmas. She had always loved those moments . . . skating with her husband and with Scooter. It brought back plenty of pleasant memories . . .
She looked out through the windows, her eyes catching Scooter as he took a swing at the lanky Texan. Murdock was literally skating circles around BA, and the look on her son's face was absolutely priceless. She laughed as she watched the two of them, with the pilot egging on the muscular mechanic, and BA trying to take another couple of swings that completely missed Murdock's agile and wry figure before he started to chase after him on the ice. The Captain let out a whoop of laughter as his long limbs and natural, graceful skating ability kept him just out of BA's reach.
Her focus shifted to find the other two members of the A-Team. She winced in sympathy as she saw Face loose his footing once more hand land heavily onto the ice. This wasn't the first time he had fallen since putting his ice skates on, and the poor man was going to be incredibly sore the next day . . . heck, the next few days with the punishment his body was going through. She noticed that his eyes burned with frustration and anger . . . likely at his own inability to ice skate . . . as a couple of young skaters whizzed past him, their movements much more fluid than he could ever manage.
She watched as Hannibal helped to pick him up once more. As he did so, the Colonel's eyes rose to meet hers, twinkling merrily with laughter. She watched as he showed a great deal of patience as he focused his attention back to the frustrated Lieutenant and tried to show him a few basic maneuvers that could help him stay on his feet, much less move around. Although she didn't get much of a chance to talk to Hannibal after that one time in her apartment, she could tell that he was not only a good listener, but he had a wisdom beyond his years. It didn't take much to figure out that Scooter hadn't been honest with her about being the head of the A-Team . . . not with how Hannibal had eventually taken charge when she was trying to be run out of her apartment. It would be her little secret . . .
Settling back into her chair, her thoughts turned back to the events from earlier in the day. She was glad that Spencer had agreed to give her the day off so she could show off her home town to her son's friends. She loved Chicago, as there was always so much to see and do, but during the Christmas season, the season became practically magical. She loved seeing the expressions on the rest of the A-Team's faces at some of the elaborate decorations the city had put up, especially with Buckingham Fountain and the Magnificent Mile. Murdock had taken in everything with the wonderment of a child seeing Christmas lights for the first time, and Hannibal really seemed to enjoy it as well. Face only seemed mildly impressed, but not as much as the others. Either way, this was something that she wanted to do since the last time they had been in Chicago, they had come to help her keep her home and didn't really have time to look around and enjoy the city.
A slight frown appeared upon her face as she thought about what happened at the Museum. She really had been looking forward to showing the A-Team where she worked. Everything was going so well, and all of them had really been enjoying the experience, until Scooter had to make his phone call from her office. Spencer returning early from his meetings created a situation . . . she didn't quite understand it, but there had definitely been a shift in the atmosphere as a result, and not for the better either.
That brought back memories of when Scooter and his friends met her new boss and boyfriend the previous evening at her apartment. There had been a certain amount of tension in the air, but she hadn't really paid attention to it and figured that they were just feeling each other out. She knew that Scooter cared deeply about her, and so did his friends. Naturally, they would be cautious anytime they'd end up meeting one of her friends or associates until they could be certain that they wouldn't try to cash in on the reward on their heads. But, that was yesterday, so she certainly had not expected the air of subdued hostility in their actions today.
"Mama?"
The sound of Scooter's voice had startled her. He looked like he had been having so much fun out there that she hadn't expected him to have gotten off the ice and follow her into the warming center. She remained silent for a moment, almost as if too surprised by her son's decision to follow her inside rather than be out there with the rest of his friends.
"Are you okay, Mama?" BA asked again. His voice was soft and tender, showing how much he was concerned for his mother . . . especially with how she hadn't answered him. From the way she had jumped, it was clear that she had been thinking of something and he had interrupted her train of thought. But, for her to not answer him right away? Either she had been thinking about something serious, or something was wrong.
Snapping out of it, Mrs. B gave her son a bit of a reassuring smile . . . even if it was slightly forced. She hated Scooter knowing that something was wrong, simply because of the fact that she didn't want to worry him. He had enough on his mind with being on the run. "I'm okay, Scooter," she tried to reassure him, patting the seat to her right as an indication that she welcomed his company and wanted him to sit down next to her.
BA moved around and plopped down in the chair next to her, as he indicated. As he did so, he followed his mother's gaze as she looked back out toward the ice. He noticed that Murdock had joined Hannibal, and was acting almost like a one-man cheerleading squad for the frustrated con man. Although Hannibal was trying to show him the basics so he could stay on his feet, it was clear from the way that Murdock was moving . . . really emphasizing his movements . . . that he was also trying to provide Face with some much-needed encouragement.
Face tried to get up again and skate around, only to have his feet fly out from under him once more, causing him to land painfully on the ice. The expert mechanic couldn't help but to wince in sympathy at the Lieutenant's dismay. BA noted how Face normally had a grace about him whenever he moved . . . a smoothness that also helped him to project the charm in order to win people over and be successful in conning others. Heck, he had seen con man perform several athletic feats that involved jumping which would impress an Olympic gymnast, plus he could sometimes hold his own in a fight when he wasn't out-matched by someone bigger than him. But, it seemed painfully obvious to the Sergeant that the man just wasn't designed to have blades under his feet.
"Crazy foo'. Don't know when to quit," BA muttered as he watched the pilot's antics. Murdock got on his nerves, probably a lot more than he'd like to admit, but sometimes what he did amused him . . . even if he didn't want to always admit it. They were good friends, and he knew that Murdock would give his life to save any of them . . . and very nearly did a couple of years prior when he took that bullet meant for Hannibal. He just wished that, sometimes, Murdock wouldn't annoy him so much and they'd stop trying to drag him on planes and choppers all the time.
Mrs. B looked over to her son for a moment and smiled. She marveled once more at the strange love/hate relationship that Scooter had with Murdock, almost like what close brothers would have sometimes. It warmed her heart to know that, in spite of the disfunctionality, the members of the A-Team were very much like a family and her boy wasn't alone out there.
She returned her gaze out to the ice, and just in time too. Hannibal
suddenly skated away from his two men, building up speed. He switched his position to where he started
skating backwards and then launched himself into the air! He spun around once, and then landed on his
right foot with only a slight, almost imperceptible trace of a wobble. She could see that he had only a huge grin on
his face after doing that single axel jump . . . a grin that seemed to be
brighter than all of the lights shining down on the rink, dispelling the
darkness of night that had descended around them. Mrs. Baracus saw the Colonel as skated back
over to rejoin Murdock and Face and noted how the wry pilot was clapping and
cheering for all he was worth. The young
con artist looked even more frustrated, but also mildly impressed as well.
"Wonder where he learned to do that," BA mused to himself. He was suitably impressed by what he had just
seen Hannibal
do, and really had no idea where he had learned that from. Then again, the Colonel had kept a lot about
his past from the rest of them . . . not that any of them made a big deal about
it. After all, the man was a brilliant
strategist and kept them all alive in Vietnam, and even now kept them
from being captured by the military and thrown into a federal stockade for the
rest of their lives.
"He's a pretty incredible man," Mrs. B agreed as she continued to
observe the trio on the ice. It wasn't
long before her thoughts again drifted from the Colonel, who was an amazing
person, to another wonderful man who had entered her life. A frown crossed her face as she looked
away. Why couldn't Scooter and the
others see as she did that Spencer was a true gentleman and incredibly
sweet? She then recalled the harsh tone
that he had used with her earlier, but she quickly pushed that thought aside. He had every right to be angry. She shouldn't have let her son into his
office without Spencer's permission.
BA looked over to his mother and immediately picked up on how silent she had fallen once more. And there was no mistaking the frown that appeared upon her face. Something obviously troubled her and was making her unhappy, hence the sudden change in her expression. "Somethin' bothering you, Mama?" he asked gently.
"Why would you think that?" she responded simply, refusing to meet his gaze.
Inwardly, he could feel his anger start to boil up within him, but he held it in check. Just the fact that she didn't look at him was a clear indication that something was wrong, which confirmed his observation. He instinctively clenched his hands into fists, but tried to keep his voice from growling as he persisted, "I noticed you sittin' over here all by yourself. You looked sad, and now you won't look at me. What's wrong? Somebody hurt you?"
Adele turned to face her son, her dark eyes meeting his. She could tell that he was searching for something as their eyes locked, yet . . . the longer that their gazes held one another, the more that Mrs. Baracus started to see something she hadn't seen before. It was almost as if she was looking into the eyes of her late-husband. Scooter reminded her of him in so many ways. He was so very protective and intuitive, just like Albert used to be, but it was more than that. When she looked at Bosco, she saw Albert's spirit, his strength, his courage, his devotion, and his love. It comforted her to know that, in some way, her husband lived on through her son.
She reached up to check to make sure the bun within her hair was still tight and there were no loose strands of hair dangling from it. Initially, she wanted to tell him that it was his imagination and that she was perfectly fine, but her lips had other ideas. "Why don't you like Spencer?" she blurted out, before snapping her mouth shut in surprise. She had wanted to keep the hurt she felt at their animosity to herself, but now that the question was asked, she shifted her position within her chair to look even more closely at her son.
BA's expression became guarded as he considered her question. He hadn't expected her to just come out and ask something like that, especially with how she had kept trying to reassure him over the last few moments that she was fine. "Whatcha mean, Mama?" he wondered, trying to look innocent. Trying to look innocent when he realized he was caught red handed had never worked well for BA, especially with his mother.
Even though she was sitting down, Mrs. B put a hand on her left hip and looked
at her son very sternly. "I may be
old, Bosco Baracus, but I'm not stupid!"
Her voice was firm and unwavering, a very clear indication that he
wasn't going to get off the hook easily on this one.
BA winced at the use of his full name. Now it was his turn to avoid his mother's gaze. He looked away and began to unconsciously twist one of the gold rings, encrusted with diamonds, on his left pinky finger. Obviously, the A-Team had not been subtle enough in the beginnings of their investigation of Spencer Jackson and they had ended up hurting his Mama anyway. He could hear the pain and confusion in her voice. After a few moments of silence, he stopped twisting his ring, let out a sigh and began to explain, "Something just doesn't feel right, Mama." His voice was quiet and deadly serious as he put his hands back into his lap and raised his eyes to meet hers. "This guy comes barging into your life, starts giving you expensive presents, and you don't hardly know him . . ."
"It's the presents that are bothering you?" she jumped in, cutting off her son before he could say anymore. Mrs. Baracus looked at Scooter as silence filled the air around them for a moment, almost as if searching for some kind of confirmation. She could see it in his eyes, even though she didn't give him a chance to finish what he was first starting to say. "Baby, I know this man better than you think. He happens to be a very generous man. Just 'cause he gives an old woman some gifts, that doesn't make him a bad man, honey."
"It's not just that, Mama," BA said softly. He returned to twisting another diamond encrusted gold ring, this one sitting on his right pinky finger, as he tried to search for the right words to explain the feelings that he and the rest of the Team got from Spencer. He had never really been good with words. His growls and scowls on his face often said more than he did verbally . . . and when he did choose to vocalize something, he was often brutally honest, direct, and to the point. Talking to people was usually Hannibal and Face's department. Even Murdock, the crazy fool, was better at expressing himself than he was.
The muscular
mechanic drew in a breath as he wryly thought about the talent of the other
members of the Team with words, compared to himself. But, when it came to his Mama, he usually
didn't have any problems talking to her about stuff . . . until now. Letting out a sigh, he decided it was best to
dive right in and get to the point. "I
don't know . . . it's just . . . well . . . over the years, me 'n the guys have
got a sense about people, you know? We
learned to trust our guts, and when someone makes us nervous, there's a good
reason for it."
"And Spencer makes you nervous?"
Mrs. B saw a slight but hesitant nod from Scooter, which meant that they
had suspicions about him. He was just
finding it hard to come out and say it, although she understood why. It was hard for him, and she knew that he
didn't want to hurt her feelings. In
fact, she choked back the desire to defend Spencer or to tell her son that it
wasn't any of his business. She had to
remind herself that he . . . no, all of them were concerned because they cared
about her. She glanced out over the ice
and watched the other members of the A-Team for a moment before looking back at
her son. There was no mistaking the set
look of determination upon her face, and even if she wanted to defend Spencer
she knew her protests wouldn't do much good anyway. Besides . . . what if they were right?
"What are you boys going to do?" she asked in a strained whisper.
BA looked at his mother and realized that he really hated to see her like this. He took her hand and gently traced the calluses on her word-hardened palms. She deserved some happiness after the hard life she had lived, and after all of this time since Papa died, not more pain and heartache. If Spencer did turn out to be the slimeball that they all thought, that would hurt her worse if she wasn't prepared for the possibility. That thought spurred his determination to get to the bottom of this before his Mama got hurt any worse than she already was. It was why Hannibal had wanted him to talk to his Mama about all of this . . . to provide her with the answer to the question she had just asked and make her aware of what they were going to do. She had a right to know.
"Hannibal .
. . he's got a plan. We're gonna check
him out. Maybe he is what you
think. If so, he won't even know what we
gone and done. Hannibal promised we wouldn't do anything
'til we got more to go on. Okay, Mama?"
he explained. His voice was gentle and
calm, and almost seemed as if he was pleading for her understanding and
blessing to pursue this. Not that the
lack of her blessing would stop them either if it meant keeping her safe.
Letting out a bit of a sigh, Adele Baracus clasped her hand around her son's,
and then placed her other hand over it, enclosing his hand firmly in both of
hers. She smiled sadly as she gazed
deeply into his eyes, seeing nothing but love and caring from her strong
boy. "You need to do what you think
is best, baby. I know you'll be
careful. I still don't think there's
anything to find, but if this is the only way to ease your minds about him, I
won't stop you," she told him, her voice trailing off once more into
silence as she gave his hand a quick squeeze for reassurance.
BA drew his mother into a tender hug, realizing that was probably as good as
they were going to get as far as a blessing from her on this matter. He pulled away as he saw Face enter the
warming center moments later, still clutching onto anything he could to keep
himself upright. He had a pronounced
limp as he practically threw himself the remaining few feet from the door to
the chair next to Mrs. B, almost collapsing to the ground in the process. Pulling himself up into the seat and let out
a huge sigh of relief.
Murdock followed him inside with a huge grin that practically stretched from ear to ear. "That was fun! We should go ice skating more often," the pilot raved. It was his first time actually ice skating, but it was so close to roller skating that it had been easy for him to make the transition.
Upon hearing that
statement from his best friend, Templeton Peck emitted a cross between a groan
and a desperate whimper. Here he was, in
tremendous pain, having actually been on the ice in a prone or seated position
. . . or something that resembled it . . . more often than he had been standing. This may have been Mrs. B's definition of
fun, or even Murdock's or Hannibal's,
but it clearly wasn't his. He winced as
he bent over to try and unlace his skates.
Even that simple movement required not only a lot of exertion, but also
resulted in a tremendous amount of pain running through is body.
Hannibal was
only a few steps behind Murdock and overheard the comment from the
Captain. "Maybe so, but I think
Face has had enough for tonight," he chuckled at the con man's
misfortune. He glanced back out to the
ice for a moment and actually saw that the rink had been cleared and the
Zamboni was being pulled out onto the ice.
A fond memory was recalled when he saw the machine begin its ice making
run. He didn't let his thoughts dwell on
it for too long before he returned his attention back to everyone else . . .
but especially his Lieutenant. "It's
been a long day for everyone, and I think we're all ready to retire."
Although he knew that he and the rest of his unit needed to get some rest, sleep wasn't the only thing he had planned. There were still those bugs that they had planted, and they needed to see what kind of juicy information they would turn up on Spencer Jackson.
Mrs. B smiled at Hannibal and nodded, finding the wisdom in his words. Truthfully, with everything that had gone on today, she was starting to feel a bit tired herself and some sleep would do her a world of good. "That's a good idea, Hannibal," she noted before starting to untie her skates. She glanced up in the process of doing so and saw that it was starting to snow. The large flakes fell peacefully to the earth, a sharp contrast to the turmoil raging in the heart of a gentle, elderly woman.
It's a sin to eavesdrop, guys.
-- Hannibal, "Children of Jamestown"
Chapter 12: Background Check
Hannibal opened the door and emerged from the bedroom on the
second floor of the penthouse suite.
From what he had learned, this particular luxury hotel room had often
played host to Presidents, dignitaries, and big-name celebrities over the
years, hence why the hotel staff had called it the Presidential Suite. In fact, they had slept right on the very
same bed that he had slept in for the past few days.
One thing was for sure . . . he had one of the most comfortable and sound night's sleep in quite some time. He really had to give it to Face. He had an amazing talent for the remarkable when it came to acquiring things for the Team, especially when it was something posh and expensive and played into the upper-class lifestyle he tried to project. If he hadn't been on the run, truthfully, the silver-haired Colonel likely could get used to living in the lap of luxury . . . although it certainly wouldn't be as much fun.
He raised his arms above his head as he stretched, trying to shake off the last remnants of sleep from his muscles. His mouth opened wide in a huge yawn, before he lowered his arms. As he did so, his sense of smell immediately detected the rich aroma of freshly-brewed coffee. It didn't smell like the coffee that came in a can, but rather the type that had just been ground from premium roasted Columbian coffee beans.
He looked over the railing from the bedroom area into the living room below. From his vantage point, he could see a figure sitting on the couch, but he couldn't quite make out who it was . . . even though he actually had a pretty good guess. His hand cupped the gold-trimmed handrail as he quietly made his way down the winding staircase into the main area of the penthouse suite.
Once he entered the living room, he could immediately see the muscular figure of BA sitting on the couch. He was actually almost sitting on the edge of the seat, and leaning forward over a device that looked like a portable tape player that sat on the coffee table in front of him. A set of oversized headphones was clamped around his head, covering his ears, and it was clear that he was listening intently to whatever noise was being projected through those earphones. The West Point trained strategist could see steam arising from the coffee cup that sat next to the tape player ,which meant that either BA had made the coffee himself, or someone else did.
He didn't want to disturb the Sergeant right away so he made his way over to the bar, where he saw the mostly-filled glass coffee carafe. It was very clear that it had to have been freshly made since there wasn't much missing from it. Walking behind the bar, he pulled out a coffee cup and then grabbed the carafe from off the warmer. He poured the hot liquid into his cup and watched as the steam arose from the white porcelain mug. He put the carafe back onto the warmer, and then lifted the cup to his lips, taking a sip. Just as he suspected, it was a very rich Columbian coffee and it was very strong too. Then again, BA always liked his coffee strong enough to where it could almost peel the paint off of a house.
Walking out from behind the bar, with the coffee cup in his hand, he made his way over to the expansive sliding glass door. Beyond that, during the summer, they could have walked out onto the balcony and had an unobstructed view of Chicago's beautiful lakefront from about twenty stories high. A fierce howl of wind from outside could be heard as it buffeted against the sliding doors. Glancing outside through a couple of spots on the glass, which was becoming embedded with frost, Hannibal warily eyed the weather.
On the balcony, all he could see was a sea of white blanketing the area. Even beyond that, the lakefront was covered with snow far more than it was when they had flown in a few days prior. He glanced down at his watch that was strapped to his left wrist and noted the time.
8:00am.
His ice blue eyes spotted the famous Lake Shore Drive. From what he remembered, his parents used to catch the Chicago Skyway instead of taking I-94 from Indiana. It was often faster, and provided a magnificent view. The Skyway was actually a six-mile long bridge, and they always got off of it at Stony Island Avenue. From there, they'd cut over to Marquette Drive, which fed directly into Lake Shore Drive, or LSD as people always commonly referred to it as. LSD ran the curved stretch along the lakefront all the way up to Hollywood Boulevard on the north side of Chicago. In fact there had been a famous song about it that he Hannibal had immensely enjoyed, performed by Aliotta-Haynes-Jeremiah in 1971, that brought back fond memories.
But, this was a weekday and stores would be open early along the Magnificent Mile in order to try and attract last minute Christmas shoppers before the big day. Many businesses and companies were still open. Considering the time of day, that stretch should have been filled with cars, packed bumper to bumper with people trying to get to those stores or their jobs. But, due to the blizzard, it was almost totally barren . . . like a ghost town.
It had been snowing steadily for two days, since they had left the ice rink that Mrs. B had taken them to. While it wasn't all blizzard like conditions the entire time, it did make driving to and from the Chicago Hilton and Towers and Mrs. B's apartment a lot more treacherous. There was one advantage to all of this, though . . . the weather had also driven away the MPs that kept a close watch on her apartment complex, allowing the A-Team to come and go with relative ease and anonymity.
The Colonel took another sip of his coffee and made his way back over to the make-shift listening post that they had set up. They had all taken turns manning the post, listening to conversations that were going on live as well as ones they had recorded when they had spent some time with Mrs. B. It was almost his turn to take over, although he was starting to have a few doubts gnaw at him. If they didn't come up with something soon, either through the bugs or with the background check from Face's contacts, they'd likely have to admit that they were wrong about Spencer Jackson. And admitting that they were wrong . . . that he was wrong . . . was something that Hannibal didn't like to do.
He sat down on the love seat and looked at the Sergeant, noting that his brow was furrowed in a cross between concentration and concern. BA was likely sorting through the previous night's recordings in the office chance that there could have been something on there that would have proven to be useful. Gently, the silver-white haired leader placed the cup down on the coffee table in front of him, and then decided to prod, "How's it going, BA?"
The muscular mechanic acknowledged his Commanding Officer's presence with a nod, but continued to listen to whatever sound was coming through the earphones for a few moments longer. He then removed the headphones and placed them down next to the tape player. His large fingers reached over and grabbed the coffee cup that was by him and lifted it to his lips. He took a sip and almost seemed to make a sour face. "Don’t know how you or Faceman can stand coffee like this. Too rich for me," he commented as he put the cup down.
From the days of the military, BA liked his coffee black with nothing in it. Sure, the coffee the Army made tasted like mud sometimes, but it was far better than this rich stuff. The taste was just off, somehow . . . he couldn't even really describe it, but it just didn't taste like coffee should. The Sergeant picked up the sugar packet that rested next to where the cup had sat and tore it open, emptying the contents into the cup. He then picked up a small creamer cup and pulled the lid off, and then also dumped that into the coffee mug as well. Grabbing the spoon off the coffee table, he plunged it into the liquid and stirred it a bit. After he pulled it back out, he set the spoon down and then took another sip of his coffee. Seemingly satisfied that the cream and sugar cut down on the richness of the coffee, he set the cup down and then unplugged the headphones from the tape player. "I think we got something, Hannibal. Came in about 0200."
Hannibal glanced over at BA, trying hard to mask his reaction. Could this be the break they needed in order to take some action and protect Mrs. B? He wasn't quite sure what they had yet, so he didn't want to get too excited until he knew more. "Either someone stayed really late last night and put in some serious overtime, or came in extremely early this morning," Hannibal mused. "Was it from the mic on his name tag?"
BA shook his head and gave Hannibal a quiet grin. He knew that the Colonel had accompanied him and Mrs. B to her office, and there was a reason behind it. He had been asked to construct a third bug, not just the two that he had planted in Spencer's office. It was only after the fact that the Sergeant had learned where his leader had personally planted that third bug . . . literally speaking. "Nah, man. Came from the one you planted in that poinsettia on Mama's desk. Spencer used her phone to make the call."
"Smart," Hannibal appraised, narrowing his eyes for a moment. It was clear that whatever Spencer was up to, he was smart, calculating, and trying to cover his tracks. "If he's up to something illegal, anyone on to him would most likely tap his phone. But, if he uses a subordinate's phone, especially one nobody would suspect, nobody can trace it back to him. What have you got?" he asked, a tone entering his voice of pure determination.
The silver-white haired Colonel tried hard to suppress the surge of excitement that welled up within him. Two days of listening and, until now, there hadn't been anything that couldn't have been explained away. He had began to wonder, for a while, if they had been wrong about Spencer Jackson. He couldn't deny the desire for action that was growing. He enjoyed vacations and loved being able to relax, but he never liked to be idle for too long as it meant letting their guard down. And when that happened, they all got sloppy and would make them easier targets for the MPs. Perhaps that was part of the reason why he had been so eager to jump on this case. The other part that made him eager was Mrs. B. The last thing that they wanted was for her to get hurt by that sleazeball.
BA inserted a cassette into the player and pressed play. It was best to let the strategist hear what was recorded for himself so he could best determine how he wanted to handle this. He remained silent as the sound of some papers rustling could be heard ,followed by a click as someone picked up the phone receiver. That was followed by the sound of someone dialing a phone number. Mrs. B's phone was one of those old rotary phones, and not one of the newer touchtone phones.
Hannibal glanced over to his Sergeant upon hearing that sound. "Can you . . ." he immediately started to ask, but it was almost as if BA had read his mind. Before he could even finish his sentence, the Sergeant's large fingers hit the pause button on the tape player and then handed the Colonel a piece of paper. Glancing at it, his ice blue eyes read the phone number that was written on there. A grin appeared upon his face as he commented, "Nice, BA."
"Wasn't hard," the master mechanic admitted with a shrug. He didn't really think too much about it, and for him it had been relatively easy to figure out the phone number. Once he had heard it being dialed, he knew that his Commanding Officer would want that information, so he made sure that he got it. "Just had to calculate the length of each dial to figure out what number it was."
Hannibal grinned as he looked from the slip of paper to his Sergeant. A familiar twinkle began to appear within his eyes . . . a sparkle that was present when the Jazz flowed through his veins like adrenaline. "I'll get Face to check on this number with the phone company," he noted as he put the slip of paper on the coffee table in front of him. His hand then reached over to pick up the coffee mug and took another sip of his coffee. Once he set down the cup, he raised an inquisitive eyebrow at BA. "I assume the caller isn't identified on tape?"
BA shook his head and then pressed play on the tape player. He kept silent, figuring it best that the Colonel listened to this for himself.
A short silence filled the air before the voice of Spencer Jackson could clearly be heard over the recording. "I have the merchandise as promised," he said flatly.
Hannibal looked at the tape player almost as if it was a human being that had two heads. Of course, his curiosity was getting the better of him, and he really wanted to know more . . . yet, he couldn't help but to remark, "Merchandise? Sure gets to the point fast."
BA held a hand up upon hearing Hannibal's comment to try and indicate that there was more on the tape . . . a lot more that would interest him. His dark eyes were filled with anger, since he had already heard what was on the tapes. Even though it had been a little over an hour since he had heard the recording, it didn't totally quell the rage inside him over what he had heard.
Spencer's voice could once more be heard, his deep resonance cutting through the silence like a sharp knife. "Right. I have the demonstration planned . . . right . . . just as we agreed . . ."
Hannibal pulled a cigar out from the breast pocket of his tan safari jacket, and bit off the end with his teeth. Once the end was chewed off, he pulled it out of his mouth and placed it in the ash tray, not wanting to incur Face's wrath. The guy was sore enough as it was from the ice skating the other day, so the least he could do was show him a little bit of sympathy. Sticking the cigar between his teeth, he pulled out a lighter and allowed the fire to dance at the end of the stogie until he was able to draw in the warm, richly-flavored smoke, which he then exhaled. The white puff drifted upward as thoughts filled his mind. What kind of a demonstration did Spencer Jackson have in mind? It couldn’t have been a museum piece . . . especially not with having to arrange this sort of business over his subordinate's phone at two in the morning.
"Of course. He has my word . . . tomorrow. Yes, I know there will be heavy security, but the man I have lined up is a professional. You just take care of your end of the deal, and I'll take care of mine," Spencer's voice was again heard. There was a definite tinge of frustration in his tone . . . even perhaps anger? It almost seemed like he didn't like being told what to do.
Hannibal exchanged a quick glance at BA, almost as if trying to read his emotions based on the expression on his face. He could tell that the Sergeant was angry at Spencer Jackson due to what he heard with the recording, but he held his tongue. BA obviously had wanted him to hear it for himself. Either way, whatever was going on, it was going down faster than he originally thought, yet they still had no idea what he was up to.
"Of course it's in a safe place. A very dear friend of mine has conveniently provided me with a place to hide the plans," Spencer continued, sounding rather indignant. He was confident . . . perhaps even a bit over confident . . . that he likely wasn't going to get caught. He let out a short bark of laughter and then continued, "No one will ever suspect her. She's been working at the Museum so long she's almost an attraction herself, and the President of the Museum absolutely adores her."
Even though he
had heard the tape once before, a sneer had appeared upon BA's face and he let
out a low, deep growl at the obvious reference to his mother. He was angry that someone would ever think of
using her for illegal activities. His
muscles tensed, and he looked like he was ready to pound someone or something
just to relieve the volcano of rage within him that was ready to erupt.
Hannibal immediately
noticed this and got up from the love seat.
He moved next to BA and placed a calming hand on his shoulder as a sign
of support. Immediately, he could feel
the response within the Sergeant's body as he seemed to relax a little
bit. It wasn't much, but just enough to
where the Colonel knew that the mechanic wasn't going to take a swing at him,
Murdock, or Face in an attempt to alleviate that anger.
"All right . . . yes . . . everything is in place. There shouldn't be anything to worry about. It'll go down like clockwork. You'll see . . . and with the press coverage,
it'll make international news. I'll
notify you when everything has been completed," Spencer's voice said once
more, filled with a grim satisfaction.
Another sound followed shortly after . . . one distinctive to the
handset of the phone being put back on the receiver.
BA shut the tape off and then shook his head.
His voice had a very dark tone, punctuated with the anger that he felt,
as he noted, "After that, he went back inta his office. The other two mics picked up some papers
rustlin', then he left the building. He
came back 'bout 0700, but hasn't said anythin' useful since then."
Hannibal puffed on his cigar for a few moments as he thought over the conversation. There was still a lot of unanswered questions, but at least now they had a more information than they did a few days ago. None if it was good, however, and just further served to confirm his initial impression of the Spencer Jackson, as well as the suspicions that were formed following BA's phone call. Either way, the main concern was the welfare of Mrs. B and what could happen to her if they didn't act.
"Well," the Colonel began to say, breaking the silence. "At least we have a better idea of what he wants from your mother. She is unwittingly acting as a front for his illegal activities, whatever they are, and probably doesn't know it. I'm guessing whatever he's got going on, it's hidden in her office and she's got no clue what she's sitting on."
BA stood up immediately, his rage clearly evident as he moved around much like a caged tiger. Even though Hannibal had tried to calm him down a few moments prior, it only caused his anger to sit and stew . . . and right now, he was ready to throw a punch at anyone who dared to stop him, even if it was any of the guys. It wasn't like he'd intentionally try to hurt them, but at this point he was so filled with hatred for Spencer Jackson that he wouldn't be able to help himself. "I wanna go there right now, Hannibal!" BA proclaimed. "I wanna go bust down his door and teach him a lesson. Nobody messes with or hurts my Mama."
In a way, Colonel Smith couldn't help but to grin. Although he traditionally had used front door tactics, his men often complained about those plans since they didn't always go as he had intended. But here was his trusted Sergeant suggesting a very direct front door tactic . . . although one that'd likely land all of them in a stockade. No, this time around Hannibal had a very different tactic in mind. "Easy, BA," he tried to reassure the mechanic. "First, we need to find out who he was talking to. I'll get Face to check out the phone number right away. Next, we need to know what kind of demonstration is going down tomorrow and where. I don't like the sound of that. And we also need to know what it is that he had hidden, and where . . ."
*******
Three hours later, the door to the penthouse suite opened and a tired Templeton Peck walked inside. He was pleased with the information he had managed to gather. His resources had come through for him, not only with the results of the background check, but also with the phone number he had been handed just hours prior. All in all, he was rather pleased with the results he was able to pull together, and he knew that Hannibal would also be just as interested in what he had managed to find out.
The moment he walked in, he looked at his Commanding Officer, who was sitting in an arm chair that overlooked the door . . . but the Colonel had his nose buried in the complimentary newspaper that was delivered to the suite each morning. He could see the words Chicago Tribune emblazoned in white across a blue banner at the top of the page. He half-expected a headline on the front page reading "A-Team in Chicago," but thankfully they had maintained a low enough profile to avoid drawing unwanted publicity and attention to themselves.
Hannibal looked up from his newspaper, once he had heard the door open. His crystal blue eyes seemed to sparkle a bit as he caught the smug expression on his Lieutenant's face that indicated that Face had been highly successful in his errands. After seeing the look on the con man's face, he looked back down at the newspaper, barely holding back a chuckle as Face unzipped his coat, put it in the closet, and then made his way over and sank down onto the couch with a groan.
Templeton Peck had been walking around for the last two days like a cowboy who had been thrown off his horse once too often. What made it worse was the fact that he whined and moaned about it, with every opportunity he could get, to anyone who would listen about how sore he was. No doubt, with the way he was brooding at the moment, he was likely going to start the conversation off by whining about how early he had been awakened. Well, all things considered, Hannibal considered the whining to be much more preferable to the moping about. He was certain that their conversation at the Museum was not finished, but at least he seemed to have made some kind of impact on the stubborn young man.
The Colonel heard
Face clear his throat expectantly, as if trying to get some amount of
attention. That just caused the
silver-white haired leader to don an even bigger grin behind his paper. After almost twenty years together as a unit,
he could almost predict the words that were going to come out of the mouth of
his Supply Officer.
The frustration that was building up for the Lieutenant was growing. His whole body still ached from that ice
skating they did the other day. Well, it
was more like the others were ice skating, and he wound up kissing the ice a
lot more often than he would have liked.
He reached around with a hand and rubbed his lower back, trying to
relieve throbbing within those muscles.
He sat there in silence for a few moments, waiting for the Colonel to
acknowledge him. When he saw his
Commanding Officer casually turn the page on the newspaper, he realized that he
was being deliberately ignored.
Predictably enough, Face rose to the bait as he complained, "Hannibal,
the least you can do is look at me. I
hardly get any sleep last night with how much I'm hurting, you get me up at the
crack of dawn, and send me running all over creation in all of that snow out
there, gathering information. Don't you
even want to know what I dug up?"
Hannibal looked up in earnest, almost as if just now
noticing the con man's entrance, and grinned brightly. He ignored the expected jibe about when he
had woken the Lieutenant up. It had been
at 9:00am, not the crack of dawn, but after what his Supply Officer was
subjected to at the ice rink and how much he was clearly in pain, he decided to
let that remark go. "Oh, hi
Face! What took you so long?" he
asked, trying to hide the amusement within his voice.
Templeton Peck
glared at his Commanding Officer with his blue eyes. He hated when Hannibal got to be like this, as it
infuriated him to no end. It was very
clear that he was already on the Jazz.
Heck, come to think about it, it almost seemed as if the Colonel had
been on the Jazz since they took off from Los Angeles
for Chicago. What was it that some had said about too much
of a good thing? He had never known his
friend and mentor to have been on the Jazz for such an extended period of time,
and he just hoped that nothing would go wrong as a result. "As it so happens," he stated
haughtily, "I dug up more than I expected.
I have some good news and some bad news.
Where are BA and Murdock?"
Hannibal folded
up the newspaper and set it on the coffee table. "BA is listening in on our friend at the
Museum, and Murdock is watching TV in the other room . . . probably the Bozo
Show. I'll get them," he offered as
he stood up from the chair. There was no
point in having Face do it and incur any more complaints from him with regard
to how sore he was.
Colonel John Smith casually strolled over to the other room where BA and Murdock were. Thankfully, each one had been occupied with their own thing, which kept the peace between the two men. He hated to think of how much Face would complain if the pilot started to push the mechanic's buttons and they got into it with each other. Any amount of damage to the suite would burn any chance of getting this penthouse, much less any other room, at this particular hotel. "Guys, Face is back with the info," he announced to the two of them before returning to the chair.
BA and Murdock filtered into the sitting room shortly afterward. The A-Team's leader had to suppress a laugh when he first caught the wording on the bright red shirt that Murdock wore. In somewhat scripted letters it read, "Three Wise Men . . .you can't be serious!" One thing he had to admit, the pilot had a few shirts that were either pretty humorous or made a significant statement . . . but it was an attribute that made the Texan who he was. Once he saw the Captain and Sergeant settle into places to sit, Hannibal looked to his Lieutenant. "Okay, Face, start with the good news. We could use something going right for a change."
"Well," Face started out slowly. "I don't know if 'going right' is the best choice of words, but I definitely hit pay dirt when I investigated that phone number you gave me." He paused and looked around the room, relishing the suspense with a mysterious smile on his face. He knew that Hannibal was just going to love this one once he revealed all of the details he managed to get.
"Whatcha find out, Faceman?" BA growled irritably. His muscles flexed under his shirt as he
balled his left hand into a fist and slapped into the palm of his right hand. He looked like he was about ready to hit
someone or something. "I ain't in
no moon to play no games with you."
Face gave the Sergeant an offended look for a moment, and then merely shrugged off the implied threat. He knew that BA was being very protective of his mother, and with good reason. "The phone number belonged to a shipping and freight company owned by a man named Brad Johnson. On the surface, everything is nice and legal. But, I did some digging and apparently the police have been investigating him for a while now. They suspect that he's a contact on the Black Market for none other than . . ." he paused for suspense. He looked expectantly at his friends, his expression that of a cat that had caught the canary or just succeeded in stealing some cream. He drew in a breath and continued dramatically, ". . . the Italian Mafia and one Gino Scarlotti."
Hannibal's crystal blue eyes began to sparkle like a diamond once he recognized the name. It was one he hadn't expected hearing again for a while since he was supposedly locked behind bars. Then again, someone who was as persistent as Scarlotti had the resources to grease a few wheels, if not buy out a few judges, in order to regain his freedom.
Murdock's warm brown eyes widened a bit as he also recognized the name. "The brother of Joe Scarlotti, who kidnapped Judge Mordente's daughter?" he asked, almost as if seeking confirmation. Although he loved going to Italy, they didn't have too much time to spend over there to look at the sights due to their mission . . . and then BA plowed through and destroyed the DC-3, which had been their method of escape. His stance started to take on a bit of a sulk as he recalled how that plane exploded into flames.
"Ain't that the dude that chased us 'cross Italy and onto that boat?" BA chimed in, also trying to make sure that his memory was correct. He remembered that mission all too well. He wasn't happy that he had been flown to Italy, and then had to be on that boat in a wheelchair as his disguise with the crazy fool playing nursemaid to him.
"One in the same," Face announced, the smug expression that he had when he had walked into the penthouse returning to his face. This thing was getting bigger and bigger by the moment, and he knew that Hannibal wouldn't be able to resist throwing a major wrench into whatever was going on.
"Nice, Face," Hannibal complimented him with a light tone. The twinkle within his eyes was still present as he contemplated this information. It was a wrinkle he hadn't expected, but if they could shut down whatever Scarlotti got his mitts into this time, it'd bring about a lot of satisfaction to the leader. He could just imagine the Italian mobster, madder than a hornet's nest, that the A-Team again fouled up one of his plans.
"Our old friend, Scarlotti," Murdock thought aloud. Even though the pilot had been institutionalized for insanity, there were times that he had such clarity of thought that one had to often wonder if it was really all just an act. His ideas were just as crazy as the Colonel's plans could be at times, and it almost seemed like the two men often thought along the same wavelength. He looked questioningly at Face and commented, "Wonder what he has to do with all this."
"I don't know," Face shrugged, having not heard the tape before he was sent out to get the information. He knew that Hannibal liked throwing challenges at him, and while he complained about it he had to admit that it did help to keep his skills sharp. "I wasn't able to figure that out. They were really suspicious of me. I think they thought I was an undercover cop. They asked me more questions than my last girlfriend."
Hearing that last line from the con artist, Murdock snorted with laughter. He clearly recalled the last woman Face had been involved with, along with what had happened with her. His burst laughter earned him a sharp, offended glare from the Supply Officer.
"The one you were absolutely positive was a Decker plant?" Hannibal suggested casually, trying to keep a straight face. He was glad he didn't actually burst out laughing after seeing the look that his Face had given the pilot. In a way, he found it amazing that the Lieutenant . . . normally a good judge of people . . . couldn't tell the difference between a true Decker bug and a jealous girlfriend. Of course, the poor girl was just devastated and never spoke to Face again.
"Well, she was certainly acting funny, asking all kinds of questions . . ." Face trailed off, looking rather exasperated. He couldn't believe that they'd bring her up now, of all times, and were getting a kick out of it. "This is not about Samantha!" he shot back defensively.
"If I were your girlfriend, Face, I'd be suspicious of you too," Murdock quipped, not quite ready to give up the banter and teasing of his blonde-haired best friend. It wasn't often that they had a chance to rib Face over his choice of girlfriends.
"Thank God you're not my girlfriend, Murdock," Face shot back in a haughty tone that only he could manage. He glared at the Texan for that remark. He couldn't be that transparent when it came to women that they'd suspect him of anything, could he?
"You look better in a dress than most of his girlfriends, Murdock," Hannibal quipped with a chuckle. A huge grin settled upon his face, knowing how his men were going to react to that. Sure enough, just as he predicted, he saw the jaws of Face and Murdock drop as they prepared to come back with a hot retort. Instead of snickering, BA also predictably let out a low, disgusted growl and his brow lowered in a mix of anger and frustration. That growl was enough to quickly sober everyone up and get the conversation back on track. Looking at the Lieutenant, the Colonel asked, "What else did you find, Face?"
Face cleared his throat in order to regain his composure and then straightened his tie. "That's all I managed to get on that front. I couldn't get in to see Johnson at his shipping company, or sneak in to scrounge around his office, so I couldn't learn anything from him directly. That place of his has more security than Fort Knox."
"You couldn't get in there?" Murdock asked, somewhat
exasperated. He lazily draped himself
over the chair, drawing his long legs up to where they hung over one of the
arms, and the other arm served as a backrest.
"Must be losing your touch, Faceman."
Not wanting the conversation to break down again, Hannibal kept his gaze steady on his Lieutenant. "So, what's the bad news, Face?" he asked, not even sure if he wanted to hear this. His mind was going over 101 different possibilities as to what the bad news was, and with all of them he didn't like the potential outcome or how it may affect their ability to figure out what Spencer was up to.
Reaching into his
suit coat, Face pulled out a folded up set of papers. He meticulously unfolded them and shuffled
through the pages that he held within his hands. "My contacts got back to me with the
background check on Spencer," he revealed.
"You found something?" Hannibal
asked with a frown, leaning forward in anticipation. He tried to read Face's body language to see
if he could get some indication . . . some clue as to what the Lieutenant
managed to discover. All he could do was
hope that it was good news.
"No. That's just it. I found nothing. Zilch, zip, nada! The background check was completely clean. The man hasn't even had so much as a parking ticket in his entire life!" Face slammed the papers down in frustration. He then repeated for emphasis, "Nobody's record is that clean. Nobody's!"
Hannibal stood up from his chair and began to pace the room,
his mind taking into consideration what was just said. Either this guy worked hard to keep his nose
clean, or he had contacts that manipulated his record to purge any information
that could incriminate him. He puffed on
his cigar as his mind began to develop the beginnings of a plan.
Face shuffled through the papers he had just slammed down on the coffee table before adding, "I did check into that employee that almost got Spencer fired. You know, the one that Mrs. B. was telling us about . . ."
The cunning strategist stopped pacing for a moment and looked at the con artist. "And?" he asked, sensing that there was more to this that Face wasn't revealing just yet.
"C'mon, man. Just say it," BA urged in a dark and almost menacing tone. His dark eyes were filled with anger as he looked at the Lieutenant. He wasn't angry at Face, but more so with this Spencer Jackson and the entire situation.
"Apparently, it was a matter of jealousy," Face began to explain, his fingers deftly finding one of the pages and pulling it out where he could read the information through one more time. "Spencer had recently been awarded the position of Director of Exhibits and Security, a position this guy . . . Michael Robinson . . . felt that he deserved. He claimed that Spencer was embezzling Museum funds and using the Imagination Station as the center of operations for his drug running facilities. Apparently, he used to spend a lot of time there."
"So that's why Mrs. B was called in to testify on his behalf. I had wondered why she was involved," Hannibal mused thoughtfully. He pulled the cigar out from where it was wedged between his teeth and began to roll it within his fingers, almost absentmindedly.
"Dealing drugs around kids?" BA asked, somewhat incredulously. A low growl emanated from him once more before he commented, "Disgusting!"
"Yeah . . . well . . . Mrs. B told the Museum President and Board of Directors that Spencer had been helping her out with the kids. It was shortly after that incident that Spencer offered her the job in his department. There was a big investigation, but nothing turned up. The man came out of it clean as a whistle," Face explained as he looked at the others. An uncomfortable silence filled the air as everyone thought about the information that he had just revealed. It wasn't what they had expected, yet it seemed to confirm their initial suspicions of Spencer Jackson.
Hannibal stopped rolling his cigar between his fingers and stuffed it back between his teeth. This was a puzzle, and it was time to put the pieces together by reviewing the information they had available to them. He walked back over to the chair he had sat on before and eased himself back down onto it. His ice blue eyes looked at his men as he started to mention, "We know that Spencer is up to something because of what we picked up with the bugs. He mentioned merchandise and some kind of demonstration, not to mention whatever it is he's using Mrs. B to hide it . . . likely without her knowledge."
"The Mafioso . . ." Murdock said, lazily waving his left arm around a bit without moving from where he had draped himself over the chair. His Texas drawl was thick as he asked, "What on Earth could Spencer be selling that could interest them?"
"Drugs?" BA asked instinctively.
The Museum wasn't too far from some bad Chicago neighborhoods. Even sections of Hyde
Park, where the Museum was located, could be just as bad as
Engleside or places where many of the Chicago Housing Authority Projects were
located. With neighborhoods like that,
drugs were plentiful, crime ran rampant, and violence was an everyday part of
life. That was no place for a kid to
grow up . . . but for those that were lucky enough to survive, like he did, the
experience made him stronger. "That
dude may have been right 'bout Spencer, even though they couldn't prove it."
"Requiring a
demonstration?" Face countered as he thought about the situation. "As far as we know, Scarlotti is still
in Italy. If he's involved, it's got to be something
bigger where he'll get the news over there."
"Well, it is a museum. An artifact
of some kind?" Murdock added thoughtfully, with an idea totally out of
left field that only the crazed pilot could come up with. A smile lit up his face as he began to hum
the Indiana Jones theme song.
Hannibal looked over to the Captain and couldn't help but to hide his grin. Murdock had a sense of adventure about him, and anytime something like this came up he was usually one of the first to jump at the opportunity to get in on the action. "It's not that kind of museum. Could be a weapon of some kind. Spencer could sure get a hold of one easily enough," Hannibal clarified. The grin on his face grew wider and the sparkle within his eyes shone brightly as he looked around at the rest of the A-Team. "Whattya guys say to another tour of our favorite Museum tonight, say just after dark?"
BA took one look at the Colonel's face and groaned. Nothing good could come of the fiery sparks that glistened within those striking blue eyes. "He's on the Jazz," he muttered darkly. "He's on the Jazz."
Murdock's wild grin grew even bigger, as he realized that this was going to be fun.
Face just sighed in resignation, closing his eyes and resting his head on the back of the couch. He had a bad feeling that this was going to be an extremely long night before everything was said and done. Even so, he had to admit that it would be nice to actually be doing something instead of just waiting around for Spencer to act. He opened his eyes and leaned forward, listening intently as Hannibal began to lay out his plan . . .
If this another one of your piece of cake jobs that's supposed to go down 1, 2, 3, but remember, there's always 4, 5, and 6.
-- BA, "There Goes the Neighborhood"
Chapter 13: Late Night Visit
The night was cold . . . so cold that it seemed like hell itself had frozen over, twice. The lack of a cloud cover allowed the stars in the night sky to shine through, but it also allowed what little warmth from the daytime heating to radiate away into the atmosphere. An icy wind picked up the newly fallen snow, creating miniature whirlwinds that glistened under the light of the full moon and beat at the backs of the four men huddled in the nearly non-existent shelter of the back door to the Museum of Science and Industry.
HM Murdock shivered as a gust of wind found its way through his parka and the layers of his clothing, and down his back. "H-h-hurry up, Faceman, " the Texan pleaded, his teeth chattering like a chipmunk. He hopped from one foot to another as he looked impatiently at the con man, who was kneeling next to the large copper door.
Face looked up irritably, his body visibly shaking from just how cold it was. He'd more than welcome a return to the warmth of sunny California. Just the thought of women in bikinis frolicking in the surf and sand caused a bit of warmth to spread throughout his body . . . but just a bit. It wasn't nearly enough, though. "Do you know how hard it is to pick a lock in the dark when it's so cold that your hands are completely numb?" he snapped.
"Should've worn the gloves, Face," BA giggled. For the burly Sergeant, the cold didn't bother him at all. He had grown up with weather like this, and Chicago winters were sometimes like feast or famine. One year could be pretty decent with not a lot of snow or sub-zero temperatures, but another year could test the patience of any die hard winter aficionado. He had regularly called his Mama to check on her during the blizzard of 1979-1980, when the snow was so high that it literally reached up to the gutters on some garages and kept people snowed into their homes for several days. For him, this was normal weather.
Face let out a sigh and could literally see his breath crystallize in front of his nose the moment he exhaled. It was weird seeing the puff of white waft up into the air in front of him, but served as yet another reminder why he hated just how cold it was. "BA, lock picking is an art that takes an incredible amount of finesse and dexterity. You can't pick a lock when your hands are encumbered by mitts as thick as boxing gloves!" he shot back, trying to keep his teeth from chattering as he raised his voice a bit louder than he realized that he should have. He wasn't angry at the Sergeant, but more this infernal cold weather which he was far from accustom to.
Colonel John Hannibal Smith stood watch a few feet away from the others, fully exposed to the wind, yet he showed no signs of being cold. His ice blue eyes glanced over the Jackson Park Lagoon directly south of their location, which reflected the blackness of the night. Patches of snow and ice floated peacefully on the surface, the glistening white contrasting with the darkness that surrounded them. He hadn't noticed this place here behind the Museum when the first time they were here, but he probably figured that it had to be a majestic sight when daylight sparkled upon the water. His attention was drawn back to his men as he heard the bickering. "Quiet," he hissed, "unless you want the whole CPD swarming us before we can even figure out what's going down tomorrow."
A moment later, a soft click could be heard as Face bore a satisfied look upon his face. He pulled the lockpick out from the door, stood, and then unconsciously using his ungloved hands to brush the snow from his pants. "All clear . . . no alarm," he whispered softly as he took a step back and glanced at Hannibal. "Pretty lax security for a museum."
"Good thing for us," Hannibal noted, shrugging his shoulders slightly before taking a step toward the door. He pulled it open slowly, hoping that it wouldn't creak or make any noises when the massive door swung open, and then peeked his head inside before slightly closing the large copper door again. Turning to the others, he ordered, "Let's get out of this cold. BA, you take point. Face, take the rear."
BA nodded and moved around Hannibal in order to take the lead. He fully understood why the Colonel chose him to take point in this. Among all of the members of the A-Team, he was the only one who knew the Museum well enough to be able to lead them to their destination, even with diminished lighting. The others had only been there with him and his mother during the daytime, when there was a lot more light.
Slowly, he opened the door and slipped inside, his dark eyes cautiously searching for any signs of Museum security that could be lurking within the darkness. Thankfully, there were none, and he swiftly moved off to the east side of the stairs, pressing his back against the chrome wall. He waived to the others, letting them know that it was safe to follow.
He watched as Hannibal followed, and then Murdock, joining him along the wall that led up the stairs. Face was last, but he meticulously took the time to close and use his lockpicks to lock the door behind them. The burly Sergeant thought that was a waste of time, but he understood the reasoning behind why the con artist did that. If a security guard did a sweep of this area and the door blew open due to the winds outside, they could sound the alarm before any of them had a chance to react.
Once Face had joined them along the chrome wall for the stairway, the Ordinance Officer noticed the Supply Officer give a slight nod to the Colonel, signaling his readiness for them to move out. BA then saw Hannibal turn and nodded to him, which was his cue. Keeping his jacket closed, he didn't have to worry so much about the sound of his gold rattling around and attracting attention. He eased his way up the stairs until he was nearly at the top, and carefully raised his head to peer through the darkened Museum.
Still no guards . . .
Maybe Face was right about security being lax. He never would have imagined it, especially considering some of the exhibits that were housed inside and the price some of the items would fetch. But, if they ever needed a stroke of good luck where they could get in, do what they needed to, and get back out, now was the time.
The master mechanic glanced back to the others and then waved to them, indicating that it was safe to follow. He stealthily moved from the top of the stairs to the massive engine that lowered the elevator car for the Coal Mine. Crouching down onto a knee, he huddled against the railing and within the shadow of the tall structure to give the others a chance to catch up.
Once they had joined him by the railing next to the Coal Mine, BA got up and swiftly moved around the Coal Mine toward the Yesterday's Main Street exhibit. He could have gone around the back end of the Coal Mine, by where the elevator car itself ascended and descended, but the extra cover that it would have provided also would have required an extra about a minute or two just to get around it. With no way of knowing when or if the guards were going to show up, they needed to get to the offices swiftly, and that meant taking the most direct route possible.
The Sergeant paused again, dropping down to one knee by the fake storefront that represented the Walgreens Drug Company. During the day, the doors to this mock up was open and people could don feather boas, hats, and other costume items that matched the period and have their pictures taken by a professional photographer. In a way, he was glad that Murdock hadn't seen that when they were going around the Museum a few days prior, or he likely would have adopted a persona like the famous gangster Al Capone, or Elliot Ness, the law officer that pursued Capone, and driven them all crazy for the rest of the trip.
Looking back to the others, he watched them come up and take position behind him. His dark brown eyes met Hannibal's crystal blue eyes for a moment, and then the Ordinance Officer pointed toward the yellow staircase. He could see it clearly from there, but he wanted to provide a bit of assurance that it wasn't too much further to the offices. He saw his Commanding Officer nod in return, an indication that he fully understood where they needed to go.
Again, he looked around cautiously, trying to see if he could spot any guards, and thankfully there were none. So far, their luck was holding up for them . . . but for how long? How long was it going to be until they were discovered? He knew that they'd have to be extra careful, since there was no way of knowing when they might stumble onto one of the guards roaming around.
Getting up again, he silently made his way over to the yellow staircase. The lights that provided strong illumination during the day had been dimmed, but it wasn't totally dark. It was just enough to allow them to see, but reduced the chances of their being spotted provided they stayed out of sight . . . and with taking the point, that was exactly what he intended to do . . . to keep them out of sight for as long as possible. He stayed low as he began to climb the staircase, keeping against the wall as much as possible.
Within a few moments, they had ascended the stairs to the doorway that led to
the offices. Hannibal moved around in front of his Ordinance
Officer and put gloved hands on the handle of the glass door. He gave it a very gentle tug and surprisingly
found that the door was actually unlocked, which was a clear indication that
someone was doing some late night work in the Museum. He glanced to the others and then whispered, "BA,
stand watch. Signal us if anyone
approaches. Face, Murdock, let's see
what we can find."
The Sergeant nodded, his features barely visible within the dim light. He instinctively moved to a place where he could clearly see the hallway outside the offices, along with the yellow staircase, which meant that he would easily be able to see anyone approaching well before they got close enough to risk their search. He just hoped that Hannibal and the others could find something within those offices that could help protect his Mama.
Face unzipped his jacket and pulled out his set of lockpicks again. He chose a slender, black pick and knelt down next to the lock for the door that belonged to Mrs. B, and by extension Spencer Jackson. His fingers, now much warmer, deftly inserted the object into the door and he began to maneuver it around a bit. Within seconds, he was rewarded with a soft click and he eased the door open.
Quietly, Hannibal, Face, and Murdock slipped into the office belonging to Mrs. B. Nothing had to be said as all three men go to work. They all knew what was at stake, and were determined to find something . . . anything . . . that could give them a better idea of what Spencer Jackson was up to so they could stop him.
Templeton Peck immediately moved over to the filing cabinets. He opened each drawer, one by one, flipping through the various files inside. His blue eyes appraised how neat and orderly the files were, which really stood as a testament on how detail oriented Mrs. B was. He hyper-extended the drawers, checking behind it to see if there were any hidden areas, and then looked under them just in case there was something taped underneath. He kept going through the drawers like that, one by one, hoping he could find something . . .
HM Murdock was standing by a bookshelf, examining everything placed on here. He meticulously pulled out the books, one at a time, and flipped through the pages to see if something had been hidden in them . . . even a small piece of paper carefully stuffed inside. He had also heard about fake books, that actually hid a small safe in there to secure valuables. In his search of the bookshelf, he also moved items around, trying to see if maybe something could have been hidden behind the books, or around the hand-crafted and ornate figurines that adorned some of spaces that would have been otherwise empty. His creative mind was working overtime, thinking about some of the classic TV shows and movies where one moved an object, or pulled a book out, and it activated a secret switch that led to a fake room or something of that nature. Not that he expected to find that here, but with how amazing this Museum was during the day, he couldn't totally rule it out. This place was full of surprises . . .
John Smith quickly got to work around the desk. He examined the chair first to make sure nothing was hidden in or under it, or under the small rug that the chair sat on. Satisfied that there was nothing there, he then started pulling out the drawers and going through the papers and other items inside, even removing the trays to see if anything could have been hidden under there as well. He even went so far as to remove the drawers, checking for false backs, secret panels, or if anything could have been taped up or hidden from plain sight. He knew that, whatever it was that Spencer Jackson had hidden in her office, it had to have been in a place where Mrs. B wouldn't see it during her normal everyday duties.
He replaced the drawers, and straightened the desk to make it look like it hadn't just been thoroughly searched. The last thing they needed was for someone to walk in, see something out of place, and raise the alarm that there were intruders in the building. Once he had done that, he started to examine the painting on the wall behind the desk. He recognized it immediately as an image from Grant Park as it looked beyond a gorgeous field of flowers . . . one of the many colorful and beautiful flowerbeds in the park during the summer . . . north toward the Amoco building, Prudential Plaza, and Stone Container building. He even recognized the steps that led up from Lake Shore Drive to Buckingham Fountain. His gloved fingers pulled the painting slightly away from the wall as he looked at the back of it, only to see nothing there that would constitute a clue.
He glanced over to Face and Murdock to observe their progress, and saw that they were also still searching, but obviously hadn't had any luck yet. After hearing that recorded conversation, he was absolutely certain that there was something here that could help them figure out what was going on . . . but where was it?
Hannibal was about to examine the paneling on the wall when he heard a low-pitched whistle from outside the office. He froze for a moment and looked at the other two men. It was clearly obvious that they had heard it too.
BA . . .
Someone was coming . . .
With the set up of the office area, they all knew that it'd be impossible to sneak out of there before whoever it was that was approaching would be practically on top of the door. They only had a matter of seconds to find a hiding spot, and then just pray that they wouldn't be discovered. The Colonel watched as Murdock put a book back on the shelf, and Face closed a filing cabinet drawer, and the two men scramble to try and locate some place that would conceal them.
He didn't have time to make sure that they got out of sight, as he chose to duck down under the desk belonging to Mrs. B. He could already hear the voices echoing from down the hallway as he pressed himself into the opening where she normally rested her feet. He was thankful that the desk was a solid design, and didn't have legs that elevated it or allowed a view underneath, or their whole plan would be blown.
Reaching forward, he grabbed a hold of Mrs. B's chair and pulled it toward him, hoping that the leather-baked seat would further conceal him from view. He pulled his hands back in as he heard the voices stop outside of the door to the office. A key scraped in the lock, followed by the sound of footsteps. A moment later, the room was suddenly flooded with light as someone flipped the light switch. The presence of light caused the strategist to crouch further into the shadows beneath the desk, not even daring to breathe.
"Scarlotti's no dummy," a voice that Hannibal recognized spoke. Spencer Jackson. The white-haired leader froze as he saw the Head of Security round the desk and come into sight, and turned to look out over the desk. "We won't see hide nor hair of him until after the demonstration tomorrow, if then."
Hearing that bit of information was troubling to the West Point trained strategist. Could Face's information have been wrong . . . or at least a little old? Was there a chance that Scarlotti could have left Italy and flown to the States to personally acquire whatever it was that they were going to be demonstrating?
His cold blue eyes watched as he saw Spencer turn around and walk to the wall behind the desk . . . the very wall that he had been about to examine before the Director of Exhibits and Security decided to make an appearance. "Now, where is that latch? I always forget. Ah . . . here it is," Mrs. B's beau muttered.
A soft click almost seemed to echo through the quiet office, and from his perspective under the desk, Hannibal could see a panel open up in the wall. Sooooo . . . there was a spot within Mrs. B's office to hide stuff in after all, and she didn't even have a clue. He had to fight hard to stifle a grin that threatened to spread across his face as he could just imagine her reaction once she found out about what they were learning. She had once said that BA got his fighting spirit from her and, frankly, he could totally believe it. Refocusing his attention on his present situation, he tried to shift his position in order to get a better view of what was being pulled out of the concealed vault. The angle was wrong, giving him a view only of the back of Spencer's legs and part of his back. His body hid whatever it was that he removed from the opening.
"Kramer should be here any minute now. Is everything ready?" Spencer asked as he moved closer to the desk again.
Hearing the new name caused Hannibal's eyebrows to rise out of curiosity. Who was this Kramer, and what was going on that they had to meet well after visiting hours? He was itching for action, and had to remind himself that the whole reason why they were there was to learn information, not go off half-cocked and threaten anyone until they learned more. If they couldn't catch Spencer red handed, it could jeopardize Mrs. B's job.
"I sent Baker and Thompson to the school group door to let him in when he arrives," a second voice responded. The name of this man hadn't been revealed, but if Hannibal could fathom a guess, it was probably one of the guards assigned to the night shift at the Museum. And since Spencer was Director of Exhibits and Security, it'd make perfect sense that the guards would follow his every order. "Everything else is in place for the exchange."
"Good. We need to finalize our plans for tomorrow's demonstration," Spencer noted grimly as he moved around from behind the desk. The sound of his footfalls was a clear indication that he was getting closer to the door, and the second man was joining him. "I'm going to take this down to the basement. Let me know the minute Kramer arrives."
"Yes, sir," the second voice responded.
A second later, the room was plunged into darkness as the light was switched off. Hannibal blinked his eyes to help them adjust to the change in illumination, and heard the door to the office close. He waited until the sound of the voices, as they faded down the hall, fell silent for several moments before pushing the chair aside and crawling out from behind Mrs. B's desk.
As he emerged, he could see Face and Murdock also coming out from their hiding spots. Based on the grim expressions on their faces, it was obvious that they had overheard the conversation as well and likely had the same concerns he had. A slight tapping sound on the door to the office drew their attention. Murdock immediately recognized the silhouette on the other side of the door, and quickly went over to open it for the menacing figure of BA Baracus.
"What's the plan, Hannibal?" the muscular sergeant asked simply. He watched as the eyes of his men settled upon him expectantly.
Hannibal could tell, even from BA's expression, that he had overheard some, if not all of the conversation within his mother's office. The problem was that their search had turned up nothing so far, and while they had a new name to consider, they were still no closer to piecing the puzzle together than they were when they first started the search. He had a choice to make, although it wasn't a very clear one at that. They could stay and finish their search of the office, which might not turn up anything, or they could follow Spencer and hopefully discover what he was up to. Or, they could split up . . .
As much as he hated splitting them up, it seemed more likely that they were going to accomplish a lot more that way. It was a major risk, but he relished in the risks that they had to take. It gave him the edge he needed to survive, and to also keep the others alive.
When you live on the edge, you learn to make fast evaluations. Your life depends on it.
-- Hannibal, "Bad Day at Black Rock"
Chapter 14: Interrupted Plans
The basement of the Museum was huge, as large as the entire footprint of the building itself along with the different arms that branched out from the main heart of the structure. Boxes and crates lined the room, preserving some of the items that had previously comprised the exhibits on the main floors. A few items had not been packed away into crates, including what looked like a huge washing machine that had been filled with water, and women had swam around inside of it to show how it worked.
Chains and hooks hung from tracks that stretched along the ceiling and led toward a very large freight elevator. It was a complex system and likely served as an easy way for the staff to move the crates around, and even move pieces to and from the elevator for display in the Museum itself.
The whole basement was dimly lit, like the rest of the Museum. A single light bulb shone brightly over a table that bore a map and a set of blueprints across the surface. A couple of chairs were set up around the table, with Spencer Jackson sitting in one of them. He seemed to be carefully scrutinizing the map as he patiently waited for his visitor to arrive.
Hannibal, BA, and Murdock peered out from their hiding spot behind some crates in the shadows. With the open layout of the basement, this was the only place that Colonel could find for them to observe whatever was going to take place at that table without being out in the open. It provided the perfect vantage point to see and hear what was about to go down.
The silver-white haired leader turned slightly as he heard footsteps descend the open metal stairway behind them. He crouched down even further into the protection of the darkness around them as his ice blue eyes observed four men making their way down the staircase that he and the other members of the A-Team had descended a few moments ago. Three of them were guards, based on their grey uniforms and dark ties. The fourth person was immediately unsettling to the Colonel, just as Spencer Jackson instinctively was the moment that they had first laid eyes upon him.
He watched as the group made their way around the various crates and to the table where Spencer was. He rose as the group approached him, and seemed to ignore the guards, focusing his attention on the man that accompanied them. He extended his right hand in anticipation of his guest greeting him with a handshake.
"Kramer," Spencer said, giving a crocodile smile filled with false cheeriness. I'm glad you could make it."
The person identified as Kramer looked steadily at Spencer and ignored his efforts to shake his hand, making it obvious that he just wanted to get down to business. He was a short and skinny Caucasian man, with mousy brown hair. His face wasn't very handsome, but it was far from ugly. He just looked . . . ordinary, like the sort of man that one would overlook in a crowd. He could blend in and disappear with relative ease, which likely served as his calling card. There was nothing to suggest that he was anything other than a businessman heading home from work, right down to the conservative and tailored black suit and red tie that he wore.
However, there was a sharp alertness to the stranger that was readily apparent to the three members of the A-Team that observed the interaction. It was obvious that Kramer was not a man to fool around with, which meant that they'd have to be on their guard.
"Hired killer," Hannibal muttered under his breath as he looked to BA and Murdock. They each gave him a slight, almost imperceptible nod as they agreed with the Colonel's immediate assessment of Spencer's guest.
"What have you got for me?" Kramer asked evenly as he saw Spencer lower his hand once he realized that he had no intention on shaking it. It showed just how much Kramer trusted the man that was hiring him, which obviously wasn't very much at all Even Kramer's voice was ordinary and unremarkable . . . definitely not a baritone, but not quite a tenor either in pitch. There was a hard edge to it that made Hannibal's ice blue eyes narrow. The more he observed Kramer, the more he did not like this man.
It soon became clear that Spencer Jackson apparently felt the same way. Kramer's dark eyes practically bore into the man like a drill through bedrock, causing him to squirm under the assassin's gaze. He turned his back on the disturbing little man and moved over to the table. "Yes, well, we wanted to make sure that everything was set up for tomorrow." Spencer started to mention. He pulled the map over top of the blueprint and mentioned, "This is the skating rink where the ceremony will take place."
Kramer followed him over and examined the map as their voices dropped to a quiet murmur. Apparently, neither one wanted any of the guards in the basement to overhear the plans that were being discussed, even though they were clearly loyal the Museum's Director of Security. Spencer pointed out various vantage points around the rink, and Kramer said very little, grunting a bit every now and again and then interjecting with a question or a comment, which led to something else that Spencer pointed out on the map. This continued for a bit until Spencer stepped back, reached under the table, and pulled out a brown, leather briefcase. He placed it on top of the table, in a spot that wasn't covered with the map or blueprints, and opened it.
Hannibal lifted his head slightly and could see that it was filled with money . . . lots and lots of money. The bills were stacked in neat bundles, with paper bands that bank tellers often used wrapped around the center of each stack.
"One hundred thousand now, as we agreed upon," Spencer announced. There was a slight tremble to his tone of voice, almost as if he was a bit nervous about something, as he watched Kramer reach into the briefcase and grab one of the bundles of money. He flipped through it, almost like flipping through the pages of a paperback book, and then put it back into the briefcase. He repeated the process with a second stack, almost as if trying to make sure that the money was all there and it was legitimate . . . that he wasn't being cheated. Kramer then closed the lid to the briefcase and snapped it shut as Spencer continued, "You'll get the rest of the money after the job is done."
Kramer pulled the briefcase off the table and set it next to his right leg before looking at Spencer once more. "Where is the weapon?"
Spencer reached under the table once more and removed a larger, silver clam-shell case from the shadows. He put it on the table, where the briefcase had been a moment ago. He pressed a button on the two locks and then lifted the lid . . .
And then Kramer moved around in such a way to block the view of the A-Team members from seeing what was inside the case. Hannibal maneuvered himself further into an opening between a couple of crates in an effort to try and get a good look at what was in the case. They needed to know what kind of weapon they were dealing with, and he needed to look at the blueprints as well. Something was going down, and they were still a long way from knowing what it was.
All three men were so focused on what was going on at the table that they forgot to monitor the movements of the guards. One of the three guards, who had the last name of Baker, thought he saw movement within the shadows. He tapped on the arm of Thompson his supervisor, Richardson, and pointed in that direction so they would know what was going on. He then withdrew the gun from the holster and slowly circled back around to try and investigate what he had seen.
Moving silently, Baker crept up behind the three men hiding behind the boxes. His heart thumped in his chest, not out of fear, but excitement that in all of this time he managed to finally catch some intruders and this could finally earn him a promotion that he had craved. He raised his gun and aimed it at them before shouting, "Freeze!"
Chaos erupted!
BA, who was closest to the guard, whipped around with more speed than it looked like the burly Sergeant was capable of. He grabbed the hand holding the gun and thrust it up in the air just as the guard pulled the trigger. Gunshots rang out, echoing throughout the expansive basement.
The other two guards in the basement were instantly startled by the sound of
the gunshots. They both fumbled to draw
their revolvers and started running over in the direction where they had heard
the gun go off. It was hard to see in
the darkened Museum, which was going to make it that much harder. Neither Thompson or Richardson figured that Baker
would have found anything since there had never been a break in at the Museum
before, which is why this situation was so alarming.
Spotting the two other guards move in, Murdock instinctively took action. He climbed up on a pile of crates with the gracefulness of a cat and glanced over to the table where Spencer and Kramer were. They both had looked in the direction of the gunshot, and hurriedly started to pack up the two cases. He barely managed to get a look into the one case with the weapon and saw what was inside before the case was closed up. Returning his attention to the approaching guards and launched himself at them, flying through the air until he landed on top of both of the guards.
A tangled mass of bodies hit the ground as a result of Murdock's actions. The lanky Texan scrambled to his feet and pulled up one of the two guards, who was already staggering in shock, by the front of his shirt. He landed a solid punch to his jaw that further stunned his opponent.
Hannibal rushed over and picked up the second guard that Murdock had tackled. Balling his right hand into a fist, he delivered a hard right hook that sent the guard staggering backward. A follow through with a strong left hook, and the guard crumpled to the floor. The silver-white haired leader then looked over to BA, who had just delivered a solid punch of his own and rendered the guard he was dealing with unconscious.
As soon as the guard fell, he immediately looked back over to where Spencer and Kramer had been. His blue eyes watched them as they hurriedly packed up the cases and grab for the papers in order to make an attempt to escape. It was clear that they hadn't expected to have had their late night plans interrupted, but now that they were, they obviously didn't want to get caught. "BA, Murdock, get those cases," he shouted to his men. "Don't let him get away!"
BA looked up from the guard he had just knocked unconscious. His dark eyes flashed with anger as he saw the assassin close up the briefcase with money and the silver clamshell case that contained the weapon and began to flee toward the open staircase. That was the same staircase that they had descended down to sneak into the basement and spy on the proceedings. He jumped over the body of the unconscious guard and ran after him.
Murdock looked up and saw BA starting to run after Kramer. He threw one last punch at the guard he was fighting, sending the man spiraling into the depths of unconsciousness. Releasing the man's shirt, he allowed him to fall to the ground before darting off after the big Sergeant. The Texan knew that the stakes were high, and they couldn't afford to allow the hired killer escape.
Pausing only long enough to see his men run after the hired killer, Hannibal jumped over a couple of boxes and raced toward Spencer, who was still trying to stuff the maps, blueprints, and papers into a third briefcase that he had hastily pulled out from under the table. He climbed on top of another box and jumped . . .
Spencer Jackson
looked up just in time, from trying to put the papers in the briefcase, to see
the Colonel flying through the air directly at him. He barely had time to react. Rather than moving, he vainly tried to draw
the gun that he had tucked into the back of his waistband. The force and momentum of Hannibal's jump when he hit him sent both men
sprawling to the floor. The Director of
Exhibits and Security lost his grip on the gun, which skittered across the
basement floor.
Spencer yelped in alarm before rolling on the floor, trying to gain dominance
in this fight. He struggled under the
gloved grip of the silver-white haired leader until he finally managed to
briefly get the A-Team's leader off of him.
Springing to his feet, he lunged at Hannibal, who had also just managed
to stand up as well. A well placed punch
threatened to connect with the Colonel's jaw, but Hannibal was a bit too fast for him. He ducked and drove his fist squarely into
Spencer's midsection. As Mrs. B's beau
doubled over in pain, Hannibal
grabbed his collar and forced the African American's face to connect hard with
his knee, causing him to fall to the concrete floor, stunned.
Hannibal acted quickly in order to take advantage of the current situation. He raced over to the table and grabbed the blueprints and the map laying on top of the stack of papers in the still open briefcase. His head whipped around as he heard shouts from the stairway. More guards . . .
If they were coming down the stairs, then he had only one route that would take him back to the main floor, and ultimately to the other members of the Team . . . the freight elevator that he had seen earlier. Securing his grip on the papers within his black, leather gloved hand, he ran toward the doors for the elevator. Upon reaching it, he jammed the up button and then looked back at the stairway. The guards had made their way down the stairs, which meant that they'd be at Spencer's side within seconds. It wouldn't take them long to figure out what was going on, especially if he regained coherency.
Luck was clearly on the Colonel's side as the doors to the elevator opened almost immediately. The ding from the elevator car echoed loud through the basement, causing him to wince. Although the guards were tending to their boss, he knew that the sound would not only alert them to his presence . . . which they had thankfully ignored to that point . . . and cause them to start chasing after him. Moving quickly, he stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for the main level of the Museum, and then pressed the closed button. Right as the doors began to slide shut, he watched the guards leave Spencer's side and start to run toward the elevator to try and stop him.
He couldn't resist it. The Jazz was flowing wildly through his veins and he loved every second of this plan so far. His crystal blue eyes twinkled with merriment, and a huge thousand megawatt smile spread across his face as he gave the approaching guards a small wave. The doors to the elevator slid shut seconds before they could reach him, leaving him safely alone within the elevator car. Games of cat and mouse like this excited him, and it was always fun to see just how long he and the rest of the A-Team could hold out before making their big escape. He folded up the blueprint, maps, and papers with his gloved hands and then stuck it into his jacket pocket. Bouncing impatiently on the balls of his feet, he waited as the elevator slowly ascended from the basement . . .
**********
At the top of the stairs leading from the basement, Murdock finally caught up with BA. He immediately recognized this area as being on the lower level of the Museum, not too far away from the cafeteria. In fact, they were right by the huge Paul Bunyan house, which took up a large part of the area in the middle of the lower level. The house itself looked like a large log cabin . . . well, large was hardly the word for it. Everything about it was gigantic . . . the windows, the doorway, and the face of Paul himself that seemed to peek out from inside the cabin.
"C'mon, foo'! He's gettin' away!" BA called out after the pilot as he continued to run after Kramer. He wasn't sure how the assassin was able to keep a few steps ahead of him, especially with carrying the two cases, but he managed to do so. Still, the master mechanic wasn't about to give up. Hannibal wanted them to intercept the hired killer and those cases, and hopefully put a permanent wrench in Spencer's plans.
Murdock's long strides as he ran helped him to quickly catch up with the Sergeant. They were about to round the corner by the blue staircase. "He's heading for the Circus," Murdock mentioned, his Texan drawl thick with concern. He remembered that area of the Museum from earlier. It was the third space that included some kind of a movie screen . . . only this one showed a regular film of a trapeze act, and in dramatic fashion. If Kramer managed to get to that section, they'd lose him for sure.
They didn't manage to get too far before they ran into three more guards. They were running for the staircase that led to the basement after hearing the gunshot a few moments ago, and were taken by surprise to see two intruders within the Museum. They stopped short, stunned momentarily, before rushing toward the trespassers.
BA was the first to react, immediately letting out a low, threatening growl as he advanced on one of the guards. The man he was squaring off with was on the larger side, a bit taller than the electronics expert was, but with almost as much muscle mass. The Sergeant landed a solid punch on the guard, who barely looked like he was fazed by the hit, before landing one of his own on the Ordinance Officer.
Murdock focused his attention on another guard and ran toward him, practically tackling the man. He didn't quite knock him down, but he could tell that the guard was stunned by the sudden onslaught. Unfortunately, the Texan didn't have much time . . . every second he spent dealing with this one guard meant that Kramer was going to get away. He delivered a couple of quick jabs to the guard's face, which caused him to fall to the floor, unconscious. Glancing over to BA for a moment, he could see that the big guy had his hands full.
His spotted Kramer heading into the Circus exhibit . . . but the other guard that had run into them was running for a panel on the wall. His warm brown eyes widened as he realized what the third guard was trying to do. A Museum such as this had to have had an alarm, and that guard was running straight for one the panels that would allow him to activate it! If he did that, then all hell was going to break loose and their element of surprise would be totally and completely gone! If it was hooked up to the police department, they'd descend on the Museum like a wet blanket and unless Hannibal could come up with a brilliant plan, they likely wouldn't be able to get out of here alive.
In a split second, the decision was made. He started sprinting for the guard that was about to sound the alarm. In spite of his long strides, he wasn't able to reach the guard in time. He watched with horror as he jerked open the metal box and jammed a button inside. Instantly, the entire Museum was filled with the wail of an alarm! Murdock bit back a curse and flung himself at the guard, slamming the man's head against the wall. He slumped to the floor, unconscious, allowing the pilot a chance to see how BA was doing . . .
The muscular Sergeant delivered another solid punch to his opponent, sending the larger guard stumbling backwards. BA didn't let up, either. He kept at it, delivering a left jab, followed by a right cross, and then another left hook. The final blow was enough to not only spin the guard around, but caused him to practically fly head-first into the hard log cabin of the Paul Bunyan house. He then looked over to Murdock and asked, "Where'd Kramer go?"
"Dunno, big guy, but we better split up," the pilot suggested. "We'll have a better chance of findin' him if we do." There was also another reason for going in different directions, besides trying to increase their chances of finding the hired assassin. By going in their own separate ways, it also meant that the guards would be much more spread out with trying to look for the members of the A-Team that were within the Museum.
"Be careful, foo'. Don't go gettin' caught," BA cautioned him sternly. Even though Murdock got under his skin regularly, he still almost considered him like a brother. He was more like an annoying little brother most of the time, but still definitely a brother in arms. Even though he hated flying, he wasn't sure what he'd do if Murdock would be captured or hurt in any way.
"You too, BA," Murdock noted with a huge, quirky grin, before they each started running in separate directions. The Captain carefully scanned the hallways and alcoves as he proceeded through the Museum, searching for any sign of the escaping assassin. Hannibal was not going to be happy if they lost him . . .
Heheh, I just love picking locks. Hand-eye coordination, you know. Invaluable tools.
-- Face, "Say it With Bullets"
Chapter 15: Discoveries
For Templeton Peck, the search of the offices belonging to Mrs. Baracus and
Spencer Jackson was unending. He had gone through everything again, much more
thoroughly this time compared to when they had first snuck into the office, yet
it seemed like whatever secrets were contained within these walls wanted to
remain hidden. There was absolutely
nothing that he was able to find, so far, that would indicate that Spencer was
doing anything more than his job as the Director of Exhibits and Security for
the Museum.
He had found the hidden switch in Mrs. B's office for the panel in the wall . . . the one that was opened while Hannibal had hid under her desk. Whatever had been in there was cleaned out when Spencer had entered into the office and nearly caught them a bit earlier.
"Odd," he murmured quietly to himself. "No safe in the Security Chief's office?" That was something he found to be very hard to believe, especially if Spencer Jackson was possibly up to his neck in dealings with the shipping company that had ties to Scarlotti. There just had to be something here somewhere . . .
Looking around, he spotted a large painting on the wall of the Museum and the Jackson Park Lagoon, almost hidden in the darkness behind a fake tree in the corner. In fact, of all the pictures in the two offices, that was the only one that featured the Museum. The rest showed the magnificence of the city skyline itself. It couldn't be that simple and obvious, could it?
He moved over to the painting and reached up to grab a hold of the ornate gold frame. Carefully lifting it from where it was mounted, his blue eyes beheld a black square with a silver tumbler and a metal handle, recessed into the wall. Face just shook his head as he remarked, "Behind a painting . . . how very cliché."
He unzipped the parka that he wore and reached inside into the suit coat underneath. He pulled out a small black leather case and quickly took a hold of the zipper. He pulled it around and then opened it up, revealing some of the tools of the trade . . . lockpicks, a small audio amplifier, and a few other things necessary in order to pick any lock or crack any safe.
Pulling out the amplifier, he set the case with his tools down and then unwrapped the small cord. He put the one end in his right ear, and the other end . . . which looked like the end of a doctor's stethoscope . . . he pressed it against the black metal safe next to the tumbler. He began to spin the dial around, very slowly at first, as he became acclimated to the sound of the clicks that he picked up. Then, there was one louder click . . .
He looked at the dial and noted the number. 50 . . .
From what he knew about safes, one such as these generally had four numbers, and there was usually a certain pattern on how to turn the tumbler as one went from one number in the combination to the next. He had one number down, and three to go . . . and with the direction that he turned the tumbler to get to that first number, it told him everything he needed to know in order to get the rest of the turning pattern.
He turned the tumbler in the other direction until he again heard a loud click through the listening device . . . 80. And now again in the original direction until . . . there it was. 35. And finally back again for the final number. This time around, he knew that he was almost there as he could feel the tension start to build within the tumbler. He kept going until it hit the final number, at which point it felt like he couldn't turn the tumbler any further. 80 again. "Sheesh . . . with a simple combination like that, it's a wonder that the man can keep any secrets," Face commented as he pulled the listening device out of his ear.
He returned the device to his tool case, and then zipped it up. His fingers deftly slipped the case back into his suit coat before reaching for the handle. Turning it, he eased the door to the safe open and was rewarded with the sight of a bunch of papers stacked inside. Pulling them out of the safe, he walked over to Spencer's desk and set them down.
He again reached into his suit coat and pulled out a small, slender pen light and turned it on. He guided the light from the small device to where he was able to read what was on the papers and began to look them over. Sensitive documents regarding some changes to the Museum, possible upcoming exhibits and contracts of agreement for the future exhibitors . . .
Muttering in disgust, he flipped the pages aside one by one, finding nothing on any of them that yield the evidence they needed in order to put him away. There were also contracts in there that hired the security guards that he used, although he wasn't sure if those would be helpful or not. Without being able to run a background check on each man, there was no way of telling if they were on the level or if they were a part of his crooked scheme.
He pulled out a small camera from the other inside pocket in his suit coat. The silver camera was tiny, maybe no more than three inches long and an inch and a half wide. There was no flash, but in order to take a photo one would have to slide one end of the camera toward the lens. He wedged the pen light between his teeth in order to still shine some light on the papers while freeing up his hands. Using both of his hands, he started snapping pictures of the security guard contracts, flipping through each page and then taking another photo, and another . . .
The con artist should have known that Spencer wouldn't be dumb enough to keep anything incriminating in such an obvious location in his office, especially not when the rest of his office was clean. The man was so paranoid that he used his secretary's phone when making phone calls regarding his shady activities, for goodness sake! He was about to gather up the papers and put them back in the safe when a flyer on the bottom caught his eye. Frowning, he pulled it out and his blue eyes scanned the page.
"Block 37 Ice Rink Dedication Ceremony?" he read off silently. The flyer had an image of a figure skater in mid jump, and it looked like the ceremony was partially sponsored by the Museum of Science and Industry. Narrowing his eyes slightly, he had an instinctive feeling that something like that didn't belong in a safe. Shrugging his shoulders a bit, he folded the flyer up and put it in the pocket of his parka, and then gathered the papers up in order to return them to the safe.
He walked back over to the corner and put the papers back into the wall safe neatly and meticulously, so it wouldn't look like it was disturbed in any way. He then closed the door, and put the painting back on the wall to hide the safe again from view. After he did so, Face removed the light that was wedged between his teeth and turned around in frustration. After everything they found out, that couldn't be all the guy had hidden, could it? There had to be another safe, or hidden location where he hid information, documents . . . anything really that documented his illegal activities. If he was involved with that shipping company that had ties to Scarlotti, there had to be fake or modified shipping manifests somewhere. But where?
He glanced down at the floor for a moment and froze. Why hadn't he noticed it before? The other offices that they had walked past and seen all had carpeting in them. Even Mrs. B's office had carpeting from wall to wall . . . so why did Spencer's office have hardwood floors? Personal taste? That didn't seem likely since office areas such as this generally didn't have one carpeted and not the other. No . . . there had to be something more, which he missed the first time around.
What also stood out was the rug on the floor, which Spencer's desk and chair rested upon. That was a bit unusual as well, as one would think an area rug would be placed in such a location as to provide coverage for the center most part of the room . . . in this case, where others would sit across from Spencer at his desk. Normally, he'd make sure he'd work as quietly as possible as he snuck around . . . but in this case, a bit of noise was called for in order to confirm his theory.
As he moved back toward the desk, he started occasionally tapping the floor with his shoes . . . not too hard, but just enough to where he could listen to the sound. Once he got behind the desk, the sound changed, and it wasn't due to the rug muffling the sound. It was distinctly hollow, almost as if there was an opening beneath the floorboards. Templeton pushed the chair to the side and pulled the rug back to expose the floor underneath. Sure enough, there was a panel in the floor. He mentally berated himself for not thinking of searching for this earlier. He should have known. The man was one big cliché . . . mysterious phone calls late at night, a safe hidden behind a painting in the room, and now a hidden storage area in the floor.
Grinning, he found what he was looking for on the panel . . . a finger hold in the board which, upon casual inspection, looked more like a flaw within the woodwork. Digging his fingernails into the depression, the panel opened like a trap door, revealing the opening beneath it. Chuckling with glee at his discovery, he pulled the papers out of the hidden opening and placed them on the desk to investigate his find.
As he read them over, he recognized what looked like lists of security classifications for various items being shipped into and out of the Museum. Several items had been highlighted in yellow. Again wedging the pen light between his teeth, he started taking snapshots of the documents with the miniature camera. This would only add to the evidence that could help to put Spencer Jackson in prison . . . but it still wasn't enough. They needed something more, something bigger that would not only show the ties to Scarlotti, but they could make it stick like a wet noodle.
As he continued to take pictures and shuffle through the papers, he found three documents that caught his attention. The first was a letter, addressed to a man named Kramer, and was signed and notarized. It offered payment for his unique services for a special demonstration, with an amount of money pledged up front and the rest upon completion. The second item he found was a check, which matched the amount of money that was promised once this Kramer finished the job. And the third really caught his eye. He took pictures of each of these sheets, and then grabbed the last one as he moved over to the filing cabinet. Opening the drawer, he leafed through the files until he found what he was searching for.
"So, that's what you're up to, Mr. Spencer Jackson," he murmured softly around the pen light as he scanned the contents of the file. He snapped pictures of the documents contained within the manila folder, and then grabbed those papers and bundled it with the others of note. He took a moment to put the empty file folder back into the cabinet and then moved back over to the desk. He needed a smoking gun, so to speak, to take to Hannibal and Face was pretty sure that he had found enough to provide one.
There were still a few more papers on the desk that he needed to take pictures of, and he did so as diligently and swiftly as possible. He was acutely aware of just how much time had passed since he started searching the offices, and he knew that he needed to meet up with Hannibal . . . or if they couldn't catch up with each other, he needed to get the evidence out of there and somehow get it to the police.
As he thought about it, he couldn't walk into a police station himself. That'd be rich. "Hi, I'm a wanted fugitive, but I have information here on a planned assassination that someone else is about to commit which also involves the Italian Mafia." If he delivered a line like that, they'd not only lock him away, but they'd likely put him in a straightjacket and have him room with Murdock! He could ask Mrs. B if she could do it. She'd likely be madder than a hornet's nest anyway once she learned the truth.
Just as he finished photographing the last document, the office was filled with the shrill sound of an alarm. Looking up in surprise, Face glanced around him quickly and ducked down just in case any guards decided to show up and investigate . . . but as he thought about it, he was certain that he hadn't triggered any alarms. If he had, it would have gone off long ago and the guards would have swarmed the office area by now. No, the others must have run into some sort of trouble . . .
If they were in trouble, that meant that their escape from the Museum was going to be a major challenge . . .
He quickly gathered the papers from the desk and jammed it back into the opening in the floor. He then took the diligence to close the panel in the floor, and put the rug and chair back in order as it had been. The last thing he needed was to leave any evidence behind that he had just conducted a thorough search of the offices. Easing himself over to the door, he checked to make sure that no guards were waiting for him before slipping out into the hallway outside the office. Muttering fiercely to himself, he ran down the corridor in the direction of the yellow staircase and the door they had come in . . .
Face: Ah, come on, Hannibal. You don't intend to go back there? Those guys are expecting us.
Hannibal: They're looking for us out here. Not expecting us back there. Big difference.
Murdock: Sneaking back into a warzone with the same plan a second time is insane.
Hannibal: It's brilliant. They'll never think we're crazy enough to do it. I mean, they see the abandoned van, they automatically assume we're on foot. They never think to look to look inside. Everybody thinks that the best plans are the most alabered ones, they're not.
-- "Harder Than it Looks"
Chapter 16: Pieces of the Puzzle
Hannibal rounded the corner from the Wheels of Tomorrow
exhibit, emerging onto the cobblestone street lined with old fashioned
storefronts. The lighting in this area
had not been changed upon closing to the public, which allowed the Colonel to
immediately recognize it as Yesterday's Main Street . . . the same picturesque
area that seemed to be captivated in time.
This was the same exhibit where Face had revealed why he was so glum
during the Christmas season.
Of all the places within the Museum, he knew that the other members of the A-Team would not only recall the dim lighting within this area, but how close it was to the entrance where they had managed to sneak into the building. It made for the ideal place for a rendezvous and could give them an advantage over any guards that may be trying to pursue them.
The sound of approaching footsteps forced the Commanding Officer to retreat to the entryway he had just passed through a moment ago. He pressed his back against the fake storefront, trying to get his breathing under control. Cautiously, he peered around the corner to try to see who was approaching. Was it a guard? Could it be Kramer or Spencer? Or was it a member of his unit?
A figure emerged on the west end of the exhibit. That end was close to the yellow staircase, but that didn't necessarily mean anything as it still could have been anyone. The light from the staircase was at his back, creating a silhouette effect. It was impossible to tell, at that point, who the person was. It wasn't until he passed beneath one of the dimmed overhead lights that his golden blonde hair was highlighted, almost to the point where it glowed like a beam of sunlight. He had looked behind him, trying to see if anyone had followed.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Hannibal immediately recognized his second in command. Apparently the Lieutenant had finished searching Spencer's office, although the Colonel hoped that he had found something that could be useful. "Face," he said in a semi-loud whisper as he stepped forward into view.
The con artist practically jumped as he heard his nickname . . . the one that his Commanding Officer had branded him with so long ago. Although he had come here on the chance that he could meet up with the other members of the unit, the fact that their presence had been alerted to the guards meant that the whole Museum was going to be crawling with them, each one of them searching for the members of the A-Team. Upon seeing the Colonel step out from around the corner, he let out a sigh of relief of his own. "Boy, oh boy. Hannibal, am I glad to see you," he started to say in a low tone. "You won't believe what I found up in Spencer's office."
"Save it until we're in the clear. I've got a couple of his hounds on my tail," the silver-white haired leader stated, throwing a sidelong glance into the Wheels of Tomorrow exhibit. Right now, they had a few choices, although none of them really appealed to him, and he sure in the hell wasn't going to leave the Museum without BA and Murdock. He already had a plan brewing on how to bring Spencer to justice, but in order to carry that out he was going to need all of his men with him.
"Well, you're not the only one," Face started to mention, casting a worried glance back toward the yellow stairway. With the information that he had managed to find, if they were caught, he knew that Spencer likely wouldn't allow them to leave the Museum alive. "I think a guard almost found me up there after the alarm went off. He could be down here any second. What happened?"
Hannibal shrugged his shoulders, even though he never showed any signs of his confidence faltering. "Things didn't go exactly according to plan."
The young Lieutenant practically rolled his eyes at that response, and then observed wryly, "You can say that again. We're really stuck between a rock and a hard place this time. What do you want to do?" He glanced at the Colonel expectantly, inwardly praying that he would come up with a solid plan that would allow them to evade capture.
"I'm thinking . . ." Hannibal muttered. He hadn't failed to notice how Face had rolled his eyes, but he knew that the con artist was right. They were effectively cornered, caught in a well placed pincer movement with guards coming at them from both directions. Not even a well planned frontal or counter assault would solve the problem this time. He really wanted to pull out and light up a cigar right then and there, as that would help him think, but he knew that the guards would smell the cigar smoke and it'd give away their position.
At that moment, a door within a dark corner of the exhibit opened with a soft creak. Hannibal immediately froze and looked in the direction of the door, but also noticed that Face did the same thing. His heart was practically pounding with the prospect that Spencer might have had the upper hand. He mentally berated himself for not checking that door once he had entered into the area, when he had remembered it being open when the Museum had been opened.
His concerns were immediately quelled as he recognized the grinning visage and trademark baseball cap of the person that emerged from the doorway. "Hey, anyone bring some popcorn?" the figure jokingly asked with a thick Texan drawl.
"Murdock!" Face whispered both out of relief, as well as shock. He certainly had not expected the pilot to emerge from where he did, but he was very thankful to see him. If he had found that spot, maybe they had a chance to regroup for a bit. That would be fine by him, especially since he still needed to share what he had found out in Spencer's office with the others.
A smile appeared upon the Colonel's face as he walked into the darkened theater. Even at this time of night, the silent black and white movie played upon the screen, and the melodic sounds from a player piano trickled through the small space. "How'd you find this spot, Captain?" Hannibal wondered.
"I heard they have a great double matinee," the Texan responded with a quirky grin on his face. Even in spite of the seriousness of the situation and the danger they all faced, Murdock had a way of being able to still joke around and make light of things.
Face rolled his eyes at Murdock's response as he entered, shutting the door firmly behind them. The only thoughts racing through his mind concerned Hannibal. The Colonel was just as crazy as Murdock for going into this mock up of a silent movie house. It would probably be one of the first places where the guards would think of looking. It was too obvious of a hiding spot to not warrant a search, provided they were smart enough to think about it.
Murdock's grin dropped as he regained a sense of seriousness. He knew that Hannibal likely wasn't going to be too happy, but his Commanding Officer needed to hear the details of what had occurred. "BA and I ran into a few guards while trying to go after Kramer. He slipped away while we had to deal with them. One of the guards got to the alarm before we could stop him. BA and I split up to try and find Kramer, but I had another guard that picked up my trail and started doggin' me, so I hid in here to try and shake 'im."
"Hannibal, I don't like this," Templeton Peck tried to protest. He didn't know how the two of them could make light of their current predicament, especially with BA elsewhere in the Museum and only God knew if he was having any luck with finding this Kramer guy that Murdock had mentioned, much less avoiding the Museum's rent-a-cops. Thankfully, they seemed woefully under-trained for a situation like this, otherwise they likely would have been in custody shortly after he had first picked the lock on the large copper doors. Heck, if they were better trained, this theater would have been one of the first places that they'd search . . .
"Oh, lighten up, Face. They'll never think about looking here," Hannibal said confidently, dismissing the Lieutenant's concern. He almost acted as if he knew what the guards' movements were, and didn't seem to be the slightest bit worried.
"He's right, Faceman. They'll figure out that we thought about hiding in here, then decided against it because it'd be the first spot that they'd look, and keep moving. But we're hiding here because we figure that they'll think we're not in here . . ." Murdock rambled with a quiet enthusiasm. As he spouted out the words, he could see a smile flash upon the Colonel's face.
"Murdock, only someone like you would understand Hannibal's logic," Face commented. Hannibal was on a major dose of the Jazz, and Murdock was practically right behind him. With the two of them like that, he instinctively knew that this was not going to end well . . .
Speaking of the guards, they were likely to show up any second now. Deciding it was best to get back to the heart of the matter, Colonel Smith interrupted, "As much as I'd like to see you two debate this, we need to figure out what's going on. Face, you said you found something in Spencer's office . . ."
"Right,"
Face said as he reached up to straighten his tie. He wandered over to the front of the theater,
the light from the black and white movie playing off his features as he looked
back at the others. Due to the
projection, he cast a large shadow on the screen behind him. "Spencer is so predictable. He keeps a safe behind a painting in the
wall, and his important papers under a hidden floorboard."
The Lieutenant saw Hannibal
fold his arms across his chest where he stood and looked at him
expectantly. He glanced over to Murdock,
who grabbed a seat in the theater and also cast his large brown eyes upon
him. He drew in a breath and then began
to explain, "Anyway, I found detailed records of what the Museum has been
receiving and shipping over the last few months in Spencer's safe, along with
contracts for the security guards. There
was an identical copy of the shipping manifest in Spencer's files, except . . .
some of the security classifications were doctored. They were purposely altered to prevent anyone
else from having access to the stuff except Spencer and his cronies."
"You don't think he may have had Mrs. B doctor those files . . ." Murdock started to ask, not even wanting to think of the possible repercussions. If she had any part in it, even if Spencer pulled the wool over her eyes and didn't tell her what was going on, she likely could be prosecuted and face a bit of jail time. He shuddered to think of how BA would react if that was the case.
"No, I don't think she did. From what I saw of the other files in his office, anything that Mrs. B wrote up had her initials hand written on there in the lower right hand corner. These didn't have that," the con artist responded, shaking his head slightly. In a way, he was relieved since he knew what the pilot was getting at and the possible implications it could have. Turning back to the Colonel, he continued, "You're just going to love this one, Hannibal. The guy also keeps records of all of the illegal items that he's been acquiring and selling on the black market."
Hannibal nodded thoughtfully, as he took in what the Lieutenant had to say. He was inwardly relieved that Mrs. B didn't have anything to do with altering those documents. If she had and BA found out, he doubted that all of them together could stop the Sergeant from tearing Spencer apart limb from limb. "It makes sense. Since he's in charge of security, he could easily make the items disappear from storage, then simply alter the lists to make it seem like it got shipped off to somewhere legit. No one's the wiser," the cunning strategist related, believing that he had Spencer pretty well pegged by now. He looked directly at Face as one big question begged to be asked, "Did you get proof?"
Face reached into one of the inside pockets of his suit coat and pulled out the tiny silver camera. He held it up and flashed his Commanding Officer a sly grin. The pictures he had taken would be enough to put Spencer away for a few years, but he'd likely have some slime ball lawyer get him out early for good behavior or even make the charges disappear. And once he got out, he'd set his sights on Mrs. B . . . which meant that they'd have to return to Chicago to protect her again.
Hannibal's face practically lit up with another grin. The Jazz was sparkling brightly within his crystal blue eyes. Things were definitely going better than he expected, especially since they did have evidence now. "Nice, Face. Did you find anything else?" the Colonel questioned. If Spencer seemed to keep records on all of his illegal activities, then there likely had to be more that they could use.
"Well," Face started to say thoughtfully. "I took this just on a hunch, but . . ." The blonde-haired Lieutenant pulled out the pen light and flicked it on, and then reached into the coat pocket and pulled out the flyer he had grabbed from earlier. He unfolded it for the others to see, and shone the small flashlight upon it. "I'm not sure what this was doing in his safe. It's kind of weird that he'd put something like this in there, especially when the Museum is listed as a sponsor."
The West Point graduate moved over to study the flyer that Face had unfurled. He carefully looked at the information on there as it certainly wasn't what he had expected. "Hmmmm . . . interesting," Hannibal mused.
Murdock got up from where he had been sitting and wandered over to also look at the poster that his best friend had produced. He studied the poster, somewhat surprised that something like that would have been in a safe. It looked like it was going to be such an ordinary event. "Ya know, I think I remember hearin' 'bout this on the news. Some kind of dedication ceremony for a place called Block 37 at the corner of Washington and State, right 'cross from Marshall Fields. It used to have some stores, and now they're turnin' it into an ice rink. Scott Hamilton's gonna be there. Wasn't he the gold medalist at the 1984 winter Olympics?" He looked at the Colonel after asking that question, since he seemed to have more knowledge when it came to ice skating.
"He sure was," Hannibal replied, keeping his attention focused on the flyer to see if there was anything remotely out of the ordinary. A grin crossed his face as his observant gaze found what might be the binding tie. "Look at this, guys. The Mayor of Chicago will be there to open the rink to the public for the first time, and his picture has been circled. Now why do you think Spencer would have done that?"
"Maybe he was practicing his art?" Face cracked, trying to find a bit of humor in all of this. Truthfully, though, the circle drawn around the Mayor wasn't done very well. Picasso could have done much better with his eyes closed compared to Spencer Jackson.
"No, this seems to be much bigger," Colonel Smith noted thoughtfully as he considered the possibilities. That flyer that his Lieutenant found just helped to complete the puzzle and told him exactly what was going on. Now that he had all of the elements, his mind started working overtime as he developed a plan. Turning back to the young con artist, he noted, "While you were playing safe cracker, Spencer was being a polite host to an assassin . . . and I'll bet you a year's supply of cigars that the Mayor is the target."
"That could be what he meant by a demonstration," Face added thoughtfully, recalling the conversation at the penthouse suite regarding the recorded phone call that they picked up over the bugs. It was starting to all make sense now. "He gets an experimental weapon, ships it through the Museum and finds a buyer . . ."
"Our Italian mobster," Murdock quickly pointed out as he too was starting to figure out what was going on. He definitely was not liking where it was going and knew that they'd have to do something about it for sure. The only question was . . . what was Hannibal's plan going to entail, exactly, so they could nab Spencer and Kramer red handed, wrap both of them up nicely with a red bow, and deliver them straight into the arms of the authorities.
"But Scarlotti refuses to buy without a demonstration of the weapon's capabilities . . . a very public demonstration that's likely to have a lot of media coverage and bound to make front page news, even in Italy," Hannibal surmised as he pointed a finger directly at the poster.
"You don't think . . ." Face started to say, his voice trailing off as he looked directly at his Commanding Officer. Their eyes connected for a moment, almost as if trying to seek confirmation. "You don't think that they're gonna use this demonstration to kill the Mayor, do you?"
The Colonel let out a sigh and nodded his head. "Yeah . . . I do," he admitted solemnly. It was times like this that he hated being right or having such a good insight into how sleaze balls like Spencer operated. That dedication ceremony was going to be in a very public place, with a lot of people around, which increased the possibility that innocent civilians could get hurt. And if they started using guns . . . just one shot and an all out panic would likely ensue. That didn't even include the fact that, with the Mayor there, the place was likely going to be crawling with cops. Those challenges were going to make the application of his plan interesting and fun . . .
Reaching into the pocket of the parka, Hannibal pulled out the papers he had acquired earlier and unfolded them. "While BA and Murdock were dealing with the guards, I managed to grab these from Spencer in the basement before getting out of there," he shared.
Face folded up the flyer from the dedication ceremony and stuffed it into the pocket of his parka, and then hid the camera back in his suit coat again. He glanced over the pages that Hannibal pulled out . . . something that looked like a map, as well as a blueprint of some kind of a device. Although they had used terrain maps in Vietnam to help plan out various missions and patrols, what he saw was nothing like what he was familiar with.
The Texan got a good look at the map for the first time and let out a low, shrill whistle. He recognized the markings on the map immediately as being similar to what had been used in the briefings during the two top secret missions he had to carry out while in Vietnam. "Whoa! These are detailed charts, kimosabe. Exact locations of where key people will be positioned, various places where Kramer could set up and lines of fire from each. He could set up in any of these spots, fire the killing shot, and blend in with the crowd as he escapes," he noted. A sudden realization struck him the moment he said that. Spencer clearly knew what he was doing to come up with a map like what he was looking at . . . which meant that he likely had some kind of a background with the CIA, NSA, DXS, FBI, or any other number of agencies.
Templeton Peck looked over to the pilot, finding it hard to believe. How could his best friend have knowledge about something like that? Now wasn't the time to ask about how he knew that information. That could come another time, but he thought it best to seek confirmation anyways. "You sure about that, Murdock?"
"Absolutely," he affirmed before he started to look over the blueprints. His warm brown eyes widened as he recognized what he saw. "Colonel, I've heard about this weapon . . . the X-20 . . . hottest thing on the black market right now. Totally experimental assault rifle with a higher firing rate than the M-16, a miniature rocket grenade launcher, and a laser gun. Seems right out of Star Wars, but it works and it's deadly," Murdock revealed.
"Right, Captain, which is exactly why it's up to us to throw a wrench into Spencer's works. And, according to the flyer, the ceremony is taking place at noon tomorrow." The silver-white haired leader pulled back the left sleeve of his parka slightly to reveal the watch on his inside wrist, and glanced at the time. "That's a little over thirteen hours from now."
"Why do we always have to cut these things so close?" Face
complained, almost to the point where it seemed pretty close to whining. He was about to say more when he felt a hand
touch his arm. He looked down and traced
the hand back to the Colonel, whose gaze was captivated on the door to the
silent movie house. That touch was a
message . . . that he had obviously heard something and needed immediate
silence from his men.
Stealthily, Hannibal moved closer to the door, making sure to stay low and out of the line of sight. Once he was close enough, he eased himself up to where he could peek through the small window, and then immediately crouched back down. "Someone's coming," he whispered as he returned to the front of the theater, where his men had also crouched down in the aisles.
Murdock and Face exchanged glances in the darkened theater before folding up the map and blueprints. They had gotten lucky with hiding out where they had for a while, but it almost seemed like their luck had just ran out. They needed an escape plan, otherwise there was no way that Hannibal could carry out any kind of plan to stop Spencer Jackson. They both looked at their Commanding Officer expectantly as Face whispered, "What's the plan, Hannibal?"
I hate to be an alarmist, but getting caught between Attila the Hun and Jaws is not my idea of how to live to a ripe old age.
-- Face, "Double Heat"
Chapter 17: Close Confines
"I'm sure he came this way. Start checking the doors that aren't
locked. He's got to be around here
somewhere . . ."
Even from where he was crouched inside the theater, Hannibal could clearly hear the echo of the voice outside. He looked around the theater quickly for anything that could help them get these guards off their backs, but found nothing . . . nothing except for the movie and the gentle sounds of the player piano that accompanied it in perfect timing.
Timing . . .
If they could time it just right, then maybe there was a way that they could deal with these guards that were about to discover them, and achieve freedom. He glanced over to Face, who was busy taking pictures of the site map and blueprints in the close confines, and also at Murdock who seemed to spot something else interesting on the blueprints and pointed at the spot on the paper so the Lieutenant could take a snapshot of that section.
"Murdock," Hannibal whispered in a low tone as he moved back to where his men were. He gathered up the blueprint and map after the con artist had taken the last picture and stuffed it back into the pocket of the parka. "Get them in here. Face, take the right. I'll take the left."
The lanky Texan grinned, understanding instantly what his Commanding Officer had in mind. He was going to act as bait. He watched both the Colonel and his best friend move closer to the door and take up a position on either side of the doorway, just inside of it but definitely out of sight. Once they were set, he moved as close as he could to the door and lay down on the floor. He stretched out his tall, wry figure in such a way to where it'd look like he was either injured or sick. With a slight, almost imperceptible nod of his head, he watched Hannibal start to open the door to the theater. As his Commanding Officer did so, the pilot let out a pathetic moan.
The guard that was closest to the door moved even closer to investigate what he had just heard. He paused at the doorway as he spotted the figure on the floor, and then turned to call back to his partner, "I think I found one of them. Come on." Returning his attention to the prostrate form, he shoved his gun into the holster attached to his belt and started to move closer to the person on the floor, who let out another almost sickly moan. Thanks to the darkened theater, the guard didn't see the two A-Team members laying in wait . . .
Once the second guard stepped inside to join his partner, the A-Team attacked!
Hannibal was the first one to act, grabbing the second guard from behind and turning him around. He was immediately stunned by the fact that there was someone else in the silent theater besides the man lying on the floor. He didn't have time to react, much less let out a shout of surprise, before the Colonel's fist connected solidly with his jaw. The force of the punch was so strong that he was spun around again . . . this time into the waiting arms of Templeton Peck.
Face delivered a well-placed punch of his own, and then used the guard's momentum to his advantage. He grabbed the man by his shoulders and pivoted, flinging him head first into a large metal trash can that stood just inside the door. The guard was stuck inside, his feet sticking out and kicking wildly in a futile attempt to dislodge himself. The con artist brushed his hands against his pants and gave a satisfied grin as he cracked, "Now that's taking out the trash."
While they dealt with the one guard, the other that went to check on Murdock was totally taken by surprise. He hadn't expected for two others to be in the theater, much less attack his partner. The shock of that caused him to freeze, rendering him unable to react when the long arms of the pilot grabbed onto him and pulled him to the floor. They wrestled around a bit, with neither one really gaining an advantage, until Murdock drew back and delivered a strong punch to the guard's face. That was all he needed to daze the man, but he followed up with another couple of punches until he was rendered unconscious.
Lieutenant Peck looked over to his best friend, noting how the second guard was already out cold on the floor. He shook his head as he watched the Colonel reach forward with his hand to help him back to his feet. Face was always amazed by how well Murdock's wounded puppy routine went . . . and he did it so well, too. Make the bad guys think you're helpless, and then strike when they least expect it.
"C'mon," Hannibal said brusquely, as he cast a worried glance toward the garbage can. "That guard in the trash won't stay lodged in there very long, and his partner could wake up any second now. Let's get out of here." His words were punctuated by the muffled cries that echoed from the round metal container. Moving swiftly, the cunning strategist turned and raced out the door of the silent movie theater, his two officers close behind him.
**********
Sergeant Bosco Baracus quietly emerged from the Energy Lab, shaking his head in frustration. He hadn't seen any sign of Kramer since the guards had literally run into him and Murdock, nor had he figured out where the crazy fool went off to. In fact, his search pattern had turned up a few more of the guards, sweeping the Museum in an attempt to flush the A-Team out. Thankfully, he had managed to find places to hide . . . or in the cases where he couldn't, he made sure that they weren't going to wake up anytime soon and alert the others where they had seen him.
What amazed the master mechanic was how quickly Spencer had recovered from the attack in the basement and organized his men to find them. He was also surprised at the large number of security guards present in the Museum. Could it have had something to do with the transaction that had taken place in the basement? Granted, every Museum had their own security guards, but the sheer number that he had observed . . . it was a lot more than usual.
He had been forced to change direction several times in his attempt to find some way to meet up with the other members of the unit. As he looked around in the darkened area, he recognized the sight of the Paul Bunyan log cabin . . . the same spot where he and Murdock had split up. He wondered how the pilot was faring, and if he managed to elude the guards as well.
From what he remembered, Murdock had his hands full with a couple of guards at the time they had separated. He knew that the Captain as very capable of taking care of himself, in his own unique way, but he felt it his responsibility to look out for the members of the unit . . . to provide the muscle to beat down those that threatened the men that had not only earned his friendship, but had stood by his side since the jungles of Vietnam. If Murdock or any of the others had been caught or hurt in any way, on top of what he was doing with his mother, Spencer Jackson was going to find himself in a world of hurt. Not even his Commanding Officer would be able to stop him from making sure the man knew the real meaning of the word pain.
But, there was also something else to consider as well. Would Murdock try to make it back here to meet up with him once he lost the guards? Or was he going to have to scour the Museum not only for the crazy fool, but also Hannibal and Face? Even though he recalled Colonel ordering the con artist to get out of there with the evidence if things started going south, there was an incredibly strong sense of loyalty along all of them. He knew that the Lieutenant wouldn't leave the rest of them behind if he could help it. None of them would. But, with how big the Museum was, if they ended up having to search for each other, they'd be lucky if they'd meet up.
That's when it dawned on him . . . the entrance where they had first entered the Museum for this late night escapade. It was right near Yesterday's Main Street, which was already a dimly lit exhibit, which made it a virtually perfect rendezvous spot. They could just hide out there, or even behind the Coal Mine elevator, while Face picked the lock for the large copper doors and they could make their escape.
He started to take a few steps toward the yellow staircase when he heard the distinct sound of footsteps emanating from the stairwell. He froze for a moment as he realized what was going on.
Someone was coming . . .
He quickly looked around to try and see if he could find a hiding spot. He wasn't sure who was coming down the stairs, although he hoped it was Spencer. After what he saw in the basement, and just thinking about everything that his Mama had gone through, he seriously wanted to introduce the man to his fist!
Wait . . . the Energy Lab! Moving swiftly and silently, he rushed back into the exhibit and crouched down behind two angled panels. This particular display that he chose as a hiding spot detailed the energy that was contained within a bolt of lightning, the electrical manifestation of nature's fury. He listened as the footsteps grew louder, which meant that they were getting closer . . . and from the way it sounded, there were at least two or three of them. He balled up his hand into a fist and prepared to strike like lightning at those that were drawing closer to the hiding spot he had nabbed.
Right now, the muscular mechanic knew that he had the advantage . . . the element of surprise. And he was determined to use it. Controlling his breathing, he mentally timed it based on how loud the sound of the footsteps were as they approached. Just a few more seconds . . . a bit closer . . . a little more . . .
Now!
He jumped out from behind the display with a yell, his mind consumed by anger hat was directed at his mother's beau . . . a rage that blinded him. His only thoughts were to act now, and worry about the rest after the fact. He grabbed the man nearest to him and drew his massive fist back as he prepared to deliver a punch . . .
"No, BA!" Hannibal shouted as he saw the Sergeant start to bring his fist around to deliver the blow. Thankfully, the Sergeant reacted just in time to his warning and stopped the forward momentum of his fist just in time . . . just a mere inch shy of connecting with Murdock's nose. The Colonel could see that the Captain's eyes were wide with surprise and fight, and reminded him of a deer caught in the headlights of an approaching car.
The muscular mechanic lowered his fist and let out a huge sigh of relief upon seeing his friends. He had it well within his right mind to try and scold all of them about sneaking up on him like that, since he had come very close to giving Murdock a bloody, broken nose and knocking him out for the next several hours. There was no time to say anything, as their yells had attracted the attention of the guards that BA had just avoided near the Fairy Castle. Shouts from the Museum's security staff indicated that the men were drawing nearer, causing the four members of the A-Team to exchange quick glances. Things were definitely not going well on this mission . . .
"This way," Hannibal told his men as he darted around a corner toward the far end of the Energy Lab. He hadn't been in this section in the Museum before, but he thought he remembered something on the map for a group entrance. If they could get to that, then maybe they could get out of there . . . provided Spencer wasn't smart enough to have his men cover that door.
BA spotted Hannibal take off running, with Murdock and Face close behind him. He observed the direction they were heading as an ominous feeling settled into the pit of his stomach. If they ended up where he believed they would, then they'd be trapped for sure! "No, Hannibal! That's the way to the submarine!" he tried to call out in warning, although it was too late. Frustration gnawed at him as he realized that the other members of the A-Team were too far ahead and hadn't heard him.
As the Ordinance Officer began to race after them, he could hear the faint shouts from the guards behind him, "They're going to the U-505. Get over to the other tunnel and head them off!"
"Dang it, Colonel," BA muttered dismally. He knew that Hannibal wasn't familiar with the Museum like he was. There was only one way into the only American-captured German submarine from World War II and one way out. If he had known about the configuration, he likely wouldn't have gone in that direction . . . but there was no way to stop him at this point. All he could do, as he caught up with the others, was hope that his Commanding Officer had a plan to get them out from between a literal rock and a hard place.
The members of the A-Team were starting to enter the submarine, with Hannibal leading the way. He was weaving his way through the cramped space, deeper into the metal bowels of the once sea-borne vessel . . . although Face and Murdock stopped to look around. "Impressive," the Lieutenant muttered with an appraising eye. "This would make a great location if we ever did film Boots and Bikinis for real."
"I'd hate to have to live here," the Captain observed, having to duck down a bit as he passed by one of the metal bulkheads to avoid hitting his head. He shook his head as he noticed what looked like nets, suspended from the ceiling, holding crates marked for food. And this was in addition to the ones that crowded the walkway in this section. He didn't remember this particular area from the first time they had visited the Museum. "What is this place?"
BA followed closely behind Face and Murdock, trying to hold his frustration in check. He couldn't be too upset at them since they hadn't had time to see the sub the last time they were here. But, now wasn't the time for a private tour . . . not if they wanted to get out of there. "It's a German submarine, fool. Now get movin' or we gonna be trapped in here."
He pushed past the two men and stormed after Hannibal, past the electric motor room and into the diesel engine room. He finally caught his Commanding Officer in the tight corridor in between the two huge diesel engines. Normally, he would have stopped to admire or even study these massive machines and worked through in his mind how to take them apart and put them back together again, but he had no time for that right now. He could see that the Colonel had his gun drawn, and was creeping slowly into the control room.
The sound of a gunshot could be heard behind them, causing the muscular Sergeant to freeze. He turned around, and thankfully saw Face and Murdock quickly scurry after them, both with their guns drawn. Face fired a shot through the electric control room into the aft crew quarters and torpedo room. That was answered by a volley of shots from the guards, the bullets ricocheting off the metal surfaces around then with a distinctive metallic pinging.
"What we gonna do, Hannibal?" BA asked, inwardly praying that the Colonel had some type of a plan . . . a good one that wouldn't involve destroying the inside of the submarine. Since his Commanding Officer hadn't seen the exhibit before, or overheard the guards, he likely didn't even realize that they were effectively trapped.
Looking further into the bowels of the ship, Hannibal started moving to the opposite side of the room they were in. Pausing near the hatch, he turned back to his Sergeant and decided to pull upon his knowledge of the submarine. "Where does this room lead?" he questioned.
"That's the control room. Leads into the officer's quarters, galley, and forward crew quarters," BA revealed. With each added gunshot, he could feel the adrenaline pumping through is veins. He was trying hard to maintain some amount of control . . . a level headedness, especially since he knew this place and the Colonel would need that knowledge to develop their escape plan. But, that's if they could escape. "There's a tunnel from the forward crew quarters that leads back into the Museum, but I heard the guards yellin' at each other to go cut us off. We're trapped, Hannibal," he observed dismally, not sure how they were going to be able to get out of this one.
Face poked his head out from behind one of the diesel engines and fired another couple of shots down the long corridor. The guards immediately ducked behind the bulkhead for cover, still not able to make any more forward progress to capture the intruders due to the exchange of gunfire.
Still holding his gun at the ready, Murdock moved closer to where BA and Hannibal stood. He looked at the silver-white haired leader expectantly, his voice etched with worry and seriously sane as he inquired, "What's the plan, Colonel?" Just based on what he was seeing, with these cramped quarters, he wryly made a mental observation that the A-Team had been in some tight spots before . . . figuratively speaking . . . but never in the literal sense of the term.
"I'm working on that, Captain," Hannibal responded, slowly looking around the room, praying for inspiration. They couldn't get creative . . . not like they could under other normal circumstances when they could just use what was around them to build something that would secure their freedom. He'd just have to think of another way. But, what would really help him do that right now was a cigar. Moving back toward the engine room, he fired off a couple of shots at the guards. "Face," he said, holding out his hand to the con man as an obvious sign of what he wanted.
"Not in here, Hannibal," the Lieutenant protested. "It's close enough in here without you smoking a cigar." Although he was well aware how cigars helped the Colonel when it came to thinking, this was one time that he didn't want to have to deal with the smell . . . not in a place like this.
"C'mon, Face. You know I think better with a cigar in my mouth." He watched as his second in command let out a sigh, and then pulled out a cigar. The Colonel accepted it and brought it up to his mouth, chewing off the end and then spat it out. He wedged the fine Cuban stogie between his teeth and looked around. Before the Lieutenant could offer him a light, his ice blue eyes fell upon what looked like a periscope. "BA," he started to say thoughtfully, "shouldn't there be a hatch of some kind around here that leads topside?"
The Sergeant had been gloomily considering the latest mess that one of Hannibal's plans had gotten them into. It took a moment to catch the question from his Commanding Officer, but then his face slowly brightened with hope. Maybe there was a way out of this after all! "Yeah, man. There's a couple of ladders . . . one in the control room that goes up to the conning tower, the other in the galley that goes up to the deck. I remember 'cause I always wanted to climb 'em, but the tour guides would never let me."
"Which one will get us out of here faster?" Colonel Smith wondered. If what his Ordinance Officer said was true, then he realized that time was running short and they'd have only one chance to escape. It would only be a matter of time before the guards started trying to come at them from the front of the sub . . .
"We can protect the one to the conning tower better. Galley's going to be faster," the muscular mechanic admitted. To someone like himself, it was really a toss up as to which one would be better. The ladder in the control room that led up to the conning tower was more centralized, so they could hold off the guards longer. It was also a longer climb to get out, so they could start coming up the ladder after them. The galley hatch was a much shorter climb, but it was closer to the front of the sub, which meant that they didn't have much leeway with protecting it. He'd just have to trust the decision that the Colonel would make, no matter what it might be.
Hannibal grinned, his eyes lighting up so bright with the Jazz that he could have almost lit the end of his cigar without having to use a lighter. "Well, where's the galley?" he questioned, again relying on the Sergeant to guide them.
"Up ahead. I'll show you," BA started to say as he pulled out his own gun, just in case there was going to be trouble.
Hannibal noticed that Face started to move as if to follow them. If he did, then the guards were going to advance from the aft of the sub and it'd make very short work of their escape. "Lieutenant, I want you to stay here and hold them off," he ordered. Immediately, he could see his second in command open his mouth to protest. The Colonel never gave him that chance as he cut him off and continued, "This is a good position. They can't get near you down that corridor between the engines if you keep firing at them. Just keep them from coming any further. Murdock and I'll keep them from advancing from the other direction. When BA has the hatch open, we'll come back to get you."
The con artist let out a sigh. He hated taking positions like this, but he clearly understood why. He didn't have the strength that BA did, and he was needed to open the hatch . . . a hatch that had been exposed to the elements and likely hadn't been opened in over 40 years. And, if the forward crew compartment and torpedo room was anything like what it was on the aft of the sub, Hannibal and Murdock were both going to have their hands full with trying to hold off the guards that came from that end of the sub. If anything, he knew that his Commanding Officer was leaving him with the better position to defend.
The Sergeant noticed the con man shrug in resignation and saw him take up position next to the hatch leading into the engine room, with the two large diesel engines. He took a few steps toward him and handed the blonde-haired man his gun and ammo. "Here, Faceman. You'll probably need it," the Ordinance Officer told him gruffly.
"Thanks, BA," Face nodded, giving him a slight appreciative smile. He had a feeling that he was going to need all of the ammo he could get to hold off those guards. He looked back and saw the others head in the direction of the control room.
Returning his focus to the aft of the sub, he leaned out and fired another couple of shots toward the rear of the vessel before ducking back for the safety of the metal bulkhead around the doorway. He put the gun and ammo that BA had given him into the pocket of the parka, and then stuffed his right hand into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out the last handful of bullets for his .357 Magnum revolver. Flipping the chamber open, he quickly slid them into the empty slots and then slid the chamber back into position.
He glanced back toward the front of the sub and inwardly prayed that the rest of the A-Team would hurry. They were effectively trapped, with the guards pulling one of Hannibal's classic pincer movements against them. Even with what BA had given him, his ammo supply wasn't going to hold off the guards for long . . .
Ceilings, nothing more than ceilings, I’m heading into ceilings, up above the floor.
Shut up, fool, or I'll come up there after you!
Boy, it's d-d-dark up here!
-- Murdock and BA, "The White Ballot"
Chapter 18: Escape Hatch
BA led Hannibal and Murdock past a small alcove
on the left side of the narrow hallway.
A tiny bed was crammed into the wood trimmed space, which was lined with
various cabinets, along with a small porcelain sink. On the other side were a couple of metal
cabinets surrounded by wood trim, along with what looked like a radio and a
telegraph. "This is the Captain's
quarters," the mechanical genius explained, as if giving his own tour to
the other two men.
As they continued to move toward the front of the sub, they entered into another section with four bunks, two on each side with one right on top of the other. A metal railing was built into the side of the bed, which were barely 30 inches wide, and helped to keep the occupants from falling out. They honestly looked hardly big enough for a child, much less a grown man. And like the Captain's quarters, these beds were also nestled into the wood paneling and trim that adorned the bulkheads in this area . . . something that gave the area a polished look, but one wouldn't normally expect to find on a submarine designed for war. "This is the senior officer's quarters," BA noted. "Galley's just past this."
Hannibal regarded both the Captain's quarters and senior officer's area with an appreciative eye, although he assumed that the Captain's quarters would have been bigger. Still, for a submarine, he wouldn't have expected an area adorned with wood paneling, trim, and cabinets. He would have thought that all areas of the vessel would have been like it was toward the aft . . . cold and metallic, without any comforts to help engrain the harsh reality of their duty to the men that served on board.
Moving through the senior officer's quarters, he joined Murdock and BA who were crammed into the tiny galley. There wasn't a lot of room, but he could see what looked like an old black and white metal stove which in and of itself could have been a stand alone museum piece due to its appearance. The white refrigerator was very small and reminded him of the one that had been in Mrs. B's apartment until Alvarez and his goons put a hole in the door. How a kitchen of this size could feed the crew of an entire submarine, which had to have at least 40 men on board, was beyond him. Then again, they probably didn't have anyone with an appetite like BA.
On the right side of the room, he could see the ladder that BA had said was here. He moved over to it and looked up, and sure enough the hatch was almost practically right there. The short climb would definitely be to their advantage with escaping. The Colonel moved over to the next hatch and peered through it. Along the left side of the room, he could see four bunks mounted to the bulkhead. As he looked to the right, it was obvious that the bunks that normally would have been on that side had been removed, likely to accommodate the tours the Museum provided through the confined space.
BA saw a slight nod from his Commanding Officer and took that as his cue. He grabbed the rungs and began to climb to the top of the ladder. Once he had gotten up there, which only took a few steps up, he carefully studied the steel hatch. His brown eyes clearly saw a ring of rust that formed on the connecting point where the hatch met the metal shaft that led into the vessel itself. If it was sealed shut with rust, then it was going to take all of his strength to open what hadn't been used since the sub had been captured by American Naval forces during World War II.
He reached up to the wheel on the inside of the hatch, which was often used by the crews to secure it and create a water-tight seal for when the sub was about to dive, and wrapped his fingers around the metal object. He tried to turn it, only to find out that it was just as he suspected . . . it didn't want to turn. The Sergeant readjusted his grip on the wheel and tried again, straining with all of his might. If he hadn't been wearing a parka, the others would have seen the muscles in his arm bulging . . . even quaking due to the amount of force that he was applying to try and get the hatch opened. He grunted with exertion, and his efforts finally were rewarded with a squeal as the wheel turned half an inch.
"At this rate, we'll die of old age before we get that thing open," Hannibal muttered, finding it a bit hard to believe that it was taking so long. He turned his head sharply toward the front of the sub as he heard some shouts and the echo of approaching footsteps come from the tunnel that led up into the crew quarters. He exchanged a quick glance with Murdock, his ice blue eyes saying it all.
The guards were coming . . .
Colonel Smith didn't hesitate for a second. Still with his gun at the ready, he ordered, "BA, get that hatch open. Murdock, we've got to hold those guards off." He slid the chamber of his silver plated Smith and Wesson 639 to load it and then flicked the safety off. He then wrapped his finger around the trigger and moved into the next section that contained the bunks.
Murdock nodded and pulled the clip of ammunition out from the handle of his Browning Hi-Power. He frowned once he saw how many bullets remained . . . only four. That likely wasn't going to be nearly enough to do much good with holding the guards off. He was going to have to tell his Commanding Officer, since that obviously was going to affect his plans.
As the silver-white haired leader took up a position on one side of the doorway leading down the tunnel to the rest of the Museum, he watched as his pilot took a spot on the other side of that doorway. The concern that was etched on his face was enough to prompt him to ask, "How's your ammo, Captain?"
"Got four bullets left," the Texan revealed grimly. "Used up most of it evadin' the guards before I ran into you guys." Once he had gotten to the last clip of ammo, he had tried to conserve it as much as possible. He glanced at Hannibal expectantly, not sure how he was going to react to that revelation. He hated the fact that he would have to abandon his position to fend off the guards once he used up his final bullet, but he knew that he wouldn't have any other choice.
"Do what you can. Once you run out, then check on BA's progress," Hannibal advised him. Leaning around the opening that led from the forward crew quarters into the tunnel, he quickly squeezed off a couple of shots into the semi-darkness beyond. Hearing a yelp of surprise echo down the passageway, the A-Team's Commanding Officer grinned around the cigar that was firmly clenched between his teeth. There was no way that they were going to get past him . . .
**********
Another screech could be heard within the galley, marking the progress made by BA Baracus. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead, not from how warm he was with still wearing his parka, but due to the strain of trying to open the hatch that had not been used in over 40 years. Although it was still a struggle, it was a bit easier after he had gotten it to turn that first quarter inch. Just a little bit more . . .
There . . . finally!
The wheel wouldn't turn any further, which meant that the hatch was unlocked . . . but the problem now was the rust that he could see caked up around the edges where the hatch met the metal shaft that led into the bowels of the sub. The presence of that rust was going to be a challenge, which meant that it was still going to take a lot of effort to open it.
He took another couple of steps up the ladder and braced his back against the wheel. By doing it that way, he could use his whole body to push against the hatch to try and get it to open. It boiled down to simple physics. The hatch may have been an immovable object, but the muscular Sergeant was an unstoppable force and definitely would not be deterred.
With his bullets spent, Murdock made his way back into the galley and saw BA's red Chuck Taylor tennis shoes planted firmly on one of the rungs of the ladder. He moved underneath the ladder and heard the grunts coming from the Ordinance Officer as he tried to get the hatch open. He could even see BA's face, which was contorted and showed how much strain he was trying to put on the circular metal door.
"How's it going, BA?" the lanky Texan innocently asked, although it was fairly easy to guess based on what he just observed.
BA opened his eyes and growled at the pilot. He knew that he had gone to help Hannibal hold off the guards from getting into the front of the sub, but he hadn't expected him to have returned to the galley so quickly. The sound of his smooth baritone voice literally caught him by surprise, and almost caused him to shift his position to where he could have fallen off the ladder. "Don't go sneakin' up on me like that, foo'," he chided.
"Sorry, BA," Murdock apologized. He certainly hadn't expected to scare the big guy, although if they hadn't been in the middle of this situation he would have thoroughly enjoyed it. It wasn't often that he managed to put a fight into the master mechanic. "I ran out of ammo and Hannibal wanted me to check on ya."
Although he expected some kind of a retort from the burly Sergeant, it never came. Instead, all the Texan heard was more grunts from the native Chicagoan as he strained to try and get the hatch open. And, in fact, he didn't blame BA for ignoring him and refocusing on the task at hand. Even as the Ordinance Officer did so, Murdock bounced nervously on the balls of his feet as he listened to the volley of gunfire increase in Hannibal's direction.
The increase in the exchange of bullets meant that the guards were likely getting closer. Concerned about the Colonel, Murdock moved closer to the doorway that separated the galley from the crew quarters and peeked around the corner. The sound of a loud pinging drew his focus, and he leapt back just in time. A bullet that had been fired from the guards was ricocheting among the bunks and nearly took off his nose!
Although the fighting was getting fierce on Hannibal's end, what also concerned the pilot was how the gunfire on Face's end was beginning to die down. That caused him to worry about how his best friend was faring. Based on how things were going, he knew at this point that neither the Colonel nor the Lieutenant had a lot of ammo left . . . that's if either one of them weren't already out.
Just then, he felt a gush of cold air come from above. It seeped through the fabric of his dark blue baseball cap and chilled the top of his thinning hairline. As he started to look toward the ladder, he could see the muscular form of BA Baracus quickly descend the few rungs to the floor. Between that burst of cold air that started to permeate through the sub, as well as the Sergeant climbing down, that could only mean one thing . . .
Their escape hatch was now open!
"Way to go, Big Guy!" Murdock congratulated him with a huge grin on his face. They were just moments from all of them getting out of there. He could literally just taste the cool night air that lay beyond that hatch, and their ticket to freedom.
BA gave a grunt of satisfaction. He didn't have a lot of time for pleasantries, not if they were going to have any chance of getting out of there alive. "I'm gonna get Face. You get Hannibal," the mechanic told him gruffly.
The Captain watched as the Sergeant headed back toward the aft of the sub in order to retrieve the con man. Once he did so, Murdock then moved back into the petty officer's quarters and approached the doorway that led to the tunnel. He watched Hannibal lean out again and fire another shot into the darkness beyond, still trying to hold off the guards from their approach.
"BA got the hatch open, Colonel," he informed his Commanding Officer. Hopefully, in the time that he went to check on BA, Hannibal had managed to come up with a fool proof plan that would get all of them out of there, especially with the enemy . . . so to speak . . . advancing from both fronts.
The silver-white haired leader fired another shot down the tunnel and then quickly crossed over to the other side of the opening by where the Texan was. "Get back there and start climbing out, Captain. I'll be right behind you," he instructed. Although it wasn't a direct order, the use of the rank meant that the situation was very serious . . . and he knew that Murdock would recognize that tone and know what he'd need to be prepared to do.
"You got it, Colonel," the smooth baritone of the pilot's voice responded. He peeled himself away from the hull by the tunnel and headed back into the galley. Once there, he firmly grabbed onto the ladder and started to quickly climb out into the cold night air.
The blizzard winds from earlier in the day still howled strongly, intensifying the cold. The snow was still falling steadily, blown around by the winter winds into large drifts . . . even on the deck of the submarine. Murdock pulled himself out onto the snow-covered deck, and then lay down beside the open hatch in order to peer into the sub. His legs of his khaki pants immediately became wet, which further chilled him to the bone, but his mind was focused on one thing. He was watching for the other members of his unit, hoping and inwardly praying that they could all escape along with him . . .
As he continued to look into the galley, he saw Hannibal back into sight and fire off a few more shots behind him. And then came the unmistakable click . . . one that reached his ears, even from his current position, and sent a feeling of dread through the pilot's wry form. The Colonel was out of ammo . . .
He watched his Commanding Officer turn and grab onto the ladder. A split second later, the A-Team leader froze and slowly pulled his hands away from the rungs. Murdock stuck his head into the hatch and was about to say something when he noticed Hannibal glance quickly in his direction and shook his head as if to ward him off. The Colonel's face was deadly serious, and his body language practically screamed that something was wrong. And then, the familiar black gloved hands raised partially in surrender . . .
Damn it! Things were definitely not going as planned. The guards captured Hannibal, and he could see his leader glance in the direction where Face and BA should have been coming from. A split second later, a deep male voice threatened, "Move an inch and I will shoot them both!"
The Captain paled. Clearly, that threat was directed at Hannibal, and made against BA and Face. It was bad enough that Hannibal got caught, but now BA and Face as well . . .
His heart
practically caught in his throat as fear gnawed at him . . . fear of the safety
of his unit. Ever since he had become a
member of the Team, one of the things that had been engrained into him was the
need to stick with his unit. As such,
his first instinct was to try and pull off a daring rescue. He couldn't leave the guys like that,
surrounded like General Custer as he made his brave last stand during the
Battle of Little Big Horn.
He got to his knees and moved back to the ladder, fully intent on climbing back
down to come to the aid of his friends when he saw something that caused him to
stop in his tracks. It was unmistakable
and impossible to miss, even though it was extremely discrete. Unless one was trained to watch for it, they
would have no idea what they were seeing.
The hand signal
for retreat . . .
Hannibal was making that signal with his right hand, and it clearly was directed at him. The Colonel wanted him to leave and not get caught like the rest of them. Chances were, if his Commanding Officer could talk to him right now, he'd likely make it a direct order . . . although he clearly understood why. He couldn't do anything for the guys by climbing back down there. If he even tried, he'd be caught with the rest of them. But, if he was on the outside, he could help them escape.
That was if Spencer's goons didn't kill the other members of the A-Team first . . .
It only took a moment for Murdock to make his decision as he pushed that horrifying thought into the deep recesses in the back of his mind. He continued to watch through the hatch as his friends were led away, and then jumped to his feet. His parka soaked due to laying in the snow, he made a mad dash for the shelter of the conning tower. Somehow, he had to find a way off the submarine and back inside the Museum so he could help his friends.
You're all dead men!
Really? Gee, I didn't think I'd feel this good after I was dead. I wanna thank you all for coming to the funeral.
-- Strickland and Face, "Harder Than it Looks"
Chapter 19: Face of the Enemy
BA charged through the narrow passages of the submarine, past the senior
officer's quarters and the captain's quarters.
As he neared the engine room, all he heard was the uneasy sound of
silence from in front of him. The
gunfire had stopped, which was never a good sign. It usually meant that one side overpowered
the other . . . but was it Face or the guards that got the upper hand? A surge of adrenaline rushed through his
veins as he feared that he was too late . . .
As he rushed into the control room, he immediately skidded to a halt once his gaze fell upon the scene before him. His dark brown eyes darted from the two guards standing in the doorway to the still figure lying next to them. Each of the guards held a pistol on their hands, and it was trained on the prone man. It didn't even register in his mind that the guards had turned their guns on him . . . not after he spotted the left side of the fallen blonde-haired man's face covered in blood.
Face . . .
The anger with the whole situation with Spencer and his Mama reached a critical level, and seeing the Lieutenant hurt was like an atomic bomb going off within him. Consumed by rage, he let out a deep growl that seemed to echo through the control room, amplifying the guttural expression. The muscular mechanic clenched his fists as his massive biceps bulged underneath his parka. He took one step forward, completely ignoring the guns. His only concern, right now, was the con artist lying on the floor. If Face was dead, he was going to kill them.
The older of the two guards, with jet black hair that was only slightly peppered with grey, saw the approach of the burly African American. It reminded him of a charge of an oncoming bull . . . and they almost practically might as well have been waving a red cape to spur him on. Thinking quickly, he turned his gun away from the advancing angry man and pointed it toward the figure that was still sprawled out on the floor, unmoving. "Take one more step, and he's as good as dead," the guard threatened firmly.
Instantly, BA froze in his tracks. Every muscle in his body tensed, like a cobra coiled up and ready to strike, as he appraised the two men. He had no doubt that he could take either one of them, or even both of them, but with that gun pointed at Face he couldn't take the risk. That's when a low moan from the floor caught his attention. "C'mon, man, let me help him," he urged to the two guards. He watched as they looked to each other and nodded, and then took a couple of steps back in order to allow the Ordinance Officer a chance to approach the wounded man.
The Sergeant immediately rushed over to the stirring form and knelt down next to him. The first thing he did was to search for the source of the blood streaming down his friend's face. That's when he spotted a small gash on the left side of Face's head, right above his left ear. From what he could tell, it looked like the bullet just grazed him which meant that the Lieutenant was lucky. The shot apparently was just enough to stun the con man, but not seriously injure him. He pulled out a large red handkerchief from out of the pocket of his overalls and pressed it against the wound to stop the flow of blood.
"Ow . . ." Face started to say as his blue eyes fluttered open. His gaze immediately fell onto the Ordinance Officer, and then shifted as he noted the two guards practically hovering over them with their guns aimed at the two members of the A-Team. He weakly tried to brush away the mechanic's hand, his words slurring as he protested, "'at 'hurts, BA."
"Good. 'Cause that means you ain't dead," he countered gruffly. He didn't reduce the pressure against the wound. If nothing else, he put a bit more on it which caused the con man to wince uncomfortably in pain. He hated causing his friend such pain, but it was with a good reason. "'Sides, I gotta stop the bleeding."
"Get him up," the older guard ordered curtly, his gun trained steadily at the two members of the A-Team. Now that they were caught, there was no way that they were going to take chances with either of these men . . . especially not with the big Black one who looked like he could have ripped their heads off if given a chance.
Moving cautiously, BA gently drew Face's left hand to the bandana and pressed it against the fabric. "Hold it right there," he instructed gently, but firmly. With the Lieutenant trying to staunch the bleeding on his own, the muscular mechanic reached down to help him up into a sitting position, and then eventually hoisted the smaller man to his feet. Templeton Peck swayed for a moment before regaining his balance. The Ordinance Officer watched him closely, and placed a strong hand on the con man's arm to keep him from falling again. After a brief moment, the Supply Officer nodded reassuringly at his friend.
"Move. We're going to collect the rest of your friends," the older guard instructed, waving his gun in the direction of the galley. After the intense fire fight, he was not going to take a chance with these men.
Slowly, BA helped to guide Face down the passageway toward the galley. In the back of his mind, he wondered if both Hannibal and Murdock got away. If they did then the guards that were following them closely, still with their guns trained on them, would likely be livid . . . and if they got upset over losing any of the other members of the A-Team, there was no telling what they might do. The big thing, at the moment, was to try and be as non-threatening as possible . . . something that was a major challenge for him considering his appearance.
As they eventually stepped into the galley, they could see Hannibal with his black gloved hands raised in surrender. He looked over to see the blood on the left side of his Lieutenant's face and was about to rush over to attend to the wound . . . which the con artist was pressing one of BA's bandana's against to slow the bleeding . . . when one of the guards threatened in a low voice, "Move an inch and I will shoot them both!"
The Colonel immediately froze, and as he did so his thoughts returned to the pilot. He knew Murdock all too well, especially since they thought so much alike. The Captain wasn't about to leave them and was probably trying to hatch his own plan in order to try and rescue them. If he did try to climb down at this point, he'd be captured just like they were and then he wouldn't be able to help get them out of this mess. Besides, if these rent-a-cops were as dumb as he thought they were, they'd likely slip up somehow and give them a way out.
But, not before taking them to see Spencer Jackson . . .
After what happened in the basement, he figured that the Director of Exhibits and Security was probably just itching for a chance to confront them, and even retrieve the documents they managed to take . . . the documents that would not only cost him the lucrative job at the Museum, but also put him away for a very, very long time. And, if what Face found was true, it looked like he may have been engaging in these illegal activities even before he got the director position. No . . . a meeting with Spencer right now was going to be interesting and fun, and he wouldn't want to miss that for the world.
Discretely, he formed the sign for retreat with his right hand. He knew that the Captain would notice it and knew what the Colonel intended for him to do. He had no doubt that the crazed man could pull a rescue off . . . but he couldn't do that if he couldn't gain a tactical advantage and got captured right away. He'd be better off pulling back and coming up with another method in order to secure the freedom of the rest of the A-Team.
"Let's go. Mr. Jackson wants to have a word with you," the black-haired guard directed as he waved his gun toward the front of the sub, indicating the direction he wanted the three men to take. The yellow staircase leading to the offices wasn't too much further, so it wouldn't take too long for them to get there.
For Colonel Smith, this was going much better than expected. Sure, the plan may have hit a snag, but they had managed to gather the evidence they needed . . . and now they were being taken for a confrontation with the key slimeball in this whole affair. Even as they were being forced toward the office under gunpoint, Hannibal couldn't help but to flash a huge, bright smile. In spite of the danger they were in, he was clearly on the Jazz and enjoying every second . . .
*******
"Well, well, well . . ." a deep bass voice filled the silence in the office.
Hannibal stood next to his men in the office of Spencer Jackson, noting the pressure of the barrel of a handgun from one of the guards as it was pressed into his back. BA and Face similarly had a guard standing behind them, also with a gun pointed directly at their spines. After that long, elusive chase through the Museum which allowed them to gather the evidence they needed, the guards had finally wised up and weren't taking any chances with the members of the A-Team. So much for not teaching an old dog new tricks . . .
There was also something else that stood out to the Colonel as well . . . the eerie silence within the office. He remembered hearing the wail of the alarm stop just as they had been led out of the sub and before being escorted up to Spencer's office. The blood on the left side of his Lieutenant's face concerned him, but he remained sharp and observant. There was a strong chance they'd be able to tend to his wound later, once everything was said and done. Right now, Hannibal knew that he couldn’t afford to slip up and make a dumb mistake that could get all of them killed.
Hopefully, the guards were unaware of Murdock's escape . . .
Spencer Jackson walked around the desk to stand in front of them, studying the three men standing in a line in front of him. He then moved to stand in front of the A-Team's leader as he stated in a triumphant voice, "Colonel John Hannibal Smith . . ."
The Commanding Officer looked to his other men and grinned, before slowly reaching into the pocket of his safari jacket under the parka and pulled out the cigar that Face had given him earlier. The end had already been chewed off, although he would have loved to have treated the sleeze ball to the indignity of spitting out the end of the cigar onto the floor of his office. For the moment, he pulled out and flipped open a lighter, allowing the flame to dance at the end of his fine Cuban stogie. He knew that smoking a cigar would invariably annoy his captors, and he was rewarded by a brief flash of anger in Spencer's eyes. That reaction was exactly what Hannibal expected, which brought a smug expression to his face.
Ignoring the obvious taunt by the Colonel, the Director of Exhibits and Security moved to stand in front of the next man within the line. He carefully regarded the blonde-haired man, who had blood streaking down the left side of his face. Spencer noted the red handkerchief that was pressed against the wound in order to try and slow the flow of blood. "Lieutenant Templeton Peck," he continued, the victorious tone in his voice still resonating.
Face, on the other hand, held Spencer's gaze for a long moment, his blue eyes lit with challenge. He deliberately smiled, masking the pain that was attacking his head with a gong following being grazed by a bullet. Normally, he and the Colonel would trade barbs at their captors as quickly as they could think them up, but right now he couldn't concentrate long enough to come up with any with how the wound throbbed insistently. One thing he had noticed . . . although Hannibal hadn't spoken a word since they had been taken captive, he was glad to see the familiar cigar. That meant that his Commanding Officer still had some defiance left, which just encouraged the young Lieutenant that much more to maintain the challenging grin he forced onto his face . . . even if it was something he could barely manage.
Spencer moved to the last person in the line and regarded the muscular form of Mrs. Baracus' son. There had been something right away about him that he hadn't liked when he had first seen him within Addie's apartment. He couldn't quite put his finger on it at the time, but he had been certain at that early stage that it wasn't due to all of the gold chains hanging around his neck. Now, knowing exactly who was standing before him, his own dislike for the man had been confirmed and then some. "And Sergeant BA Baracus," he continued, his voice dripping with distain.
If only looks
could kill! BA glared at the man that
had been dating his Mama and let out a low, deep growl as his face contorted
into a sneer. He was beyond angry and
wanted to wring the man's neck after what he had done to his Mama, and for Face
getting hurt. He felt the gun digging
into his back, forcing him to keep still.
It was taking an extraordinary amount of self control right now to keep
the Ordinance Officer from springing into action and ultimately tearing Spencer
from limb to limb. If there hadn't been
guns similarly positioned at Face and Hannibal,
he would have acted upon the rage that intensified inside of him.
Spencer was a bit surprised at the hatred and anger in that animal-like growl
coming from Mrs. Baracus' son. He hadn't
expected such intensity from the man, yet the Director hid his own reaction
well by turning his back on BA and walked across the office to gaze out the
window into the dark night. Even from
where his office was located, he could see a few bright lights dotting the
famous Lake Shore Drive,
and the white crests of Lake Michigan's
breaking waves lapping against the shore.
After a moment of taking in the sight of the
darkness outside, which seemed almost as black and torrent as his very soul, he
turned around and moved back to stand in front of the Sergeant. "I ran a check on you and your friends
right after your mother introduced us.
She had been careful not to mention you in our previous conversations,
and now I know why. The A-Team . . ."
Spencer started to say, his voice practically purring like a cat that knew that
it had caught a big canary. Now that he
knew who these men were, he didn't dare move closer to them, but he turned his
head to look into each of their faces.
He let out a sigh that was similar to a father who much now punish his
son for going out of bounds as he continued, "Still, I had hoped that you
wouldn't have grown suspicious and kept clear of my business. I guess that was too much to expect from
yourselves."
The face of the bearded man, with greased back hair, was not only calm as he looked into the eyes of his enemies . . . the very people that wanted to thwart his plans . . . but filled with an expression of triumph. He looked directly at BA, who was obviously seething with anger. That's what made this victory that much more sweet . . . although, there was a tinge of sadness within his voice. "You know, I really did like your mother. Sure, I needed her to act as a cover for me. After all, no one would suspect sweet, harmless, old Mrs. Baracus."
Just hearing his mother's name was enough to bring a deep, threatening growl to the lips of the burly Sergeant. A fire burned deeply within his eyes, and he would have lunged for Spencer to tear him apart, but again he showed an incredible amount of restraint. Of course, with the gun from the guard pressed against his back, he had no other choice for the moment . . .
Spencer ignored the menacing look and the threatening growl from the Ordinance Officer and turned his back on the members of the A-Team. He started to walk around to behind his desk as he let out a bit of a sigh. "She really is a wonderful woman. A bit naïve, and an absolute joy to be around. If I weren't involved in this . . ." his voice trailed off, almost as if he couldn't bear to go in that direction. He turned back around and fixed his gaze on the Colonel. "It's a pity that I'm going to have to hurt her even more by killing her son and his friends."
"Ha!" Hannibal reacted immediately and sarcastically to the Director's threat. He removed the cigar from where it was wedged between his teeth, and lightly rolled it back and forth between his gloved fingers. His ice blue eyes took on a hardened tone as he transfixed his gaze onto the man, his eyes practically boring into him like a powerful drill cutting a hole into a piece of wood. The Commanding Officer's voice was firm and confident as he challenged, "You can't get away with it, and you know it. Our friend escaped, remember? And even if he hadn't, Mrs. Baracus knows where we went and why, and she'll alert the police immediately."
Spencer's eyes narrowed with the jab. He had been furious with his guards when they had showed up with only three members of the A-Team and had immediately ordered the search for Murdock to continue. But, there was something about what the silver-white haired man had said that stood out at him. He had the upper hand here, and he knew it . . . and it was time to call out the Colonel on his bluff. "I don't think so. I believe you were doing this on your own. You wouldn't have risked hurting Addie with your suspicions when you had no evidence at the time."
Hannibal hadn't expected Mrs. B's beau to call him on his bluff. The expression on his face was impassive, yet the silence . . . the lack of a witty retort . . . likely spoke volumes to their captor. No . . . he was going to remain observant and bide his time.
He knew that
Spencer was right about one thing. Although
BA had talked to his mother and let her know that they were going to look into
their suspicions of him, they hadn't shared anything they had learned with
her. So she had nothing to go on if she
were to even go to the police. What was
she going to say anyway without any kind of evidence? That her son and her friends, all military
fugitives, went missing while trying to check on someone that they believed to
be engaging in underhanded activity? Oh
yeah, that would go over well. She'd get
laughed right out the door of the cop shop.
Yet, in spite of this his eyes glinted with a strange combination of
anger and the Jazz that had been there ever since he had seen the blood
covering his Lieutenant's face.
That telling silence was enough to make Spencer give out a hearty laugh. He had the A-Team right where he wanted
them. Never would he have imagined his
good fortune, or even the possibility that Addie's son was a member of the
fugitive military unit. Fortunately for
him, they were wanted dead or alive . . . and they were just too much of a risk
to his plans being alive now that they likely knew what he was about to do.
"And, as for your friend . . . a Captain H. M. Murdock?" the Director started to say with a derisive sneer within the tone of his voice. A slight smirk appeared upon his lips, his voice showing just how confident he was. "He is an escaped mental patient. Even if he goes to the cops, who is going to take is word over mine?"
The Colonel
looked over to his men, trying to gauge their reactions to what was being
said. Face didn't react, but he could
tell that BA was ready to explode. He
then then returned his gaze to Spencer, into the face of the man who had proven
to be a formidable adversary, knowing that he was telling the truth about the
Texan. If their pilot tried going to the
cops and they checked into his background while trying to investigate his
claims, they'd immediately dismiss them as some kind of a fantasy created by
the delusions and hallucinations attributed to his perceived medical condition.
Spencer reached to a handle of a drawer on the left side of his desk and slowly
slid it open, revealing a .357 Magnum sitting inside. He wrapped his right hand around the gun and
pulled it out, caressing the barrel gently.
"You are wanted dead or alive, gentlemen. You broke into my Museum and started a
firefight with my guards," he stated with malice in his tone. A flash of anger filled his face for a moment
before he calmed down and looked steadily at them. "Unfortunately, for everyone involved, I
will have to report that you were killed in the exchange of gunfire."
His right thumb reached behind the weapon and found the hammer. The cocking of the gun echoed ominously in the deathly silence . . .
You’re under arrest! You’re under arrest! You guys are all goin' to jail!
Thank you.
-- Warden and Hannibal, "Pros and Cons"
Chapter 20: Arrested Development
None of the A-Team members reacted to the sound
of the gun in Spencer's hand being cocked.
They all looked straight ahead, almost as if they had been lined up to
face a firing squad and were about to face it with honor, dignity, and pride. Hannibal
wedged his cigar back between his teeth and narrowed his ice blue eyes slightly
at their captor. Spencer had called his
bluff earlier, but the Colonel was still counting on a couple of things that
could still save them from an early grave.
Almost as if right on cue, there was a knock on the door that separated the office they were in now from Mrs. B's office. The Director of Exhibits and Events wasn't expecting to have his moment of triumph . . . his moment of satisfaction interrupted. He clearly looked annoyed as he hissed, "Come in."
Slowly, the door to the office creaked open, the sound filling the air in such a way to where it was like fingernails on a chalkboard. A young guard, who looked barely old enough to shave, with blonde hair could be seen peering inside. He could tell that he was interrupting something important and looked so nervous that he was likely going to run out and hurl. "S-s-sir?" he started to say, his jitters extremely apparent with how he was stuttering.
Spencer Jackson glared fiercely at the guard, a rage burning within his eyes due to the interruption. "What is it?" he snarled, wanting to get the info out of the man so he could return to the task at hand.
"Uh . . . s-s-sir . . . the police are here," the young guard mentioned, still sounding very nervous. "I told Jamison to tell them we had captured the intruders, then I came up here to tell you. They should be coming up here to arrest them any moment now."
Upon hearing that statement, Hannibal let out a hearty laugh around his cigar. He was counting on that happening, actually. The cunning strategist figured that the rent-a-cops that were hired as security guards for the Museum likely didn't have much in the way of brain cells and would screw up somehow. And their mistake was definitely in the favor of the A-Team. There was no way that Spencer could kill them now without the police knowing it was murder. His blue eyes danced merrily as he observed the infuriated Director, who looked like a volcano that was about to explode . . .
"You idiot!" Spencer snapped back in an angry snarl. He was beyond livid, and it showed in the menacing look within his eyes. His own guards had just robbed him of his greatest moment of satisfaction. "Why didn't you just tell them it was a false alarm and let me deal with this as I choose?"
The young guard really had no idea how to respond to that. He opened and closed his mouth in surprise, which made him look like a fish out of water. He obviously hadn't thought of that, and did what he believed that all good security guards would have done.
Hannibal glanced over to his men and couldn't help but to grin around his cigar. He loved watching a mark squirm, especially when they thought the upper hand and it had just been ripped out from under them like a cheap throw away rug. Due to the mistake from the guards, they'd likely get carted off to jail, but he was certain that wasn't going to hold them for very long . . . especially not if Murdock came through for them like he had planned.
After a long moment Spencer held up his left hand, which had not been holding the gun, almost as if trying to stop the guard from making any more pathetic attempts to apologize or offer excuses. "Never mind. It doesn't matter anyway," he started to say, his voice regaining his composure that he had prior to the interruption. His dark eyes still flared with anger as he watched the young guard quickly make his way back out of the office.
"Some security you have there, pal," Hannibal couldn't help to remark. He relished being able to throw verbal barbs at an enemy, especially when they realized that they or their men screwed in some way. Sure, it'd likely frustrate Spencer to no end, but when someone like him could be pushed over the limit and react in such a way, it could cause him to make even more sloppy mistakes that could play into the A-Team's favor.
The Director of Exhibits and Security returned his attention to the A-Team, particularly the Colonel after he had made the comment he did. A sneer appeared upon his face as he regarded the Commanding Officer of the crack military unit that stood before him. Even though they had skillfully eluded his guards for a while, truthfully he had expected more of a fight from these men once he had learned who he was having to deal with.
"You and your friends are going straight to prison. No matter what you think you learned here tonight, nobody will believe a word you tell them . . . and if they do think to question me, they will never find anything to prove your claims," Spencer commented, his gruff, deep voice filled with malice. His dark eyes bore into the crystal blue eyes of Hannibal's, almost as if trying to look into his very soul and try to read the man from the inside out. After a moment, he broke the gaze as he turned his attention to the guards behind each of the men. In an authoritative tone, he ordered, "Search them. I want those blueprints they took, and anything else they may have found."
Face's expression revealed nothing after he heard Spencer deliver that order to his guards. He knew that he had to act quickly before the guards could get a chance to rummage through his pockets and take the one thing that contained most of the evidence. He gave a moan and slumped to the ground, using his right hand to catch himself. He dropped the left hand with the handkerchief to where it almost seemed like he was going to use that hand as well to brace himself, but instead discretely reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat.
Both Hannibal and BA instinctively wanted to move and help their fallen team member, but the guards that covered them pressed their guns into their backs a bit harder as a firm reminder . . . a warning that if they were to try it, they'd be on the receiving end of a bullet. Instead, they could only watch as the one guard who had been covering Face grabbed onto him and forcefully lifted the Lieutenant back to his feet.
"Hey, take it easy," Face weakly protested, still clutching the bandana in his left hand. He let out a groan of discomfort with how he was forcefully lifted back to his feet, and then stood as the guard started searching through the pockets of his suit coat and his parka, relieving him of the poster and papers he had grabbed from Spencer's office earlier, as well as his lockpicks and safe cracking equipment. As he lifted the red handkerchief back up to press it against his head wound, he shot Hannibal and BA a very small, discrete smile to not only reassure them that he was alright, but also as an indication that he may have pulled off the a perfect shell game.
With the con artist back on his feet again, the other guards started to search through the pockets of BA and Hannibal. They relieved the Colonel of the blueprints and map he had gotten from the basement, as well as his cigars and a lighter. One of the guards had tried to touch the massive mound of gold that hung from the muscular Sergeant's neck, but a menacing scowl and a frightening growl had quickly convinced the guard that he wasn't hiding anything in or under that mass of gold.
Spencer looked at what had been stripped from the various members of the A-Team as he wondered just how much they managed to figure out. Truthfully, there wasn't a lot here for them to go on, yet when everything was combined and once the news hit the streets tomorrow after what was about to take place, it would be extremely incriminating. He gathered up all of the papers and walked over to the corner of the room, a look of triumph again filling his face. He removed the picture from the wall and then quickly opened the safe. He then slid the papers inside, closed the safe, and returned the painting to where it had sat before.
He walked back over to the desk and looked at the remaining items that rested upon the surface . . . the slender black case with the zipper that belonged to Templeton Peck, and four finely rolled Cuban cigars and a plain silver lighter. "I think we'll turn this black case over to the police . . . but these . . . I think I'll just hang onto these to savor my victory over the infamous A-Team," Spencer noted smugly as he picked up one of Hannibal's cigars and the lighter. He wedged the cigar between his teeth and flicked the lighter open to where a flame appeared at the end of it. He allowed it to lick at the end of the stogie until he was able to pull a drag on it. The expression on his face indicated that he was mildly impressed by the richness of the flavor of the cigar before he blew out a puff of smoke at the three intruders to his Museum.
He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and held it in his right hand as a knowing smirk filled his face. "I don't know how much you have figured out, but it doesn't really matter now, does it? You are wanted men, and the cops won't believe you. They'll think that you're trying to feed them a story to try and worm your way to freedom, and there is nothing you can do to stop me now. If necessary, I can be out of the country before sundown tomorrow. And you, my friends, won't be seeing the light of day for another thirty years," he told all of them, the tone of his voice filled with confidence knowing that he had won.
No sooner had he said that, the sound of voices could be heard from Mrs. Baracus' office and he could see the shadow of a figure wearing a military-style dress uniform hat standing outside the door. A knock upon the wooden door echoed loudly, announcing the arrival of the Chicago police department . . .
**********
The tiny needles of the green bushes poked at his exposed flesh, but the wry figure of H. M. Murdock ignored it. He had chosen this location to lay in waiting, after making his way down off the sub, in order to keep an eye on the front door to the Museum and wait for his chance to try and rescue the other members of the unit. Unfortunately, it seemed almost as if everything was working against him . . .
No sooner had he emerged from the sub, the weather started to turn for the worst again. What was that saying about this very thing that Chicagoans had . . . if you don't like the weather, go inside and wait 15 minutes? Well, right now he certainly didn't believe it. The dark, night sky was heavy with clouds, and the snow started to fall again at an increasing rate. The wind whipped up once more with the force of a blizzard, lashing at anything in its path. He was starting to feel numb from the bitter cold and how wet his clothes had gotten by laying in the snow for cover. Even his toes throbbed, and he knew that there was a real risk of getting frostbite. And the night seemed to be promising to only get worse . . .
But, what also concerned him was the flashing blue mars lights that cast the nearby snow with an eerie glow. Those lights sat on top of several white Ford Crown Victorias, each of which bore a light blue stripe along the length of the car, and four orange stars. Thanks to the TV shows he had watched while at the VA like Hill Street Blues, he immediately recognized the vehicles as belonging to the Chicago police department. From his hiding spot, he had watched as the cops pulled up several minutes ago, and several officers emerged from their vehicles and headed inside the Museum. If the boys in blue were here, that could only mean one thing . . .
They were likely responding to the alarm and were here to arrest the guys. The way he figured it, though, maybe it was a good thing. With the evidence that they had managed to find, how they interrupted the secret basement meeting with the assassin, as well as how long they had eluded the security guards inside the Museum, Spencer was likely enraged enough to want to kill the guys. The arrival of the CPD was hopefully just the thing to prevent them from being removed in body bags.
Murdock continued to lay in the snow, ignoring how much colder he was feeling, as his brown eyes remained focused on the large copper doors. After a few minutes after the police had disappeared into the building, they emerged with the members of the A-Team. He could immediately tell that Hannibal and BA had their hands cuffed behind their backs. Face was the only one who wasn't wearing handcuffs, as he was pressing the red bandana against his head.
As he continued to look at his best friend, that's when he noticed the blood on the con man's pail face. It was obvious that the Lieutenant had been hurt . . . but when? He was fine when they entered the sub, so could it have happened when he was trying to hold off the guards? Or did Spencer cause this? Either way, he felt a flash of worry as he watched, although he was overwhelmed with relief that they were all still alive.
After he had managed to get down from that sub, the pilot had searched for another way to get back in and help his friends. Sure, Hannibal ordered him to retreat with that hand signal, but he also knew that he wouldn't abandon them and leave them behind. Unfortunately, when he wasn't able to get back into the Museum, he began to panic as his fertile imagination supplied ever more gruesome scenes of what might have been going on inside.
As much as he wanted to pull off a daring rescue now, he knew that he couldn't . . . not without being put into cuffs himself. If he was arrested, then there'd be no way that any of them would be able to escape. No . . . he was going to have to find a way to get them out of the police station . . . but, with a city as large as Chicago there were likely several stations spread all throughout the area, so it became more of a question of where they'd be taken to than anything else. There was only one problem, though . . .
He didn't know Chicago.
BA grew up here, and Hannibal visited here as a kid, so they were much more familiar with the city than he was. He might be able to figure out how to get to Mrs. B's place from here, but that was about it. He was already coming up with an idea that he could use to help free the guys, but in order to pull it off he was definitely going to need help and provisions . . .
The Captain watched as the police led Hannibal, BA, and Face down the steps of the Museum. They were all looking around and he knew that they had spotted the black Suburban that Face had managed to rent. They likely figured that after the Colonel ordered him to retreat, he would have found a way to hotwire the vehicle so he could get out of there without being caught.
That's when it happened . . . he noticed Face looking straight at him! Somehow, the sharp blue eyes of the Lieutenant spotted him, nestled in the bushes and snow as he lay in wait. But if his best friend had spotted him so easily, were the police going to also spot him? Thankfully, the police wasn't as observant as he was and seemed to be focused just on getting the members of the A-Team to their patrol cars, otherwise they likely would have gone after him as well.
As he continued to look on, he thought he saw a strange smile on the con man's face. Was he trying to tell him something? A split second later, the Lieutenant stumbled and dropped to his knees, causing the swarm of cops to pause. BA and Hannibal looked to Face, unable to help him due to the handcuffs, but the cop that was nearby quickly helped him back to his feet.
The Texan watched as they reached the police cars, and his friends were ushered into the back of one of the cruisers. Spencer must have taken Face's lockpicks, otherwise they would have been out of the cuffs by now and trying to fight for their freedom. He remained pressed into the snow, in his hiding spot, as he watched the police cars pull away with their sirens wailing into the night and the blue mars lights serving almost like a beacon in the darkness.
He waited for a bit until after the cars had left and he watched the Museum security guards tromp back inside the relative warmth of the Museum. His brown eyes surveyed the scene, and assured that the coast was clear, he pushed himself up out of the snow and raced over to where Face had stumbled. That grin that had appeared on his best friend's face was a sign . . . he was telling him something, and he knew that he needed to check out that very spot.
As he approached, he saw what looked like a piece of red fabric sticking out from the snow. He stumbled over as best as his numb legs would allow him to and soon recognized the fabric as BA's red bandana, which was stained with blood from the Lieutenant's wound. Why hadn't the police picked this up after Face had dropped it? Didn't they even see it, or were they just so focused on getting them inside the back of the cop car that they didn't even want to bother investigating what seemed like a harmless handkerchief?
Reaching into the snow with a gloved hand, he grabbed the bandana and dashed back to the safety of the bushes along the side of the building. He wasn't about to stay out in the open any longer than he had to, just in case the guards decided to do a sweep to see if they could find him. Since Spencer had already met all of them at Mrs. B's apartment, he knew that there were four of them. Since he had only captured three, he'd be a fool if he didn't keep up the search for the elusive pilot.
Sheltered in the hiding spot he had previously, he noted that the bandana was a bit heavier than it should have been for a simple piece of fabric. He unwrapped it within his gloved hands, his eyes widening a bit as he saw what had been contained within it . . .
It was the miniature camera that Face carried around in case it was needed to take pictures of documents whenever he had to gather evidence, and he likely wouldn't be allowed to walk out with the papers themselves. In fact, he remembered the con artist taking pictures of the site map and the blueprints while they were in the silent movie theater inside the Museum.
That's when it dawned on him . . . Face must have pulled a wounded raccoon trick in order to hide the camera in the bandana and prevent it from being taken.
"Bingo," he whispered with a bit of a smile. Although Spencer may have taken back the rest of the papers that Face and Hannibal had lifted, the pictures on the camera in his hands would be more than enough to put him behind bars for a very, very long time.
There was only one problem. He knew he couldn't go to the police . . . especially not if Spencer had given them his description. They'd arrest him on sight for breaking in and entering, along with theft. Even if they didn't, once they realized that he lived in the mental ward of a VA, they'd discount anything he'd have to say in an instant. No, he needed another way before the MPs showed up . . .
An idea was already starting to formulate in his mind in terms of how he could free the guys, but he was going to need help on this one and a few things to help him pull this off. Taking a final look around him, he dashed out from his hiding spot into the growing blizzard, thankful that he had been observant enough to remember how to get to Mrs. B's place from here. It was going to take him a bit to get there anyway with the weather like it was, although thankfully she didn't live too far away. He hated having to get her involved in this, but she knew Chicago and he didn't. He was going to need her help if he had any chance of freeing the rest of the A-Team, and he had to do it tonight.
He doesn’t look like a crazy man.
Wait till you get to know me.
-- Mrs. Baracus and Murdock, "Lease With an Option to Die"
Chapter 21: Mama Bear
"Mrs. B?"
Murdock shivered outside the door to the apartment, barely able to get his knuckles to rap upon the oak wood. The number 312 was emblazoned upon the door in raised gold. Now that he was inside the relative warmth of the hallway of the building itself, his fingers and toes throbbed and almost felt like they were on fire as the numbness began to wear off.
"Mrs. B?" he called out again, barely able to knock on her door with how much he was shivering. "It's me, Murdock." He was trying to keep things at a relatively low volume and not make a lot of noise. Although most of the neighbors would have remembered him and the rest of the A-Team from when they had helped prevent Philip Chadway from running them out of their building, they likely wouldn't like having their sleep disturbed at this time of night.
Inwardly, he hoped that Mrs. B didn't sleep as soundly as BA did. When the Sergeant slept, he was hard enough to wake up as it was, even without being in a chemically or physically induced slumber that was necessary to get him on a plane. If she did, then he stood no chance of being able to free the guys in time to stop Spencer or his assassin.
A moment later, he thought he heard something coming from the other side of the door. A moment later, the door opened a crack and he could see the weary face of Adele Baracus as she spotted her visitor. The Texan saw her tired eyes widen with recognition as she exclaimed, "Oh my word . . . Murdock!"
She shut the door slightly, and he could hear the scraping of something metal against the door. That's when he remembered that she had a draw chain installed on it for an added measure of security. In fact, he had practically been looking at the gold chain when she had opened the door a crack. He heard the soft chink of the chain as it fell loose, and then saw the door as it flung wide.
The moment the door was fully open, the pilot could see Adele Baracus standing before him, in a long, pink flannel nightgown with white lace around the neckline, which peeked out from beneath a soft pink bathrobe. Her hair had put into large rollers that stuck out from all over her head, which made it look like someone took those sticky lint rollers and ran it through her black hair.
The look on Mrs. B's face went from shock upon seeing the tall, lanky figure on her doorstep this late at night to one of grave concern when she noticed how wet he was, how much he was shivering, and the fact that his lips were practically blue. She also couldn't help but to notice the lack of her son and the other members of the A-Team with him.
"Get in here this instant, young man," she ordered, almost like a mother that was about to scold a teenage son for doing something seriously wrong even though Murdock was well within his 30s. She probably realized that came out a bit too harsh than she had intended. She quickly ushered him inside and closed the door, noticing just how wet his parka was and how coldness just seemed to radiate off of him. Her tone softened a bit, but was still firm as she asked, "What's going on? What happened? Where's my Scooter?"
Murdock let out a strong sneeze and sniffled a bit, before bringing the wet sleeve of his parka up to wipe his running nose. "It's a long story, Mrs. B," he started to explain, his Texan drawl somewhat thick as he hesitated. She wanted to know, but he knew that he was going to have to put this delicately considering how this involved the guy that was seeing her. He moved over to take a seat on one of the wooden kitchen tables, not even daring to sit down on her sofa with how wet his clothes were.
She turned and watched him, and cringed slightly when she heard him sneeze. Immediately, her nurturing instincts took over. As much as she wanted to listen to what he had to say, she knew that he was going to get horribly sick if he continued to sit around in those wet clothes. "If my Scooter is in trouble, I wanna hear about what's going on, but first . . ." Her voice trailed off as she made her way into her bedroom. A few moments later, she emerged through the doorway, carrying a couple of large white fluffy towels and a pink bathrobe with frills around the neck, sleeves, and bottom hem. She then ordered, "Get your wet clothes off and put these on. We have to warm you up before you get pneumonia."
He smiled slightly at Mrs. B's quick efficiency as he took the bathrobe and towels from her. He sniffled again as he made his way into the bathroom, and then let out a huge sneeze right after he had shut the door. As much as he had grown to enjoy the snow in Chicago, he was really starting to hate how cold it was . . . especially after escaping from that sub, and spending more than an hour in the elements before he managed to get to Mrs. B's apartment. As he mulled things over within his mind, he pulled off his wet clothes, realizing for the first time just how soaked all of his clothes were, not just his pants and the parka. It got down to his leather bomber jacket and t-shirt as well.
Once his clothes were removed, he folded them up and put on the bathrobe that Mrs. B had given him. He dutifully dried off and slipped on the robe that she gave him, and then grimaced as he caught his reflection in the mirror. Although it was big enough around his torso, it was a bit short and only went to just above his knees. Add that to the frills around the neckline, the sleeves, and at the bottom . . . not to mention the fact that it was pink, of all colors . . . and he looked pretty ridiculous. But, he never heard anyone actually dying of embarrassment and humiliation, as compared to hypothermia.
In a way, he was glad the rest of the guys weren't here right now to see him, otherwise they'd never let him live this down. It wasn't like he hadn't dressed up like a woman before, but that was usually in the line of duty. But, this was Mrs. B, who seemed to take a shine to his antics and accepted him for who he was. He took a breath and opened the door to the bathroom and then stepped out into the kitchen.
If Mrs. B was going to laugh at the lanky Texan's current situation, she gave no indication of doing so. Instead, the moment she saw him emerge, she walked out from the kitchen and brought over a bowl and a cup, both of which were steaming, and placed them on the dining table. "Now you sit yourself down. I made you a nice bowl of chicken soup and some hot tea. That should warm you up real quick," she directed before disappearing into the bathroom for a moment.
Murdock walked barefoot through the apartment and sat down on one of the dining room chairs. He couldn't help but to smile a bit as he watched her disappear into the bathroom, and then emerge a few moments later with is wet clothes, which she started to drape over the radiator that provided warmth within her apartment. With everything she was doing and fussing over him, it was very easy to see why BA loved and respected her so much. Although he barely remembered his mom, since she died when he was so young, Mrs. B was definitely every bit what a mother should be and then some.
After she finished draping his clothes over the long, white radiator, she walked back into the kitchen for a moment. She returned to the dining area, holding her own steaming cup of tea which she set down on the table as she sat down across from him. She noticed that he had just started to eat his soup, and his skin was already starting to turn a normal color again. "You feelin' any better, Murdock?" she asked, a great amount of concern very apparent within the tone of her voice.
He lifted the cup of tea to his lips and took a sip before setting it down and nodded. His sniffles were gone, for the most part, and the hot chicken soup and tea were doing just the trick to warm him up after all that time he had spent out in the brutal cold and blizzard conditions. "Much better, Mrs. B," he smiled a bit. "Thanks."
She studied him with her dark, shrewd eyes for a moment, before deciding to broach the subject of what brought him here to her doorstep at this time of night. "Now that you're feeling better, I wanna hear what happened with my Scooter. Why don't you tell me all about it?" she suggested softly, but firmly, in a tone that indicated that she wouldn't accept anything other than the truth.
He paused for a moment and looked down into his bowl of soup, stirring the yellowish liquid a bit absent mindedly with his spoon as he debated in his mind just how much he should actually tell her. He knew that BA had told her that they were looking into Spencer to try and protect her, but she hadn't known they were going to break into the Museum. Mentally, he ran over the various options in his mind and each time came back to the same conclusion. If he had any chance of getting the guys out of jail before the little green elves showed up, he was going to need her help. And the only way to secure her help was to tell her the truth. Even with how she asked him, he knew that she was expecting that and wouldn't be satisfied if he held anything back.
"Okay," he started off by saying, sounding a bit awkward since he wasn't sure how she was going to react to the news. It was probably best to make it more like a conversation, where he broke it down into segments and perhaps asked some questions along the way. "You know how BA told you that we were gonna check on Spencer and see what he was up to?"
She nodded before taking a sip of her tea. "Yes, Scooter told me 'bout that when we were skating. I didn't think you boys would turn up with anything, but he just wanted to be sure," she admitted. She hadn't been too happy when BA had initially told her that they wanted to investigate Spencer, but she knew that they were suspicious of him and had just wanted to make sure that he wasn't doing anything that warranted their suspicions.
"Well . . ." Murdock hesitated. He wasn't sure how Mrs B was going to react to what he was about to tell her, even though it was necessary in order to reveal everything to her and how their suspicions were confirmed. He just hoped that she didn't kill the messenger, so to speak. "BA planted a few bugs in Spencer's office, and one in yours . . ."
"Scooter did what?!?" she blasted in anger. She had never expected her son, of all things, to put devices within her office and Spencer's to listen in on their conversations. That angered her beyond belief since she thought that she could trust her son and his friends to check into things without having to resort to spying.
"Whoa . . . hold on, Mrs. B," the Texan countered with his warm drawl, hoping that maybe he could ease her anger at the A-Team. He hadn't expected her to react in that way, even though she had every right to. Even though BA had told her that they would be checking on Spencer, hearing that they had bugged both of their offices . . . including hers . . . would be enough to cross the line for anyone. "It was the only way that we could listen in on him without tippin' him off. If he knew that the offices were bugged, he'd shut up tighter than a clam and we wouldn't have been able to get anythin'."
Her dark eyes looked at the crazed man intensely, expectantly. She was still upset at that revelation of her office being bugged, but his logic was relatively sound. It was almost like those video cameras from the news. From what she had seen and heard, they turned off the little red light on the viewfinder so nobody knew when they were being taped. If they did know, they wouldn't be as open or forthcoming with their responses. "And, did you pick up anything?" she questioned, the anger having not yet left the tone of her voice.
Murdock took another bite of his soup, and then nodded grimly. He drew in a breath as he set the spoon back down into the bowl and then informed her, "Yeah . . . we did," he nodded, hoping that maybe what he'd tell her could re-direct that anger away from her son and the A-Team to where it rightfully belonged. "He used your phone to make a late night phone call and mentioned some kinda demonstration and the news of what'd happen would spread internationally. The call went to a shipping company he's been using. We did some checkin', and that company's got some strong ties to a guy named Scarlotti."
Mrs. B looked at the pilot curiously and simply asked, "Who's Scarlotti?" The anger that had been present in her voice before was gone, this time replaced by a great deal of patience and curiosity as she listened to what he had to say.
"He heads up a powerful Italian mafia. We tangled with him before when we had to rescue the daughter of a judge he kidnapped. The guy chased us all over Italy, and then onto a cruise ship that we managed to get on to head back to the States," he continued to explain before taking yet another bite of the soup before it got too cold. He stirred at the liquid a bit again before setting the spoon back down into the bowl. "That judge put away Scarlotti's brother, and still ain't happy 'bout that."
Mrs. Baracus took another sip of her tea, and continued to look at the wry figure of Murdock. In spite of his efforts, she still wasn't making the connection. So, Spencer made a phone call to his usual shipping company, and he used her phone to do it. So, that shipping company had some connections to an Italian mafia. He was planning on a demonstration. So, he did demonstrations all the time with his job in order to line up potential new exhibitors. So what? That didn't necessarily mean that anything bad was going on.
"Spencer does a lot of shipping, but that doesn't mean he's doing anything illegal," Mrs. B noted, still trying to defend the man who had been so nice to her and had given her so many gifts.
She was still defending him, much to Murdock's dismay. He hadn't expected her to continue to do that . . . although he was certain that her opinion of him would change once she heard the rest of what he had to say. "Mrs. B, I know you like the guy, but there's more to this you gotta hear," he urged, hoping that she could set her personal feelings aside and allow him a chance to continue. His warm, brown eyes locked with hers for a moment, his irises trembling slightly and practically pleading.
"There's more?" she questioned, somewhat surprised. She wasn't sure at this point what else he was going to tell her, but she was still willing to listen . . . especially after how he looked once he had showed up at her doorstep this late at night. She saw him nod in response, and then asked expectantly, "What else did you boys find?"
"Well, Mrs B . . ." he began, almost hesitating a bit. He picked up the white cup and brought it to his lips, taking a sip of the tea before looking at the light brown liquid inside. As he did so, he noticed a slice of lemon floating within it. He marveled at her thoughtfulness, even with something as minor as a cup of tea. "We found altered shipping manifests, blueprints for a very sophisticated and powerful weapon, and we saw Spencer meet with and pay an assassin."
What he said was very succinct, but also quite an accusation. Mrs Baracus continued to look at Murdock as she lifted her cup and took another sip of her tea. Although the anger had faded in order to give him a chance to share what they had learned, she still intended to take everything he said with a grain of salt until he could convince her that Spencer was up to no good. Besides, Scooter called him a crazy fool or something like that. If he was crazy, then there was a chance that he was making all of this up.
But, there was something he had said . . . that they saw Spencer meet with an assassin and pay him. Just when had they done that? The most she knew, they had been with her or at their hotel room. And with the blizzard-like conditions out there, it’d hinder any chances they had to check out the city on their own. Trying to get around on foot during a Chicago blizzard was difficult enough, but trying to drive in one was down right treacherous. She couldn’t help but to remember how the 1967 blizzard turned the iconic Lake Shore Drive into a parking lot of cars, buried in the 23 inches of snow that had fallen, unable to move as their drivers had long abandoned the vehicles to try and seek warmth in some of the high-rises along the lakefront.
"You saw Spencer pay an assassin?" she questioned, rather stunned. "When did you see that?"
"Accordin' to what the bug picked up, we found out that he planned a demonstration for tomorrow. We knew we had to get all the info, so we . . . uh . . . broke into the Museum tonight," he admitted, sounding a bit hesitant toward the end. It was almost as if he was concerned with how she was going to react to that revelation after her initial reaction with the fact that they had put a bug in her office.
"You boys broke into the Museum?" she parroted, totally stunned. She wasn't angry, at this point, but just shocked that Scooter and his friends would go to that kind of extreme measures in order to try and get the information that they wanted. She was about to ask why they didn't consider checking with her, to see if she could get the materials that they sought after, but as she thought about it she knew that they wouldn't want to put her in any danger. They were trying to protect her. Still, it was bad enough they were wanted by the military, and now they'd be wanted by the Chicago police as well . . .
"Sorry, Mrs. B, but it was the only way," Murdock tried to apologize, hoping that maybe he could get her to understand why they took such a risk. "What were we gonna do? Just walk up to Spencer's office in the morning, knock on the door, and ask 'im to show us the incriminating paperwork? We'd be laughed out of that Museum faster than you can sing Jingle Bells, and that still wouldn't've stopped the demonstration he had planned."
"What is this demonstration that you've been talking about?" Adele Baracus wondered. She had heard the Texan mention it several times already. It wasn't unusual for Spencer to be involved in demonstrations, but why was this one so significant? There had to be something more going on that he wasn't telling her.
"We think that Spencer's gonna show off a brand new weapon that Scarlotti's interested in. He wants this to make headlines, so he can get the news all the way over in Italy," the Captain began to explain. He wasn't sure how much Mrs. B was going to believe him at this point, but now that she asked about the demonstration, it was time that she heard the whole truth. "I saw the blueprints for it, and it puts most weapons on the streets today to shame. We think he's gonna use that assassin he paid to have the Mayor of Chicago killed at the Block 37 ice rink dedication tomorrow."
She didn't think his accusations could get any wilder than they were already. First it was with Spencer, then a shipping company with ties to the Italian mafia, then an assassin, and now some plan to test a weapon and kill the Mayor? Yet, throughout all of this, he was extremely sincere if not a bit intense with conviction . . . which meant that he believed every single word that he was telling her. Right now, though, it was just pretty much his word against Spencer's, unless . . .
"Got any proof?" she asked firmly. Her eyes bore into him, almost as if staring him down and expecting him to blink and turn away in a sign that he was making all of this up. Besides, she knew that the police wouldn't do anything unless there was some kind of evidence, no matter how far fetched this whole situation sounded.
"Sure do," Murdock responded, his drawl thick as he got up from the table and went over to the parka, which was draped over the radiator. Even in the short time that it had been on it, he could tell that it was starting to dry out. That was a good thing, since he'd have to go back out into that brutal weather if he had any hopes of rescuing the guys. And the sooner he could do that, the better . . .
He reached into the pocket and pulled out the red bandana and walked back over to the table. He sat down on the chair again, not feeling at all embarrassed for wearing the pink robe, or it being a bit short, due to how much Mrs. B was making him feel comfortable and not self-conscious. As opened up the bandana to reveal the camera inside, he gazed at her, unable to miss the expression on her face as she looked at what he held within his right hand . . .
The moment that Adele spotted the red bandana, her eyes widened with alarm. She recognized it immediately, and it shook her to the core. That had belonged to Albert, Scooter's father. It was the one thing that Scooter insisted on taking with him when he enlisted into the Army since it was small and he could keep it with him at all times, and would help to remind him of his father and of home. It was almost like a good luck charm, in a way, and he never went anywhere without it. For him to not have it with him now, and it was in Murdock's possession, that definitely meant that something was wrong . . .
As she continued to look at the bandana, something else stood out at her that caused her heart to flutter. The unmistakable crimson of blood had stained the fabric. Was it Scooter's blood? Was Scooter hurt in some way? Could Spencer have hurt her son? Anger boiled up inside of her once more at that thought, before her dark eyes focused on the wry figure in the pink robe. "Is my baby okay, Murdock?" she demanded.
"He's fine, Mrs. B. He didn't look too happy to be in handcuffs and stuffed into the back of a cop car, he was his usual scowlin' self," he reassured her. "Face was hurt . . . must've happened as I escaped outta U-505. The guards had us cornered there and were shootin' at us. Face must've gotten hit and BA used this to stop the blood." He held up the small silver camera for a moment and revealed, "We got all the proof right on this here camera. Face took pictures of all the papers, the blueprints, everythin'."
Although she was relieved that her son wasn't hurt, she was livid at the fact that blonde-haired Lieutenant had been. She rose to her feet and started pacing furiously around the room, her round body swaying in time to match her inner rage. Her face darkened with anger and her eyes bore an inner fire that didn't look like it would be quenched with anything less than the satisfaction of seeing justice done for the fact that her son and his friends had been put in such mortal danger.
"How dare he chase my baby and shoot at him! I can't believe I was sucked in by that no good, deceitful . . ." she trailed off in an angry tone before she began to use more colorful language. Mrs. Baracus had only sworn once before, and that was briefly to the face of the man that had been responsible for killing her husband. Outside of that, she never used such detestable language . . . until today.
She turned to face Murdock, who looked totally taken aback by the words that had spewed from her mouth. Her rage made her totally unapologetic at this point. All she could think of was getting her son out of jail, even if it meant walking through the front door of the police department and demanding his release. "We gotta go to the precinct, give them that camera, and get Scooter, Hannibal, and Face outta jail," she stated firmly.
"Whoa," the Texan said, putting his hands up in order to try and get her to stop her current train of thought. She seemed ready to storm off to the cop shop without really thinking things through. "What are you gonna do, Mrs. B? You can't just walk in there and demand they're let go. They're wanted by the government. Givin' them the camera ain't gonna help either."
Her eyes narrowed as she glanced at him, her face set in an expression of grim determination. She was gonna get Scooter out of jail, one way or another. "You got that right. I plan on marchin' down there and demadin' that they let them go," she pointed out. "Unless you got a better idea."
Murdock's tired features slowly broke out into a grin as he marveled at the woman standing before him. From what he had observed, even during their previous visit to Chicago, Mrs. Baracus was a very even tempered woman compared to her son . . . but when she was riled like she was now, she was fiercer than a mama bear determined to protect her cubs from harm.
"I got an idea, Mrs. B, but I'm gonna need your help," he told her gently. His warm, brown eyes twinkled with crazy light that was his own form of the Jazz. He always liked running scams with Face, and he was confident that he could pull this one off. He leaned forward and began to relate the elements of his plan to get the guys out of there, as he realized that this was going to be fun.
Adele's eyes widened with surprise as she heard the beginnings of his idea and the part she was going to have in this. The initial reaction gave way as she smiled and began to nod, taking in all of the various details on how this was going to all work out. Even her own dark eyes started to almost mirror the look within Murdock's. If one didn't know any better, they would have sworn that she was also on the Jazz . . .
If Murdock gets us out of this, as far as I’m concerned, he can have anything he wants as long as I live.
I don’t know. I gotta think about this.
-- Face and BA, "Firing Line"
Chapter 22: Ace In The Hole
"Ouch!"
Templeton Peck's protest echoed within the musty jail cell. Although it was well illuminated, the place looked like an absolute dump, with plenty of filth and grime on the walls, and mold growing in the corners. The bunks that were attached to the walls bore minimal bedding, and the meager amount that was there looked like it had been riddled with moth holes. The whole area reeked of sweat, old booze, and urine . . . definitely not a pleasant combination of odors, even for the average, everyday man.
If these conditions bothered the three members of the A-Team, none of them showed it. They had all endured worse, and for a longer duration, when they had been held as a prisoner of war in the VietCong camps.
Hannibal watched as Face weakly tried to bat his hand away, even though both of them knew that he needed to tend to the graze on the con man's head. From what his ice blue eyes could see, the wound had stopped bleeding, but the blood had dried, leaving an untidy mess around the broken flesh. He was glad there wasn't a mirror in the holding cell where they had been taken, otherwise Face would have had a fit.
"Hold still, Lieutenant," the Colonel admonished. "We need to take care of this before it gets infected."
Due to the time of night that they were arrested, the police had a couple of choices. They could either split them up by taking Face to the University of Chicago Hospital, which was practically right there, or they could keep all of them together. Since they found out who these men were, they realized that splitting them up increased the chances that they'd be able to escape . . . and that was the last thing they wanted before the military police could show up and cart them off to a cold, dark cell at Leavenworth.
The wound that Face had suffered wasn't very serious, and they were provided with a first aid kit . . . although anything that could have been used to provide a tool in their escape had been removed, including the tweezers and scissors. Even in spite of the removal of those materials from the kit, an officer stood just on the other side of the iron bars like a looming shadow, watching the A-Team members like a hawk to make sure they didn't try anything.
He reached into the kit and tore open a package with sheets of gauze. The Colonel then pulled out a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, removed the cap, and drenched the gauze with it. Peroxide was a great anti-bacterial liquid and could kill any number of germs that could have been left behind by a piece of fabric, gunpowder, or other elements . . . but when pressed against a wound, even a small cut, it often hurt like hell. Face wasn’t going to like it, but that wound needed to be cleaned.
With sure, steady hands, John Smith reached forward and started to clean up the dried blood around the wound, and clean the wound itself. The con artist hissed as the peroxide began to burn, but at least he held still and didn't try to wave his Commanding Officer off. Hannibal wiped away the excess peroxide, and then pulled out a small patch of gauze and pressed it up against the wound. He held it there with his left hand, and with his right he pulled out a roll of white medical tape. He tore off a couple of strips, and then used the tape to secure the fresh gauze against the side of Face's head.
Sitting back, the Colonel surveyed his handiwork. If they had been given all of the necessary tools, then it would have looked a lot neater than some haphazard patch job. Still, it would do the trick until they could get out of there and Hannibal could redress the wound.
He packed up the unused supplies into the white metal box, and then passed it back between the grey, iron bars to the cop waiting on the other side. He flashed the officer one of his thousand megawatt smiles that could practically disarm a bomb. The patrolman didn't smile back. Instead, he simply took the kit, checked to make sure that Hannibal hadn't taken anything out of the kit other than the supplies he had used, and then walked out of the holding area.
Once they were alone, Face leaned his back against the wall and let out a sigh. He hated this situation . . . being in jail, and unable to do much of anything but wait. It was made even worse by the fact that he didn't have his lockpick tools on him. If he had even one of them from that kit, he'd be taking advantage of the fact that the guards had left them alone and tried to open the lock to the jail cell. He glanced over at his Commanding Officer and asked, "What are we going to do now, Hannibal? Spencer told the cops who we are. You can bet a new pair of boots that their first call, once they got us behind bars, was to our favorite grinch. Decker's probably already caught the red eye, and is on his way here as we speak."
Hannibal simply gave a knowing grin, almost as if he was counting on this fact. "It wouldn't be any fun if there wasn't a chance that he'd show up," he admitted jovially, clearly looking forward to yet another game of cat and mouse with his long-time adversary. It would definitely pose a challenge for them to pull the plan off before the MPs could show up, but the A-Team's Commanding Officer relished challenges like that.
BA had been sitting on one of the two cots bolted to the wall as Hannibal tended to Face's wound. He didn't like being in jail any more than the next guy, but they couldn't sit in here considering what was going to happen at the dedication ceremony. He looked directly at the Colonel, who took a seat next to Face on the other bunk. "If we don't get outta here before morning, we won't be able to stop that killa and Spencer will get away clean," he stated grimly. He growled at that thought . . . of Spencer getting away with it and not being put behind bars, where he rightfully belonged. The muscular Sergeant wanted nothing better than to get that piece of garbage and pound him into the ground.
Hannibal looked first at his Lieutenant, and then cast his gaze to his Sergeant. Even in spite of their current predicament, the cloud of gloom never even came close to enveloping the Colonel. His face still bore a huge, bright smile and the tone of his voice was confident and reassuring. "C'mon, guys. We've been in worse situations than this before and managed to escape." His ice blue eyes twinkled merrily with the Jazz as he continued, "We still have one ace in the hole they don't know about."
"Murdock?" the muscular mechanic asked with a tone of disgust within his voice. The pilot didn't know his way around the Windy City, which meant that he likely wasn't going to be able to find this particular police precinct that they were being held at, much less scam up stuff like the con artist could within short notice. He moaned as he continued to make his thoughts clear, "Oh, Hannibal! If we gotta rely on that fool, we're dead."
"Now, BA," Hannibal started to say sternly, almost like a father chastising a child for doing something wrong. "Murdock has gotten us out of a lot of scrapes before. Remember that time he recruited the bums to save us from those militants?"
Face grinned as he recalled that particular rescue. Thankfully, Murdock had been wearing the watch that BA had created back in Vietnam. It was pretty ingenious, a step ahead of its time from what he recalled. All of them had one, and they had developed a code that they could use among them to tell what was going on whenever the watch received a certain signal. All they had to do was turn the hands of time until the watch emitted a low tone, and that would tell them specifically what time code they were using. When they got to LA, they rigged up a relay in the van which could transmit the signal across greater distances. "The expression on those guys' faces when the winos opened fire on them was priceless," he chuckled slightly.
"Yeah," Hannibal let out a hearty laugh as he glanced over to the con man. "And remember the time we had to deal with Garber? Murdock and Amy hijacked that military transport and barreled in to free us, right under Decker's nose. He was so furious when we locked him up in that shed," he added with another hearty laugh before looking to his men. He could see that Face was still smiling, and even BA had nodded his head a bit as they both recalled that particular instance.
Each man slipped into their own thoughts, which hung over the jail cell like a thick, wet blanket. There was no doubt among any of them that, in spite of the odds, Murdock would find a way. They likely wouldn't know how or when, but he just would. He had never let any of them down before, and he made sure he always stuck with his unit. After a moment, Hannibal added with complete and total confidence, "Murdock will come through for us. I know he will . . ."
So this is the A-Team? I’m not impressed.
-- Murdock, "Body Slam"
Chapter 23: Major Pain
It was just after 1:00am, and in spite of the weather the headlights of cars could be seen through the chain link fence that separated Wentworth Avenue from the I-94 Expressway. During the weekdays, Chicagoans often called the Dan Ryan . . . the Damn Ryan . . . mainly because of the potential for traffic jams to clog up that major thoroughfare at all hours of the day and night.
Snow continued to fall steadily, and a brisk wind whipped up and buffeted the tan and grey brick building that sat at the corner of 51st and Wentworth. A white canopy sat over the glass windows and doors, and bore lettering identifying the building as the Second District of the Chicago Police Department. This particular station was right across from Chicago's notorious Englewood neighborhood, which had the highest per capita crime rate compared to all of the different neighborhoods throughout the city.
Inside the lobby where it was warm, a portly African American woman stood there, still bundled up in her coat. Her hair was done up in a bun, and the way she shifted from one foot to the other was a clear indication that she wasn't very happy with the treatment she was receiving. In front of her was a black marble desk with a small strip of opaque glass that ran along the length of the desk.
On the other side of the marble desk was an officer with curly black hair and a bushy mustache. His uniform bore the standard colors that other officers wore . . . including the light blue shirt that was common among all Chicago police officers. The bars affixed to the lapels showed that he held the rank of Captain and the silver name plate affixed just above the right pocket bore the last name of Davis. He looked at the woman standing on the other side of the desk, almost stunned by her reaction.
"I demand to see my baby!" the voice of Adele Baracus echoed throughout the open lobby. She was making quite a commotion, so it was fortunate that it was just the two of them there. She narrowed her eyes and jutted her chin out in determination as she demanded, "I know my son is here, and I wanna see him!"
Captain Davis sighed and closed his eyes for a moment as he ran a hand through his curly hair in frustration. It was people like her that made him loathe working the overnight shift. He always had the strangest types showing up whenever he did. And, right now, he had no idea what to do with this stubborn woman, who clearly wasn't about to leave until she saw her son. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but I told you before that the A-Team are high security prisoners. There are strict orders to not allow any visitors until the military arrives."
Even though they had been arrested a couple of hours ago for breaking in and entering at the Museum of Science and Industry, the news of their capture had been kept under wraps. Not even the media had been alerted to this. If they had been informed, then they would have descended upon the station like a massive hoard, demanding statements from the chief of that precinct. But, even with the media being kept in the dark, then how did this woman know that the A-Team were being held here?
"You can't be so heartless to keep a mama from seeing her son this close to Christmas, can you?" Mrs. Baracus pleaded, her voice quaking slightly as her eyes filled with unshed tears that threatened to roll down her cheeks.
"Oh great, this is all I need . . . a hysterical woman on my hands," he muttered to himself, under his breath, to where the woman before him couldn't hear. If she had, chances are that her rage with not being able to see her son would have been increased by several times and she would have taken it out on him.
He needed to get rid of her, somehow, without making her even more upset than she apparently already was. The military was going to arrive at some point and transfer the A-Team into their custody, and the last thing he needed was for her to be present at the time that happened. It was bad enough that her son was apparently a member of the fugitive military unit and refused to leave until she had a chance to see him, even though it was strictly against orders.
Captain Davis opened his mouth, and was just about to suggest that she go home, when he felt a chill fill the lobby. He glanced up with his dark brown eyes and noticed that the front door had opened, and a military officer was walking in. From the color of the uniform as well as the coat, it was clear that the man was a part of the US Army. The rank insignia upon his lapels were also visible and showed that he held the rank of Major.
The Army officer had brown hair and brown eyes, with a clean cut look and appeared ruggedly handsome within the uniform. His cap was still perched upon his head, and he did not bother removing it. Within his left hand, he bore some papers that looked like they were important.
He approached the desk and delivered a crisp salute before announcing in his smooth, baritone voice, "I'm Major Stanton from Fort Sheridan. I received orders from a Colonel Decker to transfer these men immediately to the base until he arrives. I trust that you'll find this paperwork to be in proper order in order for the A-Team to be remanded into my custody for the transfer to Fort Sheridan."
Davis raised an eyebrow, a bit surprised at how quickly the military worked when it came to the A-Team. The fugitives had been picked up almost two hours ago, and the officer was professional but very brisk when he announced his intentions. Still, the request was not unusual considering the high security risk attached to these prisoners and their reputation for being able to escape from almost anything.
"Alright, Major. I'll . . ." he started to say as he began to look down at the papers within the officer's hand. He reached for them, but never had a chance to finish his statement, much less look over the paperwork thoroughly to affirm that everything was in order. The documents were ripped right out of the Major's hand!
They both looked at the African American woman, who bore an expression that made it clear that she was absolutely furious by this turn of events. "How dare you!" Mrs. Baracus yelled angrily at both the Army Major, as well as the police Captain. "You know my boy and his friends are innocent! You can't do this! I won't let you do this!" With each statement, she ripped the documents she had grabbed from the Major until it was nothing more than confetti . . . and she did it before either man could stop her. She stood there and tossed the remains of the papers onto the floor, glaring at both officers defiantly, her breath coming fast as she was consumed with rage.
"That does it!" Davis snapped. He stood up from behind the desk and quickly moved around it, descending two stairs into the main part of the lobby. He roughly grabbed onto the arm of the older woman as he firmly threatened, "I have been patient with you long enough, Mrs. Baracas. I could have you arrested for what you just did."
He was about to escort her out of the building when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he found the tall Army Major standing behind him. He noticed a small and quick motion that Stanton made with his hand, and understood what he was intending. He stepped aside, and allowed the military officer to address the woman that had been causing him problems for the past thirty minutes.
"Mrs. Baracus?" the tall officer gently spoke to the woman that stood defiantly before him. He saw her nod her head slightly, acknowledging the fact that he was talking to her and treating her with at least some semblance of respect, which was a lot more than the police officer had given her. He drew in a breath and then continued, "I'm sure you are aware of your son's fugitive status, and the fact that we are obliged to take him into military custody. If you leave now, we shall forget this incident and not press charges. If you choose to continue to cause problems, I will have this fine officer here arrest you for obstruction of justice."
Tears filled the eyes of Mrs. Baracus once more, and her voice quivered as she retorted, "I can't believe that none of you would be so cruel to keep a mama from her son this close to Christmas." She then let out a huff, and pulled her arm free of the police officer's grasp before turning and leaving the building.
"I'm sorry, Major," Captain Davis apologized before returning to the area behind the desk once more. He gave a slight sigh of relief that she was gone. He hadn't really wanted to arrest the poor woman, but with the Army officer standing right there he had to do something once she tore up the transfer papers. "I had no idea she was going to do that. She was pretty distraught, and I thought I could have persuaded her to go home."
Stanton held up a hand and nodded in understanding. "No need to apologize, Captain, and don't worry about the paperwork. I'll have a courier run over a fresh copy in the morning, after I return to the base." He paused for a moment and then continued expectantly, "Now . . . the A-Team?"
"One moment, Major. Let me call into the back and I'll have the prisoners prepared and brought out," Davis said as he picked up a phone. As he waited, he put a hand over the bottom portion and then asked, "Will you require a vehicle to transport them, or a police escort?"
"No, that won't be necessary, Captain. I already have my own transportation, and as long as they are within handcuffs, I don't believe they'll give me much trouble," Stanton waved a hand dismissively. He turned around and walked over to a display on one of the walls that bore several wanted posters. His brown eyes studied each one, as he overheard Davis say something into the phone. His gaze then fell upon the wanted poster for the A-Team . . . which he found unusual for it to still be up on the wall if they had just been taken into custody, and especially in that police district station.
After a few moments, he heard Davis start to tell him, "Major Stanton, they'll be brought up any moment now."
"Good," the Major said with a tone of great satisfaction within his voice as he continued to look at the wanted posters. "As I'm sure that you are well aware, we have been in pursuit of these men for many years. We will be very glad to have them locked away in a high security military stockade."
Davis watched the Army officer carefully for a moment before putting a box on the desk in front of him. He then pulled out a clipboard with some papers. "Major, if you have a moment, I have some papers for you to sign so we can release them into your custody as soon as they're brought out from the back. I also have the personal belongings that were taken from them in this box, as well as the keys for their handcuffs."
Stanton turned and made his way back to the desk, admiring the efficiency of Captain Davis since there was already a ball point pen resting on the clipboard. He picked up the pen and quickly flipped through the papers, signing each one in the appropriate spots that were indicated. No sooner had he signed off on the last page, he noticed that a door opened and the A-Team members emerged from the back, all still wearing their parkas with their hands cuffed behind their backs.
He looked up at all three men, his brown eyes catching their gazes. Thankfully, none of them bore a look of recognition within their expressions . . . although a lot of it likely could have been attributed to the poker faces that Hannibal and Face employed when playing games of gin with each other. Stanton narrowed his eyes with disdain as he looked over the three men.
"So, this is the infamous A-Team," he countered in a haughty tone. He paraded in front of them, stopping to look each man in their eyes, before proceeding back to the desk. "Forgive me if I don't salute, Colonel Smith, but I make it a point not to salute a superior officer that's a wanted criminal. Truthfully, I thought you would have presented more of a challenge due to your reputations. Disappointing . . ."
Face didn't hesitate, as a sly grin crossed his lips. "Hey, Hannibal, I guess someone didn’t like being woken up from his beauty sleep," the con artist cracked.
A thousand megawatt smile started to show on Hannibal's face, and his ice blue eyes twinkled with the Jazz. He took note of the officer's rank insignias on his lapel and chimed in, "What's the matter, Major? Colonel Decker not man enough to fly out here and deal with us himself?"
BA let out a low, deep, rumbling growl before he threatened in a low tone, "Just be glad we're in cuffs, sucka, or you'd need a new name. Yeah . . . Major Pain, as you'd be in a whole world of hurt!"
Ignoring the comments, Stanton pulled out his gun, checked the chamber, and then flipped off the safety. With his free hand, he grabbed the box of personal belongings and the handcuff keys from the desk, and then nodded to Davis. "Thank you for your hospitality, Captain. I can take it from here," Stanton informed him.
The police Captain looked at the Army major rather incredulously. These men were extremely dangerous, even when secured in handcuffs. They couldn't afford to be underestimated, no matter how much it seemed like they couldn't escape at this point. "Are you sure, Major?" Captain Davis asked, his voice still conveying his uncertainty. "We can . . ."
Major Stanton looked to Davis again, the warmth within his eyes quickly leaving as they turned cold, and his voice took on a much more authoritative tone. He interrupted the police officer before he could continue, "I am quite certain, Captain Davis. Thank you for your cooperation. I'll be sure that Colonel Decker and my superiors recognize your assistance in this matter."
He turned away from the desk and faced the three members of the A-Team. Gesturing with his gun, he ordered, "Get moving, and don't bother to try anything. I have orders to shoot you if you even think about trying to escape." He watched as the prisoners started heading toward the door, and he followed them out of it into the cold night . . .
What will become of the A-Team in its desperate attempt to save off world wide disaster? Will good triumph over evil? Will Rocky Racoon be reunited with Little Mel? These and other questions will be answered in the next exciting chapter of: The Fuhrer the Better.
-- Murdock, "The Bend in the River"
Chapter 24: Unexpected Rescue
The members of the A-Team were ushered north
along the driveway to 51st Street, where a familiar black Chevrolet Suburban
was parked. A light dusting of snow
covered the roof of the vehicle, along with the front hood. Snow was still steadily falling, but not as
intensely as it had been earlier that evening.
The wind was also starting to die down as well, and the strong gusts had
reduced to gentle breezes.
Headlights could still be seen from an occasional car that raced along the Dan Ryan Expressway, although there were fewer cars that dared to traverse the high speed route than there had been a while ago. Even in spite of the snow that rested upon the Suburban, as well as all of the road salt that threatened to turn the vehicle a shade of grey due to the white layer of film that clung to the sides, some areas of the car still seemed to sparkle under the artificial light. The front door of the large vehicle opened, and a short shadowy figure emerged from inside. After a moment, the person stepped under the faint glow of a street light, revealing Mrs. Adele Baracus.
The group stopped short, and Sergeant BA Baracus looked at her in surprise. He knew this area was very dangerous with how close it was to Englewood, so he was naturally concerned for her safety. She had the heart and fighting spirit of a tiger, but there was no way that she'd be able to defend herself from a thug or drug dealer wielding a gun. "Mama, what are you doing here?" the Ordinance Officer asked out of concern.
"What does it look like I'm doing, Scooter?" she countered with a brisk huff, almost as if she wasn't very happy that he couldn't believe that she wanted to help get him out of jail. She stood up a bit straighter, clearly filled with pride and it showed upon her face as she stated, "I'm here to rescue you."
Hannibal couldn't help but to grin wildly as he heard that statement from Mrs. Baracus. Even from the last time that they visited her and they had that one discussion about the time that BA had gone into the Army, he could tell that she was a very strong willed woman. Yes, she cared deeply about her son as any mother would, but when it came to her son's safety she was as fierce as a mother bear protecting her cubs or a caged tiger that was looking for the perfect opportunity to break free and attack those that threatened it.
"Aw, Mama," BA countered in a gentle, but almost whining tone. He was obviously very concerned for his mother and her safety, and the worry clearly showed in the expression on his face and in his eyes as he gazed at her. "You shoudn't've gotten involved. You could get into a lot of trouble for this . . . bustin' us outta jail."
"There wasn't really a lot of choice, BA," Murdock said from behind, as he fished out the keys to the handcuffs that Captain Davis had provided him when he signed off on the papers for their release and belongings. He stuffed the box underneath his arm, and then moved behind Hannibal first. Inserting the key into the handcuffs, he twisted it until a click could be heard, indicating that each one had unlocked.
With his hands freed, Hannibal brought them in front of his chest and started rubbing his wrists, where the cold metal of the handcuffs had sat just a moment ago. He glanced over to his pilot and grinned. "Nice job, Murdock," he noted appreciatively. He could only imagine what it took for the Captain to be able to smooth talk that police officer into freeing them.
"Murdock, where did you get the uniform?" Templeton Peck asked out of curiosity as he felt Murdock start to unlock his cuffs. Hannibal was usually good with anticipating things, especially if he planned for certain hiccups in the grand scheme of things, but he somehow doubted that the Colonel had expected to have been arrested by the Chicago police department during this trip and packed for that contingency. Although he had run several scams with Murdock assisting him, he was still curious as to how his best friend managed to pull this one off.
"Mrs. B helped me with that one," Murdock noted with a great deal of pride. He looked up after finishing with Face's handcuffs and noticed a huge smile upon her face. It was almost as if she was experiencing the Jazz just as much as the A-Team normally did.
"When Murdock told me his idea to bust you boys outta jail, I knew it'd be better with me helpin' him," she chimed in, her voice almost practically filled with glee. She was definitely excited about the part she played in helping to free her son and his friends, and it was very apparent within the tone of her voice. "We got the uniform at Fantasy Costumes up over on Milwaukee, just past North Avenue. They're open 24 hours," she explained before turning to her son. "You remember the place, don't'cha Scooter? We always used to go up there to get you a Halloween costume."
Murdock moved behind BA and started to unlock his handcuffs, even though he heard a slight growl from the muscular Sergeant. The Texan wasn't sure if it was because he was being freed of his cuffs last, or if it was because of the fact that his mother had gotten involved in their rescue. "Sorry, BA, but she knew the city and where to go. She even knew the station you guys would've been taken to after being arrested at the Museum. I wouldn't have gotten you guys out without her help," the pilot tried to reason as he finished unlocking the handcuffs.
"Crazy fool," BA protested grumpily, still not at all happy that his mother had gotten involved with this. It was bad enough that Spencer was seeing her and what they found out about him was likely going to break her heart. The last thing he needed was for his mother to end up with a criminal record or behind bars due to their efforts to free them from the police. Even though he had said it before, he found it necessary to reiterate, "She could've gotten into a lot of trouble."
"Stow it, Sergeant," Hannibal ordered, breaking off the argument before it could go any further. He knew that BA was upset about his mother being involved in the rescue, but there were some more pressing matters they had to worry about. "We need to get into the vehicle and get outta here before someone walks out of the cop shop and thinks to ask what we're doing."
Giving a grunt of dissatisfaction, the muscular mechanic grabbed the box that Murdock was carrying and fished the keys out from inside of it. He knew when the Colonel was right . . . that they had to get out of the area before the cops wised up to the fact that they just had just been conned into releasing the A-Team. He opened up the driver's side door and climbed inside, flipping the box into the back seat to get it out of the way. The box was pretty light, and it bounced around a bit before settling down onto the fabric of the bench seat. When they were at the station, the police tried to take the gold that hung around BA's neck, but a warning growl was enough to get them to quickly reconsider that notion.
He put the key into the ignition and turned it. A slight smile appeared upon his lips as the engine roared to life. He knew that he didn't think to give Murdock the keys during the escape from the Museum, since he had expected that they would have all gotten out of there. Just the fact that it was here, now, that meant that the crazy fool likely hotwired it in order to get the engine started. Thankfully, he hadn't messed it up. If he had, then the pilot would be feeling some serious pain right about now.
While the Sergeant was getting the car started up, Mrs. B looked over at the blonde-haired Lieutenant. "Face!" she exclaimed, her voice filled with worry as she looked at the con artist. She darted up to him with an agility that belied her large size. She gently placed her fingers on his jaw and turned his head to look at the gauze that Hannibal had taped onto the side of his head. "You're hurt. Murdock told me that you had been bleeding. Your blood was on my Albert's bandana . . . the one that Scooter carries around with him now."
Templeton Peck reached up to touch her hand, before gently dislodging it from his face. He flashed her a small, confident smile that could charm the scales off a rattlesnake. "I'm alright, Mrs. B. It's just a flesh wound," he noted to her, trying to brush it off and make the wound not as serious as it seemed to be. "I'll just have a bit of a headache for a while."
She looked at him darkly for a moment, and her brows furrowed. "Did Spencer do this to you?" she asked, her voice taking on a low and dangerous tone, almost matching that of her son's when he was angry. Whether Spencer had been sweet to her all this time or not, if he had hurt his son's friend, he was going to have to answer to her.
"Nah," Face responded, not really thinking about it too much. The guard had gotten off a good shot, and in a way the Lieutenant realized that he was very fortunate. He walked her over to the front passenger door and opened it up for her. "Just one of his security goons. Got off a lucky shot."
Adele's face displayed an incredible fury as she started to mutter, "Why that no good, lousy, son of a . . ."
Murdock grinned at Hannibal and Face, who looked momentarily startled by the slew of expletives that streamed from the older woman's mouth. Neither the Colonel nor the Lieutenant had expected such a sweet old woman to say what she did, but once they heard it and got over the initial shock, they started to grin right along with their pilot.
"Well, let's get you boys back to my apartment. I'll make something warm to eat, and then we can fix up that bandage better," Mrs. Baracus suggested, shaking her head in disgust at the sight of the make shift bandage, but also with just how much she had been blinded by her love for Spencer to not see what had been taking place all along.
Extending his hand again, Face helped Mrs. B up into the front passenger seat of the black Suburban, and then watched as Murdock climbed into the back bench seat to take up a seat in the middle. He shut the door behind her, and then climbed into the back seat directly behind where she was sitting. He noted Hannibal making his way around the front of the vehicle, and climb into the back seat directly behind BA.
After he got in and shut the door, the Colonel's ice blue eyes gazed out the window as he felt the vehicle start to pull away from the curb. Inwardly, he felt a huge weight being lifted off his shoulders the further away they got from the police station. He turned his attention back to Murdock and grinned, "Thanks, Captain. I knew we could count on you."
"'Twas nothin', Colonel," Murdock responded with a bit of a shrug. His warm brown eyes came to rest upon BA's mother as he added, "It was Mrs. B's idea to run interference with the cop. I couldn't have done this without her."
Mrs. Baracus turned around in the front seat to look at Murdock. She blushed a bit, her brown cheeks turning a shade of crimson due to the credit he had just given her for her role in the escape effort. "Well, someone had to throw the cop off. What he thought was the transfer papers, that I ripped up in front of his nose, was actually some scratch paper from the office," she grinned, her eyes sparkling almost as if she was basking in the glow of the Jazz. "I just wanted to look out for my boys. All of you seem like sons to me, just like my Scooter."
"Still think you could've gotten hurt goin' into that jail like that. That ain't no place for no woman," BA groused, unwilling to give it up. He couldn't help it . . . not with how protective he was of his mother. He didn't look at her when he said it either. He kept his eyes focused on the road, paying careful attention to avoid any hidden police squads. Right now, they didn't need to draw any more attention to themselves than was necessary.
"Bosco Andre Baracus," Mrs. B snapped in a sharp tone that immediately commanded the attention of everyone in the Suburban. A fire was present within her eyes as she looked fiercely at her son, and just the force of how she said his name caused the three men in the back to slightly cringe. "Don't you sass me! The day I can't take care of myself is the day I check into some retirement home."
BA's expression grew somber, almost like a child that had been severely scolded. It wasn't often that his mother was so upset with him that she called him by his full name. "Yes, Mama," he responded quietly, never wavering in keeping his attention on the road ahead of him.
Sensing the perfect opportunity to change the subject, Face leaned forward slightly to look expectantly at the Colonel. "So, what's the plan, Hannibal?" he asked as he reached into the box that Murdock held on his lap to pull out his lockpick tools.
"Simple," Hannibal quickly responded as he also reached into the box that Murdock held and first pulled out his trademark black leather gloves. He stuffed them into the pocket of the parka, and then reached in to pull out his cigars and the chrome plated lighter. He put all of the cigars, except for one, inside his safari jacket that he wore under the winter coat. The last one he kept within his hands, rolling it between his fingers as a plan started to formulate within his mind. "We'll regroup at Mrs. B's apartment, and then head for the rink. We've got a couple of hours to get this set up. Once the sun rises, it's going to get busy downtown and we don't want to attract the attention of the cops," he started to mention. His ice blue eyes looked at BA's mother as he suggested, "Mrs. Baracus, we'll let you know when this is all over and Spencer is behind bars."
"No way,
Hannibal," Adele quickly protested. She turned back to look at him, her eyes
filled with grim determination. "Spencer
invited me to be with him during the ceremony.
If I'm not there, he'll get suspicious."
Colonel Smith flipped open the silver lighter and watched as the tiny flame
roared to life. Even within the cold
that surrounded them, he could feel the heat off the small lighter. He bit off the end of the cigar, and spat out
the covering before wedging it between his teeth. He held the flame over the end of the stogie
and drew in a few puffs to kindle the tobacco that started to give off a
pleasant scent as it slowly burned. He
then closed the lid on the lighter and put it into the inside pocket of his
safari jacket as well.
That revelation that BA's mother shared with them brought a new twist to the plan of the cunning strategist, but it didn't totally derail it. It just meant that they would really have to be on top of their game to ensure the safety of Adele Baracus as well. "Okay, Mrs. B," the West Point graduate conceded. "Go ahead and attend with Spencer as planned, but the moment it starts to go down, I want you to get to safety."
Mrs. Baracus
nodded. She knew just how angry her son
could get sometimes, and he'd likely kill both Hannibal and Spencer if anything
were to happen to her during the dedication ceremony.
The Colonel took another puff on his cigar and then focused his attention to his men. "BA and Murdock, you two get to play Santa and elf again," he noted with a huge mischievous grin. He knew how much they both hated those costumes, but they were definitely going to be necessary in order for this plan to prove successful.
Murdock rolled
his eyes in disgust and gave a very audible groan. He couldn't believe that Hannibal was going
to make him wear that outfit again . . . the same outfit that he didn't want to
be caught dead in, especially with how it showed off a few of his, um, assets
below the waist. Not to mention how much
it dug in where he didn't want it to, and made for a very uncomfortable
experience.
BA's reaction was very similar in nature. He let out a grim sigh before starting to protest, "Awwww, Hannibal . . ."
Pulling the cigar out of his mouth with his left hand, Hannibal countered firmly, "Now, BA, you know that you're the hardest one of all of us to disguise. After last night, if Spencer recognizes any of us, he'd alert the police on hand and have us thrown back in jail. The Santa costume is the only way to keep him from doing that." The only response from the Ordinance Officer was a slight huff, but then silence. The Colonel knew that he was right, and also suspected the Sergeant was realizing that based on the lack of a retort.
A grin appeared
upon his face once more as he turned to look past Murdock to his second in
command. The Lieutenant's good looks
would definitely be an advantage here, wound or no wound, and he intended to
use it. "Face, you're going to be
in the crowd on this one. Blend in and
look for anything suspicious. If you see
Spencer . . ."
Before he could get another word out, BA interrupted angrily in order to lay
his claim, "No way, man! Spencer's
mine. Nobody messes with or hurts my
Mama."
The Colonel knew that his Sergeant was right. This was his mother after all. If anyone deserved the right to deal with Spencer directly, it was him. "Okay, BA. We'll let you deal with Spencer when it comes time to spring our trap," Hannibal recanted. He looked over at the two men sitting in the back seat with him and continued, "Murdock, you know what Kramer looks like. You're going to have to help Face identify him. Face, you're going to have to make sure that our assassin doesn't fire off the killing shot and keep him from leaving the area."
"And just what will you be doing during all of this, Hannibal?" the young Lieutenant wondered, curious as to what his Commanding Officer's role was going to be in this elaborate plan.
Colonel John Smith's eyes twinkled merrily with the Jazz, and the smile on his face grew bigger than ever to where it seemed like a thousand light bulbs lighting up a room. "I'm going to be driving the Zamboni, of course," he responded jovially.
"Since when did you learn how to drive a Zamboni, man?" BA asked in disbelief. Driving things was normally his responsibility, and based on the tone of his voice it seemed quite obvious that the muscular mechanic was jealous. Most people would give anything for a chance to drive the large machine that made the ice. After all, the person that drove it commanded the attention of all ice skaters in the area for at least fifteen minutes as they waited for the machine to pull off the rink.
The silver-white haired leader turned his gaze out the window for a moment, and his eyes looked like he was recalling a distant yet fond memory. "When I was 15, my first job was at an ice rink in one of the suburbs of Detroit. It was actually the practice rink for the Red Wings, one of the original NHL hockey teams, so they were one of the first smaller rinks to get a Z. They needed to get people trained on how to drive it, and I hung out at that rink a lot so they offered me the chance. Because I was underage they couldn’t pay me, so we worked out a deal. They let me skate for free whenever I wanted, and I did the ice for them."
Face and Murdock looked at their Commanding Officer incredulously. Even BA glanced back at the Colonel through the rear view mirror, somewhat surprised by the tale. This was the first time he had shared this story with them, and it had given a bit more insight as to the past of their leader. Hannibal simply grinned as he looked at his men, a sparkle of laughter appearing in his bright blue eyes. "C'mon, guys," he encouraged in a light tone. "It's time to get this show on the road."
Murdock, are you watching the road?
Well, sure, it's just laying there like a big old tongue going aaaaaaaah.
-- Hannibal and Murdock, "Labor Pains"
Chapter 25: Cutting It Close
After the last several days of gloomy cloud
cover and brutal winter conditions, the sun blazed overhead in the sapphire
blue skies, causing the freshly-fallen snow to glimmer and sparkle as it caught
the rays of light. The temperatures had
risen to 30 degrees Fahrenheit, and it seemed quite warm and practically balmy
compared to the bitter cold caused by the wind chills. With the presence of the sun, it just made it
seem that much warmer on a day like today.
Even the high winds that buffeted the tall buildings of the city, threatened
to blow people off their feet, and whipped the snow around with almost hurricane-type
force seemed like a thing of the past.
Instead, there was just an occasional gentle breeze which was hardly
strong enough to ruffle a person's well groomed hair.
Donning a pair of huge dark, wrap-around sunglasses to make his disguise complete, Colonel John Hannibal Smith grinned beneath the fake unkempt grey wig that was somewhat hidden beneath Murdock's dark blue baseball cap and bushy mustache. He wore a one piece brown jumpsuit that looked like it was insulated against the cold due to the slight bulk it added to his body. The jumpsuit was similar to what employees from the Chicago of Streets and Sanitation wore during this time of year as they went around emptying the garbage cans on various street corners.
He looked out over the rink, noting how it was different from the one they had visited a few days ago with Mrs. Baracus. The lot where they were now had once served as a site of a Wiebolt's department store along with a few other smaller shops. The building was demolished once the company had shuttered the business in the popular downtown location. If it wasn't for a few sparse, lifeless trees decorated with Christmas lights, it would have been a barren parcel of land. Concrete from the nearby buildings surrounded them, creating a coldness that chilled people more than the air. A metal squeal from the slowing elevated trains a block away filled the air, sounding much like fingernails running down a chalkboard.
To the east of the rink, across the bus laden State Street, was the unmistakable façade of Marshall Fields. Beautiful golden angels were positioned along the face of the department store, each holding long trumpets that extended well over the sidewalk and seemed to herald the joys of the season. Shoppers paused as they passed the many elegantly decorated store windows, each of which were filled with various objects that, together, told the classic tale of Frosty the Snowman. Some stopped and glanced up at the famous clock that jutted out over the sidewalk at each corner of the building, held by an ornate green frame that accented the architecture of the building.
The crowds were already starting to gather for the event. The cunning military strategist knew that this was going to be a challenge on many levels, even long before they had set up their trap. Kramer could fire the fatal shot and simply disappear into the chaos. They had to not only save the life of the Mayor, but also make sure that no innocent bystanders attending the dedication ceremony got hurt in the process. What also compounded the problem was their arrest from last night. By now, the police probably realized that the release papers that the so-called Major Stanton promised them wasn't going to be delivered by courier at all, and they had been on the wrong end of another wildly improbable A-Team escape. The boys in blue were likely conducting an all-out search for them right now.
There was considerable risk, no matter how many precautions they tried to take. The whole situation was going to be tricky, but they had to stop this demonstration . . .
"You guys in position?" Hannibal whispered into a miniature microphone BA hid within a button on the collar of the jumpsuit. The Sergeant was an electronics wizard, and had spent months working on these miniature microphones and ear pieces, treating each separate piece like his pride and joy. He had just finished with them before they left Los Angeles for Chicago, but there hadn't been time to field test them . . . not until now. The Secret Service would probably love to get their hands on and use these things due to the brilliant craftsmanship.
"He sees you when you're sleepin', he knows when you're awake. He knows when you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake . . ." Murdock's melodic tenor voice sang, coming through loud and clear over the small earpiece that Hannibal wore in his left ear.
He walked around behind the Zamboni, a smirk appearing upon his lips as he heard Sergeant Baracus bark at the pilot, "Shut up, fool!" A moment later, in a more composed tone, the Ordinance Officer responded, "We're in position, Hannibal."
Reaching in front of him, his black gloved hands removed the safety strap holding the two large metal tanks in position on the large ice resurfacing machine. He tried hard to keep from laughing after what he had just heard. Murdock usually had a way of pushing BA's buttons, although he knew that once the crap started hitting the fan, the pilot would be totally focused on what they needed to do. He lifted each of the tanks slightly, just to see how full of propane they were, before setting them back down on the fuel stand.
A moment later, he could hear the voice of his Lieutenant grimly complain over the earpiece, "I'm in position but I'll tell you, Colonel, we're really cutting it close with this one. After last night, you know Decker got a 2am phone call and will be breathing down our necks any second."
Unable to hide the grin on his face, Hannibal responded in a cheery and optimistic tone, "Come on, Face. You know the military doesn't move that fast."
*********
From his vantage point in the crowd, Templeton Peck rolled his eyes after he heard the response from his Commanding Officer. One thing he knew about the Colonel . . . it wasn't that he underestimated an enemy, but he often anticipated that they'd do something or react a certain way as the plan unfolded. When they didn't do as he predicted, that's when they'd often have to get creative and invent something to deal with a situation or to escape. But, Hannibal had an incredible amount of confidence in each of their abilities to adapt to any situation and pull together to deal with whatever they were up against.
What made this situation worse, at least for the con artist, was the fact that Hannibal had been on the Jazz practically since right before they landed at Meigs Field in Chicago. The Colonel often got that familiar sparkle in his eyes when they were in trouble, or when a situation called for it, but this was the first time that the Lieutenant could recall the West Point graduate being on the Jazz almost constantly.
That meant only one thing . . . trouble.
His blue eyes darted around the various faces in the crowd, trying to spot something out of the ordinary. He had no idea what Kramer looked like. The others saw the assassin in the Museum, while he had been rooting around Spencer's office for any evidence that they could use to take him down. He was just going to have to trust them . . .
Trust . . .
As he thought about it, if he and the rest of the guys hadn't trusted Hannibal as much as they did, then they all likely would never have escaped from Fort Bragg and ended up on the run. They still trusted the adventure loving Colonel, in spite of how often his plans backfired. Since the A-Team had come together so long ago, with a bond created in the fires of war, each individual member had come to the realization that they would follow their Commanding Officer to the gates of hell if need be, Jazz or no Jazz.
He thought back to the conversation he and the
Colonel had in the Museum a few days ago.
With everything that happened since that talk, there hadn't been much
time to contemplate his own problems, let alone what his leader told him. Waiting for all of the pieces to this
elaborate puzzle to arrive, Face used the time to think about the
discussion. Ever since he had revealed
the truth to Hannibal, it felt as if a tremendous weight had been lifted off
his shoulders. Of course, the strategist
had a way of making enormous problems seem solvable. Perhaps that was a very large reason why they
all trusted him so much.
His
gaze was soon drawn by a small group of beautiful, warmly dressed women in form
hugging wool trench coats. They looked
to be talking to one another, and standing close to the Mayor of Chicago, a
large African American man with curly brown hair that was clearly graying and a
well trimmed mustache. One of the women had
long blonde hair, and her coat was a dark navy color. The other two had brown hair which wasn't
quite as long or flowing, but they both wore black coats. Just the sight of these women had caused him
to smile, but that smile broadened as he looked them up and down, wondering if
each one had the body of a goddess beneath those coats. Perhaps, if he played his cards right, he
could get a chance to find out. Things
were definitely looking up after all . . .
********
Although Templeton Peck could easily be
distracted by beautiful women, that was the furthest thing from the mind of H.
M. Murdock as he had something much more pressing that required his
attention. As discretely and
circumspectly as possible, the pilot grabbed a section of the green tights
around the upper thigh and tugged down, trying to provide some relief for the
pain he was feeling. "I hope they
get this thing started soon. These
tights are starting to bind up around my . . ." he started to complain.
"Shut up, fool. We gotta job to do," BA interrupted gruffly, trying to focus on the task at hand. He was on edge more than ever, and with good reason. His Mama was going to be out there, and with the man that they intended to bring down. But with the assassin somewhere within the crowd, she was just as much of a target as the Mayor himself.
The Texan's face started to look like he was slightly pouting, but his warm brown eyes were soon drawn by something within the crowd. He turned his gaze to get a better look, catching a glimpse of a bright glint . . . a reflection of sunlight off an object within the crowd. His eyes locked onto whatever it was, and he brought his right hand up to shade his eyes to try and see if he could see it better without the glare. Turning to the Sergeant in the Santa suit, he tried to seek confirmation as he asked, "BA, did you see that?"
"Man, leave me alone," the muscular mechanic huffed, looking out over the crowd. He was thankful they had temporarily paused the visits with Santa in preparation for the ceremony itself, otherwise the kids would have heard him and Murdock go at it . . . and that was the last thing that he needed, was for kids to hear Santa Claus verbally berating his elf.
Murdock continued looking in the direction of where he had seen that glint, his eyes adjusting to the light. He saw several men and women gathered, some looking very well groomed while others looked just as casual as he preferred to dress. He immediately spotted several television news cameras, which were perched on the shoulders of those that were more casually dressed. That meant that the others that were with them were likely the reporters that worked at the various different news stations. A few of the guys that had the cameras were already getting them mounted on the tripods they had set up, in preparation for the speech that Mayor Harold Washington was about to deliver.
What stood out to the pilot was one of the men, and how he held the news camera. He didn't seem to be making an effort to put the camera that he held up on a tripod. In fact, it seemed as if there was one tripod short compared to the number of news cameras. The camera was pressed in the hollow between the left shoulder joint and the collar bone, much in the way that one would position the butt of a rifle. To the observant pilot, that in and of itself was enough to sound all of the alarm bells and raise all of the red flags.
"C'mon, big guy, take a look at your eleven with how that one guy is holdin' the camera. I think we've found our hit man," Murdock persisted, not about to give up so easily . . . especially not when he was so convinced with what he saw.
Glancing slightly to the southeast, BA also spotted a glint . . . more than one, actually. All he saw were lens flares from the various news cameras present. With the sun popping in and out from the clouds that dotted the brilliant blue sky, the reflection could have even come from a pair of glasses on someone's nose, or a watch, or another piece of jewelry as well. That wasn't at all unusual with the angle of the winter sun. The burly Sergeant shook his head in annoyance as he countered gruffly, "It's just in your head, fool."
Now Murdock was starting to get frustrated with the Ordinance Officer. Why couldn't he see what he saw? Although the way that the camera was being held blocked the view of the face of the person holding it, there were just too many things that told him that it was Kramer holding it. And the glint . . . it wasn't coming from the lens of the camera. It came from above it, like where the viewfinder should have been. But, what he saw wasn't a viewfinder. It was something else. "I know what I saw, BA! It was the glint off a targeting scope," he insisted darkly, even to the point where his tone was deathly serious.
***********
Hannibal lifted his head from where he stood
next to the Zamboni, the argument between his Sergeant and Captain drawing his
attention. He had full faith and
confidence in Murdock's ability to keep focused when a situation was dire,
despite the crazed tendencies and playfulness.
But, he had also known the pilot long enough to understand that, when
his tone became dangerously dark and insistent about something, he was usually
right . . . especially when it came to noticing something that the rest of the
Team may have missed.
It was this uncanny, almost natural ability that had saved the Team from being captured several times by the MPs, including at the outdoor and sporting goods store where they had first met Tawnia Baker.
"Murdock, where did you spot that glint?" Hannibal questioned into the microphone hidden on his jumpsuit.
"It would be 'bout at your two o'clock, Colonel," the Texan responded, his drawl very apparent over the earpiece.
John Smith casually glanced over to the spot that the pilot had indicated. At first, he couldn't see a glint from the angle that he was standing at, which was on the opposite side of the rink from where BA and Murdock were positioned. His ice blue eyes spotted several news videographers . . . the same group that the Captain had spotted. As he continued to look at the group, a familiar face stood out . . .
Kramer . . .
"Look sharp, guys. Rubber ducky has been confirmed at the North Pole," Hannibal told his men over the microphone. If the assassin was here, then that meant that it wouldn't be long before he'd try to make his move and try to kill the Mayor.
Neither Spencer nor Kramer expected the A-Team to show up at the Museum and learn of their plans . . . and he was very certain that Spencer had no idea that they escaped from jail last night and were about to throw a major monkey wrench into his well thought out plan. They had the advantage, and Colonel John Smith knew it. He couldn't ask for a better situation, even if it had been handed to him on a silver platter and wrapped up with a pretty bow.
After a moment, he continued so he could prepare his men, "Be ready to move once we spot the head elf. Remember, force them both over to Santa's chair so others can see just how naughty these guys have been, and drop a bit of coal down their pants."
A bright grin appeared on Hannibal's face once more before he added, "And be sure you protect Mrs. Claus." Even though he hadn't discussed the last code name with the rest of the guys, he knew that it'd be very obvious to the others who he was referring to.
*********
Hearing the code through the earpiece, Templeton Peck attempted to weave his way through the gathering throng. "Where is he, Hannibal?" he asked into his own hidden microphone, hoping to get some kind of direction since he still had no clue what Kramer looked like. He had to try and get as close as possible so he could have a chance to stop the assassin from getting the shot off.
Honestly, when the Colonel had first given out the assignments, Face had briefly considered asking Murdock to switch because of the disadvantage. One glance over to his best friend made him quickly reconsider as he tried hard not to crack up at the obvious discomfort his friend was in. That made him reconsider and decide that he liked the job he was given just fine. There was no way he would have been caught dead in those tights.
"He's by the news crews. Look for the guy who is holding one of the big news cameras like a rifle," he heard his Commanding Officer inform him over the earpiece.
His blue eyes immediately darted over to look at the news crew, which was set up not too far away from the podium where the speeches would be delivered. That's when he saw him . . . ordinary looking guy with mousy brown hair. No features that'd make him stand out and easily identifiable, outside of how he was holding the video camera. Changing direction, he started heading closer to where the crews were set up.
Even as he kept his gaze focused on Kramer, he continued to look around him just in case any MPs decided to show up before they could pull this off. As he did so, that's when he spotted the all too familiar individual whose arrival they had been anticipating. The microphone that BA had given him was actually hidden within a small pin that looked like the US flag, which he had affixed to the collar of the parka he wore. He leaned his head slightly in the direction of it and announced, "Head elf has just arrived with Mrs. Claus in tow. How soon before we make our move?"
After a moment, he heard the Colonel's reassuring tone in the earpiece, "Relax, Lieutenant. If we act now, then they'll get off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist. They'll be free to attempt this again once we leave town. We've got to wait until the right moment, so Spencer will be caught red-handed."
For a brief moment, as he listened to the response from the strategist, Face made eye contact with Mrs. Baracus. Although her facial expression was stoic and didn't betray the feelings she was experiencing, her eyes did. He could see just how worried she was based on the look within the depths of her gaze. He nodded to her and tried to give her a reassuring look, inwardly praying that she would remember the agreement and get to safety once everything started to go down so she wouldn’t become a target herself.
Honestly, the Supply Officer was anxious to get this over with as soon as possible, and get out of the area before the cops wised up as to who they were, or Decker dropped in. Sure, the pieces of this elaborate puzzle were falling into place, but could they put it all together before the authorities moved in on them? He knew that his Commanding Officer thrived on cutting it close, as it was like a game of cat and mouse with both the cops and the MPs. Hopefully, it wouldn't backfire on them this time around.
As he continued to draw closer to the news crews, he still kept track of where Spencer and Mrs. B were. He watched as they navigated the area, and a light bulb in his head clicked on once he realized where they were heading. "Oh boy . . ." he muttered to himself. With a sense of urgency in his tone, he then spoke into the microphone, "Heads up, Hannibal. Head elf and Mrs. Claus are heading your way."
He’s a newsman!
You don’t like newsmen? How about a fireman? Mailman? Cop! Uh, wrong.
-- E. Robert Colton and Hannibal, "The Road to Hope"
Chapter 26: Cleverly Disguised
The warning over the earpiece was welcome,
although not unexpected. Colonel John
Hannibal Smith knew that it was likely going to be just a matter of time before
Spencer decided to make his way over and inspect the Zamboni. He picked up a rag and started to gently wipe
the side of the large machine. It was
brand new and sparkled in the sunlight, so it really didn't need any more
polishing. The busy work, however, would
keep the focus on the vehicle and off of him.
After their run-ins with Spencer Jackson, especially last night, the last thing he needed was to be recognized right before the plan could be put into action . . .
In spite of the danger, a small smile crept across his face as he wiped the side of the machine. Caring for the Zamboni was comforting . . . familiar . . . especially due to his past. It had been a while since he had a chance to be up close to one, much less get an opportunity to drive it, but once one learned how to operate this engineering marvel they never forgot. It was just like riding a bike.
Ever since they were first built by the legendary Frank Zamboni, the machine that bore his name had become almost synonymous with ice rinks. From a distance, it almost looked like a rectangle on wheels, but it was much more than that. It was a very complex vehicle, and definitely an absolute thrill to drive no matter if someone was a first time driver, or a seasoned pro.
A good portion of the front of the vehicle was taken up by a large white tank that sat atop the chassis. The dump tank, as it was commonly called, was where the shaved ice would go during the ice making process so it wouldn't be left on the ice itself. The whole goal was to leave the surface as smooth as glass by the time everything was done and the Zamboni pulled off.
But once it pulled off, the tank would be raised, and the shaved ice . . . which looked a lot like snow at that point . . . dumped out, hence the reason for the name dump tank.
Below the tank itself, on the chassis, was the engine and transmission, the same rudimentary elements that one associated with a regular motor vehicle. In fact, not many people knew it but the engines on the Zamboni were actually the same as what was under the hood of a Volvo. The engines from that motor company were known to be reliable workhorses that lasted for a very long time. These components were hidden behind blue panels, which kept the inner workings out of sight.
The chassis sat upon four large tires. These weren't ordinary car tires by any means. They were much larger than a standard tire, and covered with numerous silver studs that provided traction upon an icy surface.
Behind the dump tank was the main heart of the machine. The first thing that stood out was the seat and steering wheel where the driver would sit. The person would have to climb up in order to even be able to access the controls, much less operate it. It was almost like driving a really tall car with a super long hood and no back seat or trunk.
Next to the driver's seat on the back of the Zamboni, right in the middle, were the controls that not only operated the machine itself, but also controlled the ice making process. This included the throttle, the control to lower the conditioner, to start the vertical and horizontal conveyors, the ice breaker, and valves to turn on both the wash water and the ice making water.
Next to the controls was a large square area which served as a water tank. That tank would normally be filled with hot water for the ice making process. And right behind it was the fuel stand with the two propane tanks that Hannibal had checked before.
The final item on the back of the machine was the conditioner, which was just slightly wider than the resurfacer itself. There were a couple of metal plates that rested on the top of the long component, which housed the horizontal conveyor and a 77 inch long blade. A white towel also ran along the entire length of the conditioner, about three inches long. This portion of the Zamboni did most of the work, shaving off the used layer of ice with the blade, and then putting down a fresh layer of water that was smooth out with the towel.
Overall, it was a complex piece of machinery, but for someone like Colonel John Hannibal Smith it was an absolute thrill to drive and made him feel like a teenager all over again.
With the rag still in hand, he made his way around to the back of the Zamboni. Reaching up, he tested connections to the two propane tanks to make sure that they were both secure with no chance of leaking the gaseous fuel. When the connection wasn't secure and gas escaped past the gaskets, the smell was similar to a science experiment gone wrong in a high school . . . rotten eggs.
Once he finished checking the silver connectors to make sure they were on there tight, he then did the same with the valves on the tanks. He reached up to each one and twisted them to make sure that they could both easily open and close, and then he shut down the left tank . . . the one closest to the driver's seat. The reason for that was very simple. If the right tank ran out of gas while he was driving, he could simply reach over and open up the left tank without the engine dying or melting a hole in the ice.
Even though he could clearly see Spencer Jackson and Mrs. Baracus approaching out of the corner of his eye, Hannibal didn't turn to greet them. Instead, he opened the compartment just below the seat on the Zamboni to check what was inside of it. He was pleased to see a first aid kit, as well as a small fire extinguisher. Safety was definitely important with driving that machine. He closed the compartment and then started wiping it down.
The Director of Exhibits and Security for the Museum of Science and Industry walked up to Hannibal, his arm draped over the shoulder of Adele Baracus as he guided her along with him. His dark brown eyes looked at the man before him who was busy working on the Zamboni in preparation for when it would need to be driven during the ceremony. There was a small amount of surprise within the tone of his voice as he asked, "Where's Marcus? Wasn't he supposed to drive today?"
Even though the African American was addressing him, the strategist never turned to face him. Normally, Hannibal relished these encounters, but if there was any possible chance that he could recognize him through the disguise, the Colonel was not going to give him that opportunity. That meant that the less he could see of his face directly, the better. It was going to be the only way to make sure that his disguise wasn't going to be blown, and the cops called over to put him back into handcuffs. No . . . he had to play it safe.
"Came down with the flu last night," the strategist responded with a thick southern drawl. It was kind of similar to the dialect that Murdock occasionally used within his inflection, but this had more of a unique twang associated with those from Louisiana. "Called me early this mornin' and asked me to fill in for him." Getting into the character of the older man, Hannibal knelt down and let out a bit of a moan due to the exertion. Once he was on his knees, he removed one of the flat metal plates that covered the top of the conditioner and peered inside. Satisfied that there wasn't any snow, he put the cover plate back and then used the rag to wipe it down.
Spencer eyed the older man curiously. Marcus did tell him that there was someone else besides himself that was trained on how to drive the Zamboni, but he didn't recall him saying if the guy was older like the person that was kneeling and cleaning off the machine. He hadn't even been aware of the last minute switch with drivers, but he did have to admit that the person before him certainly seemed to know what he was doing. He glanced over to Adele for a moment, taking notice of how she looked at the resurfacer with curiosity. With a small smirk that appeared upon his lips, he returned his focus to the older man and asked, "How's it running for you?"
"Fine, sir. Purrs like a kitten, but she's got the power of a caged tiger," the Colonel responded, still utilizing the Louisianan accent. Even though he was working on the Zamboni, he could see out of the corner of his eye how Spencer Jackson was looking him over. He was definitely suspicious, especially with the last minute driver switch. He had to also mentally remind himself not to look at BA's mother during this conversation. The last thing either of them needed was for a glance between them to give away the fact that they knew each other, which would then blow not only his cover, but ruin the plan before it even got off the ground.
"Did Marcus fill you in on what you're supposed to do today with the ceremony?" Spencer questioned, obviously not wanting there to be any glitches.
"Yes sir, he sure did," Hannibal said, a poker face hiding the enthusiasm he inwardly felt. They were certainly going to get a surprise with what he had in store, and just the thought of that excited him. The Jazz was flowing freely through his veins like adrenaline, but his expression gave away nothing. "The kiddies are gonna love seein' the Z here in action."
Spencer looked at the older man, the expression on his face indicating that he was seemingly satisfied with the answers that he received. "Good work," he complimented before moving his right hand down to gently take the left hand of Adele Baracus. They then began to walk away toward the podium.
As he watched them leave, Hannibal let out a small sigh of relief. Spencer thankfully hadn't seen through his disguise, and Mrs. B did nothing to give him away either. That, plus Spencer seemed to buy into his answers as well and didn't prod too much. One challenge down, with the biggest one yet to come.
He stuffed the rag into the storage compartment underneath the seat, and then closed and secured the small blue door. The strategist then walked around toward the front of the Zamboni and glanced out over the rink. With how the activity had picked up its pace, the ceremony was likely seconds away from beginning. He rubbed his black glove covered hands together in anticipation of what was about to happen.
As he approached the hockey boards that lined the perimeter of the rink, he could see some kids on the other side near where BA and Murdock were. There were three boys, all of them probably around six years old . . . one with blonde hair, one with black hair, and the third with reddish hair. They were bouncing up on the balls of their feet, trying to get a better look and waving at the Colonel. Everyone seemed to love the Zamboni and those who drove it, especially kids. A huge thousand megawatt smile appeared upon Hannibal’s face as he found himself unable to resist the temptation. He waved back at the kids, brimming with pride.
A moment later, a deep male voice resounded over some well-placed speakers as
it announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Block 37!" Nobody was at the podium yet, which meant
that it was likely pre-recorded and being played back, or the person was in
another location and serving as an emcee.
The echo from the announcement had barely faded before it was replaced by a loud cheer from the large crowd, coupled with applause. Excitement filled the air, having replaced the anticipation that had hung over the gathering like a thick fog. It was very clear that many within the crowd were eager to lace up a pair of skates and use the new ice rink.
The attention of the West Point graduate was quickly drawn away from the kids to the ceremony as the Mayor of Chicago walked out onto the red carpet that was set up on the ice for the event. Harold Washington was a very historic figure in Chicago politics, especially considering the fact that he was the first African American elected to the top position in a large metropolitan city like the Windy City. Although BA never really displayed any real interest in politics, Mayor Washington was one of the few public servants he would talk about with immense pride.
The Mayor was accompanied by a beautiful woman, who looked to be in her late 20s, if not early 30s. The conservative, toned-down manner of her choice in winter clothing was obviously an effort not to distract from the Mayor himself. Hannibal guessed that she was probably an assistant or someone else important to Harold Washington. Her blonde hair seemed to blow with the radiance of the sun, and her face . . . although he was certain that he hadn’t met her before, she looked very familiar. Despite trying to rack his brain, he couldn’t p lace it just yet.
On the near side of the dasher boards, not too far away from his position, the
A-Team’s Commanding Officer could see a gentleman, who was obviously waiting
for his turn to be introduced to the crowd.
He stood near a door built into the hockey boards, which was open and
would allow the special guests the ability to step directly onto the red carpet
without having to walk on the ice. The
guy was a well-dressed Caucasian with dark brown hair, and he appeared to be in
his mid to late 30s. Considering where
he was standing and through a process of elimination, Hannibal guessed that he
had to be the director of the Chicago Park District.
Standing behind that gentleman was Spencer Jackson and Mrs. Baracus. The Director of Museum Exhibits and Security was also waiting for this turn to approach the podium. It was logical that Spencer would be introduced last among the sponsors for Block 37, especially since the Museum had purchased and donated the Zamboni for the site, whereas the Chicago Park District would actually operate it.
But, that’s if the ceremony even got that far . . .
Mrs. Baracus being that close to the action was a major concern. If Kramer’s aim was off, or if he became distracted as he pulled the trigger, there was a serious risk that she could be shot or even killed. He just hoped that she would remember to get to safety once everything started going down. If she was hurt, even in the slightest, BA would likely rip Spencer to shreds.
Speaking of the Sergeant, near the stage where he and Murdock were perched on the other side of the rink, Hannibal could see figure skating champion Scott Hamilton. As a special guest, he would be introduced last to help the Mayor officially declare the rink open to the public, followed by a quick demonstration of some of the skills that helped him to win the Olympic gold medal. The Colonel could see him stretching, warming up in preparation to emerge when the excitement of the gathered crowd was at its peak.
Things were going
to get exciting all right . . . but probably not in the way that anyone would
have anticipated.
********
With the ceremony already started, Templeton Peck felt much like a caged tiger himself, in spite of the fact that he was out in the open. The adrenaline within his blood was pumping wildly, and his heart was pounding. Time was running out, yet he wasn't much closer to where the assassin was located compared to when he was able to first identify him.
"Welcome, Chicago!" the con artist heard the Mayor say to the crowd,
his voice projected by the microphone on the podium. "This is a great day for the city as we
dedicate a valuable area within the Loop for recreation and family fun."
A resounding
applause ripped through the crowd, although the Supply Officer did not take
part in it. He zoned out the speech that
the Mayor was starting to present, his focus still specifically on Kramer. With the crowd as packed as it was he was
hardly making any progress, and he couldn't really excuse himself or ask people
to move out of his way without drawing undue attention . . . attention that
would likely bring the cops down on him and the rest of the A-Team.
Kramer was currently among the news crews, reporters, and photographers near
the hockey boards. He could see tall,
slender notebooks in the hands of the reporters, who furiously scribbled down
notes from the speech onto the lined paper.
The photographers each had at least one camera, if not more than one,
with a very long telephoto lens that made regular cameras pale by
comparison. If he had to guess, those
lenses were as long as his entire arm.
The video cameras that he saw perched upon the shoulders of video
journalists was different from the one that Murdock had used to record his fake
wedding to Jacqueline Taylor. That one
had been a camera with a separate tape deck, but these . . . these had the tape
deck integrated into the camera itself, creating a single unit.
'Great . . . just great,' he thought to himself dismally. Although Murdock and Hannibal helped to
pinpoint the assassin from the news media, so he wouldn't have to be like a kid
playing "Duck, Duck, Goose" or "Eenie, Meenie, Meinie, Moe,"
he still wasn't much closer than when he stated out. Trying to navigate a crowd as packed like
this one was extremely difficult and slow going, almost like trying to wade
through chest deep water. He knew that
Kramer was going to have to make his move while the Mayor was up on the
platform delivering his speech . . . but could he get there in time?
Face continued to weave through the crowd as best as he could, his blue eyes still focused on Kramer. He was within about thirty feet from him as he noticed the mousy brown haired assassin pull a piece of paper from the right pocket of the jacket he wore. The hit man flicked his wrist sharply to force the paper to open, his dark eyes gazing at what was written on it.
He worked his way past a couple more people just as he heard the Colonel over the earpiece, "Hey, Face, Kramer's got some kind of paper on him. Can you see what it says?"
Inwardly, Templeton Peck rolled his eyes at that request. His Commanding Officer likely could see how far he was away from the assassin still, so to ask him to relay what was printed on the paper, he had to be kidding, right? What did the Colonel expect him to do with this crowd? Suddenly sprout wings and fly over it so he could get close enough to read the paper? Then again, the strategist sometimes had a tendency to ask for the impossible . . .
"You know, Hannibal, curiosity killed the cat," Face pointed out over the hidden microphone. Even though he didn't want to push his luck too much and muscle his way through the crowd, he still knew that he had a job to do. He squeezed past another couple of people. A little more, and he'd be able to read what was on that piece of paper . . .
"That's why cats have nine lives," he could hear Hannibal reply. Although he didn't look over to see the Colonel's face where he stood by the Zamboni, he could tell immediately from how his Commanding Officer had responded that he likely had a grin on his face. And it wasn't just any grin . . . it was THAT grin. He was on the Jazz . . . boy, oh boy was he on the Jazz!
As he drew closer, he could finally see what was on the paper that Kramer had pulled out of his pocket. It looked like a rundown for the ceremony today, exactly to the minute. A time had been written down on it and circled, which he found to be very unusual. Why would there be a time written and circled on the paper unless . . .
The blonde-haired Lieutenant brought his right hand up and pulled his glove back slightly, revealing the gold watch that rested around his wrist. As he looked at the time, his blue eyes widened slightly as a realization struck him. He looked up just as Kramer stuffed the paper back into his pocket and shifted the hold upon the camera that was perched on his left shoulder.
Murdock had been right. The way the assassin was holding the camera was extremely unusual. Most ENG cameras were either carried on the left shoulder, or carried by the handle, but this guy was holding it out in front of him using his shoulder as a brace similar to a rifle. He didn't even have it on a tripod, much like most of the other news videographers who were covering the ceremony. On the handle of what looked like the ENG camera, he could see the targeting scope that his best friend had previously mentioned.
That set off all of the bells and whistles. Kramer couldn't pull a gun at an event like this without having the cops swarm all over him, or causing the crowd to panic prematurely. If the crowd started to scream and panic, people could be trampled and the Mayor would be immediately ushered to safety. The weapon was concealed within the camera! Even the look on the assassin's face was enough to provide a cause for alarm with the talented con man. Kramer's lips were pursed into a thin line, and there was a steely look in his eyes as he peered into the targeting scope.
"Hannibal, he's about to fire!" Face said urgently into the concealed microphone, not caring who overheard him at this point.
Templeton Peck didn't even bother to wait for an acknowledgement from the Colonel. He pushed his way a bit more forcefully through the crowd, knowing he only had one shot at this. He had to get close enough to try and stop Kramer, even if he tried for a flying tackle, before the assassin could fire the weapon. Inwardly, he prayed that he could make it in time . . .
Oh, he’s nothing but the cheese in the trap. If the rat eats the cheese, what do we care? So long as the trap gets sprung.
-- David Vaun, "Mind Games"
Chapter 27: House Of Cards
The warning from the Lieutenant drew the
attention of Colonel Smith. He glanced
over by where Face was and noted that he was closer to the assassin, but not
quite close enough. There was no way
that he'd be able to push his way through the rest of the crowd in time, not
with how it was clear that Kramer was preparing to take the shot. He had only seconds to react and come up with
some way to stop a terrible tragedy from unfolding in front of over a thousand
innocent bystanders . . .
Moving swiftly, turned and grabbed onto the bar on the side of the Zamboni while stepping onto the conditioner. He pulled himself up and climbed into the seat of the resurfacer. He then reached forward and grabbed the key that was in the ignition and turned it. The engine roared to life with a melodic purr that would make BA Baracus jealous.
The cunning strategist knew that starting up the ice making vehicle by itself would not illicit a response or cause the ceremony to stop. In fact, he was scheduled to pull the Zamboni out during the ceremony and raise the dump tank just for show . . . but that wasn’t supposed to be until later on when Spencer would talk about the Museum’s contribution to the ice rink. A huge smile spread across his face as he knew exactly how he was going to interrupt this ceremony and stop the assassination . . .
"Now!" he shouted into the hidden microphone. It was time to spring the trap.
Reaching onto the panel in front of him, he pressed a rubber button several times, which caused the horn on the Zamboni to honk. The reaction was instant as he saw the Mayor and others waiting for their turn to speak turn to look at him. He could even make out one of them asking "What on Earth?" It was obvious that they didn't expect this interruption.
Hannibal quickly glanced over to where Kramer was and noticed that he had pulled his head away from the targeting scope with a confused look on his face. Like everyone else, it was clear that he hadn't expected this turn of events since it wasn't in the schedule he had been given. The assassin swiftly recovered and put his left eye up to the end of the targeting scope again . . .
As the military strategist continued to survey the scene, it quickly became clear that the camera wasn't pointed at the Mayor this time. With all of the confusion, others that were near the podium and waiting for their turn had congregated around Harold Washington, mainly to try and ascertain what was going on. Blowing the horn on the Zamboni helped to avert that assassination for the moment, but there was someone else that was in immediate danger. Kramer had pointed the camera at the Mayor's blonde assistant.
It was a strategic move, which the Colonel himself inwardly appreciated. If you couldn't get the target with the first attempt, then go for something or someone else that would make the crowd stop and provide a second chance. It was simple, but often very effective.
Even though he could see that Face had managed to make his way through the crowd and was right behind Kramer, there was still a chance that the assassination could be carried out. Gritting his teeth with fierce determination to prevent a tragedy from taking place today, Hannibal moved one of the two levers forward next to his right leg, boosting the RPMs on the machine. He then quickly reached for the other one and ease that one forward, pulling the Zamboni out onto the ice . . .
*******
It had taken a great deal of effort, but just as
the horn on the Zamboni started to blow, Templeton Peck managed to get through
the crowd and took up a position almost directly behind Kramer. The Colonel likely noticed that he wasn't
close enough to do anything and was trying to buy time.
And buying time was exactly what he did . . .
The Lieutenant noticed how Kramer had pulled away from the concealed weapon for a moment, almost as if totally confused as to what was going on. He had to keep from grinning and making an outward comment about how this probably wasn't on the schedule.
He also noticed how Murdock had quickly jumped off the stage where he and BA had been positioned and was running . . . or rather sliding . . . across the ice in his direction. It wasn't like someone playing baseball and sliding into home plate. This was more like trying to run across the ice without ice skates on. How in the world his best friend was able to do that and not end up on his rear end was beyond him. Due green Santa's elf costume that he had been wearing, the Texan quickly drew the attention from the crowd which was cheering and laughing. Based on their reactions, they likely thought that what was taking place was a part of the program . . .
With the crowd sticking around like they were, rather than seeking safety, it was going to make this a lot more difficult . . . not to mention a lot more essential that they stop the assassin before he could get a shot off. If he fired the weapons, there was a strong chance that someone could get hurt or killed.
The con man couldn't afford to wait for Murdock to back him up. With how Kramer was repositioning himself a second time to take a shot, he had to act and he had to act now. He tapped the assassin on the shoulder to grab his attention. As he turned around, Face gave a smile that could charm the skin off a snake and said, "Hi there." A second later, his right fist lashed out like a cobra, connecting solidly with the left side of his opponent's jaw.
What was this guy's jaw made out of? Solid rock? Although he had managed to get Kramer to stumble backwards off balance and drop the weapon when he hit him, it hurt a lot harder than he thought it would have. It wasn't like he hadn't landed punches before on an opponent, but he hadn't expected it to really hurt this much. His jaw dropped due to the pain and he shook his right hand to try and get rid of the sting.
That distraction was enough to give the assassin time to recover. He shook his head to clear it following the unexpected punch, and then rolled over on the ground. Within a matter of seconds, he was back on his feet again, his eyes glinting with anger as he spotted the man who had spoiled his mission. Kramer knew that if he could fight off his attacker, perhaps he could have just enough time to try again to take a shot at the Mayor before he was totally ushered to safety. With a snarl of rage, he charged head first into Face's midsection.
As the assassin slammed into him, the con artist felt the air in his lungs leave him with a rush. Taken by surprise at the choice of tactics, both he and Kramer fell to the ground in a tangled mess of limbs as they grappled for control. He could see the mousey-haired hit man try to reach for the camera, which carried the concealed weapon that was lying on the ground just a few feet away.
What made matters worse was the fact that those around them had no clue what was going on or how dangerous the situation was. They were enjoying the fight between the two combatants, and circled around them to form a ring around them as they cheered both of them on. Unfortunately, the mass of people was making it difficult for Murdock to make his way through to where his friend battled the assassin so he could assist him.
Face drew in a gasp of air and managed to get in another solid punch on Kramer . . . one that allowed him to pull himself free and scramble back to his feet. What surprised him was the speed by which the assassin was able to recover and also get back to his feet again. He watched as the hired gun tried again to lunge for the concealed weapon. If he managed to recover it, he could quickly get a shot off before anyone could stop him.
Acting quickly, the Lieutenant dived for the assassin again. He managed to grab onto his legs as they both tumbled to the ground once more. The weapon thankfully was just out of reach, although just barely. This time, Kramer managed to wriggle out of Face's grasp and threw a solid punch that slammed against the left side of the con man's head.
Templeton Peck cried out in immense pain. The assassin had managed to strike gold, so to speak, his hit connecting with the exact spot where the Supply Officer's head wound was located. He had endured a tremendous amount of agony due to the torture in the POW camps, and this came really close to that level of pain. A combination of black specks and stars filled his vision, dancing in front of his eyes similar to how the wind-blown snowflakes had fallen from the sky the past few days in Chicago. He shook his head to try and clear it from the effects from where he had been hit and regain his focus.
Ignoring the writhing blonde-haired man, Kramer got back to his feet and quickly made his way toward the camera. He glanced over to the stage, and saw several people huddling around Mayor Washington, but he hadn't been escorted yet from the area. Good. That meant that they believed that this was an isolated fight and there wasn't an immediate danger to the Mayor's life. If he could get to one of the other locations that he recalled from the map, he would likely get another chance to make the shot. He wasn't willing to abort the mission yet and have to pay back the cash he had already been given.
He bent down and grabbed the concealed weapon, his mind racing with the various ways that he could try to escape through the milling crowd and take up position in one of the other spots. When he stood up, he came face to face with a tall, lanky, ridiculous looking elf who bore a threatening look of fury on his face. His mind raced for a moment as their eyes locked, trying to recall where he had seen the green clad man before he recalled that he had been on the platform standing next to Santa a few moments ago.
"I don't think so, Kramer," the elf spat with a Texan drawl. Murdock glanced briefly past the assassin where his best friend had managed to pull himself into a kneeling position, and held his head in the same spot where he had been shot in the Museum. He knew it wasn't his fault that Face had been hurt, especially with how hard it was to try and weave through the crowd, but if he had somehow managed to have gotten there a few moments earlier . . .
Inwardly, Kramer grinned. The guy in the elf costume was distracted by the sight of the guy who he had just fought with. Perfect! It was just what he'd need in order to be able to get away until things calmed down and the ceremony resumed.
Murdock noticed Kramer's attempt to dart past him and knew that he had one chance to stop him. He reached out and grabbed a hold of the one thing that the assassin was carrying that he could reach . . . the concealed weapon. His hands wrapped around the lens, which hid the barrel of the weapon, as they began to struggle over it. The Texan pulled himself closer to the hit man, just to be safe. The last thing he needed was for the weapon to be aimed at him during the struggle and for the trigger to be pulled.
Kramer let out an angry curse as they wrestled over the weapon. The guy in the elf costume sure was stubborn and he needed to get the camera case away from him. Unfortunately, he was holding on tight and refused to let go. As they continued tussle, the assassin knew that there was going to be only one way to shake the guy. He got a better grip on the camera and brought a hand around to the trigger . . .
Without warning, a blinding flash of light suddenly erupted from the lens of the camera, ripping over the heads of the crowd to slam into one of the scraggly trees. It exploded into flames! Realizing that there was a weapon, the crowd around them was sent into a panic with people screaming. Many started to run from the scene, and others pushed their way through the massive sea of people to try and escape with their lives.
The force of the weapon was immense, and although Murdock had a grip on the weapon, it wasn't strong enough. He was flung backward due to the force of the discharge, although thankfully he hadn't been blasted off his feet. Even though he was the A-Team's pilot, he had shot his fair share of weapons and had experienced the recoil from doing so, but this . . . this was beyond anything that he had felt before, which attested to just how powerful of a weapon it was. It was enough to momentarily disorient the lanky Texan.
Murdock shook his head to try and clear it and regain his bearings. His brown eyes quickly scanned the crowd as he looked around him, trying to locate where the assassin had fled to in that moment of recovery. His wry form turned around, as he tried to protect himself from the fleeing crowd. After a moment, his warm brown eyes briefly spotted Kramer running through the crowd. He was about to let out a yell when he saw a slender form with blonde hair jump out of nowhere, tackling the assassin once more and throwing him to the ground.
The pilot recognized the man instantly. It was Face! He must have recovered while the Captain had been struggling with Kramer.
This time, the Lieutenant was fully prepared for the underhanded tactics and wasn't about to let the assassin get the advantage. He turned Kramer onto his back and straddled him in order to pin him and prevent his escape. The con artist slammed his fist again and again into the hired killer almost relentlessly, panting due to the exertion. The beating he was unleashing wasn't intended to kill him or seek revenge for being hit on where he had been wounded, but instead was intended to knock the mousy-haired man senseless.
After a moment, he felt a gentle hand upon his right shoulder. As he spun around to look at the source, his mind raced and wondered if Kramer had an associate that the others didn't know about. He let out a sigh of relief as he saw the grinning visage of his best friend, who was still dressed in that ridiculous elf costume.
In a way, the A-Team pilot was relieved that Face was okay . . . relatively. There was some fresh blood that stained the left side of his face. Not a lot, but enough to be noticeable and made it clear that it came from the wound where he had been shot during the Museum break in. He noticed the weak smile from the con artist, and then also took note of the unconscious assassin.
"Whaddya say we drag this sleazeball over to the main party and see what Hannibal and BA are up to?" Face suggested, knowing what Hannibal had in mind with how to gift wrap Kramer and Spencer up for the authorities. The two of them would be a nice present underneath the police department's tree.
"Sure thing, Faceman," Murdock responded jovially, his eyes twinkling with glee. He reached down to help the Supply Officer back to his feet and then noted, "I've got the legs."
*******
The moment his house of cards started to collapse, Spencer's dark ebony skin started to pale. He watched the chaos as it unfolded around him. Everything was going wrong, but why? What happened with Kramer and how could he miss shooting the Mayor that badly? And why did the Zamboni driver pull onto the ice when he did? The A-Team was supposed to be rotting away behind bars, so who were these guys?
Before he even realized it, Mrs. Baracas had pulled free from his grasp and ran to the others that were still standing on the red carpet near the podium, including Mayor Harold Washington. "Come on," he heard her call to the group before trying to usher them back towards the hockey boards. If she managed to get them by the boards, they could take cover behind it . . .
"Addie!" Spencer yelled, trying to get her to stop. He took a step in her direction to try and grab his pawn, but stopped short when he spotted a cop running towards the group. Obviously, they were intent on protecting the Mayor, which meant that the opportunity was lost . . . especially with the crowd in a panic after the weapon had been fired.
He knew that Kramer was skilled, hence why he even hired him in the first place, but if he failed to elude capture . . . Spencer didn't even want to think about that, since if that happened the whole thing could be pinned to him. He couldn't go after Addie and use her as a human shield. That'd really cause the cops to descend on him in a hot second. No . . . for now it was best for a strategic retreat. If he could get away, then maybe he could still find a way to salvage this business deal with Scarlotti, among others. Still, he inwardly cursed Kramer for missing his shot and messing up this deal since now it'd make things much more difficult.
Due to the way the crowds were fleeing in a panic, there was only one direction left for him to go without being crushed in the stampede . . . toward the platform where Santa had been sitting. Hopefully, that would put him on the path to freedom. Gingerly, he stepped off the red carpet by the presentation stage and onto the ice. His progress was slow as he moved across the smooth surface in his polished black dress shoes, trying to make sure that he didn't slip and land on his backside, but soon he began to approach the hockey boards where the platform was located.
As he drew close he stopped short, taken by surprise by an unexpected sight. The Santa that had been sitting on the platform had leapt off of the chair with an incredible amount of grace and agility, climbed over the hockey boards and onto the ice. Not just that, but the large Santa, who looked like he could have been a linebacker for the Chicago Bears, stepped right into and blocked his path of escape.
A moment later, he saw the Santa pull off his red hat and fake white beard, revealing a Mandika and a deep scowl that belonged to only one person. The enraged look on the larger man's eyes clearly meant trouble for anyone dumb enough to try and cross his path . . . much less get past him. Both of their brown eyes seemed to stare each other down for what seemed like an eternity, with neither of them giving an inch. It was Spencer who broke the tense silence between the two of them in a breathy voice, one that showed how much he was struggling to retain control, as he stated, "BA . . . I thought you were in jail."
"That's where you gonna be when we're done with you, sucka," the burly Sergeant threatened firmly. He didn't show any signs of flinching under the Director's withering stare, nor any signs of backing down either. It was clear that he was a man on a mission . . . a mission to stop the guy before him from not only committing any more crimes, but also to keep him from hurting his mother.
"We'll just see about that," Spencer shot back viciously. He was a fairly large man himself, and took pride in working out. He wasn't sure if he'd be able to match the brute strength of Adele's son, but he hopefully could come close plus he had a few tricks of his own. He widened his stance to enhance his balance on the slippery surface beneath his feet, and leaned forward slightly to try and create a lower center of gravity so it'd be much harder to knock him off his feet.
The Ordinance Officer took a similar stance, his eyes not once leaving that of Spencer's. It was clear that he was waiting for the older man to make the first move. His muscles bulged underneath the Santa suit and he let out a threatening growl. They circled each other for a moment, as if trying to size the opponent up the way two wrestlers squared off in the ring at the start of a match.
Sure enough, BA's patience paid off. The Director of Museum Exhibits and Security made the first move as he reared back and then lashed out with a fist toward Adele's son. Moving with a speed that he didn't seem capable of, the Sergeant easily dodged the blow, countering with a powerful swing with his left fist. His aim was perfect as he connected with Spencer's mid-section. "That's for hurtin' Face," the gruff Ordinance Officer announced.
"Oooof!" The older man with slightly greying black hair had the wind knocked out of him by the force of the blow. He had been in fist fights when he was growing up in school, but he had never felt such incredible strength directed at him like that. He instinctively wrapped his arms around his abdomen in a feeble attempt to ease the pain from where he had been hit. As he did so, he looked up at the ominous figure that seemed to tower over him.
What was the old saying . . . that lightning doesn’t strike the same place twice? Well, apparently the person who coined the phrase didn’t have the muscular might of BA Baracus in mind. The master mechanic didn’t give Spencer time to react. His face scrunched up in a snarl as he declared with tremendous force, "And this is for my Mama. NO ONE messes with or hurts my Mama."
Those words were
barely out of the muscular Sergeant’s mouth when he grabbed the Director by his
belt and lapels. In an incredible
display of brute strength, he lifted him up over his head and then tossed him
over the hockey boards into Santa’s chair, almost as if he had been throwing
around a rag doll.
"BA!"
At the sound of
Face's voice calling his name from behind him, he turned around and spotted the
con artist and Murdock trying drag Kramer across the ice. The two A-Team members had each grabbed onto
an arm and were pulling him along, making no attempt to keep the unfortunate
man's backside from being pulled across the cold surface. The assassin's head listed slightly to the
side, the first indication that he was starting to stir.
"Got this one for the chair, big guy," Murdock chimed in with a contagious grin, which shone through in spite of the strain he and Face were using to drag Kramer.
The Sergeant didn't hesitate at all. He grabbed the groaning assassin and tossed him on top of Spencer. The way he did so made the slender hit man look like a feather since there was barely a grunt that emanated from the Ordinance Officer. Once that task was done, he looked around and spotted his Mama, who was still trying to get some of the officials at the ceremony to safety. A slight grin of satisfaction crossed his face, which seemed to match that of his teammates.
Their moment to relish the apparent victory was short lived, however, as the unmistakable wail of approaching sirens filled the air. BA immediately looked at Murdock and Face, who seemed dismay by the potential arrival of the authorities.
His dark eyes then sought out and found the Colonel, who was still on the Zamboni . . . but he wasn't sitting. No, instead he was standing and looking west along Washington Boulevard. One of his trademark thousand gigawatt smiles filled his face which meant that he was reveling in a serious case of the Jazz at this turn of events. A sinking sensation developed in the pit of his stomach as Sergeant Bosco Andre Baracus instantly knew that could only mean one thing.
Decker . . .
Freeze, Smith!
I'm sorry, our store Santa Claus has gone home for the day. You'll have to come back if you want to tell him what you want for Christmas.
My Christmas present is you, Smith.
You have expensive taste.
-- Colonel Decker and Hannibal, "The Battle of Bel Air"
Chapter 28: Cold Shoulder
Over the roar of the Volvo engine on the massive ice making machine, Colonel
John Hannibal Smith had heard the approaching siren. He stood up from the seat and looked around
to try and spot the source. That’s when
his ice blue eyes spotted five green sedans approaching the area, each with a
mars light bar mounted on the roof. They
were closely followed by at least six white sedans, also with mars lights on
the roof.
So, the Chicago Police was joining forces with the Military Police . . .
A huge smile appeared upon his face at the possibilities. Spencer and Kramer were boxed up, but now they just had to finish wrapping them up and put a nice little bow on them for the authorities . . . the A-Team’s version of a Christmas present. And with Decker practically breathing down their necks worse than a Chicago wind chill . . . well, that was just going to make this that much more fun!
First thing was first, though. He had to secure their escape plan and also make sure that their secret weapon remained a secret. "Time to scramble, Murdock!" the strategist barked into his concealed microphone as he sat back down on the driver's seat of the Zamboni. Even from this height, it was still enough to give him an unobstructed view of what was taking place around the rink. "Our favorite Grinch is coming. Go get the Suburban and be ready to pull in low and fast to pick us up."
"You’ve got it, Colonel," the pilot responded with his familiar and melodic Texan drawl. Murdock started to run across the ice . . . well, it wasn't running, but more skidding and slighting while remaining upright . . . toward the hockey boards on the other side of the rink. Instead of climbing out through the door in the boards, he actually picked up an object and started heading back to the platform!
As he drew near, the tall, lanky man called out, "Catch, big guy!" He then tossed the object toward the Sergeant . . . and it wasn't any ordinary object, but actually the ENG video camera that Kramer had used to conceal the weapon. BA deftly caught it the same way Dennis McKinnon, the punt return kicker of the Chicago Bears, would catch a punted football.
Once the Ordinance Officer had a firm grasp on the camera, Murdock turned around and again started running . . . well . . . sliding upright across the ice. As he did so, he snapped off a crisp salute to the Colonel before vaulting over the hockey boards on the other end of the rink with incredible grace and agility, and then pushing his way through the crowd to where the Suburban was parked.
In a way, the crafty leader of the A-Team couldn't help but to chuckle slightly as he returned the Captain's salute. As he watched the pilot, he had to admit that he was impressed by how well Murdock was able to blend into the crowd as he darted away, despite that costume he was wearing. Even though he was confident that their insane comrade would be able to pull through, as he always did, the strategist knew how crazy Chicago traffic could be. The Captain would be tied up for a while, which meant that there was little chance that Decker would be able to spot him and peg him as still continuing to work with the A-Team, jeopardizing his ability to stay at the VA, before this whole mess could be wrapped up.
As he drove past the stage on the ice, where the Mayor had given his speech until he was interrupted by the commotion, Colonel Smith pulled off the wig, sunglasses, hat, and fake mustache, revealing his silver-white hair and sparkling ice blue eyes. He tossed those elements of his disguise onto the red carpet as a huge grin filled his face. Although his gut instinct was yelling at him to have his men follow Murdock to the Suburban for a strategic withdrawl, he couldn't resist the temptation or the poetic justice of what he had in mind.
"Okay, guys, let's gift wrap these two before the party poopers spoil our fun," he announced into his microphone for his other two men. He eased the Zamboni around to a stop right in front of the platform where BA and Murdock had been stationed earlier, and then pushed one of the controls forward, opening the dump tank. The back of the dump tank lifted up on an angle, as the hood opened in a way that would remind someone of the famed shark Jaws and how it opened its mouth before devouring the victims. Had there been any snow and ice inside, it would have slid out right away when the tank opened, but it was bone dry . . . for now.
BA and Face moved around to Santa's chair, looking at the two the Sergeant had hefted onto there a few moments ago. Spencer was still out cold, sprawled out over the red velvet and ornate gold chair. He didn't look like he was going anywhere soon without a rude awakening. Kramer, however, had managed to stagger back to his feet although it was clear that he was still groggy.
Templeton Peck immediately noticed the assassin getting to his feet. With an almost arrogant stride, he walked over to Kramer and delivered a strong uppercut, which connected squarely with the hit man's jaw. The force of the blow caused the mousey-haired man to stumble backwards and land on top of Spencer once more.
The Lieutenant wiped his hands off on his parka, almost as if trying to brush any dirt off that he may have gotten onto himself after hitting Kramer once more. Once he had done that, he reached into the right pocket of the assassin's parka and removed the crumpled piece of paper from it . . . the same paper that he had seen him read before he was about to fire the concealed weapon.
The con artist then pulled out a small black box from the right pocket of his parka. His slender fingers of his left hand grasped and extended a tiny antenna from the device and his blue eyes were cast upon the red button that glowed on one of the sides. He reached for the button with his left index finger, but hesitated as his gaze came to rest upon Sergeant Baracus. Instead of pushing it, he held out the small electronic trigger to the master mechanic as he mentioned, "Here BA, I think you deserve the honor."
"Thanks," the muscular mechanic responded, his eyes locking with Face's in a moment of understanding. All of this was a result of wanting to protect his Mama. If anyone deserved the satisfaction of activating the device and making sure that Spencer and his crony were going to be put away for a very long time, it was him. He accepted the little black remote, and a shy grin appeared upon his face as he jammed his left index finger into the button.
The antique-looking gold and red Santa chair suddenly lurched forward through a combination of hydraulics and the release of tension on some well-hidden springs. Both occupants of the chair were catapulted through the air, directly into the mouth of the beast itself . . . into the open dump tank of the waiting Zamboni.
As soon as he heard two loud thumps from the front of the Z, Hannibal's hand quickly reached over and pulled one lever backward. Like the jagged teeth of a great white shark closing around the flesh of its prey, the gigantic white dump tank lowered back into place, trapping Spencer and Kramer inside before the two passengers could slide out and escape. As the Colonel slid the gearshift into reverse, his face filled with a grin that almost seemed to outshine the brilliance of the sun as he eased the Zamboni away from the dasher boards.
Face glanced down at the crumpled paper that he had relieved from the assassin, but when he looked up he saw the look on his Commanding Officer's face and recognized it immediately. A dismal groan escaped his lips as he knew that his leader was up to something. Hoping that the Colonel would listen to the voice of reason for once, the Lieutenant called out, "Come on, Hannibal, we don't have time for this!"
The con artist's protests were drowned out by the loud Volvo engine of the massive ice making machine, as well as the insistent metallic pounding that now emanated from within the dump tank. In one fluid motion, Hannibal showed his skill at operating the Zamboni as he eased the gearshift to move the vehicle forward, lowered the conditioner on the back of the machine, activated the horizontal and vertical conveyers, and then opened the valve for the wash water and the ice making water.
Hannibal's grin got bigger as he drove, the distinct sound of shaven ice traveling up the vertical conveyer and being expelled into the now occupied dump tank with some force. He knew from his experience that, by using the wash water, the snow that was being thrown at Spencer and Kramer wasn't just dry shaven snow. This stuff was heavily laden with moisture, which meant he was literally giving the two a very cold shoulder . . . among other things.
The muffled cries from within the tank, along with the increase in the frequency of the banging, told the cunning strategist that his two passengers were protesting literally being put on ice . . .
******
While the A-Team were taking care of the two
criminals, five green sedans whipped around the corner of Washington Boulevard
onto State Street. Each of the vehicles
skidded to a stop along the curb, right across from the majestic and legendary
Marshall Field and Company flagship store.
Behind the sedans were several Chicago Police units, which pulled to a
stop along Washington.
The front passenger door of the lead green sedan opened, and a tall man emerged from the car. He straightened his thick olive green winter coat, and then adjusted the green baseball cap that rested upon his blonde hair. His piercing blue eyes surveyed the scene around him for a moment before Colonel Roderick Decker looked to the other MPs, "I want this entire area sealed off. Get the Chicago PD to set up a perimeter and cover the whole block. Nobody gets in or out of the area without going through them or us. The A-Team is not going to get away this time."
He pulled out his sidearm from the holster, his face hardening as he spotted the one person who had bested him time and time again, and had been the source of frustration for him for two long years now . . . Colonel John Hannibal Smith. Although his face remained stoic, the fact that the crafty Colonel was up on that machine meant that he left himself vulnerable to capture. Even so, he couldn't underestimate his adversary since there were numerous times in the past when he had the A-Team in his clutches and some mystery man showed up and freed them. But that was always around Los Angeles . . . this was Chicago, so the chances of that happening here was likely much slimmer.
He watched as an African American man with a well trimmed moustache emerged from the driver's side of the car. He gave a nod of understanding to his trusted aid of the last several years and simply said, "Captain Crane." No sooner had the words left his lips, with his breath being carried into the air in a white puff, he started to make his way through the panic-stricken crowd toward the rink and the man who had been a thorn in his side more often than he could count.
Captain Marcus
Crane looked around for a moment as he assessed the situation, and then also
spotted one of their targets driving the Zamboni. He looked at the other soldiers that had
accompanied them from Fort Sheridan.
"You three, come with me," he immediately ordered to the three
MPs that were standing close to him. He
then turned to the other men and instructed, "The rest of you, work with
the Chicago police. Remind them that we
have wanted fugitives here who armed and dangerous. Don't let anyone leave the area until you
search them. Smith is still here, so
Peck and Baracus won't be too far away."
Crane pulled out his own service sidearm as the other MPs dispersed to carry
out the directions he had delivered. He
could literally feel the adrenaline coursing through his veins with the
excitement and potential of finally being able to not only apprehend the
A-Team, but do to where they couldn't escape.
If they tried to in this crowd, innocent civilians would be hurt . . .
and from what he had observed while working alongside Colonel Decker, Colonel
Smith and his men took extraordinary precautions to make sure that bystanders
wouldn't be caught up in the crossfire or wounded. He couldn't believe that the cunning Smith
would have miscalculated so badly to where he literally handed the advantage to
the Military Police . . .
Turning back to the men he had designated to be with him, he simply said, "Let's go." Confident that they would be able to keep up, he started to push his way through the crowd, deeper into the chaos. As he did so, his eyes darted back and forth, scanning the scene to try and find some sign of the other members of the A-Team. They had to be here . . . somewhere.
He stopped as his gaze game to a rest on a platform on the north side of the rink, about 50 yards from where he was standing. He instantly recognized the blonde hair and countenance of Lieutenant Templeton Peck, as well as . . .
Captain Marcus Crane literally had to do a double take, unable to believe what he was seeing. If his own two eyes hadn't spotted it, he would never have believed it in a million years. He bit his lower lip to keep himself from bursting out in laughter at the sight of the gruff Sergeant BA Baracus dressed up as Santa Claus.
It didn't take
him long to compose himself, knowing that there were more important matters at
hand. The quicker that he could put
those two into custody, the less likely that anyone trying to flee the area
within a panic would get hurt. Not hesitating, he started to weave his way
through the crowd again toward the platform.
In spite of the danger to them, the presence of the crowd helped to
serve a purpose. It kept Peck and
Baracus from spotting him or the other MPs through the sea of people, so Crane
knew that they had the advantage. They
would be able to get right up to them on the platform before they could be
spotted, which would give no time for the A-Team members to react.
It took a few moments, but he got as close as he could while still using the
crowd as cover. Marcus made eye contact
with the other MPs, nodding his head slightly as a silent signal for them to
move when he did. Once he noticed each
of the three men nod in acknowledgement and ready their weapons, Captain Crane
emerged from the crowd and rushed the platform.
He heard the boot steps behind him, affirming that the men had followed,
positioning themselves around the platform and focusing their weapons on the
two A-Team members.
"Freeze!" the African American MP shouted at Peck and Baracus, aiming his gun at them.
Templeton Peck
couldn't help but to grumble a bit when he realized that he and BA were
cornered, although the presence of the MPs wasn't entirely unexpected. After their arrest last night, all of them
knew that it was only a matter of time before Decker would show up. He had his revolver on him, but it was inside
his coat. If he even dared to reach into
the parka and pull the gun out, it'd only serve to provoke the MPs and give
them a reason to fire. Plus, even though
the crowd was still dispersing in a panic, there were too many innocents around
to risk a fire fight. Still, he had
hoped that Hannibal wouldn't have taken so long in putting Spencer and Kramer
on ice to where they'd have to rely on Murdock for yet another rescue.
In spite of the severity of the situation, a sly and charming smile appeared upon Face's lips. He slowly raised his hands in surrender, realizing that he had a golden opportunity to alleviate the mood slightly. "Could you use another word other than freeze? As long as we keep standing here, I'll be frozen stiff in a matter of minutes with these temperatures," he quipped.
Captain Crane simply rolled his eyes at the con man's response. "Cut the comedy, Peck," he ordered gruffly, a clear indication that he wasn't about to play any of their games. He waved his gun slightly in the direction of the Zamboni doors as he told them, "Now move."
Still holding the news video camera in his arms, BA Baracus simply looked at Face. He had hoped that the Supply Officer would be able to come up with some idea to get them out of this mess since the Colonel was still on the Zamboni. He noticed the Lieutenant shrug and comply with what Crane had ordered, which caused the Sergeant to let out a small sigh. So much for Hannibal's plans . . .
*****
Colonel Roderick Decker gingerly stepped out onto the ice, directly into the path of the Zamboni. His crystal blue eyes narrowed as he raised his handgun and pointed it directly at his long-time adversary. The expression on his face was drop dead serious, and clearly indicated that he had no qualms about firing his weapon despite the presence of innocent civilians. "Freeze, Smith!" he shouted over the engine of the ice resurfacer.
Hannibal shut down the conveyers, lifted the conditioner, and brought the machine to a stop on the ice, coming within inches of running over the one MP that had been a formidable opponent for himself and the A-Team. He ignored the loud banging and muffled cries for help that was emanating from within the dump tank of the Zamboni. His eyes twinkled with merriment as he playfully countered, "What's the matter, Decker? Did Santa give you coal instead of presents this year?" He drew in a last puff of his cigar and threw the stub defiantly at Decker's feet.
"You're my Christmas present, Smith . . . to the US government, and I intend to deliver," Roderick pointed out firmly, still yelling over the noise from the engine. He waved his gun slightly before ordering, "Get down from there, now!"
The grin on Colonel Smith's face simply grew that much bigger, as he opened his mouth with a hot retort. He knew how much cities and towns had it in for the MPs with all of the destruction caused by their ongoing pursuit of the A-Team . . . and no doubt, Decker was likely starting to catch some heat over it as well. The military wouldn't be happy with another public relations fiasco, especially during this time of the year. "Now, if I did that and left this thing running, it'd melt a hole in this beautiful ice rink. You wouldn't want to disappoint the kiddies this close to Christmas, would you?" Hannibal countered brightly.
Not taking his steely, determined gaze off his opponent for a moment, Decker flicked the tip of his gun in the direction of the two large open doors in the dasher boards. Out of the corner of his eye, as he moved out of the way, he could see that Captain Crane and a few other MPs had been successful in rounding up the other members of the A-Team. Not only that, but his trusted assistant was herding them over to the same area where he was now trying to get Smith to head.
From his vantage point on the resurfacer, Hannibal noticed the predicament his men were in . . . surrounded by MPs, and being herded over where he would have to park the Zamboni. He saw that BA was carrying the fake news camera, which was probably a good thing since it kept him from using his fists and taking a swing at the Army officers, which would only make matters worse. Shifting the control forward, the Colonel slowly inched the large machine off the ice and through the open doors within the hockey boards, careful to ramp down the RPMs to further help slow the vehicle . . . but not too much to cause it to stall.
The moment that Decker saw the Zamboni exit the ice itself, he crossed the few steps to get back onto solid ground. With sure footing once more, he walked right up to the driver's side and kept his weapon aimed at the driver. "Shut it off and climb down, Smith. No tricks," he spat with contempt, not wanting to take a single chance with the crafty Colonel.
As he turned the key in the ignition, silencing the powerful engine, Hannibal's mind raced. He had to formulate another plan and fast . . . one that would consider all contingencies and help them to escape to where their pilot would be waiting for them. But, there was also Murdock to think of as well. The Colonel knew that the Captain would do whatever he could to help his teammates escape, no matter what it took. But, if the MPs spotted and recognized him as he raced in to foil Decker's plans, it would not only blow the insane man's cover but also destroy the life he had at the VA.
Casually and discretely, the cunning strategist pocketed the key for the Zamboni. He inwardly grinned at the thought of having Spencer and Kramer chill out for a while . . . literally . . . while Decker had his fun. Slowly, he climbed down from the driver's seat, careful not to make any moves that would give his foe a reason to fire. The crowd was in enough of a state of panic that the Colonel didn't want to be responsible for adding to it. And some of those MPs that were with them? They looked like they were fresh out of basic training, so there was a strong chance that a shot of theirs would go wild and hit an innocent bystander.
The A-Team's Commanding Officer looked at his men as they were ushered beside him at gunpoint. "Hi guys!" he said brightly, not at all letting the gravity of the situation affect his mood. Even with the barrel of a gun being aimed at him and the other members of the A-Team, he quickly observed the area around him. He noted that Captain Crane, Decker's ever present sidekick, moved to stand beside his commander. There were MPs covering the sides and their flank, so they were literally surrounded.
He glanced over to the door in the hockey boards closest to the stage, where the Mayor had previously been delivering his speech, and immediately spotted Mrs. Baracus. She was safe, along with the others that she had managed to usher over to that area for cover. There were several uniformed police officers surrounding them, providing ample protection . . . especially now that the hard work had already been done for them. The news media had already converged around them like rampaging horde . . . an implosion right before a massive explosion. From what Hannibal recalled, several within the news media called it a gang bang situation due to the jockeying of the reporters and news cameras to get a better position for a perfect shot, to have their question answered, or even for the ideal sound bite.
From the way it looked, the horde was starting to head in their direction . . .
"Hannibal, I told you we didn't have time, but would you listen to me? No," Templeton Peck started to complain. His tone of voice wasn't whining, but took on more of an 'I told you so' type of attitude.
The Cheshire cat type grin that was on the face of the West Point trained leader only seemed to broaden a bit as he watched a few of the MPs and police officers descend upon the Zamboni. From the way it looked, they were trying to figure out how to open the dump tank and let the two men out that were trapped inside. With the engine turned off, the pounding noise and muffled yells had increased in frequency, but without the key, they didn't have a hope of getting it open. "Come on, Face. Don't tell me that you didn't enjoy the poetic irony of trapping Spencer and his hired gun in the very machine that he donated for the rink, and quite literally putting him on ice."
Overhearing a conversation start up between the A-Team members, Colonel Roderick Decker decided to bring it to a swift and abrupt end. After numerous escapes in the past, especially right out from underneath his own nose, he couldn't afford to allow them to continue their discussion, much less do anything that could allow for an exchange of a secret code or a plan that would enable such an attempt. "I want silence, now!" he commanded firmly.
Despite the order from his adversary, Hannibal couldn't resist. He enjoyed pushing Decker's buttons and getting under his skin, just to watch the reaction from his very formidable foe. He also loved being able to really stick it to those that oppressed or tried to harm others, like Spencer, and seeing them get just what they deserved. All of it just helped to fuel the Jazz that much more for him. He had noticed the con artist roll his eyes at his comment, which prompted him to continue in a playful tone, "Lieutenant, sometimes you have to live in the moment and forget the consequences."
Hearing the banter continue, Decker narrowed his eyes at the members of the A-Team. Baracus wisely was remaining quiet with not even the slightest hint of a growl, but Smith . . . hearing Smith defy his orders just made his blood boil. "I said silence!" he bellowed, trying to make it more than abundantly clear that he was not about to stand for such disobedience from a fellow military officer.
Ignoring the demand, the Colonel's eyes twinkled with the Jazz. "What's the matter, Decker? Someone shove ice down your shorts?" he taunted, finding a great deal of amusement in the whole situation in spite of being held at gunpoint.
Fuming, Decker stepped forward until he was practically in Hannibal's face. White puffs of Roderick's exhalations danced inches from his adversary's nose, and his eyes flared with sheer fury. "You know what your weakness is, Smith? You take on these bleeding heart cases, and then stick around to see how it all ends," Decker pointed out smugly and with confidence. "Well, I can tell you how this one will end . . . with all of you behind bars in Leavenworth, where you rightfully belong."
Hannibal's eyes hardened, but the sparkle never faded from his ice blue eyes and the insolent smile remain plastered on his face. Although he yearned for a fresh cigar at this point, he wanted even more to come up with a witty comeback to put Decker in his place and get under his skin that much more. Besides, what did he know anyways? The missions the A-Team took now, helping out innocent civilians who were being oppressed or threatened, were far more important than any that had been assigned to them in Vietnam. He was about to speak when a voice from the crowd interrupted . . .
"Daddy!"
Aren’t you gonna tell me I’m not gonna get away with this?
Oh, I know you’re gonna get away with this.
-- Hannibal and Decker, "The Battle of Bel Air"
Chapter 29: Icy Reception
The sound of the female voice seemed to carry
across the crisp winter air in much the same way snowflakes had danced through
the sky over the last several days. The
soft almost melodic sound was reminiscent of the soft chime of jingle bells.
From among the group with the Mayor, a beautiful woman stepped forward with tremendous confidence. It was the same person that Hannibal and Face saw being targeted after the first attempt at assassinating the Mayor had failed. Her long blonde hair flowed around her shoulders in such a way to where it looked like the golden rays of the sun, and her blue eyes looked like brilliant light blue sapphires that captivated anyone that looked at her.
In fact, she looked incredibly like . . .
The three members of the A-Team looked each other for a moment, totally stunned by this unexpected turn of events. "Daddy?" they all inquired in unison.
Hannibal's mind instantly raced as he tried to formulate a strategy to take advantage of this strange occurrence. Yet, as much as his gut was telling him to fight for their freedom and run, even though the odds were still largely against them, a very large part of him was intrigued and wanted to see how all of this played out. Besides, this couldn't be Murdock's doing, could it? Would he have had enough time to put this girl up to it before running off to get the Suburban?
What none of them could have expected was the reaction of Colonel Roderick Decker upon hearing the voice. The anger on his face faded into an odd mix of frustration as well as incredulous shock. Even though he had turned his head slightly in the direction of the woman, he didn't take his eyes or his gun off the A-Team. "Stay out of this, Nikki," he ordered firmly, determined not to let this distract him when he was this close to finally having his ultimate victory.
The expression on Templeton Peck's face was one of utter confusion and shock. His jaw had practically dropped like it had been made of solid ice. He had remembered seeing her near the Mayor when he had given his speech and had been captivated by her beauty. In fact, he had considered approaching her once everything was done and asking her out to dinner. Then, he recalled how Kramer had put her in his sights once his first attempt to kill the Mayor had been disrupted. How could someone who looked so gorgeous be . . .
Hannibal could see that Face was stunned, but for himself a look of sheer amusement crossed his face. This was far better than anything he could have ever expected, much less imagined. Rod had a daughter! Not just that, but she was working for Chicago's Mayor as well. If he could play his cards right, then he could use this to their advantage and ultimately secure their freedom right under Decker's nose.
The Decker stubbornness shone through brightly as Nicole put her hands on her hips over the long wool black trench coat that she wore. A look of determination filled her face, and fire practically burned within her blue eyes. Her voice was firm as she sternly looked at her father and shot back, "No, Daddy, I won't."
The rest of group that had been approaching the Zamboni finally arrived by the doors in the dasher boards. They had been led by Mayor Harold Washington. He was a heavy set man who looked like he could have been a defensive tackle for the Chicago Bears. His moustache was neat and trimmed to where it wasn't too thick or bushy, and his curly dark hair was very well groomed and showed distinct signs of graying around the sideburns. There was an air of regalness about him, as well as authority.
Mrs. Baracus walked next to the Mayor, able to keep up with him step by step. Her face looked like a thunderhead, ready to spew lightning and a torrential downpour any second. Although she had watched her son and the other members of the A-Team ensnare Spencer within the belly of the Zamboni, it did little to sedate the rage and anger she felt toward him. "There he is, Mr. Mayor . . . there's my son and his friends," she told him.
Harold looked back to the reporters and news crews that followed after him like a pack of wild hounds and then turned to one of the police officers who had accompanied them. Dealing with the press was a way of life for a politician in Chicago, especially someone in his position as Mayor, but he needed to try and sort out what was going on without them hovering around them like a flock of vultures. "Get them outta here," he ordered, the tone of his deep voice clearly indicating that he didn't have the patience to deal with them at the moment. Once everything was settled he could issue a statement, but right now he needed to get some answers as to why the ceremony was disrupted. He bore a serious expression on his face as he returned his focus to his assistant and the military officers as he demanded, "What is the meaning of all this?"
Nikki turned to see her employer, whom she had loyally served since the beginning of his first term in office. In a way, she was relieved since she knew how stubborn her father could be . . . how he wouldn't let go of something and was determined to see it through to the very end. It was ultimately what kept him out of her life, and her mother's life, due to his obsession with dropping everything and following orders from the military rather than trying to spend more time with them. She drew in a breath to compose herself and then started, "Mr. Mayor, my father . . ."
Decker turned his head away from Hannibal in order to look directly at his daughter. The way she persisted in this matter reminded him a lot of himself, but also her mother. He had run his own household like a well oiled military machine, and when he had given a command he expected his own family members to follow it and not disobey so blatantly. His tone of voice became much more firm and powerful as he reiterated, "I told you to stay out of this, Nikki."
Nicole stepped back slightly, looking at Harold Washington. It was clear, based on her father's response, he wasn't going to back down or divulge what was going on at her request. She knew how determined . . . no, obsessed he was when it came to dealing with the A-Team. In fact, it was her father's unwavering obsession with trying to chase down and capture the A-Team that allowed her to recognize the three men on the platform who were being held at gunpoint. Well, he may have decided not to answer her, but he would have to answer to Chicago's top elected official. Her stance indicated that she was still determined, but by looking at the Mayor it was clear that she was deferring to him.
Mayor Washington noticed his assistant looking at him and immediately picked up on the meaning without her saying a word. Even if she hadn't glanced in his direction, he would have demanded an answer anyways. There was something about this Colonel that simply didn't sit well with him at all. Just based on the first impression alone, there was an immediate dislike of Nicole's father. He drew in a breath and then turned to the Army officer as he demanded, "You may not want your daughter involved in this, but you WILL answer to me, Colonel. As Mayor of Chicago, you owe me some answers."
Decker's eyes narrowed slightly, not at all happy with his daughter's stubbornness, but also now too that it caused the Mayor of Chicago to get involved as well. And even he was demanding answers. Inwardly he cursed, realizing that he was in a situation that was less than desirable, even though he had captured the men that had eluded him for so long. If he wanted to preserve the relationship between the military and the city of Chicago, he was going to have to provide some kind of an answer. He drew himself up to full height as he explained with authority, "Mr. Mayor, these men are wanted by the government for treason, robbery, and escaping from a federal stockade. I have standing orders from the Pentagon to arrest them on sight, which supersedes any jurisdictional problems."
By this time, BA Baracus had seen and heard enough. Although he had experienced a great deal of satisfaction with seeing Spencer get what was coming to him along with the assassin-for-hire, his rage had been building again. This time, it was directed at the MPs that currently held them at gunpoint. If it hadn't been for the camera that Murdock had given him, he likely would have been at Decker's throat. "Hey, sucka! If it wasn't for us, the Mayor and your daughter wouldn't be 'live right now," he blasted angrily.
The stately Mayor Washington looked at his assistant for a moment. "Nicole . . ." he started to say, almost like a loving father that was about to chastise his daughter, although the fact that he trailed off and said no more indicated that he was looking for clarification. It was as if he was seeking confirmation if her father was correct about the jurisdictional authority.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Mayor," she gave him an apologetic look as she relaxed slightly now that her father wasn't yelling directly at her. She drew in a breath and explained, "Although I've told you about my father before, I have had little contact with him since my college days about ten years ago. Once you were elected, you were sent an update by the Army since the mother of a member of the A-Team lives here in Chicago and there was a chance that they may try to visit her from time to time. That's how I found out that my father was assigned to track the A-Team down and replaced Colonel Myron Lynch."
Nicole paused for a moment, her soft blue eyes looking at the members of the A-Team. Since taking on the job of the Mayor's assistant and learning of her father's assignment, she had kept tabs on the fugitive military unit and their exploits. Now, standing here in front of her, she had a hard time believing that these men . . . who had done so much good in the lives of others . . . were as dangerous as the Army made them out to be. She was also curious as to why the African American, who was dressed in the Santa suit, claimed that they had just saved the Mayor's life along with her own. Her gaze then shifted over to look at her father. She immediately noticed a look of smug superiority etched upon his face, which indicated that he knew that he was victorious. And, in reality, he was. "In that update, it served to remind all municipalities and law enforcement agencies that the Military Police had full jurisdictional authority in matters involving the A-Team," she explained.
Sensing that things were going to shift away from their favor, Hannibal decided that it was best to assert himself in the ongoing discussion. This was likely his best opportunity to do so, and still make sure that all of the information they had gathered would be reviewed and considered . . . and just maybe, with some good timing, earn them their freedom once more. It likely would be a temporary reprieve, but it'd be just enough. "Mr. Mayor, if you might be willing to indulge us, I believe we have some information that you will find very interesting," the strategist pointed out.
The fact that he had spoken up was enough to command attention. Mayor Washington looked toward the silver-white haired individual with curiosity as he inquired, "And who might you be?"
"Colonel John Hannibal Smith," the crafty leader responded. He slowly reached into the breast pocket on the jumpsuit he wore and pulled out a cigar and a lighter. Placing the stogie into his mouth, he chewed off the end of it and spat it out at Decker's feet. His grin grew as he noticed the fierce glare from his adversary, and then proceeded to light the cigar before returning the chrome lighter to the pocket. He also noticed, out of the corner of his eye, that BA had taken his cue and was thoroughly looking over the news camera in order to find a way to reveal the contents inside.
Harold Washington arched an eyebrow as he heard the name, but also as he saw the Colonel nonchalantly pull out and light a cigar, almost as if he wasn't even being held at gunpoint. Being in his position, he had been briefed on the A-Team when he first came into office, especially since the mother of one of the members resided in Chicago. He had also heard the widespread rumors of how these wanted men came to the aid of others. These stories, in addition to the newspaper accounts of their exploits in the Los Angeles Courier Express, created an almost folklore-ish type legend.
Colonel Roderick Decker became more furious than before. He recognized the smile on Smith's face and knew that he had something up his sleeve . . . something that would likely rob him of his victory, his chance to put the A-Team behind bars where they rightfully belonged. "I would strongly advise you not to listen to these men," he protested firmly, determined to give them a very icy reception without any kind of a chance to weasel their way out of it.
The stately Mayor turned toward the Colonel. The more he dealt with this man, the more his dislike for the Army officer grew. The expression on his face indicated that he clearly wasn't happy with the advice from the head of this band of MPs. His tone of voice was sharp as he retorted, "Colonel Decker, I have a responsibility to the truth. That means that I am going to listen to what they have to say before I will allow you to take these men away. I want the full story."
Hannibal watched Decker's face harden at the response from Chicago's top official. His adversary was probably absolutely livid, although he did have to give Decker props for holding his tongue and not verbalizing just how frustrated he probably was. The silver-white haired leader smirked as he looked at his men, still very much amused by the whole situation in spite of the threat of being carted off to the stockade. "I like this man," he told Face and BA, his eyes twinkling with the Jazz.
Mrs. Baracus took the opportunity to walk up to her son. She could tell that the tension was pretty high, but she didn't care at this point. She supported Scooter and the rest of her boys, and wanted to make sure that the others knew that by standing next to him. She noticed that her son was trying to do something with the news camera, but didn't say a word.
An uncomfortable silence settled upon the gathering, hanging in the air like a thick fog. After a moment, the deep voice of Chicago's Mayor resounded, "Colonel Smith, I'm waiting to hear what you have to say . . ."
Without hesitating for a moment, Hannibal ignored the drawn guns of the MPs and stepped toward the Zamboni. He reached into the pocket of the jumpsuit he wore and fished out the keys to the resurfacer. "In the dump tank, you will find Spencer Jackson, Chief of Exhibits and Security for the Museum of Science and Industry, along with the assassin he hired to kill you . . . a man known as Kramer." He casually tossed the keys over to Captain Crane, who deftly caught them. "Those keys will start up the engine so can let them out. We already put them on ice for you."
Face lowered his hands for a moment and pulled out the miniature camera that he had used within the Museum the night before. He looked at the Mayor's assistant and flashed her a flirtatious smile . . . one that could charm the skin off a snake . . . before turning back to the Mayor himself. That smile never left his face as he began to explain, "Mr. Jackson has been using his position at the Museum to acquire materials to build sophisticated weapons. He even has stolen complete shipment of weapons from the Army. He turns around and sells them on the black market, and then alters the shipping manifests to make the items disappear." He held the camera up and mentioned, "We found a hidden vault in his office and I took some pictures of the originals as well as the altered documents."
A smug look of satisfaction appeared upon Roderick's face after he saw the camera and heard about the pictures that the Supply Officer had taken. "Pictures can be doctored, just as easily as documents falsified," he accused. He hoped that revelation would be enough to give the Mayor some doubt about the validity of what the A-Team had to say. Being a con artist, Peck could be pretty persuasive in his own right, and Smith could as well. He inwardly prayed that the Mayor would have the sense not to listen to anything these men had to say. Besides, he didn't like the smile that the Lieutenant had given his daughter . . .
Upon hearing that statement from Decker, BA glared at him fiercely. A low growl escaped his lips before the rage built up within him so much that he blasted, "If there's any funny business goin' on, it's Spencer. We ain't done nothin' with that camera since Face took them pictures."
Mrs. Baracus had been listening to what was going on, but by this time she had had enough. Her dark eyes locked onto Colonel Decker's, her face contorting in a determined look that practically screamed a warning for him not to mess with her. Her fiery temper matched that of her son as she jumped to the defense of the A-Team, "These boys wouldn't doctor any pictures that way!"
Roderick didn't even flinch under the looks he was getting from both the Sergeant and his mother. If he was in the least bit intimidated by the two, he clearly didn't show it. In fact, his voice was full of confidence as he countered, "I wouldn't be so sure about that, ma'am."
The expression on BA's face at Decker's retort to his mother made it clear that he wanted to rip the Colonel's head off. Sensing the impending explosion, Hannibal stepped up to his Sergeant and carefully rested a black-gloved hand on his bulging shoulder muscles. The touch seemed to calm the angry Ordinance Officer for the moment, although there was no telling how long that would last. That wasn't unusual, however. What did surprise Colonel Smith the most was the tone Mrs. Baracus had used in defending them . . . it was practically a mirror image of what BA had displayed. That certainly amused him as he thought to himself, 'Well, I guess I now know where he gets it from.'
"Well, it's kind of hard to doctor pictures when the film hasn't even been removed from the camera or developed," Templeton quickly pointed out, hoping that maybe that revelation could give a bit more credibility to the pictures he had taken.
Mayor Washington
was curious as to how the A-Team had managed to acquire such pictures, but even
if the film was still undeveloped he came to an important realization. "I'm afraid Colonel Decker is correct,
gentlemen," he told them solemnly.
"Pictures alone would not hold up in court or be enough to
guarantee a conviction."
Hannibal simply smiled as he casually noted, "Oh, we have plenty more, Mr.
Mayor." Out of the corner of his
eye, he saw an almost indistinguishable nod from the muscular Sergeant and knew
exactly what that meant. He then glanced
to his Lieutenant, giving him the signal to step in and continue relaying the
details.
Without hesitating, Face immediately pulled out a micro-cassette player from his parka to add to the camera that he was already holding. "Once we started suspecting Spencer Jackson, we bugged his office and that of Mrs. Baracus to see what we could turn up with. We recorded a late night phone call that Mr. Jackson made from Mrs. B's desk to one of his buyers . . ." he began to state, trailing off with a knowing smile. He paused for a moment and then revealed, ". . . is one Gino Scarlotti."
"He was usin' my Mama's phone to set her up and take the fall for him," BA interjected firmly. He tried not to show it, but he was starting to grow impatient. Every moment that passed meant that there was a greater chance that Decker was going to haul all of them off and put them behind bars . . . and right in front of his Mama, too. He just hoped that Hannibal could somehow convince the Mayor into letting all of them go.
"Scarlotti . . . that name sounds familiar," Nicole mused. It was clear that she had heard the name before, but was trying to recall specifically where.
"It should," Face jumped in again with a knowing smile. "The guy runs an Italian mafia. He kidnapped the daughter of a judge that was about to rule that is brother was guilty and send him to prison for a long time." His blue eyes appraised her slender figure, but he tried hard not to turn on the charm . . . at least not too much. Now that they knew that she was Colonel Decker's daughter, he didn't want Decker thinking that he was trying to hit her. That was the last thing he and the A-Team needed at the moment.
Mayor Washington looked at Face skeptically, almost as if doubting what he had just revealed. "How do you know that it was Scarlotti?" he wondered.
"We checked out the phone number that Spencer had dialed. It came up with a name and address for Brad Johnson here in Chicago. He runs a shipping company that has been known for dealing products to the black market. You can bet this guy is heading up all of Scarlotti's so-called family business in this city," Face explained. He hoped that the fact that this was happening all under the Mayor's nose would help to compel him to take action on the information they were presenting. But, just in case there was still some doubt, they still had plenty more to present to him where that came from.
Picking up where the Lieutenant left off, Hannibal started to slowly walk over toward the Zamboni. He could see through his ice blue eyes that the handguns and rifles of the MPs were trained on him in case he tried anything, and that just increased the thrill of the moment. He stood next to the machine and smacked the dunk tank with his gloved hand a couple of times, almost as if trying to taunt those that were trapped inside.
"Scarlotti
wanted to buy the prototype of a very sophisticated weapon that only Mr.
Jackson was able to get his hands on . . . and that was due to his position at
the Museum of Science and Industry and the type of exhibits they display,"
the silver-white haired strategist explained.
"Before he committed to buy it, Scarlotti wanted a demonstration of
the weapon . . . a very public demonstration that he would hear the news about
in Italy. What better way to show the
capabilities of such a weapon than to arrange for the assassination of an
important politician during a very large public event with minimal security and
a lot of news coverage?"
It was clear on the expression on Colonel Decker's face that he didn't believe
a single word of what was said. To him,
the A-Team were sneaky and he considered this whole story just another
fabricated tale to try and get out of their current predicament. But, as he looked over to the Mayor, it
seemed as if Chicago's top elected official was starting to seriously consider
what they were saying! Yet, there was an
important question that still needed to be asked. "If this was an assassination attempt,
then where is the weapon that was used?" Roderick demanded skeptically.
"Right here, sucker," BA spoke up before letting out a low
growl. His fingers expertly lifted off
half of what appeared to be the news camera.
Sitting within the shell was a sleek black weapon, almost half the
length of an ordinary rifle. In addition
to what seemed like chambers for a clip of bullets and what looked like
miniature rockets, it also had something unusual . . . a power pack of some
short, making it resemble something from out of Star Trek or Star Wars.
"Kramer was
hired to do the dirty work and fire the killing shot. He's also chilling out in the dump tank. We found this in his pocket," Face
quickly added, pulling out the paper he had retrieved from the assassin and
handed it over to the Mayor. "If
you take this to an analyst, you'll see that the handwriting on here matches
that of Spencer Jackson."
Harold Washington took the crumpled paper, opening it up to allow both himself
and his assistant a chance to read the handwritten names that were on the white
page. In addition to a handwritten
detailed outline of who was supposed to be speaking when and the times, there
was one time that was circled. There
were also several names that were hand written on there, including himself,
Nicole, and a few others that were scheduled to appear on the platform with him
and deliver speeches. From the way it
looked, this apparently was going to turn out to be more of a blood bath rather
than the simple assassination of one individual.
But one name was missing from that handwritten list of those that were scheduled to speak . . . Spencer Jackson.
"Oh my
goodness . . ." Nikki uttered softly as the realization hit her. Her face bore an expression of total shock,
almost as if she couldn’t believe what had been narrowly averted. But, there was something else which also
caused her to mutter that exclamation.
"Sir, we had a stringer request for a press pass for the event late
this morning . . . practically at the last minute. I'd say no more than two hours before the ceremony. I didn't question it because most stringers
try to sell their tapes to the various news agencies, but it was unusual since
all of the major outlets had already secured their passes."
Colonel Decker still kept his gun trained on the members of the A-Team, but
moved closer to the Mayor to also look at the piece of paper. He knew that Templeton Peck was very skilled
at forging a person's handwriting, having signed several procurement requests
in Vietnam and made it look like it came from someone other than himself. Even this list could have been
falsified. Still, there was the matter
of his daughter's name on the list, but he couldn't get over the nagging
feeling that the wool was being pulled over their eyes. Glaring at his adversary, he challenged,
"How do we know this isn't some plan you've set up, Smith?"
The smile on Hannibal's face faded as he bore a deadly serious look. He couldn't believe that, with all of the evidence presented so far, that Roderick was still questioning the validity of it. "We've known each other since West Point, Decker, and even crossed paths in 'Nam. Although we don't always agree on things, you know how we operate, so why don’t you ask yourself the same question?" he shot back, knowing full well how stubborn Decker could be. He hoped that, by turning the question around, perhaps Decker would seriously give the situation some thought and realize that maybe they were telling the truth.
Recognizing what was a potential impasse, Mrs. Baracus knew that something had to be done to remedy it or they could be standing there out in the cold all day. That's when an idea came to her that potentially could break that and garner a resolution. "Mr. Mayor, I think this could be settled faster if someone played that tape. I've worked with Spencer, so I'd know his voice well enough to tell if the tapes were altered," she suggested.
Mayor Washington looked to the older, slightly portly woman that stood next to the muscular African American in the Santa suit. Her idea certainly had an incredible amount of merit, and could help to resolve this situation. Plus, she had risked her own life in order to get him and others on the stage to safety, so if nothing else he at least owed her that much . . . to check the contents of the tape as she requested. He gave a slight nod in the direction of his assistant, a clear indication what he wanted her to do.
Nicole noted the nod from her employer and walked up to Templeton Peck. Her eyes starkly contrasted with her father's. His were cold and unfeeling just as she believed his heart was, where hers were like warm, inviting pools that seemed to shimmer in the sunlight. She drew near to the Lieutenant, regarding his handsome looks. She saw a very charming smile appear upon his lips and when her eyes locked with his, for a brief moment, she could have sworn that she heard a small sigh from the dashing gentleman. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the scowl on her father's face, which seemed to darken more by her actions. Very deliberately, she looked back at the con man and smiled in return.
She reached up with her right hand and gently brushed several locks of her long, golden blonde hair behind her ear. She lowered her hand from her ear and reached for the small tape player and miniature camera that the Supply Officer held within his left hand. Their hands touched and she lingered there for a moment, savoring the feel of his skin touching hers. She never imagined that someone who had been in the military had hands that felt as soft as his. Nicole then took the tape player and camera from his hand, and slowly returned to the Mayor's side. Her thumb moved along the side of the small tape player and depressed the play button, allowing those in the immediate area to hear the contents of the tape.
"I have the merchandise as promised," Spencer Jackson's voice could be heard over the tape recording. "Right. I have the demonstration planned . . . right . . . just as we agreed . . . of course. He has my word . . . tomorrow. Yes, I know there will be heavy security, but the man I have lined up is a professional. You just take care of your end of the deal, and I'll take care of mine. Of course it's in a safe place. A very dear friend of mine has conveniently provided me with a place to hide the plans." There was a short bark of laughter before he continued, "No one will ever suspect her. She's been working at the Museum so long she's almost an attraction herself, and the President of the Museum absolutely adores her."
"That's his voice," Mrs. Baracus expressed vehemently before the tape was even half played. Her anger was almost overwhelming, and it was clear based on her reaction that she would have likely ripped his head off if he hadn't been within the dump tank. "That's the smelly, slime-covered resident of a cesspit who used me! That low down, no good son of a . . ."
"Mama!" BA said. He was clearly stunned and in shock at the descriptive language she had used to describe Spencer, but even so he was unable to resist a small smile from appearing upon his lips due to her reaction. It was the first time she had heard that tape, after all. The Sergeant had glanced over to Hannibal and Face, who had both moved back to where they had been standing when Decker initially corralled them, and noted the amused smiles on their faces also likely due to what his mother had said.
The tape recording continued as Spencer could still be heard on it. "All right . . . yes . . . everything is in place. There shouldn’t be anything to worry about. It'll go down like clockwork. You'll see . . . and with the press coverage, it'll make international news. I'll notify you when everything has been completed."
"Well, I've heard enough," Harold Washington noted firmly, almost sounding disgusted by the fact that someone that had been part of the Museum and provided the Zamboni, much less stood on the stage with him, would have even considered having such a heinous act committed. He moved over to stand in front of the three men that had explained the situation. "It seems that we owe the A-Team a debt of gratitude."
Hearing that was more than enough to make Colonel Roderick Decker absolutely
livid. He could hardly believe his
ears. It didn't take a rocket scientist
to figure out what was likely going to come next unless he could step in and do
something about it while he still had a chance.
"I don't care what debt you think you owe these men. They are still wanted fugitives, and I intend
to make sure they are locked behind bars for a very long time, where they
belong," he retorted firmly.
For Adele
Baracus, enough was enough. It had been
very difficult as it was when Murdock told her that her son and the others had
been thrown in jail for their late night visit to Spencer. Now, faced with the prospect that they could
be carted away and thrown in jail before her eyes? That was too much for her to bear. Her eyes started to water and her voice
quivered as she pleaded, "Colonel, you wouldn’t be so heartless as to keep
a boy from seeing his Mama at Christmas, would you?"
Oh no . . .
Decker almost physically winced once he heard the anguish in the voice of Mrs. Baracus. Having her become completely distraught and break down into tears right in front of him was the last thing that he needed. That'd be a huge field day for the press. In fact, he could practically see the headlines right then and there . . . 'Mother denied by military from seeing fugitive son for Christmas after he says Mayor from assassination.' Oh yeah, that would go over real well . . .
For Chicago's Mayor, he had a difficult decision to make, although all of the
evidence that he had been presented was overwhelming and really made his course
of action clear. Plus there was the
matter of Mrs. Baracus, who had gone above and beyond to usher all of them to
safety when the chaos erupted. Inwardly,
he was glad that the police officers had managed to get the press a distance
away, otherwise he'd likely have to answer a ton of questions immediately
rather than issuing a statement later.
He drew in a breath and then looked over to the person that intended to
put the A-Team away for a very long time.
"Colonel Decker, in light of how these men have saved our lives,
the information provided, and their containment of those responsible for the
assassination attempt, I believe an exception is in order," Harold
Washington told Roderick in a tone that indicated that he wasn't going to
settle for any other answer.
Decker turned around and looked out over the ice rink. In the time that the A-Team had presented the
evidence against those that they captured, the panic stricken crowd had
lessened. He hadn't heard any reports of
injuries or people being trampled in their attempt to escape from the weapons
fire that had gone off, so he inwardly thanked his own men and the Chicago
police for maintaining such a high level of control and allowing the crowds to
leave once they realized that the situation was relatively contained. He could also see the members of the media,
who were being corralled and led away from the area by a couple of police
officers, as well as what he assumed to be a spokesperson from the Mayor's
office. That was a relief, since he
didn't want to deal with them any more than the Mayor seemed like he wanted to
right now.
His thoughts turned to the fugitive military unit that he had relentlessly
chased for almost two years and was assigned to bring to justice. The various scum of the Earth they had
managed to bring down since their escape from Fort Bragg did not excuse the
crimes they had been accused of . . . robbery, treason, and desertion. Yet, he could not deny that the A-Team were
like modern day Robin Hoods in a sense.
It wasn't that they stole from the rich to give to the poor. No, it was more of the whole concept behind
it. Despite the risk that they faced if
they were to be caught, they always strove to help those who couldn't help
themselves . . . people that the system seemed to turn against or abandon. If they hadn't been here this time around,
several people probably would have been lying in a pool of blood . . .
including the Mayor of Chicago and his very own daughter.
"Daddy?"
Nikki inquired softly, the tone of her voice very uncertain since she wasn't
sure if her father's silence was a good sign or not. Her gaze came to rest upon Roderick's back,
which made it difficult to tell what he was thinking since she couldn't see his
face. "Please . . ."
Despite being a stickler for the rules since his military career had been
derailed after Vietnam, Decker was still a man of principle and honor. Although it was his duty to arrest the A-Team
and see that they were returned to the stockade, he could not ignore what had
just happened. As much as he hated to
admit it, he owed them for saving the life of his daughter. Sure, they had been estranged, but that
didn't mean that he wouldn't want a chance to possibly re-connect with her and
rebuild the father-daughter relationship that he desired.
With a heavy sigh, Colonel Decker turned back to face the small group that
breathlessly waited for his decision. He
clicked the safety back onto his service revolver and slipped it back into the
holster within his winter coat. Even in
spite of this, his eyes had a hard edge to it as he never once took them off
those before him. He drew in a deep
breath and then announced, "You and your men are free to go this time,
Smith. Just because you saved my
daughter's life and I'm letting you go now, that doesn't mean that you'll have
it this easy the next time." With
the harshness of his tone of voice, it was very clear that he meant every word
he had just uttered.
"I'm counting on it," Hannibal simply grinned around his cigar. If there was one thing the cunning strategist could count on, it was Decker giving them a run for their money time after time after time again. Those encounters provided him with an incredible thrill, not to mention a surge of the Jazz that he so loved.
Roderick simply glared at his adversary . . . the look on his face for a moment making those present question whether or not he was going to go back on his word. He looked absolutely livid . . . practically ready to kill, or at least get a good solid chance to rip the smug smile off Hannibal's face. His voice became a bit darker as he urged, "I suggest you get out of here before I change my mind. I'm going to have a hard enough time as it is explaining all of this if the top brass or any other officials gets wind of what happened here."
BA looked utterly shocked and confused. For all that time that Decker had been chasing them down, he never once thought that something like this would happen. "I don't believe it," he muttered, his tone of voice clearly indicating just how stunned he was with this turn of events. He glanced over to his Commanding Officer, still unsure if he could believe his ears.
"I'll see that the exact details of your involvement in what happened here goes no further than this group, although you have my gratitude and the gratitude of all of Chicago," Mayor Washington offered, with a slight smile on his face. He looked directly at Colonel Smith and gave him a knowing nod. "As far as I'm personally concerned, you will always be welcome here. I have, however, heard enough stories about how the three of you manage to escape every time you get caught. Should the press find out, it shouldn't be too hard to convince them that you slipped away in the confusion."
The Colonel saw the Mayor extend his right hand. He met it with his own gloved right hand, and shook it. "It was our pleasure, Mr. Mayor," John Hannibal Smith responded warmly. Although the A-Team never received any accolades, it certainly was a good feeling to know that their efforts were appreciated . . . especially by someone so important. After they broke the handshake, his eyes ice blue eyes watched as the Mayor started to walk away with most of his entourage.
Only Nicole
Decker remained behind. She walked up to
her father, and the two of them exchanged a few words . . . although it was
quiet enough to where none of the A-Team could hear what they were discussing. The way they appeared to be talking, and with
the look on Nikki's face, it seemed that they were having a bit of a heart to
heart. That was confirmed a moment later
as the cunning strategist watched her wrap her arms around Decker to give him a
big hug before they walked away together.
A look of complete and utter shock filled the face of Templeton Peck. His jaw dropped for a moment, almost as if it
was made of solid ice. He then looked to
his Commanding Officer and asked, "Hey, Hannibal, do you believe
this? Decker actually does have a
heart."
A sparkle
appeared within Hannibal's eyes as he reached up with his left hand to remove
the cigar from his mouth. His face lit
up with a huge grin that would have outshone even the brightest light bulbs . .
. a clear indication that he was still very much on the Jazz and loving every
second of it. He looked to his men and
then proclaimed, "I love it when a plan comes together!"
Adele Baracus wrapped an arm around her son, greatly relieved that mean ol'
Colonel wasn't going to be hauling any of her boys off behind bars. She leaned her head against Scooter's strong
muscular arm, and felt him return the embrace as she also watched the Colonel
walk away with his daughter. When she
heard Hannibal's statement, she simply smiled and then added, "Or a family
. . ."
Hannibal looked to Mrs. B, his grin growing even bigger and brighter when he heard her chime in. He wedged the cigar between his teeth and told her warmly, "Well said."
Christmas, Thanksgiving, those are family holidays. Family, you know, the mom, the dad, and 2.3 kids, uh, station wagon in the garage...
-- Face, "Family Reunion"
Chapter 30: Christmas Wish
Christmas eve in Chicago . . .
A slight breeze sent a chill through the winter air, causing the branches of the small trees that lined North Michigan Avenue and State Street to dance around. The trees were adorned with Christmas lights, which glowed softly with their white light against the encroaching darkness of night. The setting evening sun practically set the sky ablaze with brilliant colors of red and orange, creating a very picturesque appearance.
The sidewalks were literally packed with throngs of last minute shoppers, trying to make up for lost time due to the blizzard in addition to rushing to get in on substantial savings on the gifts they intended to buy for friends, family, and loved ones. People were literally shoulder to shoulder, trying to weave their way through the massive crowd in order to get to their desired stores. If there was one word that a person could use to describe the utter chaos . . . it would be crazy.
High above the city streets, Templeton Peck leaned up against the railing that surrounded the perimeter of the floor. As he did so, he looked past the black steel supports and out of one of the 16,100 bronze tinted windows that covered the 110 story Sears Tower. For a moment, he glanced back to the rest of the observation are and noted that the crowd up here was light . . . probably much lighter than it would have been had it not been Christmas Eve. Those few that were present milled about over the grey and black tiled floor, which was adjacent to the black marble floor in the center area that housed the elevators.
Those elevators . . .
BA had mentioned them before they got on, and how they were among the fastest in the world. Apparently, they were capable of ascending nearly 1,600 feet per minute. Although the con artist was pretty skeptical and wasn't going to believe it until he experienced it for himself, he remembered how thrilled Murdock seemed by that idea. Then, when they got on and it started going up . . . it was almost as bad as whenever the A-Team pilot pulled an aircraft into a steep climb, especially with the way his stomach had dropped and his ears popped several times on the way up to the 103rd floor Skydeck.
When they got off the elevator, it took the Supply Officer a few moments to get his bearings. Murdock seemed happier than a lark and totally unaffected . . . still chewing away on the gum in his mouth. Was that the trick on how to handle extreme heights and the change in air pressure? Chewing gum?
Either way, that made him vow that the next time the muscular mechanic told him something about Chicago, he was definitely going to listen. After all, who would know better about certain aspects of the city than someone who had grown up there and still had family that lived there?
As he continued to look out the window, he recalled the recording that was played in the elevator on the trip up. It mentioned how visitors to the 1,454 foot high Sears Tower could see four states on a clear day – Illinois, Indiana, Wisconsin, and Michigan. The low lights on the floor kept the attention of most visitors on the sights outside the window, as that was often the reason why people came to the World's Tallest Building.
From what the Lieutenant could see, the recording was not an exaggeration . . .
Even though the light from the day was starting to yield to a brilliant starry night sky, Face was still able to gain a new and unique perspective of the Windy City. Everything below seemed so small, like a child's plaything. The silver CTA train that slinked across the elevated tracks appeared to be about the size of an O-scale train, and vehicles looked like Matchbox cars.
To the northeast, he could see the lights from the Magnificent Mile as they burned brightly, calling to the horde of last minute shoppers. In a way, the Supply Officer was glad that he was up in the Skydeck and not down there having to fight his way through the crowd just to get around. As he looked in that direction, he could see the black John Hancock building. The top floor was cast in the lights in the season, with one half red and the other half green.
From what he had recalled, the Hancock building had once held the mantle of the World's Tallest Building before losing it to New York when they built the Empire State Building. New York kept the title with the World Trade Center, but it didn't hang onto it for too long after that. It wasn’t until the Sears Tower was completed in 1973 that a skyscraper in Chicago was again awarded that illustrious title that served as a boon to tourism.
Truthfully, it was a testament to the city of Chicago itself. In a way, it was like a phoenix rising from the ashes, surviving a raging fire that devastated the heart of the city in 1871. Almost every Chicagoan knew the tale of how it started by a cow kicking over a lantern in Mrs. O'Leary's barn. The only surviving structure in the heart of all of the ashes was the fabled Water Tower along North Michigan Avenue, which still served as a popular attraction to visitors. In spite of the disaster and the hundreds of lives that were lost, the spirit of the people could not be broken, allowing them to rebuild Chicago to become bigger and better than ever . . . an architectural marvel that inspired many efforts all over the world.
Face's thoughts were pulled away from the view by the frustrated voice of his best friend, who was standing with the others a few feet away.
"I ain't buyin' it," the lanky pilot protested with his Texan drawl very prevalent. He removed his dark blue baseball cap from his head with his left hand, and ran the fingers of his right hand through his receding hairline as a sign of frustration. He then lowered that hand and put the hat back on his head again, the shock and disbelief at the news not having left the expression on his face. "If Decker had y'all where he wanted you, there ain't no way he'd let y'all go. A snowball would have better chances in hell."
"Hey, crazy man, you know we wouldn't lie to you 'bout something like this," BA replied with a shy grin on his face. It was very clear that he was enjoying the fact that the Captain seemed more confused by the facts that that been revealed to him than the Sergeant usually was when he woke up in a strange place or on a plane. The Colonel often restrained him before he could get some payback with the fool for flying them or for his antics, but this time he could get a bit of revenge and savor it.
"It's true, Murdock," Adele Baracus confirmed with a gentle smile. She still could hardly believe it herself, although she wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth. It really was nothing less than a miracle, and it was one that she was definitely going to appreciate . . . just as she appreciated all of her boys for how they helped her yet again. "Colonel Decker just let Scooter, Hannibal, and Face go."
All the Captain could do was shake his head as he skeptically noted, "There's got to be some catch." For his part, he still found it extremely hard to believe that Colonel Decker . . . the person who had relentlessly chased the A-Team for two years, would simply let them go like that. Besides, he had seen the news accounts on WGN about how Spencer Jackson and his hired killer had been captured while attempting the assassination of the Mayor and his staff. Although the reports also claimed that several undercover policemen had been responsible for foiling the attack, he knew better. Still, there had been no mention of the A-Team or how they escaped, and the guys had been less than forthcoming when they had finally rejoined Murdock in the Suburban.
"Well . . ." Hannibal began to say, trailing off before he could say anything more. The grin on his face and the sparkle in his eyes indicated that he was still very much on the Jazz. He normally played along with Murdock's antics, but this time he seemed to be getting a huge kick out of tormenting the pilot and tried to drag it on for as long as he possibly could . . . to milk it for every moment it was worth.
The lanky Texan looked that much more desperate to try and learn the answer. It was very apparent in his eyes . . . the yearning, the wanting to know. It spoke volumes, almost as much as his arm movements with how he kept bringing them up and then putting them back to his side expressively. If one didn't know better, they likely could have sworn that he was Italian since they were generally regarded as being expressive with their hands as they talked. "Aw, come on, Colonel," he started to beg. "Please, please, please . . . what is it?"
Hannibal reached into his unzippered parka and deftly pulled out a cigar from his safari jacket that he wore underneath. He didn't grab a lighter since building regulations prevented him from lighting up while he was inside and on the Skydeck, but that didn't keep him from at least holding it. Besides, he always thought better when he had a cigar. "We . . . had a bit of help," he revealed cryptically.
The Captain simply rolled his eyes in response to that statement. He could tell not only when his Commanding Officer was drawing things out, but also when he was really enjoying something as well. "Hannibal . . ." he groaned in an almost pleading voice, not sure if he could take much more of this torment.
"From Decker's daughter . . ." the strategist revealed, the grin on his face bigger and brighter than ever.
The reaction was instant.
"What?!?" the A-Team pilot practically shouted. His warm brown eyes saw some of the other visitors to the Skydeck glancing in his direction due to that outburst, which caused him to cringe slightly and give them an apologetic look. He had to wonder if the oxygen flow had been cut off from his brain for a moment because he wasn't sure that he had heard right and it left him completely speechless. After a moment, when he was able to find his voice, he continued in softer tones, "You guys must be pullin' my leg. I didn't even know Decker had a daughter. C'mon, how'd you guys really get away?"
Bosco Andre Baracus was clearly enjoying this, and it was very apparent through his light, high-pitched giggles. "Sorry, crazy fool, but we didn't either 'til yesterday. Hannibal's telling the truth," he managed to say in between the snickering.
One thing was for sure . . . if BA had affirmed what the Colonel had said, then it had to be true. He knew how strongly the Sergeant felt when it came to lying and liars, and he wouldn't dare tell a lie himself . . . especially not in front of his mother. It was bad enough that Face did all of his conning and scamming, which didn't sit well with the muscular mechanic. That left one question that begged to be answered . . . and a totally logical question too, even though he still found the whole idea humorous. "What'cha guys do? Have Face hit on her?"
"Murdock!" Mrs. B said in a tone that was a mix of being amused and scolding someone. Hannibal and BA, on the other hand, simply started laughing.
Face let out a bit of a sigh as he continued to look out one of the windows toward the Magnificent Mile. He fondly recalled how beautiful Nicole had been. He would have loved to have taken the trouble and look her up again . . . but he wasn't crazy. Doing so would have meant the possibility of Decker finding out, which would land him behind bars faster than he could sing Jingle Bells. If only she hadn't been Decker's daughter . . .
Murdock moved over to the windows along the east side of the Skydeck and looked out them. The daylight was starting to fade faster, yielding to a gorgeous starry night sky over the brilliant lights of downtown Chicago and the expansive Lake Michigan that lay just beyond. His warm brown eyes then spotted something that drew his attention skyward. "Hey guys, look!" he called out enthusiastically. "Shooting stars, and lots of 'em. That's good luck, especially on Christmas Eve. Everyone make a wish."
For a moment, the Lieutenant looked up in the direction that his best friend had pointed out. Set against the dusk, he could see the brilliant shimmering of the stars that started to dot the sky above them . . . but then he spotted it. There was a streak of light that raced across the heavens. It was brief and gone in almost the blink of an eye, but then almost as soon as that one had vanished from sight another one could be spotted, and then another . . .
He returned his gaze to the windows to the north on the Skydeck, and the view outside of it. As he did so, a small but brief smile appeared upon his lips. He remembered watching a similar meteor shower out the windows of the dormitory owned by the orphanage when he was young. At first, he had no idea what he was seeing and had feared that the world was going to end, so he ran to ask some of the nuns what it was. Sister Agnes simply brushed him off, telling him that it was Satan and his demons throwing fire at little children who did not get into bed on time. Hearing that made him so fearful that he ran up to his bed in the dorm and jumped into it, pulling the sheets over his head for whatever flimsy protection it would provide.
A few moments later, as he had been hiding under the covers, he felt someone sit upon his bed. That frightened him, and he slowly pulled the covers down until his large blue eyes peeked out from his makeshift sanctuary and spotted Sister Margaret. Her voice was gentle as she explained to him that each star was a blessing that God sent to the Earth, and if he closed his eyes one of those stars might find his bed. Hearing that comforted him and helped him to relax to the point where he allowed her to tuck him into bed.
That brought back so many happy memories of Sister Margaret as he recalled how gentle she had been with him and all of the other orphans. It seemed like she had really cared about all of them like they were her own children, and worked hard to make each one feel safe and protected. Things had always been more hopeful when she was around due to how she made everything seem so positive, no matter how bad things appeared to be. Then, when he was around ten, she died . . .
He looked down to the city below him, his blue eyes studying the blinking lights that made it look like how diamonds and sequins sparkled on some of the most gorgeous evening gowns that women wore. He always loved to look at a city at dusk, just before it turned completely dark, and from a high vantage point. And, for its own part, the city of Chicago looked absolutely stunning with all of the Christmas lights adorning the various objects along the streets like the trees, and also on the buildings.
He hated to admit it, but he was really going to miss this city once they had to leave. It was really starting to grow on him, and he was coming to appreciate all that it had to offer . . . especially thanks to Mrs. Baracus and taking the time to show them the many sights that there were to see. But, he knew that they couldn't stay there forever . . .
Even though Decker had agreed to let them go and seemed to be holding to his word, making no efforts to try and catch them for the time being, although he knew that wasn't going to last. After all, he had only promised them to leave them alone until Christmas . . . but after that, they were open game again and he knew exactly where to find them.
It was for that
very reason that his thrill seeking Commanding Officer wasn't ready to press
their luck. Although he had been getting
a bit antsy to leave, Mrs. B convinced the Colonel to let them stay for
Christmas Day itself. But, if they had
any intent to not be arrested by Decker, they were likely going to have to fly
out of there late Christmas night and head back to Los Angeles.
His well-honed and war-trained senses picked up movement beside him before he
could see the reflection of his leader and mentor in the expansive window. His sense of timing was almost uncanny,
especially since he had just been thinking about him a moment ago. He could hear Murdock, who stood several feet
away, as he chattered on excitedly about the shooting stars and flying.
"What's up, kid?" Hannibal asked as he looked at his Lieutenant, his
ice blue eyes showing a great deal of concern for the young man next to
him. "You've been quiet all
evening. You worried that Decker might
go back on his word and show up?"
"Nah, it's
not that. It's . . ." Face's voice
trailed off as he shook his head slightly.
He was having a hard time trying to put the incredible feeling of peace
and contentment he felt here into words . . . being high above the city and the
rest of the world, away from all of the troubles below. Up here, he could almost understand what it
must have felt like on that first Christmas light. It was no wonder why Murdock loved flying so
much with the sense of freedom that it likely gave him with being up this
high. His blue eyes followed the lights
of the elevated train as it ran along the tracks through the Loop.
"The fact that it's Christmas tomorrow?" Hannibal asked quietly, trying to see if maybe he was on the right track with finishing his Lieutenant's statement. The con artist had been a grouch about Christmas, and although they had a hard conversation about it at the Museum, he still wasn’t sure if he had managed to get through to him with the point he had been trying to make.
Templeton Peck remained quiet for a moment . . . but it wasn't that he was ignoring what the Colonel had stated. It was more of a thoughtful silence . . . almost as if he was reflecting upon not only what his leader had just said, but also other things as well. After a moment, he began to explain, "You know, I remember the first year things got really tough at the orphanage. It was right before Christmas and I had stopped to look through the window of a toy store on the way back from school. The display they had inside was just incredible."
Face paused and
closed his eyes, almost as if trying to recall a vision from the past and find
a way to put it into words. With a
child-like wonderment that embodied the delight he had when he was younger, he
continued, "There were bunches and bunches of tiny houses and stores and
churches, all with a dusting of snow and Christmas decorations. Through it all there ran a train, going
around and around on a track. I remember
it was red, black, and silver, and I had never seen anything like it
before. I wanted it so badly, but
orphans didn't get toys like that."
Silence settled between the two men. Hannibal watched as his trusted second in command open his eyes, but instead of looking at him Face continued to look out the window. For the normally unflappable Colonel, hearing the young man explain this part of his past was almost agonizing. He didn't want to interrupt the tale since it seemed like there was more to it, but he also wasn't sure how he could show some support without it getting to be too . . . mushy. He shifted his weight uncomfortably from one foot to another as he waited for the story to continue to be told.
Face's gaze again caught sight of one of the EL trains that ran along the tracks. This one was heading west along the rails over Lake Street, which meant that it was likely the Green Line going to Oak Park. He drew in a breath and then continued his story, "I remember this guy came out with a bunch of packages. He was older grey hair that was starting to turn white, a moustache, and round horn-rimmed glasses. I didn't really pay attention to him at first because I was totally engrossed with watching that train, but he stood there watching me for quite some time. Then, he put his packages down and asked me what my name was and where I lived . . ."
Hannibal cocked his head curiously at this turn of events. He hadn't expected this turn of events . . . of another person to creep into the story that likely wasn't from the orphanage. "What did he want?" he inquired, hoping that maybe that getting all of this off the Lieutenant's chest would be good for him.
"Nothing," Templeton responded with a slight shrug of his shoulders. "He told me that he was the owner of the store and was just curious. I'm actually surprised he didn't run me off. Most store owners don't like street children or orphans hanging around their stores. Greater risk of shoplifting, I guess."
The Colonel simply nodded, again not wanting to interrupt the tale. It seemed as if his Supply Officer was
starting to really open up and he didn't want to say anything that would
disrupt that progress.
"When I got back to the orphanage that night, all I could think about was that toy train. I was too old to believe in Santa, so I stayed up until well into the night and prayed to God that He would let me have it," Face noted with a slight bit of hesitancy within his voice. The flood gates were already open, so he couldn't take back what he had already revealed . . . and he couldn't stop now because that would lead to a lot more questions. He knew that it was best to share everything at this point. "The next day was Christmas and Father Maghill had to explain to us why every child in the world was getting presents except for us. I was old enough to understand the financial problems the orphanage was facing, but still . . . by not getting that train, I thought God had betrayed me. I thought He didn't listen to orphans like me, and I swore that I would never pray or speak to Him again."
Truthfully, the A-Team's Commanding Officer was surprised by the bitterness that seemed to seep through. He knew that Face was Catholic, and raised in a Catholic orphanage, but he never thought that someone who had been brought up in that kind of atmosphere would have turned his back on God in that way.
"Sister Margaret found me in my room a few hours later and tried to talk to me, but I wouldn't listen to anything she had to say. I could be quite stubborn when I wanted to be, especially if I decided I wasn't going to cooperate, whether it was with the nuns or with God," the Lieutenant laughed quietly.
That comment was enough to cause a small smirk to appear upon Hannibal's lips. From their time together since Vietnam, whenever Face got an idea in his head it was often hard to get him to consider something otherwise. He just wouldn't give up. In some ways, that could be a good thing, but other times . . . well, it became challenging. At least he was aware and able to admit that he was stubborn.
"It was because I was sulking in my room that I missed all the excitement at dinner that night. Somebody brought a truck load of packages for all the children in the orphanage." The blonde-haired man smiled slightly as a sparkle seemed to re-enter his eyes that had been missing for a long time during this time of year. "Sister Margaret brought mine up to me. It was wrapped in red paper with silver stars on it, and it had a little tag on it that read 'To Templeton Peck, Sacred Heart Orphanage. Merry Christmas.' Mine was the only one that had been addressed to a specific child."
"The train from the store?" Hannibal guessed with a slight smile. If that was the case, it was a such a simple act of kindness that served to provide a bright spot in a young and impressionable boy's life. Maybe by remembering that gesture, it would go far to drive home the point that the Colonel had made at the Museum.
Face nodded
slightly as he continued to gaze out over the city, now mostly covered with
darkness. The last strains of daylight
had faded along with the orange glow, yielding to a black starry night
sky. Only the individual lights that
remained lit on the various buildings helped to give the city shape and
character. Truthfully, he had almost forgotten
about getting the gift since Sister Margaret had died shortly after that had
taken place. That only had made the
initial pain and bitterness of not getting the train that morning that much
stronger. He just didn't realize how
much it had affected him until now.
"You were right, you know. I had
always thought that if I didn't have a family, someone to give me gifts at
Christmas, that I was somehow less special . . . less important,"
Templeton admitted quietly. It was clear
that he was struggling to put his thoughts into words. Trying to remember everything and then sharing
that information about his past, especially to his Commanding Officer, was
difficult. But, as he thought about it,
if there was anyone he was going to share it with, he wouldn't have wanted it
to have been any other else. He drew in
a breath and then noted, "Maybe families aren't made up of a mom and dad
and 2.5 kids. Maybe they are made up of
people who care enough to address a present specifically to a single orphan boy
out of a million others in the city."
He reached up
with his left hand and gingerly touched the healing wound he had suffered. 'Or friends who stick with each other, even
when one is wounded or a liability,' he thought to himself. As dysfunctional as they were, he and the
other members of the A-Team were a family.
He had just failed to realize it before, just as he failed to see past
his traditional definition of a family.
He felt Hannibal's eyes on him, but the young con artist didn't turn to look at
the Colonel. He kept his gaze out the
window hoping that, between continuing to look out at the city of Chicago and
the low lighting of the Skydeck, it would be enough to hide the slight touch of
moistness he felt at the corners of his eyes.
He waited for his friend and mentor to say something, however, his
Commanding Officer simply clapped a hand on his left shoulder and stood
silently beside him, also watching the lights of the city glow and sparkle for
miles around them.
The Lieutenant knew, with that simple act from his leader and friend, he would always have someone who was willing to stand by him . . . no matter what happened.
Templeton Peck smiled slightly. For the first time in a very long time, he found that he was actually looking forward to Christmas tomorrow, and to spending it with his family and Mrs. Baracus. And just maybe, like the chick he had watched as it hatched at the Museum, he had managed to put a tiny crack in that hard shell which surrounded him. It was hard work but perhaps, someday and with the help of his friends, the entire shell would come off.
167 Launches
Part of the Fan Fiction collection
Published on January 25, 2015
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