The Special Forces division of the Army was relatively small and highly selective. That also made it rather incestuous. Everyone knew everyone. It was rare to put together a team of SF soldiers who hadn't previously toured together somewhere, somehow. If not directly acquainted, they would have mutual friends. It was never hard to find someone who knew where to find an old friend, or someone with the details on that soldier's death if they were no longer alive. Murdock was surprised that he'd never heard of any of these soldiers…

"So who the hell had the bright idea to call this thing at 2:00 in the freakin' morning?"

"Element of surprise, Face."

"Yeah. Surprise! It's too fuckin' dark to see your hand in front of your face. Never mind that big ass snake under your boot."

The blonde – Face - was not a morning person. In fact, he looked thoroughly pissed to be up at 0200, sitting in the TOC and awaiting orders from a commanding officer who had yet to make an appearance. If he'd even noticed Murdock standing in the corner, he certainly hadn't made any effort at eye contact.

With an irritated growl, he checked his pockets for a cigarette, then looked up. "Boston, you got a lighter?"

The lighter was tossed back and forth before Face finally plopped down in a chair against the wall, tipping back on two legs. Murdock watched him out of the corner of his eye, head down as he inspected each of them as covertly as he could manage. A muscular black man standing against one wall, the blonde-haired kid who looked no older than twenty, and a tall man with dark hair. He didn't have to know their names to know their qualifications. They were all parachute qualified, multilingual, and at the top of their class in whatever their specialties. They were also cross-trained in at least one other area – usually two. And chances were pretty good that they were some of the most rowdy soldiers outside of the Navy SEALS.

"Where's Cruiser?" the black man demanded, impatient and angry. "He supposed to be here."

"So is Hannibal." The dark-haired soldier lit a cigarette of his own, and cast a lingering glance at Murdock. "You're the pilot, I'm assuming?"

Was that disdain in his voice?

"Yes."

The blonde gave him a lingering look. "You know where we're going?"

Murdock hesitated. "Colonel Smith hasn't told me much."

A chuckle, and exchanged glances all around. "Great."

Perhaps it wasn't hostility that he was sensing in the room. In fact, it was probably much simpler than that. He was an outsider – a come-and-go pilot. Here for one mission and gone the next, he was not like them and they knew it. He'd flown for SOG since his arrival in Vietnam, and he knew this feeling. He was different from them. Depending on just what kind of men they were – what kind of men they saw themselves as – that could shape their opinion of him in either direction.

The stereotype cast the Green Berets as undisciplined. Many of them lived up to it. A fair number of the highly publicized embarrassing incidents that the Army had to deal with came directly out of Special Forces – the most recent being the rather dramatic "TWEPing" of a double agent in the Fifth Group. While the term "CIA" was still a forbidden utterance both on and off base, the rumor had circulated quickly that they had been the ones responsible for the orders to "terminate with extreme prejudice" the double agent.

"Morning, everyone." Colonel Smith, coffee in one hand and a folder in the other, stepped into the small, cement-walled room.

"Morning?" Face challenged. "It's the middle of the goddamn night."

Murdock found himself almost amused by the complaint. He hadn't heard a soldier whine about the time of night since basic, and certainly not to his commanding officer. He definitely hadn't expected to hear it from a Green Beret. When it came right down to it, Murdock had found the Special Forces soldiers to be ruthless, war-loving sons of bitches, by and large. Maybe a few of them escaped that stereotype but in fact, most of them considered the image appropriate. And maybe that in and of itself was what made them so damn good. They had no fear, no hesitation, and in many cases... few moral convictions.

Those same "undisciplined" men who would've walked hand in hand with Article 15 had they been stationed at a stateside base were the ones he wanted on his side in the midst of no-holds-barred jungle warfare. They were the ones who would not hesitate to kill or be killed – and the former happened more often than the latter. SOG men had a kill ratio of a hundred to one. From what little he had managed to glean in the twenty-four hours since he'd met Colonel John Smith, Murdock had learned that Smith's unit more than doubled that number. Furthermore, in their last six-month active rotation, they'd only lost twelve men – all Yards, none of them Americans.

He had never met a team like this.

"Oh, quit bitching, Lieutenant."

Good lord. The blonde was a lieutenant?

"Bitching?"

Smith didn't seem fazed by the challenge. In fact, it appeared to amuse him. With a smile, he dropped the folder on the table, set his coffee down, and grabbed a rolled map off the shelf against the back wall.

"He means knock it off!" the black man shot, with a tone that could make almost any man snap to attention. But the smile from the colonel and the mock glare from the lieutenant made it clear that this sort of exchange was all part and parcel to that camaraderie they shared. They communicated seamlessly, all the way down to matching non-verbal cues.

"Where the hell is Cruiser?" Smith demanded, glancing around. As he did, he saw Murdock. But his gaze didn't linger.

"Probably still asleep," Face grumbled.

"He didn't get in 'til ten," the dark-haired man added.

Suddenly, a wicked smile crossed the lieutenant's face. "I'll get him up." The dark mischievous tone left his intended method to one's imagination.

"I'm here, I'm here…" Another blonde - this one slightly older with bloodshot eyes, hair much longer than regulation permitted, and only half his clothes on - stumbled into the TOC. Murdock recognized him immediately.

Murdock had met Sergeant James Harrison on a brief R&R in Thailand. They'd met each other socially, on and off, where and when their paths crossed. Harrison had a particular reputation as one of the "rowdy" bunch, but he was also entertaining. He'd turned the bar of choice for the GIs in Bangkok into a tourist attraction almost overnight with his various antics, like rappelling from the overhanging gallery down to the dance floor or cutting off the power for an impromptu game of hide-and-go-seek.

"You're late," Smith pointed out, not looking up.

"Yeah," Harrison grinned, "but you should've seen her."

Murdock could feel the welcome before he heard it – the instant the soldier's eyes came to rest on him. "Howlin' Mad Murdock! Man, what the hell are you doin' here?"

As he edged around the table, still putting on his shirt, he almost fell on his face. Murdock couldn't help the smile that crossed his lips. "Harrison, good to see you."

"I see you two are acquainted," Colonel Smith observed.

"This man, right here," Harrison started, clapping a hand over Murdock's shoulder as he spoke to the colonel, "is the best damn flyboy I ever fucking seen."

Suddenly, Murdock had the eyes of all three soldiers, minus Smith, locked on him. He swallowed hard, but didn't flinch as Harrison continued. "I was stationed at the A-Team camp at Dak Pek right before I got hooked up with you guys."

Murdock lowered his eyes, but kept his chin up. Of all the stories to tell them…

"We came under fire an' he was the first to respond. I hear his voice come over the radio with this god-awful howl." He paused to laugh. Murdock only smirked. "Blows the holy-living-shit out of the whole area around the summit and then he lands right in the fuckin' center of it all, drops off his guys, and hangs around while they drop down five sorties worth of nothin' but fuckin' napalm. There he is with one a those fuckin' Green Hornets, dodgin' RPG-7 rockets with a gunner hangin' out of either side 'til the fuckin' guns run dry."

Murdock's eyes flickered briefly to the amused looks of the blonde lieutenant and the dark-haired man. The enormous black guy didn't look at all amused.

"He just keeps goin' back and forth, wipes out half the fuckin' sappers flyin' right on over their heads at maybe – maybe – ten feet! I thought for sure he was gonna go down in flames." Harrison laughed. "I never seen a chopper fly like that before or since."

"I've never seen a chopper get clearance to fly like that," the dark-haired man said, eyeing him cautiously. "It's a good way to get shot down."

"He comes back every day the next three weeks we were under fire," Harrison continued. "Scatter their sorry asses all over wire. And then! The kicker! He gets two days R&R right? Well, he comes out to Dak Pek! Can you fuckin' believe that? He drops into the LZ with his arms full of cigarettes and whiskey and skin magazines."

Murdock smiled tightly, digging his hands into the pockets of his fatigues. He didn't like the attention, but at least it eased away the feeling that he was an outsider here. "Anyway, you met everyone?" Harrison asked. "This is Sergeant BA Baracus –" The man made no attempt at a friendly introduction, only scowled. "First Lieutenant Templeton Peck –" A two fingered, half-assed salute from the lieutenant, who'd already turned his attention to the map the colonel had laid out. "- and Captain Ray Brenner." The dark-haired man nodded. "And of course, Hannibal."

"Your legend precedes you, Howlin' Mad Murdock," Brenner greeted as Harrison set about the task of buttoning his shirt.

"Don't believe everything you hear," Murdock answered with a tight smile.

Brenner smirked. "Might be better for you if I did." He looked Murdock up and down. "You really as good as they say you are?"

Murdock stared back at him with no visible reaction to the challenge. "If I wasn't, would I even be here?"

Brenner chuckled. "Point taken. Though I guess we'll find out, won't we?"

***

Face was walking away from the car when he heard the phone ring. With an irritated growl, he turned back. He'd had a hell of a time getting out the door this morning, and he was already running late for his morning coffee meeting. But there weren't many peoplee who'd be calling that phone; knowing that Hannibal couldn't possibly be asking him to actually do anything when he was up in the mountains of Colorado, it was probably better not to ignore the incessant ringing.

"Hello?"

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

Face glanced in the rearview mirror, using the moment of distraction to fix his slightly windblown hair. Joseph Ranger was the emergency contact listed for Murdock at the VA. "Speaking," Face said confidently, trying not to sound too distracted.

"Mr. Ranger, I'm calling in regards to HM Murdock."

Clearly, the man wasn't finished speaking. Face didn't wait for the explanation. "No, wait. Don't tell me. He's missing again. You know, you guys really should look into beefing up security."

The moment of stunned silence on the other end of the phone told him the man wasn't entirely sure what to say. "Mr. Ranger, I am not with the VA hospital," he clarified after a moment's pause. "I'm with the FBI."

Face's hand came to a stop in his hair as he heard that, and he suddenly lost interest in the mirror. "The FBI?" he asked, genuinely surprised. "What do you want with Murdock?"

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

"You're asking me? Last time I saw him, he was in a psych ward with a door that locked from the outside."

"According to the nurses here, he went missing sometime during the night on Thursday. He didn't make it to breakfast yesterday morning."

Actually, Face could have told the man exactly what Murdock had eaten for breakfast yesterday morning. "Well, I don't know what to tell you," he answered casually. "I've given up worrying about him. He usually comes back on his own, you know."

"We need to speak with him right away."

Face checked his watch. Damn it, he was late. "Well, he's not with me. You have a number where I can call you if I see him?"

He took the number down on a small pad of paper from the glove box, then hung up the phone. He hesitated a moment with his hand still resting on it. The van would've gotten a call before he did if anyone was near it to take a call. The Corvette was a secondary contact. The primary went to the van. That meant the van wasn't taking calls. Still, he had to try.

No response. With a deep sigh, he hung up the phone. If they were out of range, that meant he could either drive out to Colorado or wait for them to come back in range if he wanted to talk to them. He'd decide on that later. Right now, he was late.

***

"If I were you, I'd look more into swing trading and longer term investments."

Face studied the cup full of burnt coffee, well aware that his mind was wandering as his financial advisor carried on the very interesting but very one-sided conversation. The man had already had a few too many cups of coffee this morning.

"Over the past few months, I haven't held a position in more than two stocks at one time so I can keep a closer eye on them…"

Face wanted to be paying attention to this conversation. He knew he was going to regret it later if he didn't. The man was almost always right when it came to financial advice, and Face had learned long ago to trust it. Unfortunately, right now, he wasn't hearing much. His thoughts were elsewhere. What the hell did the FBI want with Murdock?

Finishing the last few gulps of lukewarm coffee, Face hurried through his good-byes and promised to call, then headed back to his car. There, he immediately reached for the phone.

"I'm sorry, the mobile number you are trying to reach is not accepting calls right now."

He sighed as he hung up again. They had to be out of range, up in the mountains. If Hannibal didn't realize it now, he'd figure it out when he didn't receive the obligatory check-in call at 6:00 this evening. Face could deal with that later. At the moment, he was far more interested in answering the questions that were nagging at his mind.

The hospital was only a few miles away, and he drove there at a leisurely pace, enjoying the morning sunshine through the open top of the Corvette. There was no finer way to spend an early-summer morning, he thought. As he finally pulled to a stop in the parking lot, he reached into the back and pulled a locked briefcase into his lap. Inside, he found the identification he was looking for – fake, but convincing at a glance – and set the case aside again.

He was surprised to find, as he stepped off the elevator, that the FBI agents were still there in business suits and with badges displayed. It made him pause for a second, and rethink his confidence. He'd only figured he would have to charm a few nurses – something he was quite accustomed to doing – and hadn't really even bothered to come up with a plan as to what he was going to say. He thought well enough off the top of his head that he hadn't figured it necessary. It was enough to know that the weekend shift nurses wouldn't recognize the "doctor" who'd come two nights before to transfer Mr. Murdock to another facility for some neurological testing.

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

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

Before she had a chance to answer, one of the men was already approaching. He held out a hand in greeting. "Agent Colburn, FBI."

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

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

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

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

"Well, he's supposedly been here for the past ten years, ma'am," Face reminded. "So perhaps you can explain to me how his fingerprints turned up at my crime scene."

She had no answer for that. Her dilemma was probably amplified by the fact that Murdock was not at the hospital now, either. Caught without a comeback, she scowled as she turned away. Face directed his attention back to the FBI agent. "What are you guys here for?" he asked. "I didn't think anybody would've had reason to call in the feds."

"We're looking for someone in an unrelated matter," Colburn offered. "And we believe Mr. Murdock could have some information that would help us clear up some questions."

That was about as vague as it could possibly be. Face frowned. "Looking for somebody?" he asked.

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

Of course he wasn't. Face had seen that coming a mile away. "Well, if I find him before you do, he'll be answering my questions before yours."

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

Face left the hospital undeterred, but knowing he needed a different approach. That was okay with him. He appreciated the challenge every once in a while. He'd just turned over the ignition when the passenger side door opened. Almost before he had a chance to turn his head, there was an enormous man – the kind who could give BA a run for his money – sitting in the passenger seat. There was no time for questions. The man raised a pistol, and it clicked as he pulled back the hammer.

"You're Templeton Peck?"

Face laughed nervously, hands raised in a defenseless posture. What was the safest answer to that? "Who's asking?"

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

Face paused to consider that for a long moment. What were his chances of getting out of the car without getting shot? Add to the equation the fact that he'd have to abandon his Corvette with the keys inside, and he tossed the idea out without much consideration. Besides, of all the places that a lone man with a gun could want him to drive, there were far less appealing places than to the rest of his team. "You'll never get away with this" was not only a tacky line, it was a given. Who did this guy think he was? Nevertheless, Face had a choice between altering his plans for the weekend... or being shot. It didn't seem like much of a choice.

"Alright," he agreed. "But I hope you brought a change of clothes. It's going to be a long ride."

The barrel of the gun pressed harder against his skull, tilting his head a little as the man growled. "Just drive!"

Without another word, Face put the car in reverse and pulled away from the VA hospital.