Part Three: Home

Hannibal leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, and drew in a mouthful of flavorful smoke. He savored it for a long moment, feeling the heat on his tongue and drawing the familiar aroma into his sinuses, then he exhaled slowly and cracked his eyes open to watch the smoke stream from between his lips. Beautiful, the way it coiled upward then spread and shredded on the faint breeze. It seemed to carry the last of his tension away with it, carry it up to the canopy of leaves that arched over the deck where it was lost in the whispering shadows.

This cabin was not the most luxurious accommodation they had ever known in their years as fugitives, but it had many advantages. The majestic old-growth forest that surrounded it was one. Its isolation was another. But to Hannibal's way of thinking, the best thing the cabin had to offer was peace.

The team had just returned the previous evening from another successful mission. They had shut down a smuggling ring that used undocumented aliens to carry drugs across the border. A simple and unimaginative scheme, but very profitable. Hannibal and his boys had collected enough evidence to put the boss behind bars for a few decades, mopped up the gang and delivered them to the proper authorities, gift wrapped for the holidays.

They had been gone for nearly two weeks - by far the longest time that they had yet left Face on his own - and Murdock had been fairly twitching with anxiety when they finally turned for home. But other than a pile of unwashed laundry and signs that the lieutenant had survived on canned baked beans, they found everything in order.

In the aftermath of the mission, Hannibal was tired and grateful for the chance to simply prop up his feet and relax. He took another drag on his cigar and watched a blue jay stalk along the railing to where his booted feet rested. It inspected them for a moment, gave an indignant shriek, and flapped away into the trees. Hannibal grinned at it, then turned his attention to a scuffling in the undergrowth that heralded the arrival of some new form of life.

Before the creature could show itself, footsteps sounded on the deck behind the colonel, drawing his attention and frightening away his woodland visitor. B.A. approached, carrying two coffee mugs. He handed one to Hannibal, then set his own on the railing while he pulled up another chair. Soon, he was settled in beside his commander, sipping his coffee and looking as pleasantly relaxed as the other man.

After some minutes, Hannibal mustered enough energy to murmur, "Did you check the perimeter, Corporal?"

"Yeah," B.A. rumbled. "Nothin' disturbed since we left."

"Face report anything?"

"Nope."

"Where is he?"

"In his room."

"Hm." The colonel sipped his coffee, then asked, his gaze still dwelling on the trees, "Did Face say anything to you about this last mission? About us being gone so long?"

"Not a word."

"He seems to have managed pretty well."

"Don't say that to Murdock. He's still havin' fits about all them beans."

Hannibal met B.A.'s eyes and they both grinned. Murdock had been trying to improve Face's eating habits since they met a decade ago but had never succeeded. Face would happily eat anything Murdock made for him, but left to his own devices, he would just as happily live out of tin cans. "What's he up to?"

"Dunno. He was washin' dishes and mutterin' to himself like a crazy person when I left. I told 'im to leave Face alone about the food, but I don't figure he'll listen to me."

"He needs to leave Face alone all together."

B.A. shot him a quizzical look. "What's that mean?"

"I have an agreement with Face. We won't be overprotective and he won't demand any more of our help than he absolutely needs. It was the only way I could get him to agree to come with us."

That seemed to take B.A. completely by surprise. "He didn't wanna come? Really?"

"Oh, he wanted to come, but he didn't think he should. He was afraid - is still afraid, I think - that we'd fall into the same old patterns we did at the clinic."

"He don't want to be dependent on us."

"No. And he doesn't want to stop us from doing what we need to do."

"What if we need to look after our friend?" the corporal demanded.

Hannibal grinned around his cigar. "That's what I said, but he wasn't buying it."

"But he wants us around, don't he? He wants to be part of the team?"

"Yes, but we're still working on what that means."

"Huh. So, is Murdock gonna drive Face outta here with his hoverin' and fussin'?"

"I hope not, because if he does, we'll have to let him go."

"No, man…"

"Yes. We have an agreement. And Face isn't a child I can order back into his room. If he goes, he goes, and we'll just have to accept it."

"Then I'm gonna have a little talk with Murdock," B.A. cracked his knuckles suggestively, "and set 'im straight before he pushes Faceman out the door."

"Wait, B.A. Give it a little time. Let them work it out between them."

B.A. made a disgruntled noise in his throat but stayed in his seat, making no immediate move to hunt down the pilot and beat him into submission. "Crazy Man better not do any damage we can't fix."

"When has he ever?"

"How 'bout the time he scared me so bad that I can't fly anymore?!"

"Okay, I'll give you that one. But what damage has he ever done to Face?"

"Lit 'im on fire?" Hannibal just rolled his eyes and B.A. finally conceded, "Okay, none. He loves Faceman too much to hurt 'im."

"And Face loves him too much to walk away. So stay out of it and let them figure out the ground rules."

"You're askin' me to trust Murdock. Trust 'im with Face's life."

"Who better?"

B.A. pondered that statement for a moment, then gave a grunt of agreement. Sinking back in his chair, he slurped his coffee and resumed his contemplation of the forest. Hannibal did the same, leaving the corporal to mull over his thoughts in peace. In the comfortable silence, the blue jay hopped down onto the railing to investigate, then squawked in outrage at the two pairs of feet blocking his path.

Murdock strolled into the room and halted just inside the door to study its occupant. Face sat at the window, his head angled to catch the wash of winter sunlight in the corner of his right eye, wearing the faintly wistful expression that had become a constant for him. He had not heard Murdock's footsteps approaching, or he would have put his smiling mask in place before the pilot caught him, but what had distracted him Murdock couldn't tell. Perhaps his own thoughts, which clearly were not very cheerful.

A faint mewing sounded from down by Murdock's ankles, and the familiar sleek, white form of Luna oozed by him. At the sound of the cat's voice, Face's head came around sharply, his eyes finding and following her unerringly.

"Hello, beautiful," he said, mimicking words Murdock had heard him say a hundred times, to women of a very different sort than this one.

Luna gathered herself and leapt nimbly into his lap. Face clasped her with his half-functional right hand, pulling her close, then began to rub her head and throat with his left. Luna instantly curled herself into a comfortable ball and began to purr like a Big Block.

"Hey, Faceguy," Murdock said quietly, not wanting to startle the other man.

Face's head snapped up again, his bright, perfect, lying smile suddenly blossoming across his face and driving away the shadows that had darkened it a moment before. "Murdock."

Murdock watched the transformation and sighed inwardly. He thought about pretending that he believed the smile, or about trying to wheedle Face's worries out of him. But he was tired of playing the nursemaid and just wanted to talk to his friend, so he opted for the direct approach.

In a dry voice such as he would have used with the old, wicked Face, he drawled, "Don't bother."

Face blinked at him and opened his mouth as if to respond, but Murdock stopped him. "You were sulking when I came in. Don't let me interrupt."

"I was not sulking."

"Huh," Murdock grunted, skeptically.

"I wasn't," Face insisted. "I was… wondering."

"'Bout what?" Murdock slouched over to an empty chair near the window and flopped down on it.

"The weather."

"The weather? Face, this is Southern California. There is no weather."

"Okay, not weather. Seasons." He turned to face Murdock fully and fixed his blind gaze on him. "We've been here a long time, I think, but I don't know. I can't… see the days go by."

"Yeah," Murdock said, glumly, "I get that."

"The air feels cold. There are dead leaves on the deck that crunch." He clasped the purring body on his lap for a moment. "Luna's bigger."

"Your hair's grown back."

Face pushed his fingers through his hair, combing it back from his forehead. "Yeah."

"And you want to know how long it's been." Face nodded. "More than a year since Iraq. Five months since we came here."

"A year." Face's gaze fell and he stared at something Murdock couldn't see, his features shadowed with melancholy once more.

"Closer to a year and a half."

"It seems… much longer. My memories – the ones from b-before – seem so far away, like they happened to s- someone else. I know it was me, but…" The stumble in his words betrayed his distress. He turned suddenly away, giving Murdock a clear view of the scar on his left temple which, in the cold light, looked very fresh and painful.

"Face?"

The lieutenant did not respond, just clutched the purring cat and stared blindly out the window.

"Face, I'm sorry. I shouldn't've said anything."

"You're the only one who t-tells me the truth. That's why I ask you."

"Hannibal and Bosco never lie to you."

"They… mmm… protect me."

"I'd protect you, too, if I could figure out how."

"I've already got a hole in my skull and half my brain gone. What are you going to protect me from, now?"

"Aww, Face…"

Face waved his hand, as if brushing away his friend's concern and said, determinedly, "Never mind. I want to know what time of year it is. What's today's date?"

Murdock stared at him for a moment, struggling to switch gears, then said, "It's Christmas Eve."

"What? It's… What?"

"Christmas Eve." When Face continued to stare blankly at him, he laughed and said, "Come on, Face, it happens every year."

"Yes, but…"

"But what?"

"Jesus, Murdock, why didn't you tell me?!"

"'Cause nobody felt much like celebrating."

"I do."

"Huh?"

"I'm alive. I was supposed to be dead, but I'm alive. I can talk again. I'm not a fugitive. And I've got some of my memory back so I know who I am and who my friends are. And what Christmas is. That sounds like a good reason to celebrate, to me."

"When you put it that way…"

A sudden, entirely genuine smile broke over the lieutenant's face, and he turned shining blue eyes full of pleading on Murdock. "Can we get out of here? Go into town? Please, Murdock?"

"I don't think that's a very good idea."

"Why not? We won't do anything dangerous. I just want to walk down the street, hear the Christmas carols, smell the trees… I hate this cabin, Murdock. I hate it. I'm so sick of it, I'm going crazy. Please help me get out for a little while. Please."

An hour later, the two men strolled down the main street of a small Southern California town, nestled in the mountains to the northwest of Los Angeles. Murdock wore his usual scruffy chinos and jacket, with a moth-eaten World War I leather flight helmet crammed onto his head. He was not worried about being spotted himself. He had been to this artsy tourist community many times over the last five months and had never been noticed. But today, he had Face with him, and Face was always noticed.

For all of the visible damage done to him - his limp, his crippled hand, his scarred face - it was still his sheer physical presence that made Face so noticeable. Smash him up, scar him, break him, blind him, and he still turned heads on the street with his beauty. The women who smiled seductively at him didn't know that the eyes behind his RayBans were mismatched and couldn't see their charms. The men who shot him envious looks didn't know that he couldn't tie his own shoes and sometimes forgot how to finish a sentence. All they saw was a gorgeous man tilting his head up to let the winter wind ruffle his hair and laughing in pure joy at the feeling. Murdock laughed too, unable to help himself, swept along by the irresistible force of his friend's delight.

They halted at the end of a block, waiting for the traffic to clear so they could cross the street, and Face caught a familiar, beloved scent on the wind.

"Smell that?"

"What?"

"Coffee. Where's it coming from?"

Murdock looked around until he spotted a little storefront on the opposite corner, tucked in behind a yarn shop. "Looks like a used bookstore with a coffee bar in it."

"Perfect. Let's go."

The pilot had no objection and no better place to be, so he led Face across the street and up a pair of shallow steps to the book shop. They stepped through the glass-paneled door to be welcomed by the tinkling of a brass bell, the smell of roasting coffee and the sound of Judy Garland singing "I'll Be Home for Christmas" in her most throaty, seductive voice. Face took a deep, appreciative breath and smiled beatifically.

The space was cramped and rather shabby, with shelves that spilled worn volumes onto the floor in places and squashy armchairs tucked into comfortable nooks between the shelves. Murdock had to step carefully to get himself and his friend safely past the many obstacles. As they approached the coffee bar in the middle of the room, a fat orange cat leapt up onto the counter to inspect them.

Another pair of eyes gazed at them with equal curiosity, belonging to the barista-sales clerk behind the counter. She was a woman in her early twenties, barely five feet tall in her Doc Martens, with a lush, rounded figure that the uncharitable would call fat. She added a few inches to her height and quite a lot to her presence with a spiky thatch of hair, cut in asymmetrical chunks and dyed with hot pink streaks. Metal studs adorned her ears, eyebrows, lips, nose and navel, while tattoos covered most of her plump arms. Even in the depths of winter, she wore clothing that was more holes than fabric, held together with leather laces and safety pins. Her only concession to the season was a Santa hat perched crookedly on her spiked, lacquered head.

The entire picture was so overdone that it teetered on the edge of self-satire. But the humorous intelligence in her black-rimmed eyes told Murdock that she knew exactly what image she presented and enjoyed playing it for all it was worth.

"'Allo, gents," she purred in a voice as scratchy, sexy and appealing as any Judy Garland could muster. "'Appy Christmas."

Face leaned against the counter and smiled brightly enough to melt the rivets driven through her nose. "Merry Christmas, beautiful."

Murdock gave the girl a critical once-over, wondering whether Face would bother if he could see what was attached to that voice. Probably, since Face had never met a woman he wouldn't charm, given the opportunity.

"You're not from around here," the pilot drawled.

"'Ow'd you guess?" she replied in her heavy Cockney accent.

"London. Cheapside?"

She laughed, her eyes narrowing into gleaming slits between their magenta lids. "Not bad, for a Yank."

"My name's Murdock. What's yours?"

"Pru."

"This is Face. You can probably guess why we call him that."

Face smiled beguilingly at her. "Nice to meet you, Pru."

"Ta. What can I get you gents?"

"Coffee," Face said earnestly. "I need coffee."

She gestured to the chalkboard hanging above the counter, its surface covered with tightly packed writing. "The plain, black kind, or something more festive?"

"He'll have a double-shot cappuccino with extra foam," Murdock said, "and I'll have that peppermint cream latte thing that looks like a party favor."

"Right you are, luv."

At that moment, the orange cat decided that he was entitled to a share of the newcomers' attention and sauntered over to rub against Face's arm, purring loudly.

"Get out of it, Bolly," Pru snapped, waving her hand fruitlessly at the cat.

Face scratched the offered head and grinned down at his new friend. "What did you call him?"

"That's Bolingbroke, our shop cat. Bolly for short."

"Bolingbroke." Face cocked his head in a way that told Murdock he was trying to remember something. To the pilot's infinite surprise, he broke out in a smile and said, triumphantly, "Shakespeare! Richard the… the…"

"Second," Pru said, nodding in approval, as she turned away to begin constructing their elaborate coffees. "You a scholar of The Bard?"

"I don't remember."

Pru shot him a curious look, but Murdock just shook his head. "Don't ask. His brain works in mysterious ways."

"When it w-works at all," Face added, stumbling slightly over his words and earning him another glance from the girl.

He seemed to sense her confusion and, totally without embarrassment, slipped off his glasses to fix her with his impossibly blue, completely blank eyes. When her silence told him that he had her undivided attention, he turned his head slightly and tapped the wicked scar on his temple with one earpiece. "Thanks to this, I don't remember much."

"That's lovely, that is."

He leaned his elbows on the counter, one hand still petting Bolingbroke, and said with a suggestive twinkle, "Do you like men with scars?"

"I like men who know their Shakespeare and drink my coffee." Setting a cup down on the counter, she slid it over until it rested against the backs of his fingers. "Drink up, luv."

Face curled his fingers carefully around the warm cardboard and lifted it to take a sip. "Mmm."

"If you two are done flirting, I'd like my peppermint thing," Murdock said with mock severity.

Face took another sip and said, severely, "I don't flirt. I've sworn off women."

"Since when?" Murdock demanded.

"Since I lost half my brain. And since I got Luna."

"'Oo's Luna, when she's at 'ome?" Pru asked, as she set a large, pink, frothy confection topped with whipped cream and chunks of peppermint candy in front of Murdock.

"My kitten," Face answered.

"His soul mate," Murdock amended. "Or his familiar, depending on how you look at it."

Pru laughed and waved them toward a pair of soft armchairs. "'Ave a seat, enjoy the coffee, read a book…" Face cocked an ironic eyebrow, drawing a chuckle from her. "Sorry. We do have some books in Braille, somewhere in the back…"

"Maybe another time." Face grinned and lifted his cup in a salute. "You make a mean cup of coffee, Pru, and I love listening to you talk, but I'm on a mission."

"You are?" Murdock asked, startled.

"To make the most of my freedom. Come on, Murdock, let's go find some more Christmas Cheer."

Murdock shrugged and smiled apologetically at Pru. "See you later, then."

"Merry Christmas!" Face called gaily, as Murdock piloted him toward the door. "We'll be back!"

Face was bored. Incredibly, mind-numbingly bored. So bored that he would gladly pull the house down, nail by nail, just to pass the time, if he could find the nails. The team was off on another mission, earning their keep and righting the wrongs of the world, which left Face to kick his heels in the cabin with nothing to do and no one to talk to. He had lost count of the number of days they'd been gone, but it was long enough that he'd resorted to washing dishes and doing laundry to pass the time. The laundry was a true act of desperation, since he could not identify, sort or fold the clean garments. The best he could do was untangle the various pieces of fabric and leave everything spread on Murdock's bed until the pilot came home to deal with it.

One major source of discontent was his isolation. Without Murdock, he couldn't stroll in the woods or trek into town for a visit with Pru and Bolly. He'd come to depend on these breaks in the routine, not to mention the company of someone who didn't know him better than he knew himself. Pru was funny, smart and completely devoid of pity. She didn't know him from before, didn't care how much he'd changed, and never let him get away with anything. She also showed no signs of falling for his charm, no matter how many cracks Murdock made about robbing the cradle. She was simply a friend.

Face missed her. A week, two weeks, whatever it was, without her company or anyone else's was more than he could take and keep his sanity. He was standing in the middle of the room, pondering this problem, when Luna came milling about his ankles, crying fretfully. She, too, was bored and annoyed by Face's inattention. The sound of her voice brought him out of his black study and crystallized a decision in his head. It was time to get out of here.

Driven by a new purpose, he moved unerringly about the cabin, collecting his sunglasses, cane and cell phone. His walking boots had velcro fastenings, so he could manage them without help, and his military parka had wide pockets in which Luna could comfortably ride. In remarkably short order, he stepped out the door and locked it behind him. Then he unfolded his cane - an accessory he hated but recognized as essential when he didn't have Murdock's friendly shoulder as a guide - and made his way down to the road.

It was a lovely, brisk, sunny day. Face tilted his head back to enjoy the touch of the winter sun on his face as he walked. Luna poked her head out of his pocket and did the same, her pale eyes slitted against the light. They reached the bottom of the road and turned to follow the highway into town. Face had made the two-mile walk with Murdock more than once, but this was his first attempt on his own. A saner man might have felt some qualms about leaving the safety of his home and wandering off into the darkness with only a kitten for support. But Face knew no fear. He had complete faith in his own resources and the helpfulness of human beings in general, having never yet been denied assistance when he asked for it, once he sweetened the request with a smile.

He kept to the shoulder, well away from the traffic on the two-lane rural highway, so his feet crunched on pine cones, dead leaves and other detritus as he went. A steady, if thin trickle of cars passed him. He ignored them, concentrating on navigating safely, until one pulled up beside him. He halted, not because he wanted to talk to the driver, but because he didn't want to walk into the side of a metal vehicle by accident.

"Can I give you a lift?" a woman's voice called.

He smiled sweetly at her and said, "No, thanks."

"You sure?" The offer in her words was blatant, even to his ears. "Where are you headed? I can drop you anywhere…"

"No, I'm good. Really. But thanks for offering."

She sounded disappointed when she said, "All right, then. Be careful on this road. People drive like maniacs out here."

"I will." His smile widened, and he could almost hear the driver whimpering. "Have a good one."

The car pulled away, leaving the odor of exhaust and frustrated desire behind it. Face laughed and continued on his way.

He and Luna reached the outskirts of town without encountering any obstacles more serious than a few large rocks in their path and some bushes that caught at Face's clothes. They followed the highway into the middle of town and the familiar business district. The street traffic thickened, as did the foot traffic on the sidewalks, and Face found himself dodging busy shoppers and hyper children. He had a vague idea where the bookshop was, but having never come here alone before, he found the bustle and noise disorienting. He was standing on a corner, trying to decide which way to go, when another strange voice accosted him.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Face turned toward the new voice. Something about it rang a note of familiarity in the back of his mind, but he couldn't quite identify it. Did he know this man?

"I think I'm lost," he admitted, with a wry smile.

"If you tell me where you're going, maybe I can point you in the right direction."

"There's a bookstore that sells coffee. I don't know what it's called, but the girl behind the counter is named Pru. And there's a cat."

"I know the place, sir. It's just over here. If you'll allow me…"

As Face accepted his offered arm and stepped into the street beside him, a fragmentary memory clicked into place and he said, suddenly, "Police!"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"You're a policeman."

"Yes, sir.

"I thought maybe I knew you, but it was just the way you talk. Like a policeman."

"I thought maybe I knew you, too," the cop said. For the first time, there was a hint of something other than formal authority in his voice. A whiff of curiosity.

"You probably know my face from Wanted posters. I used to be a fugitive."

Curiosity turned to mistrust. "Used to be?"

"I was pardoned. But lots of people still recognize my face." He read the stiffness in the other man's posture and added, in a friendly way, "Don't worry, I'm not one of the bad guys. It was just a misunderstanding."

They stopped in front of the store but the cop didn't guide him up the steps or let him go. "Mind if I ask your name, sir?"

"Templeton Peck. My friends call me Face."

He could hear the gears turning in the other man's head. "Peck. I know that name."

"Like I said, I was a fugitive."

"The A-Team! That's it! I knew I'd heard it before."

"Right."

"The rest of your team are still fugitives, aren't they?"

"Yes, Officer, they are." He smiled blindingly. "But they aren't here, are they, so there's no one for you to arrest."

The cop laughed in spite of himself. "No, sir, Mr. Peck."

"Call me Face."

"Call me Larry. Larry Burgoyne."

"Thanks for the arm, Larry."

"Any time. Take care of yourself."

With that, the cop strode off and Face climbed the steps to the door.

Pru greeted him with a delighted, "Wotcher, Face! Where you been, luv?"

"Trapped at home. I'd kill for a cup of your coffee, Pru."

"On its way."

Face settled into his favorite chair and lifted Luna out of his pocket. She jumped down to prowl a bit and say hello to Bolly, while Face relaxed in the welcoming atmosphere of the shop. Pru brought him his usual and folded herself into the chair next to his.

"Where's Murdock?"

"Gone. They got a job and left… I don't know. Weeks ago, it feels like. I had to get out."

"'Ow'd you get 'ere?"

"Walked."

"'Ow d'you plan to get back?"

He shrugged and leaned his head back against the chair, too contented to worry about anything and too glad to be free to consider how he'd get back to his prison.

Pru made a disgruntled noise but didn't press him. It was a quiet day with few customers, so she was free to sit and talk with minimal interruptions. Her boss, Hugo, came in after lunch and the mood quickly deteriorated. Hugo was, by Pru's description, a total bastard who didn't approve of her layabout friends. He glared and muttered and aimed kicks at Luna until Face got the message and prepared to leave.

"'Ow you gonna get 'ome, luv?" Pru asked, as he collected Luna and unfolded his cane.

"I'll walk. It's only a couple of miles."

Pru decided that he had not fully thought out his plan, and that trying to walk home when he couldn't see the road signs was a bad idea. It was one thing to follow the highway into town, when town was large and loud and impossible to miss. It was another thing entirely to try to find one side-turning along miles of lonely road.

"You'll get lost. I'll drive you."

Hugo glared a her from his seat behind the counter. "You're working!"

"Oy'm taykin' a break. And you can bloody well sack me, if you don't like it!" She always turned up the Cockney when arguing with Hugo. As she turned away, she muttered, "Stupid git."

"Why do you work for someone you hate so much?" Face asked.

"Keeps life interesting. Come on, luv, let's get you 'ome."

A few minutes later, they pulled up in front of the cabin. Pru cut the engine and hopped out of the bright red Mini. Face climbed out his own door more carefully and waited by the car for her to join him. As he rested a hand on her shoulder and followed her toward the porch, he said, "Care to join me for a cup of coffee?"

"'Aven't you 'ad enough?"

"Enough coffee, yes. But not enough of your company."

"Cheeky."

He grinned. "Always." Halting on the porch, he fished the house key from his pocket and slipped it in the lock. The key turned too easily, telling him that the door was already unlocked. He frowned as he pocketed the key and muttered, "That's weird."

"Somethin' wrong?"

"I thought I locked up when I left. Guess I forgot." With that, he pushed open the door and stepped inside with Pru just behind him.

The blow came from his left, slamming into his head and breaking his glasses. He fell hard but rolled instinctively and got his feet under him. A booted foot hammered into his ribs before he could stand, forcing the air from his lungs and sending him sprawling on the floor. A second kick to the same spot made his ribs creak alarmingly. Face gave a whoop of pain and surprise. Then, as rough hands grabbed him and dragged him upright, he laughed and gasped out, "Is that any way to say hello?"

Someone struck him a fierce blow to the face. He tasted blood.

"Where is he?" a voice snarled. "Where's Smith?"

"Who?" Face asked, innocently, earning him another blow that sent blood running down his chin.

"Hannibal Smith. I want 'im, and you're gonna tell me where to find 'im."

He spat blood on the floor and grinned unrepentantly at his uninvited guest. "And here I thought you wanted a cup of coffee."

"Stupid son of a bitch!" the stranger snarled. "You tryin' to get hurt?"

"Looks like I don't have to try very hard."

The man who was clutching his arm decided that he needed a lesson in manners and drove his fist into Face's side, making him double-up with pain.

"That bastard got our boss locked up, and we're gonna make him pay!"

Somewhere in the background, Pru was spewing Cockney obscenities and demanding that they get their bloody hands off her friend. Face was reassured to hear only anger in her voice, no fear. Apparently she could keep her head and her nerve in a crisis.

The ring-leader grabbed a fistful of Face's hair and dragged him up again, twisting his head until their faces were only inches apart. "I know Smith is living here," he spat.

"Sorry," Face replied, "just me and the cat."

"You mean that tattooed freak over there?"

"No. I mean the cat." As if summoned by his words, Luna decided that she'd had enough rough treatment for one day and clambered out of Face's pocket. She used his parka-clad arm as a ladder, hitched herself up into the crook of his elbow, and sank her teeth into the hand clamped around his upper arm.

The goon holding him shouted in pain and flailed his arm to dislodge her, letting go of Face in the process. Luna hung on, yowling and scratching, while Face stepped clear of both his captors to get his bearings. One invader was struggling to free himself of Luna. Another was engaged in a shouting match with Pru. A third was bellowing orders at his henchmen and swearing at Face. That seemed to account for all of them, unless one was asleep in the corner. In that instant, Face decided that it was time to end this farce and, throwing caution to the wind, he lunged for the ringleader.

"Shit!" the man growled, as he saw Face coming at him.

A shattering noise that Face recognized as a gunshot split the air. He felt the fierce, burning pain of a bullet hitting his leg and knew a moment of insane joy. This is what he was born to do, what he had always done better than anyone. Baiting an enemy till he lost his head and let his guard down. Jumping into the fray with both feet. Exploiting distraction and weakness to take out the threat at any cost. The pain, the blood, the chaos were all part of a familiar pattern and he relished them. He needed them to feel himself again.

He laughed as he struck his opponent with all his weight, bearing them both to the floor. His hands fastened around the other man's neck, and he slammed his head into the hardwood surface until he stopped struggling. Even as he grabbed the abandoned gun, he heard a crash and the tinkle of broken glass, announcing that Pru had taken out her captor with a handy lamp. That left only Luna's victim.

Turning to sweep the room with his gun, Face called to Pru, "Where is he? The third one?"

"Right in front of you!"

"Don't move, buddy, or I'll put a bullet in you."

"You can't even see me!" the man protested, his feet scraping on the floor as he turned from one of them to the other, looking for an opening to attack.

"I can hear you. And if you try anything, my cat will scratch your eyes out."

"She already tried. Jesus! Where'd you get that animal?!"

Face laughed, still so full of the rush and heat of battle that he barely felt the bullet wound in his leg. "That's my girl! Pru, check him for weapons and find something to tie him up with."

"Can I knock 'im out? Just to be safe?"

"Go for it."

He heard another crash and a groan and a body hitting the floor.

"Nice," he said. "Now get their guns and tie them up."

"What about you? You're bleedin' all over the place."

"I'll take care of that."

With the aplomb that Face now expected from her, Pru went about her tasks and left him to his own. Stiffly, his ribs and head now hurting nearly as badly as his leg, as the adrenaline left his system, Face peeled off his shirt and twisted it into a makeshift bandage. He couldn't tie it, but he wrapped it tightly around the wound in his leg and hoped it would stay in place. Then he finally let himself relax and sank back on the floor.

Pru returned in a few minutes to announce that she'd found a roll of duct tape in the kitchen and trussed up their attackers with it. Face mustered enough energy to thank her. Then he handed her his cell phone and said, "Call the Police."

She took the phone hesitantly, doubt clear in her voice when she asked, "What do I tell them?"

"The truth. Just don't say anything about my friends."

"But…"

"It'll be fine, Pru, I promise. I'm not a criminal and we didn't do anything wrong. Hannibal and the others aren't here, so they can't get into trouble. Just tell them what happened."

"Face, I don't think…"

"And find Luna." He was fading out. He could feel it. Blood loss and exhaustion were getting the better of him, and he was fading fast. "Thank her for me."

"Face? Face!"

"I'm fine," he murmured sleepily. "Everything's… fine. It was fun, wasn't it?"

With that, he sank quietly into unconsciousness.

When Face woke, he found himself in the familiar surroundings of a hospital. He recognized the sounds and smells almost immediately, even through the thick fog of sleep that still shrouded him, and he found them comforting. He didn't like being in the hospital - not without Murdock beside him - but he knew he was safe here. And he wasn't entirely alone. Someone was in the room with him.

Turning to look at the presence beside him, he made a wordless noise that served as both a greeting and a question, without requiring him to exert the energy to talk.

The presence stirred, shifting chair legs against the floor, and a familiar voice said, "Wotcher, Face."

He smiled tiredly. "Hey, Pru."

"You're in 'ospital."

"Yeah." He forced himself to concentrate through the fog, to grasp the essential elements of the situation, and asked, "How's Luna?"

Pru chuckled. "She's mad as fire that you aren't there. I fed 'er this morning. Oh, I borrowed yer 'ouse key. 'Ope you don't mind."

He smiled and shook his head. "Thanks." Then her words soaked in and he frowned slightly in confusion. "What day is it?"

"Tomorrow. You've been asleep for almost 24 hours."

"Mm." He stirred slightly, feeling the ache in his ribs blossom into real pain and his leg suddenly catch fire. "Broke my ribs, I think."

"Yeah. Two broken ribs, one perforated leg and lots of cuts and bruises. Nothing fatal."

He smiled again, dismissing his injuries. "How about you?"

"No worries, luv. One of 'em grabbed me, but I 'it 'im with a lamp and dropped 'im in 'is tracks."

"Good for you. I'm sorry you got mixed up in this."

"I'm not. If you'd been alone, those goons might 'ave killed you."

Face waved that idea away with lofty disdain. "No one's managed to kill me yet. And plenty have tried, believe me."

"I do." She sounded oddly troubled, drawing Face's attention and making him reach a hand toward her in concern.

"I didn't mean to say that I'm not grateful for your help. I am," he said earnestly.

"It's not that." Suddenly, he felt her fingertip on his shoulder and he realized that he wasn't wearing a shirt or hospital gown. "'Ow'd you get all these scars, Face? Are they all from people trying to kill you?"

"Most of them. The ones I can remember."

"What about this one?" She touched the bayonet scar in his right shoulder.

"I got that the same time I got this," he tapped his left temple, then he held up his right hand, palm outward. "And this."

"When you lost your sight."

"Mm."

"Do you remember it?"

"Most of it."

"What about these?" She fingered a series of three small, round scars just visible below the bandage on his ribs. "Are these bullet 'oles?"

"Mm. Little ones. I got those in Iraq, during the war, from a twelve-year-old kid with a 22." He traced a knife scar on his left bicep. "And this one was a crazy Bedouin who thought I was stealing his camels. I was, of course, but I still think he overreacted."

Pru chuckled.

"I've collected scars on every continent. Except maybe Antarctica. I don't remember going there…"

"But you might've."

"Yeah." He grinned over at her. "I'll have to ask Hannibal. He's been there with me through every battle, so he'll know."

"You'd really forget fighting among the penguins?"

"I've forgotten a lot." Face's smile died as he considered how much of his life had vanished into the darkness. "Too much. I wish I could get it all back, but…"

"P'raps you will."

He shook his head. "I wasn't supposed to remember this much. Anything, really. And we know for sure that some of my brain tissue is dead, gone, and my memories with it. So what I really need to do is protect the ones I have. Make sure I never forget anything, ever again."

"You should write a book," Pru said brightly. "A memoir."

Face laughed at that and closed his eyes wearily. "I don't think the world is ready for my life story."

"I do. I think it's a brilliant idea!"

"Even if it is yours?"

"Especially because it's mine. Think about it, Face. You want to protect your memories. So you sort them out, write them down, and preserve them for posterity. And in the process, you get a bloody great book about a world-famous team of soldiers from the inside. Their own story in their own words. It'll be a best seller!"

Face turned tired, smiling eyes on her. "You're mad."

"I'm right, and you know it."

He thought about that for a long moment, then said, "If you want me to write a book, you'll have to help me. Type it, edit it, make it into English."

"I'm not an editor!"

"Well, I'm not an author, so we're even."

"I 'ave a job."

"With a boss you hate. I'll pay you to be my… what's it called, when someone writes a book for you but doesn't get the credit?"

Pru chuckled at that and offered, "A ghostwriter?"

"That sounds good. I'll pay you to be my ghostwriter. And when our book hits the Best Seller list, you'll get a cut of the profits." He held out his hand to her. "Deal?"

She broke out in a throaty laugh and clasped his hand to shake it. "Deal."

Pushing himself up on his elbows, he demanded, "Buzz the nurse. Then find me some clothes."

"What're you doing?"

"Getting out of here. We have work to do."

Hannibal stared around him at the wreckage of the room, his expression hard and his mind sizzling with fury. He could hear Murdock tearing through the house, throwing open every door and shouting for Face with a growing note of panic in his voice. He could also hear B.A. stomping around, checking perimeter defenses and muttering to himself. But Hannibal did not move. He simply stood there, staring at the pool of congealed blood on the floor, trying to divine what had happened from the scattered bits of evidence.

Someone had broken in. That was obvious from the damaged lock on the front door. Someone had attacked Face. The blood on the floor might be his or it might not, but the broken glass and various sticky footprints made it clear that several people had been in this room since the unidentified someone bled all over it. And finally, someone had taken Face away. Murdock might cling to the hope that he'd find Faceman behind one of the doors he banged so violently, but Hannibal knew better. The fretting, yowling cat was proof of that, because if Face were anywhere in this house, Luna would be with him. Perhaps making that same dreadful noise to attract their attention, but definitely with him. The fact that she was prowling around Hannibal's feet, rubbing up against him and crying insistently meant that Face was gone.

Hannibal had not taken his deductions any farther than this when B.A. joined him.

"They came in through the front," the corporal announced, unnecessarily. "None of the alarms have been tripped."

"The lock is broken. They must have forced it."

"Why didn't Face call us when they broke in?"

Hannibal just shook his head.

"He wouldn't let 'em just grab him without puttin' up a fight."

"He didn't." Hannibal jerked his chin toward the shattered remains of the lamp and the mess of red footprints all over the hardwood floor.

At that moment, Murdock came charging from the back of the house, calling, "He isn't here! He's gone! What the Hell is goin' on here, Boss?!"

"I don't know, Murdock."

"We gotta find Faceman. We gotta get 'im back!"

"Give me a minute to think…"

Before Murdock could attack him with another wave of noise and panic, they all heard a sound from outside that brought instant silence between them. A car pulling up to the house.

Guns materialized in their hands, as Hannibal strode to the door, B.A. flattened himself to the wall beside it, and Murdock twitched aside the curtain to peer out the front window. Voices and footsteps approached. Hannibal had just grasped the doorknob, when Murdock suddenly pushed him aside and flung the door open, shouting, "Faceman!"

B.A. and Hannibal exchanged a startled look, then followed the pilot out onto the porch. They had just enough time to see Face limping toward the house, leaning heavily on the shoulder of a freakish little person with spiked, pink hair and more piercings than skin, before the pilot reached him and swept him up in a crushing bear hug.

"Face! Jesus, you scared the crap outta me! Where've you been?!"

Face laughed and demanded, "Put me down, Murdock."

As Murdock let go of him and he staggered slightly to get his balance, Hannibal ran a critical eye over his lieutenant. The left side of his face was bruised and swollen, his shirt hung open to expose a bandage strapped tightly around his black and purple ribs, and a bulky dressing showed beneath his bloodstained pant leg. He looked like he'd just gone ten rounds with a heavyweight champion. But he was grinning happily, completely at ease, untroubled by his injuries, just the way Hannibal remembered him from countless battles.

"You've got some explaining to do, Lieutenant," Hannibal called with mock severity. He wanted to wring Face's neck, as he so often did, but he also wanted to laugh out loud with relief and delight.

"And a big, ol' bloodstain to clean up," B.A. added, "'cause I sure ain't doin' it."

"Hey, Hannibal. Bosco. Sorry about the mess. We would've cleaned it up, if you'd stayed away a little longer."

"Sorry to disrupt your plans. Who's 'we'?" Hannibal asked pointedly, his eyes on the stranger.

"This is Pru." He placed a proprietary hand on the girl's shoulder. "She's my coffee supplier, ghostwriter and wingman."

Hannibal nodded a neutral greeting then said, "Why don't you come inside and sit down. Then you can tell us what the blazes happened. And say hello to that cat before she ruptures something."

Face laughed again and stooped to grab hold of the cat milling so frantically around his feet. With Luna tucked safely against his broken ribs, he let Murdock take Pru's place and support his weight as he limped painfully up the steps to the porch. Inside, he dropped gratefully onto the couch, propped his wounded leg on a stool, and closed his eyes in relief.

"Jesus, it's good to be home."

"Where've you been?" Murdock asked.

"The hospital. Since yesterday."

"But what happened?"

So Face told them the whole story, starting with his stroll to town and ending with passing out on the floor while waiting for the police. He dwelt with relish on Luna's part in the adventure and Pru's handy use of the lamp. He didn't tell them how he'd felt when the bullet plowed into his leg and took him back to those half-forgotten days as a soldier and mercenary, but he didn't have to. They could see it in his face, hear it in his voice, that a lost part of him had come alive again. It made even the blood on the floor seem worthwhile to his listening friends.

Hannibal and B.A. began speculating as to the identity of the invaders, turning over plans for worming that information out of the local police without exposing themselves. Murdock, meanwhile, sat quietly on the sofa next to Face, petting Luna and listening to Face and Pru discuss some book or other. And scars. Murdock had almost missed it when Face called Pru his ghostwriter, but now he wondered if his friend had meant it literally. What were they up to? What new devilry had Faceman cooked up while the team was away?

"You gonna write a book, Face?" he asked suddenly.

"We are. Me and Pru."

"About scars?"

Face chuckled. "Not exactly. That's just what got us started thinking about it."

"So what's it about?"

"Us."

"You and Pru?"

"No, me and you. And Hannibal and Bosco. The war, Iraq, our missions. Everything I can remember about us."

"What're you gonna do with it?"

"We're gonna make a Best Seller out of it!"

Murdock thought about that for a minute. He understood what was really driving Face -his need to safeguard his memories against another catastrophic event - and he rather liked the idea of seeing the story of the A-Team in print.

"Do you think anyone'll want to read it?" he finally asked.

Face broke out in an incandescent grin. "I guess were gonna find out, aren't we?"

Epilogue: Two Years Later

Charissa Sosa stepped off the Metro train and joined the queue at the turnstile. She was late and annoyed with herself for being so, but she knew better than to try to hurry. The station beneath the Pentagon was always packed at this time of day. Her only option was patience.

Once through the turnstile, she rode the escalator up to the entrance level. Her eyes automatically scanned the newsstand to the right of the entrance steps, looking for headlines that might signal trouble. But instead of headlines, she saw a large book display filling the whole center of the stand. Harold always kept a few cheap paperbacks on hand for desperate readers, but Charissa had never seen him place a whole rack of glossy hardbacks front and center before. She twisted around to get a better look and felt her jaw drop open in surprise.

The moment she reached the top of the escalator, she doubled back to the newsstand and snatched up one of the books to stare in disbelief at the picture on the dustcover.

The A-Team. She would know them anywhere. The A-Team striding through F.O.B. Headhunter in the middle of the Iraqi desert, looking fierce and strong and battle-worn. Then she read the title: My Vacation in the Desert by Templeton Peck, and a laugh that was more of a sob rose in her throat.

"You gonna buy that, Cap'n, or just drool on it?" Harold demanded.

Charissa gave him a sardonic look. "How much?"

"Fifty bucks."

"Fifty! Are you kidding me?"

"Hey, it's a Free Market economy. Supply and demand, baby."

With a growl of disgust, she fished a hundred dollar bill out of her bag and slapped it into his hand.

"You can have two copies for that," he remarked with a brown-toothed grin.

"Just give me the change, J.P. Morgan."

He surrendered the change, and she headed for the entry once more, moving slowly, her eyes on the book in her hands. Out of curiosity, she flipped open the back cover to find the obligatory "About the Author" blurb. She was disappointed to find no picture of Face above the terse paragraph.

Lieutenant Templeton Peck received a Presidential Pardon on June 10, 20—. He is now a free man. The rest of the A-Team remain fugitives from justice, pursued for a crime they did not commit. Lt. Peck's current whereabouts are unknown.

Whereabouts unknown? She knew exactly where he was – with Hannibal Smith and the rest of his pirate crew. The exact location didn't matter. Face had chosen the life of a fugitive, rather than separate himself from his team and confront life on his own. Part of her understood that choice, but a larger part still resented it.

Snapping the book shut, she tucked it under her arm and strode through the familiar corridors toward her office. She opened the door in time to hear the phone on her desk begin to buzz angrily. Dumping her belongings unceremoniously on the desk, she grabbed the phone and snapped, "This is Sosa."

"Get in here. Now."

She didn't have to ask who it was. She had known before she picked up the receiver and heard McCready's voice snarling at her. Pausing only to straighten her uniform and make sure no stray hairs had escaped from her rigidly-tight ponytail, she left her serviceable office and headed for the rich, rarified, wood-paneled region the D.O.D. elite called home. McCready's secretary was waiting for her and waved her in without pause. She pushed through the door and felt the heat of the Director's glare hit her like a blowtorch. Halting at the familiar spot four feet in front of his desk, she folded her hands behind her back, lifted her chin and pasted the regulation blank expression on her face.

"Sir."

McCready eyed her in hostile silence for a moment, hoping to make her squirm, then spat out, "Explain this, Captain."

"Sir?"

"This!" He tossed a copy of Face's book onto the desktop with a resounding thud, then wiped his hand ostentatiously on a handkerchief. "This piece of shit lying on my desk!"

"It's a book, sir."

"Are you trying to get yourself busted down to Private?"

"No, sir." She lowered her gaze to the bright dustcover, avoiding her boss's hostile eyes. "I can't explain the book, sir. I didn't know it existed till about five minutes ago."

"Have you read it?"

"In five minutes, sir?" At his warning growl, she dropped the attitude and said, calmly, "I have not had time to read it. I glanced at the inside flaps, no more."

"So you don't know what kind of garbage that glad-handing little swine is shoveling about the Department?"

For the first time, Sosa met his eyes directly. "Does he lie?"

It was a simple question, but they both recognized the challenge and the accusation in it. McCready bared his teeth in a grimace. "He paints himself and his friends as victims and heroes, persecuted by a government that refuses to admit its mistakes, hounded into a life of crime as fugitives, when all they want to do is to fight for their country."

"So… he tells the truth, then."

"That's not the point," McCready ground out. "He wrote a book! Templeton Peck, a man who lost half of his brain and all of his memories in a catastrophic injury, a man who was supposed to spend the rest of his life being spoon-fed in an institution, who barely knew his own name, who was one step up from a drooling vegetable, wrote a book! And a stinking piece of propaganda, into the bargain!"

Sosa just looked at him, playing stupid, though she knew exactly where this was headed.

"You, Lynch, that weasel of a doctor… You played me for a fool, and I'll be damned if I sit still for it!"

"We gave you the facts as we knew them, sir, and asked you to make a decision. None of us could have predicted that Face would recover his faculties, much less his memory."

"If you'd given me the facts, Peck would be locked in a cell right now, not humiliating the U.S. Military in print."

"We gave you the facts," she repeated stubbornly, "and the facts changed. It's as simple as that."

"I don't believe you, Captain Sosa." McCready's voice had dropped to a dangerous hiss. "I think you lied to me, you and your tame CIA Agent, to get me to that clinic. Then you handed the job over to Finch and Peck. Maybe Smith was in on it, too. Was he there the whole time, laughing up his sleeve at how easily I was duped?"

"No one lied to you, Director! We did what we thought was right! I don't know exactly what Finch said to you, but I know him, and I can guarantee that he didn't deliberately mislead you."

"The evidence says otherwise."

"All the evidence says to me is that Face beat the odds and made an incredible recovery. And I, for one, am glad. No man deserves to be left brain-dead and helpless, just because he tries to serve his country. Even a man you hate."

"I don't hate Peck," McCready grumbled, looking disconcerted by her words. "I barely know him."

"Then why are you trying so hard to make this into something sinister? Why are you so angry at him for getting his life back?"

"I don't like being played for a fool!"

"You weren't played! If you're a fool, it's your own doing!" The instant the words were out of her mouth, Sosa knew they were a mistake. She clamped her lips shut and lifted her chin, her face stained with painful color.

McCready took a moment to control his anger, then he said, tightly, "You just crossed a line, Captain."

"Yes, sir. I apologize."

"Get out of here. I'll decide what to do with you later."

"Yes, sir." She spun on her heel and headed for the door, a tight feeling of panic in her stomach. She didn't break stride or slow down until she was back in the main, utilitarian part of the building. Then she ducked into a Ladies Room and took a moment to collect herself. After she'd splashed cold water on her face, cinched back her hair more tightly, jerked her uniform into place and schooled her expression into stony indifference, she finally braved the corridors again.

Safely back in her own office, she mechanically set about unloading her briefcase and organizing her desk for the morning. All the while, Face's book lay in the middle of her blotter, staring up at her, four familiar figures backlit by the blazing bareness of the Iraqi desert. It taunted her. She wanted to drop everything, fold herself into a chair, and read every word. But she had a job to do, a boss to placate in some way as yet unknown to her, and other concerns than Templeton Peck's seductive words.

She was just tucking the gutted briefcase into its place beside the file cabinet when her cell phone rang. The caller ID was blocked, making her frown, but she thumbed it on anyway.

"This is Sosa."

"Nice job, Captain," a wry voice said in her ear.

"Lynch. You've seen the book."

"I'd hazard a guess that everyone in America has seen the book."

"Have you read it?"

"Not yet. I think this requires a stiff drink and a quiet corner."

"McCready has - or enough of it to work him into a fury."

"The cover alone would work him into a fury. Did he call you on the carpet?" Sosa gave a grunt of assent that made him chuckle. "Accused you of everything from deception to High Treason?"

"Well, he stopped short of Treason. But needless to say, I let my temper get the better of me and said things I shouldn't."

"You always do, where Peck is concerned. It's a serious character flaw."

"Why did you call, Lynch?" she asked with a sigh. "And why congratulate me? I had nothing to do with this. I haven't seen Face in more than two years, not since he went underground with Smith."

"Ah, but you unleashed him on an unsuspecting world, and this literary masterpiece is the result."

"You sound like a more sarcastic version of McCready, now."

"Not at all. My congratulations are genuine. I still believe that Templeton Peck is where he belongs and I'm looking forward to getting a glimpse into his surprisingly fertile brain. Once I have that drink."

"I can never believe half of what you say. You always sound as if you're laughing at something I can't hear. And frankly, I'm not in any shape to deal with it today."

"McCready really upset you?"

"I told you, I shot my mouth off. I could be busted back to Lieutenant before the day is out, or worse."

"He won't bust you. He can't. He'd have to admit that he made a colossal mistake in requesting Peck's pardon, which would make the whole lot of them look ridiculous, from McCready all the way up to the Oval Office."

"He may not try to take on Face and his pardon, but he could bust me for insubordination."

"Not likely. McCready's too savvy an operator to let his anger at you splash back on him. No, I think you're safe. Just put your head down and ride out the storm."

"Keeping my head down is not my strong suit."

"You'll learn. Good luck, Captain. And let me know what you think of the book, once you've read it."

Sosa muttered something in response and cut the line. Sinking into her chair, she pulled the book that had caused all this furor across the blotter to stare at the cover. She shouldn't open it. She knew she shouldn't. But she also knew that she wouldn't be able to think about anything else today, if she didn't. Finally, with an inward sigh, she flipped open the cover.

Turning first to the middle of the tome, she found several thick, glossy pages of photographs. They were what she had expected, for the most part – pictures of the Team together in Iraq, before the Court Martial; portraits of Morrison, Pike and Vance Burris. The pictures from their years as mercenaries she found more intriguing, as this was a part of Face's life she had had no part of. There was nothing from their most recent mission in Iraq except a grainy photo of a handsome, young man identified only as Ahmed. And finally, a photograph with the legend under it: The team comes home.

Charissa stared and stared at it, her face hard with the effort to conceal the surge of emotion it called up in her. She saw Hannibal, B.A. and Murdock in an airport terminal. Lynch hovered nearly out of frame on one side. And seated in a wheelchair at the center of the group, was a man who could only be Face, though she would never have recognized him without his friends surrounding him.

He was thin and fragile-looking, his cheeks hollow and still marked with traces of bruising. His dark sunglasses did not quite hide the dressing taped over his left eye, and his head was bare, revealing his shockingly short hair. He wore a pair of baggy cargo pants and a T-shirt at least three sizes too big for him, with a peace sign stenciled on it. He looked, in short, totally alien, except for the familiar smile that lingered on his face, drawn from him by whatever Murdock had just murmured in his ear.

Still reeling from the gut-punch of that picture, Charissa flipped back to the beginning and began to read.

Introduction

My name is Templeton Peck but everyone calls me Face. Very early in my military career, my C.O. gave me that nickname and it stuck, so hard that now almost no one even remembers that I have another name. Just as no one - including me - really remembers that I had a life before I became a soldier.

Being a soldier is all I know. I've fought battles in Iraq, Afghanistan, North Africa, South America, Southeast Asia and Eastern Europe. I've fought foreign powers, men in uniform, guerilla forces, terrorists, international crime lords, small-town bullies and even my own government. I've fought to serve my country, to protect my friends and to save my own life. I've fought when I was afraid or angry, but usually, when I fight, I feel exhilarated. Because I'm a soldier and fighting is what I do.

And that's what this book is about - my life as a soldier. So if you don't want to read about war and warriors, about covert missions, comrades-in-arms, violence and death, close the book now and go find something else to do. But if you do decide to keep reading, there are a few things you should know.

First, this book is about what I remember. It isn't a proper story, since I don't remember all of it, but what's here is the truth as I know it.

Second, my memory is divided into two parts: Before and After (before and after what you'll find out if you read on). The Before memories are fragmentary and confusing; the After memories are more linear but not very reliable. All of these gaps make the narrative hard to follow in places, and I apologize in advance for that. But if you're confused, think how I feel! This is the inside of my brain we're talking about!

Third, most of my memories are of three men. They are each, in their own way, brilliant and fearless and good – and more than a little crazy. I owe them my life a hundred times over. They are all I love in this world and all I have left (except for a little, white kitten named Luna, but that's another story).

This book is about those men. This book is about the A-Team.

Finis