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An A-Team Flip

It had only been a few months since General Hunt Stockwell had "rescued" the A-Team.

Not that Hannibal Smith wasn't grateful.

We're not on the run anymore…not being hunted-by Colonels Lynch or Decker-anymore.

But Stockwell's actions hadn't exactly been motivated by charity. A retired General, and an upper-level CIA Operative, he'd required his own personal force.

In return for saving their lives-faking their deaths by Firing Squad-Stockwell had required the A-Team to work off their debt, by working for him.

The work the A-Team did now was similar to the work they had done before, although on a larger scale-missions to Third World Nations and the like-with the proviso that if captured, The US Armed Forces would deny any knowledge of their involvement.

Just like Mission Impossible, Templeton Peck-Faceman-had said.

Colonel Smith had to agree with Faceman's analysis.

Even so, in these few short months, Stockwell had done his best to earn the A-Team's trust.

Now, here Smith was, in the Office part of the headquarters the A-Team now called home.

Usually, Stockwell appeared on the giant wall monitor on the wall. This time, he had called ahead, announced that he would be there in person to deliver the mission.

Again, Smith was assailed by doubts.

Either this mission was a bad one; or one of the Team had a personal stake…

Presently, the rest of the A-Team meandered in, BA Baracus complaining loudly about the quality of the grits served at Breakfast.

"A man can't put in a full day's work on what you cooked!" he accused this morning's chef, "Howling Mad" Murdock.

"But I followed ze direcshiones" Murdock, following behind, had elected to reply with a heavy, almost indecipherable, French accent.

But that was Murdock in a…ahem…nutshell…

"What's up, Colonel?" Face had slid into the seat next to Hannibal Smith. "Stockwell coming here to brief us on this new mission…personally...?"

Face senses it too…

"We'll know when he gets here," Smith assured him. "Which should be right about…now."

As if on cue, the door off to the side opened, and in strolled General Hunt Stockwell.

Our savior…our boss…

"General…" Colonel Smith stood, the others following suit.

"Colonel," Hunt stood at ease. "We have a…situation. It requires our immediate attention. I'm sure you remember Colonel Roderick Decker; even if not with great fondness."

"Yes," Face quipped. "It was only last year we had him hot on our tails. Is he growing lonely with no one to chase after?"

"Hardly," Hunt Stockwell scoffed. "He has bigger problems to deal with."

"Decker's a big boy," Smith said. "He knows how to deal with problems."

"Not this one," Stockwell shook his head. Then, he said the words Smith never expected to hear.

"Colonel Roderick Decker has been framed. He stands accused of High Treason."

"Uh…Decker?" For once, Smith was without a snappy comeback. "High Treason?"

Smith knew Decker. They had been friends once. Many years ago.

"Rod Decker was a royal pain in my backside these last few years," he said. "But Decker committing Treason-High or Low-is about as likely as the Sun rising in the West. It just isn't in him! Who brought the charges against him?"

"Colonel Lynch," Stockwell spoke dryly.

"Of course," Smith sighed.

Colonel Francis Lynch…A buffoon of the purest stripe…

Rod Decker was many things. But never a buffoon…

Back to business…

"What happens if they convict him?"

"I think you know, Colonel…"

Oh yeah…

Smith knew…

Execution by firing squad…

Washington, DC

1 week ago

Now that he no longer had the responsibility of hunting down the A-Team, Colonel Roderick Decker found himself languishing in that most dreaded of situations.

Between assignments…

Decker hated idleness with a passion. Especially enforced idleness.

Mama always told me idleness was the Devil's playground…

Fortunately, he had received a phone call late yesterday afternoon; including orders to be here, at General Maddox's office, bright and early.

Here he was, in full uniform, pacing restlessly, after arriving here first thing in the morning. Now, it was ten thirty in the morning. Decker hated the hurry up and wait mentality that always seemed to be part and parcel of the military these days.

Or maybe it was just the idleness-the sitting and waiting-he despised so much.

The door to Maddox's door opened, and the General's Admin poked his head out.

"Colonel Decker…the General will see you now."

Finally, Decker breathed a sigh of relief. He would receive his assignment, and get the hell out of Washington.

Away from the politics that seemed to pollute the very air you breathed in Washington.

Tucking his hat in the crook of his arm, he followed the younger man into the first room of Maddox's office suite.

Colonel Lynch was there, with General Maddox.

And a handful of MPs…

Trying to ignore the unexpected guests, Decker stood at attention, snapped a salute.

"Sir," he addressed Maddox.

"Colonel Roderick Decker," Maddox looked grim, not a look Decker wanted to see in his Commanding Officer.

Something's gone balls-up…

Again.

And what the hell were the MPs doing here?

"It's been said that you were friends with Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith," Maddox said. There was definitely more than a hint of accusation in Maddox's voice.

"In Vietnam, sir," Decker responded. "It was partly why I was assigned to hunt the A-Team down. I knew Smith's mind better than…other parties did."

Decker most definitely didn't look in Colonel Lynch's direction. That didn't stop Lynch from scowling thunderously.

"Besides, sir," he brought his attention back to General Maddox. "Smith's dead. I saw him die."

Decker had witnessed the execution. But not out of malicious glee. In fact, he was sorry it had come to that. But Hannibal Smith had pulled hats out of rabbits so many times. Decker had just wanted to make sure there wouldn't be yet another fortuitous last-minute escape.

And, when the execution had been done, and the bodies carted off, Roderick Decker had come away feeling a sense of…loss.

Smith may have been a wanted felon. But he had been an honorable wanted felon. And the A-Team had done a powerful lot of good over the years.

And they're dead. All of them…

"As I said, sir," Decker brought his attention back to Maddox. "That was why I received the assignment. Is there something I need to know?"

"It has been brought to our attention that you may have colluded with Smith on several different occasions."

"Colluded…" Decker stood there, frozen by sheer, unadulterated disbelief.

This was why the MPs were here.

To arrest me…

Colonel Decker had never felt helpless…really helpless…before. He felt helpless now, as the MPs converged on him, divested him of his gun, cuffed his wrists behind his back.

…..

Four days later

"Look…" Captain Crane had had it up to here with pencil-pushing bureaucrats, and their endless forms to be signed, in triplicate. "I just want to see him. Make sure he's okay. I've filled out all the appropriate forms…"

Crane produced a veritable stack of application forms, laid the thick pile on the prison officer's desk. The pile of paper was thicker than the friggin' Oxford Encyclopedia…

"You'll be recorded," The officer warned. "Audio and visual."

Crane sighed, bowed his head.

"I know," he finally said. "I just want to see him…"

"I can give you ten minutes," the other man said; and Crane felt relief, so strong it left him weak in the knees.

"Thank you," he spoke fervently.

Five minutes later, he was there, in the Visitor's Room, looking at his Commanding Officer on the other side of the transparent wall.

Colonel Decker looked like death warmed over. No shower, no shave, haggard…exhausted. Crane picked up the phone on his side, saw Decker do the same.

"Colonel…" he began, but Decker cut him off.

"What the bloody blue blazes are you doing here?" he demanded.

"Have you got an attorney?" Crane blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"An attorney…" Decker shook his head, laughed softly. He sobered quickly.

"I've got one," he spoke quietly. "Don't expect it to do much good…"

"How could anyone even think you would stoop to…"

"It's a setup," Decker replied. "I just don't know who. Or why…"

Crane heard Decker's sigh over the phone. It held more than a hint of despair.

"Of all the times to be wishing the A-Team were still alive…" Decker muttered.

"Colonel, I'll find a way to get you out of this."

"Don't you dare try to break me out!" Decker warned. "There's no call for that kind of idiocy; and I don't want you brought down into this."

Crane was about to assure him that illegal acts were not part of his plan. Then the wall to the left exploded…

The captain pulled himself to hands and knees, head ringing, ears and teeth buzzing. The sound of wailing alarms only added to the throbbing in his head.

The wall was cracked on his side.

It had been completely blown in on the Prisoners Side, brilliant sunlight pouring in.

Decker!

Part of the wall had come down on top of him. But figures, heavily backlit by the blazing Sun, were coming in.

Garbed head to foot in black clothing and masks, there was no way to identify them. Crane couldn't even be sure of their genders.

A kidnapping?

Crane's gun was back in Security.

"Hey!" He pounded on the transparent panel. It didn't crack under his furious hands. It didn't even bend. Powerless to forestall it, all Crane could do was watch as the they lifted the wall off.

One of the men stooped and hauled the unconscious Colonel's body over his shoulder. Then, they were off, heading though the giant break in the wall, back out into the brilliant sunshine.

And that was when Security burst into the area, guns drawn.

With them was Colonel Francis Lynch.

"What happened here?" Lynch had put on his officious face. "A breakout?"

"He didn't escape!" Crane snarled. "He was kidnapped!"

Lynch waved him off, spoke to one of the guards.

"Investigate Decker's cell," he ordered. "I'll inform the General of the escape."

"But he didn't-"

"Don't interrupt your superior officer…Captain," Lynch spoke icily. Crane stopped, recognizing the threat-both implicit and explicit.

"Yes, sir," he sketched a shaky salute, then beat a hasty retreat. He knew Decker was in danger; the kind of danger one very rarely survives. But Crane was out of options.

Wait…

He stopped just as he was about to open his car door.

Hunt Stockwell. That's a devious mind. Maybe he can help…

Three days ago

Location unknown

It's the pain that brings Roderick Decker out of the roiling darkness. He hurts all over, and his memory is fragmentary.

Where am I?

Decker is currently lying on a stone floor. He can feel the coldness of it as it seeps into his bones. He tries to pull himself up into a sitting position. But the sudden reeling of vertigo convinces him that that's not the greatest of ideas right now.

That, and the pain that pulses through his body. His head throbs mercilessly too.

Now, Decker remembers.

Crane was there…We were talking. Then…everything went…

He can't remember, exactly, what happened. But Colonel Decker isn't stupid.

He knows what happened.

Damn it…

He knows.

An explosion. Someone blew up the place. And now, I'm… here .

Wherever here was.

Who would do…that? And, where am I?

Vertigo be damned, he must get a handle on this ASAP. Whoever did this doesn't have Decker's interests at heart.

Again, he forces himself to sit, waits the vertigo out. From there, on to hands and knees. Slowly, by stages, Decker works his way to his feet.

Standing, he tries to take stock of his situation. It's still pitch black in here. No way to assess his surroundings, but the old-fashioned way.

Hands out, counting steps, Decker carefully makes his way forward. His fingers brush a cold stone wall. Now comes Walking the Perimeter…

Eventually, that is done, all four walls explored. When Decker finds the wall with the door-securely locked, of course-he spends the next few minutes listening at the door. There's nothing. No voices, no sound of machinery, near or distant. Not even air conditioners or fans…

Not any kind of prison Decker is familiar with.

He stares into the total darkness

What kind of hell have I been cast into?

…..

Today

Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith was in Hunt Stockwell's office. Sitting next to him was Captain Crane, who had only just gotten over the shock of learning that the A-Team was alive and well.

He had witnessed the executions too.

But Crane wasn't going to run to the nearest authorities to report the news. He had other problems to deal with; and a tale to tell…

"So…" Stockwell sat there, fingers steepled. "Someone is going out of his or her way to make sure Colonel Decker gets convicted."

Yeah…" Crane said. "But I'm not clear on the charge…."

He turned to Smith.

"He's charged with Colluding with you, sir. Colluding with the A-Team. I just don't see how…"

"Neither do I…" Smith muttered. "We used to be friends. We served together in Vietnam; and Rod's about the straightest arrow I've ever known."

"I read the arrest report," Stockwell continued to peer over steepled fingers. "Colonel Decker is supposed to have profited, somehow, by taking in the felons you left behind for him to wrap up."

"We couldn't exactly bring them in ourselves," Smith snapped. "I could count on Decker to do what needed to be done."

"Yes," Crane nodded. "He hated having to deal with that, by the way. He said those felons diverted him from his primary task of bringing you guys in. And I'm not sure how he could have profited from that anyway."

"Envy…Jealousy…always finds a way," Hunt Stockwell murmured.

"Jealousy?" Smith sat up straight. "Who?"

"Come on, Hannibal…" Stockwell scoffed. "You know damn well who…"

"Yeah…" Smith sighed, shoulders slumping. "I do…"

"Well, I don't!" Crane flared. "Who set Colonel Decker up?"

"Think, Crane!" Smith snapped. "Who did Rod show up all these years simply by being competent, simply by doing his damn job?"

"And, more to the point…" Stockwell brought his hands down flat upon the surface of his desk. "Who is up for the same promotion as Roderick Decker?"

Crane knew the answer to that. Now, it was his turn to sigh as he laid his head in his hands.

Colonel Francis Lynch…

Colonel Francis Lynch was having a very good day. He stood proudly in his office, new-fashioned General's insignia at his collar, directing his stern gaze on the men under his command.

"Roderick Decker is to be considered armed, and dangerous. He must be apprehended by any possible means."

"Any means?" his Second-in-Command, newly promoted to Colonel, Frank Evans, raised an eyebrow.

"Yes!" Lynch nodded vigorously. "Any means. This comes from General Maddox himself. You are to shoot in sight."

"Yes, sir," Captain Evans led his men off to do their Commanding Officer's bidding, and, alone, Lynch let out a deep breath.

The evidence he had managed to compile against Roderick Decker had been just good enough to procure an arrest, provided one didn't look too closely. But kidnapping Decker right out of the prison and stashing him away…

That was pure brilliance.

Wish I had thought of that myself…

Either way, shaky evidence notwithstanding, Decker's goose was cooked.

No one will believe he's innocent after the Great Prison Escape. I have my promotion to General, and Roddy will get the death penalty…

…..

It was an unusual meeting today at A-Team HQ…

Along with the Regulars-The A-Team, and General Hunt Stockwell-there was also Captain Karl Crane. Some of the A-Team were having trouble wrapping their minds around the new mission they were being asked to undertake,

"Decker?" BA Baracus growled. "I been trying to forget I ever knew the man. A major disrupter of my peace of mind!"

"That's what colonels do, in general!" Murdock joyously punned, earning yet another if-looks-could-kill glare from Baracus.

"Colonel…" Faceman, Templeton Peck spoke up. "Is this for real? Maybe someone got wind that we didn't die, and put this up to reel us in again? I mean, this is the kind of stunt Decker would pull to get at us."

"Yes…" Colonel Smith nodded. "But Stockwell has been doing so research on our behalf. It's not a stunt. It's real. And Decker's facing the Death Penalty."

"Further," Stockwell put in. "As per Captain Crane's statement, Roderick Decker has also been kidnapped, by persons unknown."

"Yeah…" Crane looked at each of the others in turn. "I know Colonel Decker didn't exactly endear himself to you guys. But those were his orders, and all he did was try to carry his orders out to the best of his abilities. You might not believe this, but he did it without malice. He was just doing what he was ordered to do."

Crane took a deep breath, then let it out, eyes on Colonel Smith.

"At your trial…" he continued. "We all heard about the things you did for people who had no other recourse. Now, Colonel Decker needs your help. Are you going to let him die simply because he did his job?"

"Of course not, son," Colonel smith fished out one of his ever-present cigars; cheeky grin firmly in place. He looked around at his people; Face, BA, and Murdock. "Well…guys?

"You put it that way…" Face shrugged. "Why not? Decker's a damn sight better that Lynch."

"Yeah!" BA nodded. "Lynch is a babbling fool!"

And Murdock…

He climbed directly onto the table, upending full coffee cups and scattering crullers everywhere, in full Shakespearean Mode…

"Once more into the breach, dear friends!"

Note 1: I'm playing a little with the back-story of how Smith and Decker knew each other from before…

Getting the A-Team to take on Colonel Roderick Decker's case had been the easiest part of the whole thing. Now that Decker was missing-kidnapped by persons unknown-actually finding him was the big thing, the Number One Job.

As was the case in all Prisoner Visits, Captain Crane's visit to his Commanding Officer had been recorded on video.

Colonel Hannibal Smith sighed as he heard Decker's half-hearted muttered wish that the A-Team was still alive.

"Don't worry, Rod," he muttered too. "We are…"

Then, there came the explosion…the wall coming down, Decker pinned under it.

Damn…Is he all right?

Smith leaned forward as men clad in black from head to foot came in through the gaping hole in the wall, making off with their unconscious prize.

Smith paused the recording. He hadn't seen any blood. But that didn't mean anything.

Rod could be bleeding internally for all we know…

Smith thought back to their first meeting, back in Vietnam. No one knew-except for maybe Hunt Stockwell-but there was a brief time, before Face, Murdock, and even Baracus had joined the team, a brief time where Roderick Decker had been a member of the A-Team.

A rated sharpshooter, he probably would have stayed in the A-Team had he not also showed a talent for intelligence work.

The Military Brass Stole Rod from me. But then I found my guys…

Still, Colonel Smith could not help but wonder what might have happened if Roderick Decker had stayed in the A-Team.

He sighed as he stared at the still image on the screen.

"We'll get you out of this, Rod," he promised. "Then, we'll find the bastards who did this to you…"

…..

It was the screeching sounds of bolts being drawn that jolted Roderick Decker back into wakefulness.

The door!

He didn't know how long he had been huddled by that wall, waiting for someone…anyone…to open that door. Now, it was opening.

He lowered his head, waiting with eyes half-closed in anticipation of blinding light. God knew that was what he would have done.

The door swung open, letting the expected brilliant light in. But Decker was prepared. As several men, bodies outlined by the brilliant light, walked in, Decker struck, attacking low, aiming for legs, dragging two to the floor, grabbing guns as he rose to his feet.

He didn't get the chance to shoot. One of the men shot first.

A Taser…

The leads struck Decker squarely in the chest. There was nothing after that…

…..

"All right…" Hannibal Smith walked into the A-Team's living room. "These kidnappers…where would they go after kidnapping Decker?"

"The prison's out in the boonies," Face sat on the sofa, munching popcorn. "They could be close to the prison. Or far away. Realistically speaking, they could be anywhere."

He frowned.

"My guess is that they put him in a warehouse…or a barn."

"Why wouldn't they just kill him?" BA Baracus paused from his lifting weights at the back of the room, Murdock his Spotting Partner.

"Because…" Smith explained patiently. "This isn't about killing Decker. At least, not outright."

"It's about discrediting him, making him look guilty because the charge they used against him is crap," Face sat up straight. "What I don't understand is…why? Apart from Lynch, I mean. But Lynch is an idiot. He doesn't have the smarts to kidnap a guy right out of a secure prison. Someone else had to have planned that one out."

"And, here is where I start rocking your world right off its axis…" Smith sighed as he took a seat. "Rod Decker was once a member of the A-Team."

Face sprayed a mouthful of popcorn all over the floor. And it was a good thing Murdock was spotting for Baracus. He caught the weight as it slipped from the big man's fingers, and put it aside, eyes gone wide as he stared at his CO…

"No way!" Baracus snapped. "Me and Murdock would've known!"

"It's kind of…complicated," Smith took out a folder, brought out photos. "Before you guys…there was another A-Team. I had just made Colonel, and these were my men…"

He laid the photos on the coffee table, and the others gathered to look.

"Who are these guys?" Face pointed to a photo of two men.

"Vinnie D'Arcangelo, and Joseph Curtis, General Abraham Curtis' only son." Deep regret lay heavy in Smith's soul.

"That's…Decker?" Baracus pointed to another photo. Two men. One was Smith, himself, cigar firmly clenched between his teeth; arm around the other man's shoulder…

"Yeah…That's Roderick Decker."

"I don't believe it…" BA bent to examine the photo more closely. "He looks like a skinny kid!"

"We were all younger then…" Smith looked down at the photos, remembering…

More than twenty years ago…

"So…" Face cleared his throat delicately. "What happened to…um…A-Team One?"

"We were on a mission to find out who was smuggling opium out of the country," Still looking down at the photos. "Decker had concluded one of our people were in on it. It made sense. Every time we came within a meter of finding anything, it would all disappear. We both knew it had to be either D'Arcangelo or Curtis. But, neither of us could actually prove it."

"What happened?" Face asked.

"Decker and I concocted a plan to bring our quarry out into the open. Command allowed us to use a pair of CIA agents who were mucking about in Asia. Jack and Martin were a pretty odd couple. But they offered to pose as buyers for us, and we put the word out they were looking for the good stuff. And that was where things went wrong…"

Smith sat there, looking off into the distance, the memory of what went down as clear as if it had happened only yesterday.

"They…whoever they were…discovered our little trick. The CIA agents were almost killed. Jack was fine; but, Martin…I was surprised he survived, considering how many bullets he took."

"D'Arcangelo and Curtis?" Smith could see the dread in Face's eyes.

"They were in the building when it blew," Smith blew out a thin stream of smoke. "Their bodies were never found. Decker never really got over it. He blamed himself. I blamed myself. And General Curtis blamed us both…"

"He still alive?" That surprisingly shrewd question came from Murdock.

"No," Smith sighed. "He died five years ago."

"Well…" Face blew out a deep breath. "At least we have avenues to explore. Hopefully, we'll find something."

Smith nodded.

Hopefully before they…whoever they were…killed Decker…

Note 2…

I've included a Miami Vice Easter Egg. See if you can find it...

The phone rang at four in the morning, rousing General Francis Lynch from a pleasant dream.

"What!" he snapped into the phone.

"And a good morning to you too…" the voice-heavily distorted-said from the other end.

"I told you not to call me here," Lynch sat up, the last shreds of sleep fog leaving his brain.

"We had a slight issue late last night," the voice said. "Decker tried to escape."

Panic tinged the back of Lynch's throat.

"Did he…"

"Never fear, Sir Braveheart…" the voice sneered. "We brought him down. We're going to keep him sedated for the time being. That will, however, negatively impact timing."

"What do you mean?" Lynch hissed into the receiver.

"It means…General…that a little more lead time will be required before he can be officially recaptured. You don't want your storybook villain to be stumbling around in a drugged stupor."

"Just so long as we get him back into prison in time for the Court Martial," Lynch grunted. "I'm looking forward to this."

"I can tell," there was more than a hint of malicious glee in the voice at the other end. "I'll be in touch."

Then, he, whoever he was, hung up. Lynch put his phone down and lay back down on his bed. Soon, Decker would be Court Martialed. After the…Great escape…conviction would be all but certain.

Ironic…Lynch mused. Decker's going to suffer the same fate as Colonel Smith and his A-Team…

Death by Firing Squad…

Only one thing bothered Lynch.

Who is he? The man who's been helping me frame Decker. Whoever he is, he must hate Decker a whole lot more than I do…

…..

"We've finally found something!" Hunt Stockwell's announcement galvanized the A-Team into action.

We'd bugged Lynch's phones-in his office and at his home-in the hopes that he would call his helper, or the other way around. Last night, in the wee hours of the morning, someone  did  call Lynch…

Eight in the morning, everyone gathered together, listening to the call made to Lynch roughly four hours earlier…

"Were your people able to trace it?" Colonel Hannibal Smith demanded.

"Yes," Stockwell nodded. "About forty miles west of the prison. There's an old ghost town there called Happytown."

Stockwell ignored the snickers and giggles at the ghost town's name-primarily from Murdock and Face-as he forged on.

"Someone's been there lately. Whoever they are, they changed the layout considerably. There's a new building there. Looks like a stone block. No windows and only one door. They could be keeping Colonel Decker there. One more thing, Hannibal. We consider it significant that whoever X is, he's using a vocal synthesis technology to disguise his identity."

"We'll get right on it," Smith stood, but Stockwell stopped him.

"We have plenty of experts who can try to identify X's voice," he said. "You need to go to Happytown, see if you can find Colonel Decker and get him out."

"Yep!" Smith gestured to his compatriots. "Shall we be off?"

"Happytown…" Face sat at the wheel of the A-Team van, just a few miles out. "What a dismal little place."

He turned to his CO.

"Any ideas as to how to find out if they're really keeping Decker here?"

"Leave that to Murdock," Hannibal Smith grinned as he lit a cigar.

"Murdock?" BA Baracus grumbled. "Man's a loonie!"

"And no one does loonie half as well as our very own Howling Mad Murdock…" Face had to agree.

They could hear Murdock all the way over here.

…..

The two guards in place could hear Murdock too. You'd have to be deaf not to…

"For the way of the Righteous is set with pitfalls and snares to catch the unwary!" the figure wearing ragged-looking priestly robes stumbles forward, into the guards' line of fire. They don't shoot. Mostly because they have no idea what to do with this insane-looking creature.

"Blessed is he who follows the precepts of the One!" he continues, waving arms wildly. "For he shall be one with the One who sees all, and by his hand shall the mighty be brought low, and the small and meek lifted up into His glorious embrace. Hug me, brother, and let His Mighty love shew forth!"

He stands there, arms spread wide, the very image of a pastor preaching to his flock.

"Kill him!" one guard makes ready to shoot. The other stops him, spits on the ground.

"Not worth the bullet," he grunts. "Put him in the House. He can preach to the other guy. If he's awake enough to listen…"

The House isn't really a house. It's a stone block. No windows at all, and just one door. Preacherman doesn't complain as the guards hustle him into the place without even bothering to frisk him.

The House is just one room, one large, and cavernous room, with one dim light shining near an occupied gurney.

The door is shut and locked behind the Preacher.

…..

The other members of the A-Team turned to their radios. Under those bulky robes, Murdock had been wired for sound, and equipped with various things the others felt he might need in his…undercover mission.

"Behold! The one we searcheth for! He is among us!" Murdock's voice came clear over the speakers. "And the Man, verily, I say to you, he sleepeth in darkness, bound by fate, like straps, but seemeth passing fair."

"Decker's there," Face translated the Murdock-speak. "He's unconscious and bound by…straps. Apart from that, he's fine."

"Behold, the Prophets cries out to the prisoned man. Be free! Be free…"

After that a few moments of silence. But everyone know Murdock was too busy freeing Decker from those…straps…whatever they were. Then…

"And thus, sayeth the Lord, he who believeth in me shall be free." Murdock started again. "And like Peter, the Man shall be led out of his caged prison…"

Again, silence. As Murdock used yet another hidden tool to force the lock on the door. Then…

"Oh…Joyous day! Day of delight never-ending! Behold, the Repentant Sinner freed from the grave! May the Lord's Angels join in song and bring the Man to eternal peace and joy!"

"That's us!" Colonel Smith stuck his cigar between his teeth, locked and loaded as Face stepped on the pedal…

…..

The two guards never knew what hit them. The big van suddenly appeared out of nowhere, screeching wheels spraying up gravel, as two men, one older with silver hair, the other large and African American, stepped out, machine guns spraying bullets everywhere.

And that crazy preacher turned out to be not all that crazy. He immediately trotted out the door-and how did he manage to unlock that anyway? - the body of their prisoner slung over a shoulder.

Pinned down by machine-gun fire, there was nothing the guards could do. Except to watch the van speed off again, leaving them alone, without the prisoner they had been told to guard with their lives.

"We're dead, aren't we?" one said to the other.

"Not if we run first," the other said. "Forget the pay. No amount of money is worth this."

The pair ran to the back of the House, found the jeep there, waiting for them. If they ran now, they wouldn't have to explain how they had lost Colonel Roderick Decker to the first pack of strangers who happened to come along.

…..

First, there was the darkness. Nothing could gain purchase in that dark; not even dreams, or awareness of self. He floated in that state, a white something looming overhead. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, what that white something was came to him.

A ceiling, Colonel Roderick Decker realized. I'm looking at a ceiling.

I'm awake…

His head pounded, his gut roiled, and there was what felt like layers of cotton stuffed inside his mouth.

They drugged me…

The bed he was lying on now was a real bed, even if only a twin. And his arms and legs were free.

Rescue?

He tried to sit up, and the vertigo was vicious this time. So much so he was afraid he might vomit. He heard the door open, didn't see who came in, as preoccupied as he was with keeping his guts in one place. When his innards had settled, he looked up at what he assumed were his rescuers.

His brain froze.

No…he's dead! I saw him die, along with the rest of the A-Team…I saw…

Decker's tenuous control slipped, and his stomach gave a lurch.

Someone passed a garbage can to him. Just in time too, as he emptied the contents of his stomach-mostly bile-into the can. Arms held him steady through the whole ordeal, then helped him lie back down when it was done.

Decker couldn't bring himself to look up at the man.

His rescuer…

Hysterical laughter threatened to bubble up.

"That's it…" he muttered. "I've lost it…"

"No, you haven't, Rod…"

Colonel John Hannibal Smith's voice sounded real and true to Decker's hearing.

"But…you're dead…" Decker whispered, thinking he had somehow fallen into some sort of weird fever-dream.

"We got better…" Smith sighed. "We were saved, Rod. You remember Hunt Stockwell? He was at the trial. He saved us. We're alive. We're fine."

Decker felt Smith's hand on his shoulder, the physical weight of it a reassuring presence.

"You're in pretty bad shape right now," Smith said. "Get some sleep. I'll explain everything when you're feeling better."

Decker felt the warm blankets being drawn over him again, and it seemed Smith was right. Decker was asleep in minutes…

General Francis Lynch was busy, seeing to the business that was his responsibility now as a General of the Armed Forces of the United States of America; going over Requisitions with the young Lieutenant who had just been tapped to be his Admin. There came a discreet tap at his office door, and he stopped.

Another underling entered, carrying a stack of letters atop a pile of forms for Lynch to sign. The letter on top of the pile had Lynch's name typed on a plain white envelope. No return address, nothing else to indicate the identity of the sender. But Lynch knew who it was, who it had to be…

"Everyone out!" he ordered.

"But the Requisitions!" the Admin objected.

"Later!" Lynch handled the dangerous letter as if it were a live adder; which, in a way, it was…

When the office was empty, and Lynch alone, he carefully opened the letter. Like the envelope, the paper was plain, the typed text stark against the white paper.

Your phones have been tapped. The office phone I'm certain of, and if  that  is tapped, then it's a certainty your home phone has been tapped too. We will communicate by letter from henceforth, and you will remember to burn each letter, and envelope too, upon reading.

And now, the bad news…

Colonel Roderick Decker was rescued yesterday afternoon, by persons unknown. Due to the location of our hideaway in Happytown, and Decker's condition at the time of the rescue, it is speculated that he will have been taken no further than thirty miles away, to a Safe Site, in order to recuperate.

As of now, my hands are tied. It now lies upon you to do that which is necessary.

There are three potential sites Roderick Decker will have been taken to…

Durham's Rest, Little Peak, or Tumbling Oaks.

Do  not  use any phones. Gather your MPs  personally.  Make sure you meet with them at a site where eavesdropping-either through mechanical means, or ordinary means-are impossible. Also, make sure you have enough men to search all three sites simultaneously. They must be ordered to kill on sight. I am sure you will find the right words.

Lynch crumpled the letter, and the envelope, into a ball, set it in his ashtray, struck up a match, and lit the small pile ablaze.

He stormed out of his office.

"Get Rodriguez, Forney, and Addams!" he snapped at his startled Admin. "Tell them to meet me at the Shooting Range."

Then, he was off, panic bubbling along his arms and legs.

…..

Colonel Roderick Decker was feeling better this morning. A decent night's rest, and a fresh-brewed coffee the following morning, had worked wonders. Now, he could face the elephant in the room.

The A-Team-all four of them-alive and well. Colonel Hannibal Smith had already given a bare bones explanation the day before, when Decker had awakened. Now, over coffee and Danish, Smith gave all the details.

"Stockwell faked your deaths, and now, you're running secret ops under his command?" Decker stared at Smith in amazement. "In return for…what? Pardons?"

The whole thing's straight out of an action adventure TV show…

"That's the general idea," Smith spoke dryly.

"Does Stockwell know you're doing…this?" Decker gestured vaguely at himself.

"He was the one who brought you to our attention, Rod. I don't think he likes Francis Lynch very much."

"Lynch is an idiot…" Decker grumbled. "Still can't figure out how he managed to get all the way to Colonel without tripping over his own two feet…"

"He had help." Smith grinned as he lit a cigar. "We still don't know who. But we know this…someone else…is at least partially responsible for your current situation."

He stopped smiling now as he sat down next to Decker.

"It's time we revisited ancient history," he sighed.

Decker lowered his gaze, suddenly feeling very shy about meeting the others' gazes.

"You told them, Hannibal?"

"I had to, Rod," now, it was Smith who lowered his eyes. "D'Arcangelo and Curtis…"

"Yeah…" Decker remembered those two. "One of them was responsible for opium making its way to America."

"I've already told the guys," Smith spoke up. "Now, I'm telling you. There's a distinct possibility that vengeance lies at the heart of this."

"They were both in the building when it blew!" Decker said. "There's no way either of them could've survived that."

"Then…who?" Smith leaned forward. "We both know Lynch isn't smart enough to pull this off alone. Not without lots of help. Who hates you badly enough to concoct such a Machiavellian plot to discredit you?"

Decker sighed, rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"We've all given orders that sent men to their deaths," he spoke quietly. "Maybe it's an outraged Mother, Father, or sibling …even someone's fiancé."

"Or one of two guys we thought were long dead. We never found their bodies, Rod."

"I know…" Decker sighed again.

Silence followed that.

"Well…" Face stood after a while. "It's about time we start to move along. We've got a long ride ahead of us, don't want to hit the Rush Hour Traffic."

"Where are we going?" Decker stood too.

"Stockwell's HQ," Smith stubbed his cigar out. "We figure you'll be safe there. Then we can work on clearing your name."

…..

"Decker's adapting to this surprisingly well…" Face commented to Smith as they made ready to leave the safe house.

"Yeah…" Smith nodded as he watched everyone make ready to go. For once, Decker was out of uniform, with denims, a flannel shirt, reflective shades, and work boots comprising his current attire.

So, he, hopefully, won't stand out if any curious eyes happen to be watching…

BA Baracus had already started the van.

"Bad new, Hannibal," the big man said. "We're sort of low on gas. We'll need to refuel, maybe about halfway through…"

Smith nodded. They had plenty of cash. Certainly, there was enough cash on hand to top off the van's tanks.

A few hours of steady travel, on narrow, twisting back roads, instead of the great interstates, followed.

"We need to stop now," Baracus finally declared. No one complained as the van pulled in to an all but abandoned gas station, with one lonely, and bored, attendant on hand.

"BA fill the car," Colonel Smith got out too. "Anyone need to use the Little Boy's Room, now would be the time."

He watched as Murdock ran for the restrooms. Everyone else got out too, eager to stretch their legs. Filling the tank proceeded quickly, and Smith paid the attendant, as Baracus replaced the cap on the van's tank.

Faceman, accompanied by Decker, came out of the small store, armed with soda and snacks to see the Team through the rest of the trip.

A single gunshot rang out, struck Roderick Decker squarely in the chest. The impact flung him to the ground, plastic bags falling from his fingers, soda cans rolling everywhere,

Smith spun around, searching, saw the power station on the other side of the road, the men there, wearing military fatigues, weapons drawn and ready.

Face had already retrieved his machine gun, sprayed fire in the direction of the men. As they scattered for shelter, BA grabbed Decker, carried him to the van, Murdock right behind.

Face, still firing wildly, keeping the men pinned down, backed into the van's rear entrance,

Everyone in, the van spun wildly, Face making sure the attackers remained where they were, not chasing after.

Rear door closed, he turned to take stock. BA driving, Smith riding shotgun, on the comm, raising Stockwell. Murdock in the rear, with Face.

And Decker…

"Decker's unconscious," he called up to Smith. "It's bad. Bullet to the chest."

"Through and through," Murdock corrected. "Out the back."

What's the problem? Hunt Stockwell's voice issued from the comm speaker.

"Decker's been shot through the chest," Smith spoke over the comm.

Roger…Smith heard voices muttering over the comm. Then, Stockwell was back.

What's your location?"

"Roughly ten minutes out from Abbeville."

Another minute of indecipherable muttering followed.

I'm putting you in contact with Dr. Rosa Fuentes. She's based in New Bram Wood. Know where it is?

"Yes," Smith said. "BA…New Bram Wood. Get there ASAP!"

It was close enough to where they were now to be of use. The comm squawked again.

Dr. Fuentes speaking. Hunt tells me you have a shooting victim. What are his vitals?

Smith looked back at the rear. Face and Murdock already had the A-Team's First Aid Kit out.

"Vitals?" he looked back at the pair.

Face had apparently already looked Decker over.

"No blood in nose or mouth. He doesn't seem to be bleeding internally," he announced. Murdock had already pressed an attentive ear directly to the unconscious man's chest.

"His lungs sound clear. But his heart is really thumping."

Compression bandages for both the entry and exit wounds, Smith passed Dr. Fuentes' orders along.

"Already on it," Face muttered, as he and Murdock…did what they had to. It was…worrying…that Decker didn't even flinch through all of that.

Ten minutes later, the van stopped at New Bram Wood Emergency Clinic.

A short Latino woman stood just outside the door, holding it open as BA Baracus came up, the unconscious body cradled in his arms.

As the others came in, they watched as Baracus lay Decker gently upon the first examination table.

"I'm going to have to cauterize the wounds," Fuentes announced as she slipped an oxygen mask over Decker's nose and mouth and tossed the blood-soaked shirt into the trash. "After that…we'll see…"

Roughly an hour later, it was done.

"Will he make it?" Smith looked down at the man who had gone from being a friend, to an enemy, then back to a friend again.

Decker lay there, cannulas sending oxygen into his lungs. Under layers of blankets to keep him warm, he looked deathly pale; right on death's door…

"Will he make it?" Smith repeated his question. Fuentes sighed.

"It's up to him now," she said. "We've done all we can. He lost a lot of blood. If he survives the next twenty-four hours, he'll have a chance."

"If?"

"If…" she nodded back…

Suddenly exhausted, Smith found the nearest chair, slumped into it wearily.

If…

Next day, early morning…

General Francis Lynch paced restlessly back and forth in the small room. He had been rousted out of bed, at the ungodly hour of three in the morning, by a full contingent of MPs. They wouldn't tell him anything as they brought him…here.

To the Brig. No chairs. Not even a bench. Just a table with a few Styrofoam cups, and a pitcher of water. Nothing for him to do but stand and pace, until someone came down and told him what the hell was going on.

Finally, after around three hours, the cell door opened, and Hunt Stockwell walked in, door sliding shut behind him.

"General Lynch," Stockwell spoke smoothly. "Do you know why you're here?"

"No!" Lynch snarled. "And I demand an explanation!"

"You'll have one," Stockwell held up a hand. "Excuse me…"

He stepped to the door, slid it open a crack.

"Come on in…" he said to someone standing in the hall. The door slid open to let another man in, and…

It was a ghost. Had to be…

Lynch had watched the execution of the A-Team too.

"You're dead!" he hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at Colonel John "Hannibal" Smith. Smith, for his part, shrugged too.

"We got better…" he added. He paused, as if in the act of remembering something. "I owe you something…"

"What?" Lynch glared at him.

The sudden impact of Smith's gloved fist put a whole galaxy of stars in his head, and he felt his nose crumple under the force of the blow.

Now, he was sitting on the floor, blood spraying from his broken nose, looking up at Smith.

"That's for what you did to Colonel Roderick Decker," Smith snarled, fists clenched, ready to do more.

"At ease, Colonel," Stockwell's voice seemed to calm Smith down. "I'm sure Colonel Lynch will be more than willing to cooperate with us…"

"Cooperate?" Lynch hauled himself back to his feet, hand to his bloody nose.

"You stand accused of murder," Stockwell informed him.

"Murder...?" Lynch's eyes widened.

"Colonel Roderick Decker was already in the custody of the A-Team," Smith glared at Lynch. "We were bringing him back to the Army Base when we were assaulted by MPs under the command of Lieutenant Julian Addams. He said you had personally given him, and two other lieutenants under your command, the same exact orders. Shoot on sight. Shoot to kill."

Smith sighed, eyes closing briefly. When they opened again, there was no humor, no mercy, in them. At all.

"Colonel Roderick Decker died a little after midnight last night," he said. "And you are going to die too; as a convicted murderer."

…..

Hannibal Smith saw it happen, saw General Francis Lynch reach his own personal Tipping Point.

Now, he'll give us what we want…

Lynch seemed to wilt right in front of them, shoulders slumping in defeat.

"It wasn't my idea," he muttered, voice suddenly small. "Someone else cooked the basic plan up. All I did was have Decker arrested on charges of being an accomplice to the A-Team's crimes."

He sighed.

"Even that wasn't good enough. He told me it wouldn't be enough to make the arrest stick. That was why he staged the escape."

"He?" Stockwell demanded. "Who was he?"

"I don't know," Lynch shrugged helplessly. "He started calling me a few months ago, right out of the blue, and telling me how to bring Colonel Decker down. Whoever he is, he hates Decker. Far more than I ever thought possible."

"And you don't have any clue as to his identity?" Stockwell pressed.

"None at all. May I please get some water?"

"Fine," Stockwell nodded. "Is there anything else you can tell us about…him?"

"Not really," Lynch downed two tepid cups of water, made a face. "Bitter…Guy always used a voice distorter when he called me. I don't even know if it was a man. Could've been a woman for all I know. But brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

He swayed a bit, looked down at his hands.

"Don't feel so good…" he muttered, cup slipping from his fingers. Then, his legs buckled, and Smith had never moved so quickly in his life. He caught the other man, eased the body to the floor. Sudden knowledge filled his mind.

"He's not breathing!" he started CPR, desperate to keep the man alive. He could hear Stockwell's voice in the background, summoning medics to the scene, and ordering someone to check that damned water pitcher, and the cups too…

It didn't really matter anyway. Francis Lynch was dead.

Along with any chance of finding out who our Mystery Man is…

…..

New Bram Wood Emergency Clinic

"Damn…" Faceman sat down. "We went through all of that, and we still don't know who our mysterious Mr. X is?"

Colonel Hannibal Smith had brought the A-Team up to date as soon as he, and Hunt Stockwell had returned.

"Just a whole lot of nothin'?" BA Baracus was outraged.

"That's about the size of it," Smith agreed. He sighed as he turned to Stockwell. "In hindsight, your decision to have Roderick Decker declared dead was pure, unadulterated genius."

"Even though events with Lynch have proven Decker was innocent all along?" Murdock was having a little trouble following the logic trail.

"Yes," now it was Stockwell's turn to sigh. "We were able to clear the Colonel of the original charges. But the supposed escape is another story entirely, and-with Lynch conveniently dead-we have no way of disproving those charges. And there is still the matter of Mr. X…"

"Who is he?" Smith added. "Or she? As Lynch was correct to point out. Using voice distortion technology. It could be anyone at all."

"I'm going to make identifying Mr. X a top priority," Hunt Stockwell promised. "He…or she…was able to poison a pitcher of water without leaving any fingerprints at all. That's not someone I want wandering about unobserved or unidentified. Until we figure out who this person is, the best way to keep Roderick Decker alive is to convince everyone he's dead."

"So…what are you going to do with Decker?" Face asked. "He doesn't seem to be the kind of guy who would take all that well to forced retirement."

"Don't worry, Face," Smith stood. "We've got that angle worked out…

…..

Three months later

Forbes Army Base

Captain Crain was no longer a Captain. He stood in his new office, fingers nervously touching his new-made Colonel's Insignia.

Three months on, and he was still grieving over Colonel Decker's death. The A-Team had tried, but it just hadn't worked out this time.

We can't save everyone, son… Smith had laid a consoling hand on Crane's shoulder.

By all accounts, it had been a quick death, at least. And the man responsible for it all was dead too. By poison, rumor said.

Now, Crane was the Colonel, sitting in Roderick Decker's old office. He kept his favorite photo, one of him and Decker, before everything had gone to hell, sitting just in front, and to the right, and the hell with anyone who disapproved…

Elsewhere…

Roderick Decker sat on the bench in front of the Safe House. He had been brought there as soon as Dr. Fuentes had declared him strong enough to make such a trip. She had, of course, insisted on accompanying him.

Now, fully recovered from the shooting, he was left with the knowledge that his career in the army was over and done with.

Officially, Roderick Decker was dead. A body had been provided; a ME had signed an autopsy report; and the body buried in a brief, though very moving, funeral.

Where does that leave me?

Stockwell had a few ideas on that account.

Maybe Smith too…

"Decker!" Colonel Hannibal Smith's voice jolted Decker out of his reverie. "Stockwell's got a job for us. You coming or not?"

Coming around full circle to join the A-Team again…

That wasn't something Decker had expected. But there it was…

Roderick Decker stood, and made his way over to the A-Team van…

Fin