CHAPTER TWELVE


When he awoke that morning, it was to the accompaniment of myriad bells and buzzers ringing in his head. The room swung dangerously and he groaned softly, cursing the Scotch he'd so lovingly imbibed the night before. He hadn't had a drop of alcohol while overseas and his body was screaming loudly in protest at his sudden immersion.

"Shit."

He managed to get himself out of bed, clinging desperately to the walls on the way to the shower. He berated himself all the way there. What if Stockwell had decided this was the time to 'reconnect' with his errant assassin? That rebuke, and the steaming shower, sobered him almost immediately. Catching sight of himself in the mirror did the rest. His eyes were bloodshot and swollen and the beard, grown long over the past month, was wild. He carefully considered his beard. He really didn't care for the looks of it, but with the deep tan still in place, he'd look like a clown if he shaved it now. He was thoughtfully smoothing it when he suddenly stopped moving.

Damn.

Those fucking hands. He'd been so careful to keep them out of sight. Only in the shower, or at night after the lights were off, were they allowed out of the gloves. But he'd forgotten this morning. The damn booze. God, look at them. Smirking at him. Making a game of it. So handsome on the outside, so ugly underneath. He wanted to expose them for what they really were. Show everyone the ugliness, the twisted deformities that were there under that facade of grace. But he knew he still needed these bloody hands. He needed to keep them safe for now. Until this was over. And they knew it, too, and so they mocked him. All the time, mocking him. Knowing him...

He ran to the bedroom and yanked on the gloves. And heaved a sigh of relief...


*****

Hannibal slowly came out of a deep sleep. He had been exhausted after yesterday's revelations. He did not want to get up. He did not want to face BA's simmering anger or Murdock's nearly uncontrollable outrage. Damn, the two of them had been ready to catch the first flight for DC to wring Stockwell's neck. He'd finally had it himself.

'Enough, damn it! As if we don't have enough to deal with, trying to find Face when he doesn't want to be found, now I have to add you two to the problem?'

He remembered the shouting. And he remembered their sudden and sullen silence. And he remembered three tired men wandering off to bed, to nurse their wounds.

No sense putting off the inevitable. He pulled himself from the bed and hobbled into the kitchenette, not bothering to shower or dress. Time enough for that later. Right now, he wanted a quiet cup of coffee before the others got up.

Murdock heard Hannibal messing with the coffee maker.

'We really need to find a permanent place to live, where the walls aren't paper thin. Face can scam us one, a real nice one, like he used to. After we find him. After we put him back together again. Just like Humpty Dumpty.'

Then he got the giggles, picturing his friend as the Great Egg. And the giggles got harder and then became sobs and Murdock pulled the covers over his head and hid.

BA wasn't even in the hotel room. Or the hotel. He was in the garage, sitting in his van, idly turning the knobs on the radio. There were an awful lot of radio stations in LA. None of them came in very clear in the garage though. Just as well. He really didn't want to listen to any music, and he definitely didn't want to listen to the news. What he really wanted to do was turn back the clock a few months and not dismiss Frankie's question to him about why Stockwell would call Face instead of Hannibal. And he wanted to know that the others wouldn't blame him for it.

And he wanted, more than anything, for Face not to have shot those three people.


*****

The boxes he'd called about yesterday arrived at his new house that afternoon. Carefully he opened them, eyes gleaming as he took each piece out. The barrel, wrapped carefully to avoid warping or marring. The stock, gloved in soft cloth. The scope, oh so carefully packaged to prevent scratches or dents. Perfect. Stockwell hadn't thought about collecting that last rifle. Hadn't mattered to him then. It would now. Oh yeah, the general would start thinking about it now, knowing it was for him. Hoisted on his own petard, so to speak.

He stepped out onto the deck, carrying his coffee. It was time to start making definitive plans for Stockwell. He wanted the general to know what was going to happen. He had thought for a while that showing his hand so early would allow the bastard to sink out of sight. But by way of the little gift, delivered to that particular address, he'd challenged him. Who would get the other first? It really wasn't much of a gift - a small stone elephant.

'But it has sentiment, you know.' He grinned. 'I know where you live, Stockwell. I know where you hide. And you know I'm going to come for you, don't you, you bastard..."

He should feel terrible about what he was planning. This wasn't self-defense. This wasn't protecting The Colonel or The Pilot or The Mechanic or anyone. This was vengeance. Pure and simple. "'Vengeance is mine,' saith the assassin." He wanted to laugh. He had the edge now. Sharp, sharp edge. Or maybe he'd just fucking gone over it. A body to fill The Pilot's old room. He didn't care. He really didn't care. Because now it was just him. And Stockwell.

This time he laughed out loud. The Jazz was on, and it was good.


*****

"So what do we do now, Colonel?"

"First thing we're going to do is track down the delivery service that Face used. See what name he used. He may or may not use the same name to scam a place to live, but my guess is he will, at least at first. It'll be easier for him to deal with things if he just maintains one identity. Even if it just leads to the hotel where he was, it's a start. "

"He's got plenty to deal with, all right." Murdock was still fluctuating between calm and hysterics. He understood, better than any of them, where Face was emotionally right now. And it scared him.

Hannibal hesitated. He didn't want to bring this up, but they all knew it was something they would have to do.

"We also have to start checking the hospitals, police stations, shelters...the morgue. Look for anyone that's come in in the last four to five days. Remember that until we find where he was staying, we won't know what he looks like, exactly. Obviously he wouldn't have been able to...succeed over there...looking like himself. My guess is he hasn't changed his looks yet."

"Why not, Hannibal? I'd'a wanted to git back to myself as quick as I could."

"For one thing, he doesn't want us looking for him, and he knows his changed appearance is going to hinder us there."

Now came touchy ground. Hannibal had thought long and hard about what Face's next steps would be, what his plans were. Based on his actions toward the Team, he had come to an unwelcome conclusion.

"I also don't think he's finished his 'mission' yet, BA. I think he has something left to do and until he does it, he's going to stay 'in character'. "

"What the hell else could he need to do? Three bodies isn't enough?!" 'God, don't go there, Hannibal,' Murdock begged with his eyes. 'Face is just hiding somewhere and we just gotta find him. That's all. He's not dangerous, Hannibal. He's not. He's not.'

"I think Face is going to go after Stockwell. Which is why we need to find the general first."


*****

What had happened yesterday? Something had gone wrong and he didn't quite understand what. He was so off-balance. The Scotch. That must have been it. He shouldn't have gotten drunk. Then yesterday would have gone smoothly, like it was supposed to. The morning was fuzzy to him. Something about his beard. And he remembered the rifle arriving. And he remembered taking it out, and cleaning it up. And then something had happened. Like his brain was on fire. And now it was morning again. He'd lost most of a day. Just lost it. How did that happen?

He wondered if that was what The Pilot had gone through all those years ago. He didn't like it. He needed to stay on top of things. He couldn't let it get away from him any more. He knew it had happened a few times after...that things had happened and he didn't want them to but they happened anyway. He would wake up and find something broken or the hotel room trashed. At one of the airports - he didn't even remember which one - he'd awakened to find the people around him suddenly moving away, looking at him, nervous-like. He knew he didn't have the gloves then. He hadn't discovered that until Switzerland. It had just been natural to put them on when he went out that day, and suddenly he felt in control again. He hadn't taken them off since. Except yesterday. He remembered that now. That's why he'd gotten screwed up.

It was their fault...