Hannibal was staring out the window at the clouds below them. Murdock was staring straight ahead, looking at the back of the seat in front of him. Neither had said much since leaving the airport yesterday. They'd gone back to their hotel, had a late supper, went to bed. The next morning they sent a check, in partial payment, to the motel owner, and then caught a flight to LA.
Hannibal had hoped that Face would be too concentrated on his mission to notice, but it was obvious that he knew they were watching his accounts. It was just as obvious that he had money stashed away they knew nothing about. Which meant Houston would probably be the last and only chance they would have to get to Face before he ended up in Langley. To have that end up the way it did...
Hannibal started chuckling. Murdock glanced over, took another longer look.
"Hannibal?"
The colonel kept chuckling, turning it into an outright laugh. And kept laughing.
"He scammed us, Murdock! Like a couple of country cousins! THAT was pure Face!"
The stewardess stared openly at the two men laughing almost hysterically in first class.
Stockwell was not laughing. Murdock's words had not been dismissed as easily as it had appeared. He knew a few things about the aftermath of the double assassination that made him, well, tense. He knew, for instance, that when he had been picked up at his house to begin the circuitous journey back to the States, the lieutenant had been described as emotionless and rigid. He also knew it had not been as easy for Peck to escape as he had pretended - he had been vigorously hunted through the countryside for nearly four days before being able to ditch his vengeance-crazed pursuers.
Stockwell was not dealing with a man. He was dealing with a machine. And that machine had a crafty intelligence, an iron will, and the quick wits to immediately adapt to whatever was thrown in its path. Thanks to the necessities of the desert mission, it also had access to certain security sectors Stockwell really wished it did not have. Stockwell knew he would have to engage his most able people to bring this machine to a dead stop.
The cab drove away, leaving the exhausted man to wend his way down to the beach house. He dropped the overnight bag on the deck and immediately moved on to the beach. He sat with his back against a small tree, breathing in the salt air, listening to the booming of the waves. It had been an almost 34 hour trip on the bus and, although he had slept through a great deal of it, he was not rested.
It had been a wonderful scam, one fraught with the possibility of failure. If he hadn't been able to find just the right person, it would never have worked. But it had. He would have preferred not to have resorted to a bus for transportation, but it was small price to pay. He smiled again. He really would have liked to have seen the look on The Colonel's face when he realized there really was a Maxwell. It was almost like playing with Stockwell.
But now he had work to do. Having his finances monitored was something he had anticipated, but had hoped would not happen. It had been necessary to include his information with the rest of the men's, in order for them to have a complete picture of what was going on. Fortunately, he had made some arrangements on his own. He was thankful for this now; it would have made things infinitely more difficult if he hadn't.
Because of the delays caused in Houston, he was somewhat behind in his schedule. He had some things that could not wait, but he would also need to rest up today. Tomorrow he would clean up here. He would be making another trip out of town the day after. This time he would not be coming back to LA afterward, but moving further east.
The black van was on its way back to Langley. They expected to arrive within 24 hours. BA was driving this shift, Hannibal keeping him company. Murdock should have been sleeping, but the stress had made that impossible.
Hannibal broke the silence. "You did get that tracer on Carla's car, right, Murdock?"
"You betcha, Hannibal. She's not going anyplace without us."
"Good. I imagine Stockwell's gone to ground and we'll need our little bird dog."
"Uh, Hannibal? How we gonna stop him?"
Hannibal had been dreading this conversation. He had been thinking about it for a long time, and knew the other two were not going to like what he had to say.
"We've got to look reality head on, guys. We've been running around in circles from the beginning because we were looking for our friend. But that's not what Face is anymore. I know, I know," he cut off their protests, "he is, but he isn't. The man we're looking for now is a soldier, a highly trained, highly motivated soldier with a priority one mission. We have to start thinking as soldiers, not as friends. If we don't, we're going to lose him"
BA nodded. "We been kinda killing him with kindness, not doing what we should because we didn't want to get him hurt."
"Exactly. So now we step up to the plate. Our mission is diametrically opposed to his. He knows that. So now he's facing a 'two front' war. Which is only going to add to the stress he's already under. That's the other thing we have to deal with - the fact that he is not stable. That motel room is proof enough. And he now realizes that, on top of planning and running this campaign, he's also got to deal with his friends trying to stop him. He can't allow that to happen. Now, so far, he hasn't done anything too aggressive towards us. I know he doesn't want to. But if he gets close enough to Stockwell to complete his mission, and we interfere, I'm really not sure what he's going to do. I don't think he sees this as just revenge. He might have to begin with, I don't know. But I think he sees Stockwell's death as a way of atoning for those three men. Justice for them, if you will; maybe penance or even absolution for himself. And if he's focused on that, he's going to be dangerous for anyone who tries to stop him. Including us."
"So you're saying we may have to shoot him?" Murdock was angry.
"I'm saying we have to be prepared to do whatever is necessary to stop him from killing again. Because if he does, he might as well be dead."
He'd scammed a small charter plane from LA to Detroit. It had taken some setting up, and he'd been afraid his extended absence may have blown the whole thing, but Janelle had been patiently waiting for his call. He smiled. He knew his abilities to charm the ladies had taken a bit of a beating over the past few months, but, while it hadn't been a stellar performance, it had done the job.
The pilot asked no questions as the television exec carried on nothing but a duffel bag and rifle case. He had been told the guy was a fanatic about competition shooting, and the pilot himself was involved in the sport. The guy must be really gung-ho about it. He even wore his shooting gloves onto the plane.
Once a rental car had been obtained in Detroit, the next stop was a post office. The last little package was sent to Stockwell. A little toy soldier, rifle at his shoulder, taking aim.
He would be in Langley before the gift arrived.
Stockwell was temporarily moving operations to a small compound outside Langley. It was nearly seven acres of meadowland, with a small lake on the north side, buildings located in the near center. It had been 'cleaned' the day before. They would be completely moved in by end of the day tomorrow. Surveillance and other security measures had been placed on the highest priority.