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MERCURY RISING: Part 1

By Reckless and Face's New Flame

 

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Pain. Sharp pain from the brightness, and a slow, throbbing ache in his head. A burning sensation in his throat, and the acrid taste of vomit on his tongue.

 

He started to move his hand to cover his eyes, but his arm was heavy and slow. His legs, when he tried to stretch them, were equally uncooperative. He struggled to raise his hand, but managed to block out some of the light.

 

To his left, the click of a switch, and the room became almost pitch black. There was a little moonlight, filtered by the blinds. He blinked, moved his hand aside, and tried to take in his surroundings. His head was heavy, too, and his neck stiff. His eyes followed the source of the sound.

 

He couldn't see much, but the shape by the door was red. *The girl in red. I brought her back here. I must have. Then what?* She walked forward.

 

That was better. It was easier to focus at close range. She sat on the edge of the bed, watching him. His eyes began to adapt to the darkness.

 

Bed. He was in a bedroom. At the side of the bed, a table. A telephone, his wallet, a room service menu. No sign of his gun. He narrowed his eyes and tried to make out the name on the menu. He was lucky - the light crossed it. The Bayview. He was still in DC, then.

 

"Feeling better, baby?" she cooed, running a cool hand over his forehead. It felt nice.

 

He'd been in the nightclub. He remembered that much. He was pissed at Hannibal, and he'd headed into the night. He remembered dancing, then the storeroom . . . then what?

 

She began to fill in some of the blanks for him. "You were sick, honey. I changed the sheets for you."

 

*Oh god. I threw up in front of her?* he wondered. *On her?*

 

She looked at him. "Would you like some water?"

 

Still... sick from drink? That didn't seem right, he'd only had one, *didn't I?*, but he could taste the scotch. It always hurt like hell on the way back up. "Aspirin?" he asked.

 

She smiled softly. God, she was beautiful. A vision flashed, her head pressed back against the storeroom door, her torso laid bare and open to him, her neck an invitation, her crying out, loud and desperate.

 

He realized that he had no idea what to call her. *Baby, I guess. Until I can find her purse and check.*

 

"You'd better not," she said. "Not with what you've had." Her hand slid down from his forehead and caressed his neck; then she left, vanishing into what he guessed was the bathroom. Water. Water would be good.

 

There was another twinge of pain. Low, but repetitive and insistent. His fingertips found the source; a small, swollen area on his neck.

 

His neck.

 

*Very good, Mr Peck. My boss has plans for you.*

 

My boss. His head reeled. His pulse raced. The room spun, and closed in on him, and he made a conscious effort to breathe. In, two, three, out, two, three.

 

*She was bait.* She was bait, damn it, and he'd fallen for it. Again.

 

She was bait, but she was still here. *Play it cool. You don't remember a thing. Don't show her that you remember.*

 

She returned, ran an arm around his back, and helped him sit up. "Sip, baby," she whispered. "You'll feel better."

 

He swallowed as she poured the water between his lips. It eased the burning in his throat, and he took more, a large gulp. She dabbed a few spilt drops away from his chin with a handkerchief.

 

"How did we get here?" he asked. She laid him back down again, and climbed into the bed to lie beside him. She draped an arm over his waist, and he realized that he was still wearing his shirt and pants, although both were open. The pressure on his stomach sent another wave of nausea through him, but he ignored it, and focused on being charming. "Not that I'm complaining, beautiful."

 

She simpered, smiled coyly, and curled up against him. He remembered now. The needle. *This woman is psychotic. I've got to get out.* "So you want to be here. I'm glad. I like you. I got us a taxi, after you had that dizzy spell. I'm going to look after you... can I call you Templeton?"

 

He ran his hand down her bare shoulder. *Freedom. I can give you true freedom.* "Of course. I just need to rest a little. I guess you wore me out."

 

She giggled and pressed closer against him. *There were others. There were others who came into the room. But she wanted me first. They could be on guard outside the door right now, but maybe I could make it out the window.*

 

"Will you be here when I wake up, baby?"

 

She kissed his cheek. "Call me Rachael. Of course I will. We have a lot to talk about."

 

He forced a smile. It wasn't his best, but in the dim light, he'd get away with it. *Keep her happy, get her to sleep, and slip away. She could turn nasty. She could call on her friends from the corridor.* "What if I don't want to talk?"

 

Her hand slid down to his groin, and there she was, the confident, assertive woman he'd met. "Fine by me." She squeezed gently. He knew he wouldn't be able to respond. All his nerves, save the ones that existed to cause pain, seemed to be dulled. She gave a disappointed sigh. "Aww.. you really aren't feeling yourself, are you?"

 

Another sound. One that gave him an instant cold sweat. A gun being cocked. A man's voice, fron the darkest corner of the room. "Put the merchandise down, Rachael. Jack might forgive you once, but not twice."

 

*Jesus Christ. She's completely insane.*

 

*********

 

Murdock grinned at the dark-haired man, who seemed to be melting in hot sun. August temperatures and dark suits just did not mix. “Hey, what about my change? If I’ve gotta pay the toll, I should get change.”

 

The Able manning the gate turned and glared. It looked like he was about to say something, but he must have decided it was not worth the effort. He waved his arm in a circle, motioning Murdock to pass through the gate.

 

“No sense of humor in these guys,” Murdock muttered as he stepped on the accelerator. “Bet ol’ Doc. Richter would have a field day.” *With Stockwell too. Now there was a piece of work.*

 

He passed through the gate, which the Able quickly closed, and drove down the long driveway to the house. *The prison, really.*

 

That’s what it was. Oh, sure, surveillance had been loosened over the two years the guys had been kept here, but the fact the compound had manicured lawns, a pool and a volleyball court changed nothing. It was a prison.

 

Murdock pulled the car to a stop and climbed out. He began to sweat almost instantly. The heat index had to be 120.

 

*Thanks, Founding Fathers. You really needed to put our capitol in a swamp, didn’t you?*

 

The heat reminded him of something else. Because the guys were not supposed to leave the compound without prior authorization, the guys had to bring entertainment to them.

 

*Yeah, entertainment named Bambi and Staci and Cindi and Traci and Candi and . . .* Murdock sighed. The list went on and on. And they would probably be in the air-conditioned living room or by the pool.

 

He opened the front door and took a deep breath as the near-frigid temperatures of the air conditioning slammed into him. That meant BA was probably working in the basement. He always liked to keep his equipment cold. Said it kept the wires from sticking to things. He also said the glue helped the adhesives, but then, those should stick to things. But who was Murdock to quibble with the mechanical genius that was BA Baracus.

 

Not that he had much chance. BA seemed to be spending most of his time in the basement lately. To him, it must have been a better way to mark time between jobs than watching TV.

 

Which, not so coincidentally, was blaring loudly in the living room as Murdock entered.

 

“Hey, H.M.,” Frankie called out from the couch. He tried to wave, but dropped the TV remove into the large bowl of popcorn in his lap. “Come on in.”

 

“Hi, Frankie,” Murdock said, with all the enthusiasm he could muster. “Anything going on?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Frankie said, pulling a now-greasy remote out of the popcorn bowl. “Days is getting great. Steve and Kayla are getting back together and everyone thinks Shane is dead, which means Kimberly could get into trouble with this new guy Cal.”

 

Murdock counted back from five. He would never have made it to ten. “I meant anything going on with the team?”

 

“Oh.” Frankie looked nervously at the kitchen door.

 

Murdock looked at the door too, back at Frankie, and then raised an eyebrow.

 

Frankie shrugged. “You probably shouldn’t go in there. Hannibal’s, um, busy.”

 

“Busy with what?” Murdock asked. “Cooking? I hope it’s something spicy.”

 

Frankie nodded. “Rosarita. Very spicy.”

 

Murdock let loose a long sigh. Frankie’s look told him things were not good. “Should I ask?”

 

Frankie set down the TV remote. “Him and Face went at it again. A bit of an explosion.”

 

“How big?”

 

Frankie thought for a minute. “You know Star Wars . . . when the Death Star blows up?”

 

Murdock sighed again. Seemed like this was becoming the routine. Face needed out of this place, and Hannibal seemed to be clinging to the hope that Stockwell would come through with the pardons. Two years, though, was a long time to wait. Murdock looked back at Frankie who was focused on some impossibly pretty couple on the TV screen.

 

“Is Face upstairs?” Generally after a fight, Face would lie low in his room reading for a few days.

 

Frankie shook his head. “He stormed out of here last night. Hasn’t been back. You know how it is. He’ll take a few days, go a bit wild with the ladies, and be back for the next mission.” He popped a handful of popcorn into his mouth. “Just needs to let off some steam.”

 

Murdock tried to dodge some of the flying kernels that Frankie spit as he spoke. *Damn. One of these days, Faceman’s gonna run off and he’s not gonna come back. And Hannibal sure doesn’t seem too concerned if he’s screwing his Barbie of the week in the kitchen.*

 

*Damn.* What really pissed him off was there wasn’t much Murdock could do. He was outside of all of this. He was living in his cheap apartment, driving his used car and working odd jobs to pay for it all. If he said anything, Hannibal would remind him that he didn’t have to worry about pardons. Or firing squads.

 

*Damn.*

 

Murdock took a deep breath and sat down on the couch. Some guy with an eyepatch was on screen kissing a woman with big hair.

 

Nothing he could do now but wait.

 

At least the house had air conditioning.

 

*********

 

Carla stood behind Stockwell, and to his right, as usual. He was as mad as hell, not that it showed, not unless you knew him very well. Few of his staff lasted long enough to know him well.

 

Someone was going to get it. Probably Able Nine, who'd been in charge of the shift, and who was at the other end of the phone line.

 

"Don't tell me where he *was*," Stockwell said calmly, *and that's when he's most dangerous*, "Tell me where he *is*." With that, he replaced the handset. "Carla, place Able Nine's calls on priority two."

 

She made a note on her pad. "Of course." Efficient, unquestioning.

 

Peck had slipped away. Again. Stockwell turned to Able Seven, who sat opposite the desk, and was awaiting instruction. Able Seven was also attempting to appear calm and in control, but Carla noted the sweat on his upper lip, and his frequent shifts of weight in the chair.

 

"I want tighter controls," ordered Stockwell. "No females we haven't provided ourselves. Rosarita, Jane, Rachael. That's all."

 

Carla knew he hated setting up the women. It was the only time she'd heard him raise his voice, and that had been behind closed doors, to his superior officer. She wasn't meant to know he'd been angry. 'Uncle Sam's pimp,' he'd called himself.

 

It took considerable effort, creating the illusions of little pieces of freedom. Smith had to be aware that some of the girls were a set up. 'Real' women couldn't possibly be that dumb. But so far, Smith hadn't started feeding them false information via the girls. That would be a sign that it was time to revise the security procedures. For now, Smith played ball. Sure, he liked to yank the chain once in a while, but never anything too serious.

 

Did he honestly think there was a pardon at the end of it? Maybe. Carla didn't know if it would ever happen. She doubted that Stockwell knew, either.

 

Seven wasn't leaving to carry out orders. Seven squirmed in his seat. "That might not be possible, sir."

 

"Oh?" Stockwell leaned forward, elbows on the desk, his hands clasped, and waited, expectant. It was all he needed to say. Carla admired his confidence, his self assuredness. An air of authority that he shared with Smith.

 

"Agent Kelly's . . . disappeared." Kelly was Rachael Kelly. Former CIA. She was new to Stockwell, but she knew the score. Selected to give Peck some variety, possessed of no impeding qualms or, it seemed, morals. Enthusiastic, time served, but young enough to appeal. A regular Mata Hari.

 

Able Seven wiped his palms on his suit pants.

 

Silence. Heavy, stifling silence.

 

"Disappeared?"

 

"Yes, sir. She hasn't been seen since this morning's briefing."

 

"I see." Another pause. "And you were going to tell me.. when?"

 

Seven was silent. Smart man. Stockwell took a few beats before reeling off another list of orders.

 

"Seven, I'm going to give you an opportunity to dig your way out of this hole. Find her for me. I want her trail followed. I want to know every person she's spoken to. I want all the planned holding areas for Peck checked. And I want it done within sixty minutes."

 

"Carla." He turned in his chair to face her, and she raised her pen. He smiled. "Carla, I want you to prepare the Exodus files for me. Let's see if we can get Smith to smoke him out."

 

She nodded her agreement. "Will there be anything else, sir?"

 

"No. Yes . . . bring Rosarita in for a friendly chat, will you?"

 

"Very good, sir." She turned on her heels, and headed into the outer office to prepare the files.

 

Truth be told, Peck was her favourite. He was charming, he was a terrible flirt, but he never took things too far. He respected her position. And he was handsome - a little younger than her usual type, but not too much. She hoped he was safe, that it was just another night on the tiles. He'd done it before, many times, and always returned with his tail between his legs.

 

There was something different this time, though. Stockwell was rattled.

 

She pulled the files out, and started checking the names, dates and photographs. Everything had to be flawless.

 

*********

 

“Oh,” she moaned. He winced as she dug her claws into his back. “Ohhh . . . Ohh . . .” She gasped for breath between moans. “Oh . . . Ohhh . . .” She threw her head from side to side. Her dark hair whipped his face. “Oh. . . . Ohhh . . .” She reared back and grabbed his shoulders in a vise-like grip and shrieked, “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

 

Hannibal pumped silently. *They should give you an Oscar, lady.*

 

He knew Rosarita, if that was her real name, was faking it. She was such an obvious plant. All of the girls were. But so what? *Think of it as a fringe benefit.* After years of shacking up in cheap motels with Face, Murdock and BA – and maybe getting a girl here and there between jobs – he’d take what he could get.

 

He thrust even harder, nearly lifting the girl off the counter. She shrieked again, still faking.

 

Annoyed, he tried to shut out the noise. That was better. He kept thrusting, harder and faster. He came in a rush, then waited as he caught his breath.

 

“Oh, baby, that was amazing,” Rosarita cooed.

 

Hannibal gave her a winning grin that was as fake as her orgasm. “Sure was. Have I told you that your lips look like the finest Sangria. Your skin tastes of exotic spices.”

 

“Oh, Hanny!” she sang as she tightened her legs around him.

 

He kissed her lightly and slid out of her. She gave him a petulant look in response.

 

*Oscar city,* he thought. She would have made a much better lead than the girl they had for “Aquamaniac III: Tide of Terror.”

 

Hannibal carefully removed her legs, which were squeezing uncomfortably tight around his ribs. Once free, he stepped back and pulled up his underwear and pants. He buckled his belt and then helped her off the kitchen counter.

 

“So what are we going to do now, Hanny?” she said as she adjusted her bikini. Apparently she did not see his obvious cringe at her nickname. “Do you want to sit out by the pool? We can walk down to the creek? Or we can find a private spot and have some fun.” She beamed like she had just come up with the most brilliant idea.

 

Hannibal wondered if she had strained something inside her brain.

 

“Sorry, baby,” he said. “I need to take care of some business.”

 

There was that pout again.

 

“But we can find some time later. You can sit out by the pool today and I’ll find you later.”

 

She giggled. “You’ll know where to find me.”

 

He wrapped an arm around her and led her through the kitchen door into the living room. He stopped short when he saw Murdock turn and glare his way. The accusation in his face was obvious.

 

*It’s not my fault Face wants to act like a child,* Hannibal thought derisively. Right now, though, he did not want to have to deal with Murdock’s accusations. They’d been through this before. Several times.

 

*Too many times.*

 

“Honey,” he said, squeezing Rosarita’s shoulders. “I changed my mind. Let’s take that walk to the creek.”

 

As they passed through the living room, Hannibal gave Murdock a purposeful glance and said, “He’ll be back.”

 

*********

 

Face guessed it had been late morning when the man and Rachael came back. They were not alone. Several guards had pulled him to his feet, cuffed his hands behind his back and manhandled him out of the hotel. They had shoved him into the back seat of a car with tinted windows that prevented anyone from seeing insider. Then they had placed a blindfold over his eyes.

 

He was not sure how long they had been driving. He had lost count at about 40 minutes. He suspected they had turned back on their route a few times to confuse him. They also had kept music blaring to drown out any noise from outside the car that might have given him a clue where they were going.

 

These were definitely pros.

 

The car slowed, then turned, hit a slight bump and then came to a stop. It remained still for a minute, then moved on.

 

*Must have turned into a driveway and then passed through a gate or entered a garage.* He assumed a garage, because the car stopped almost immediately after it started and a door opened.

 

“Get out,” the man said.

 

Face answered apologetically. “I would, but I’m not sure I’m dressed for the occasion. If you would tell me where I am, I could make sure I have on proper attire.”

 

The response was a hard shove that sent Face sprawling sideways. He slipped off the seat and landed on something hard. Concrete, most likely.

 

*Yep, a garage.*

 

Rough hands pulled him to his feet. They shoved him through another door. He slammed his shoulder into a wall as they pushed him forward.

 

“Take it easy,” he hissed. “After a night with your friend Rachael, these clothes might not look like much, but they’re expensive.”

 

Nobody rose to the bait. That meant they were well-trained. They probably had clear instructions that only the leader could talk.

 

His feet struck something hard, probably a wall, as they turned him and forced him forward. The floor felt soft, carpeted, and he suspected he was in a hallway.

 

“In here,” the leader said.

 

The hands pushed him forward and held him still.

 

“Thanks, guys,” Face said with mock cheer. “That was fun.”

 

“Strip him.”

 

*Whoa!* “Hey, no need for that,” Face said, trying to back up, a feat that was difficult when there were several bodies surrounding you. “Come on. We just met.”

 

Nobody said a word. The guards went about their work quickly. They removed his shoes, then his pants. A few men held him still as they uncuffed him and removed his shirt. They did not replace the cuffs right away.

 

He felt a hand grab the waistline of his boxers.

 

“Now really,” Face said, trying to squirm out of the grip of the guards. “Do you really need to? It’s cold in here.” Which was true. The room was well air-conditioned. The hands started to pull down. Face tried to kick them away, but the people holding him pulled him back.

 

“Stand still, Peck, or I’ll have my men beat you unconscious and then we’ll remove them.” The tone of the man’s voice indicated he was not making an idle threat.

 

Face stopped kicking. “What happened to not hurting the merchandise?”

 

“My boss is willing to accept a few bruises, provided they are justified.”

 

“Now that’s a bit of an overstatement.”

 

Even though he could not see, he jerked his head toward the sound of the new voice. It was a deep male voice that Face was sure he had heard before. But where? And who?

 

His mind raced. It wasn’t Kyle. It wasn’t Martin James. Those were the psychos that he had always expected to come after the team. Then it hit him.

 

*Jack. She’d said “Jack.” Jack . . . Jackson.*

 

“You’re dead. You went through the window of the plane,” Face sputtered.

 

“Very good, Peck. I guess I made more of an impression that I thought.”

 

“Not really,” Face said. “Except for the hair. I always wondered if that rug stayed on or if it landed on Catalina.”

 

Jackson said nothing out loud. He must have given a facial or hand signal because the hands at Face’s waist yanked his boxers down to his ankles. The guards shoved him forward until his legs struck the side of a bed.

 

“Tie him down,” Jackson ordered.

 

“Come on,” Face pleaded in vain. “It’s not like I’m going anywhere dressed – or not dressed – like this. Have a heart.”

 

Obviously not.

 

The guards pushed him down and laid him face up. They pulled his arms and legs into a spread-eagle position. Ropes wrapped around his wrists and ankles. Once they were secure, Face felt the guards pull back.

 

“Hey, boss,” said the man from the hotel. “Are you sure about this? Rachael ain’t exactly stable and leaving Peck like this might give her some ideas.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Jackson said. “Let Rachael have some fun. It’ll give me a chance to get some rest at night.”

 

*Jesus Christ.* Face felt himself starting to panic. Then he laughed inwardly. Here he was, tied naked to a bed, the prisoner of an international terrorist, a former hijacker who had somehow survived being blown out of a plane door, and he was scared about being molested by some psychotic woman. No. He wasn’t scared.

 

He was damn near petrified.

 

But he couldn’t show it.

 

“So, Jackson, is this the part where the evil villain reveals his plan for world domination? Or does that just happen in James Bond movies.”

 

“Very funny, Peck.” There was a pause. Face thought Jackson was mulling over a response. “Let’s just say that you are going to be very valuable to me.”

 

“Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with,” Face said. He tried to make it sound like he was bored.

 

“Nope,” Jackson said quickly. “You’re going to be valuable on two fronts. Oh, I could kill you and have a middle man turn over your body to the Government. $100,000, no questions asked, is a pretty good profit margin.”

 

He paused, and Face knew it was for effect. The effect was pretty good. Even in the cold, Face felt himself start to sweat.

 

“So if I’m not taking the government’s offer, it means I must have something more important in store for you. I hope that scares you, Peck. It should. I’ll just leave you with this. I have a client who is very interested in procuring you - alive. And I have a little agenda of my own.” Face felt a calloused hand stroke the side of his face. “You’ve been Stockwell’s boy for a little too long. He owes me big time and you’re going to help me make him pay.”

Face started to respond, but Jackson grabbed the sides of his mouth and squeezed hard. Face tried to toss his head to the side to escape the painful grip. “Don’t say a word, Peck. I don’t think anyone will mind you’re going to the customer with a few bruises. And if you piss me off enough, I might just take the government’s money and run.”

 

Jackson let go with a shove that sent Face’s head slamming hard into the mattress. Behind the blindfold, he saw stars. The men in the room sounded like they were moving away from him, probably to the door. Yes. He heard the door swing open and then Jackson said, “Enjoy your stay, Lieutenant.”

 

*********

 

“BA, Stockwell’s here.”

 

BA shut off the welding torch and glanced at the clock. It said 5 p.m. He turned to see Murdock on the stairs. “I’m busy, Fool.”

 

Murdock glared back. “I said Stockwell’s here. He wants everyone in the living room. He just had the Ables drag Hannibal back to the house, so it’s serious.”

 

BA groaned. It was always serious where Stockwell was concerned.

 

“Fine.” He dropped his welding torch onto the bench and removed his face guard. “This better be good.” He followed Murdock up the stairs and into the living room. Hannibal and Frankie were there. Hannibal had his arms crossed. BA glanced around the room. There was no sign of Hannibal’s latest girl.

 

Unfortunately, there was a sign of Hunt Stockwell. He sat in an oversized recliner directly across from Hannibal. Carla stood behind her boss, in her usual position, slightly to his right.

 

“Thank you, gentlemen,” Stockwell said in that flat, even tone that always made BA want to beat the crap out of him. “I see Lieutenant Peck has decided not to join us.”

 

“Uh, Face hasn’t been feeling so good,” Frankie said quickly, leaning forward from the couch.

 

Stockwell gave a pointed look through his yellow glasses. “Please, Mr. Santana. This house is under constant surveillance. The Lieutenant left this house at exactly 7:33 p.m. last night, went to Dupont Circle, and has not returned. As you all know, the rules are plain. There are to be no unauthorized departures from the grounds.”

 

BA knew he was not going to like what came next.

 

“The penalty for violating the rules, my rules, is equally plain.”

 

“Hann-i-bal,” Murdock said slowly.

 

Hannibal just looked at Stockwell.

 

“Lieutenant Peck’s pardon is forfeit. An APB will be issued to all local and nationwide law enforcement stating that he was seen last night in Washington, D.C., and should be considered armed and extremely dangerous.”

 

“HANNIBAL!” Murdock yelled as he jumped to his feet. “Do something!”

 

*Yeah, Hannibal, do something,* BA thought.

 

Hannibal continued to stare at Stockwell.

 

The general did not flinch. “Now, gentlemen, we have some business to attend to. Carla.”

 

The blond stepped forward and began distributing manila folders. BA picked his up and opened it. He gasped immediately and nearly dropped it to the floor.

 

Stockwell spoke again. “This, gentlemen, is Project Exodus. It commences immediately.”

 

TBC