Murdock leaned as far forward as he could, craning his neck, trying to see the ground below his barred window. The window could slide open, allowing him some air, when he wanted it, but the grille kept him from getting out that way. The bars were a few inches apart, he could get a hand out through them, but more importantly, he could slide a couple of things out. His jacket for one. He fed it through the bars and dropped it. His baseball cap followed.

He turned back to the bed, where his wash bag sat. That no longer held toiletries and shaving gear, but rather some small items he couldn't bear to part with. Because this time he didn't know for sure if he'd be coming back later or not. Okay, the same could be said of any mission he went on with the guys. But this felt different. Who knew how it would end? But he still didn't hesitate. Face needed him now.

Time to go, he thought, glancing at his watch and seeing the glimmering of dawn outside. He untucked his t-shirt and mussed his hair up, scrubbing his hands through it on each side. Perfect.

Picking up the wash bag, a towel and his shoes, he tapped on the door of his room. In a moment a nurse appeared.

"Up early, Mr Murdock," she said, letting him out. He pretended to stifle a huge yawn.

"Morning, Sandra. Yeah, well, got a long hard day of doing nothing ahead of me. Might as well make an early start." In no apparent hurry, he strolled off towards the shower rooms.

Sandra went back to the nurse's station, where three other nurses sat around, doing their shift handover. Murdock paused for a moment, pretending to read some notices taped to the wall, but actually glancing back at the nurses, waiting for the exact right second when none of them was looking at him. When that second came, he used it, moved fast, ducking past the shower room door and into the janitor's closet beside it.

A pair of overalls hung on the back of the door and he put those on over his clothes, and then put his shoes on. His wash bag he put into a bucket and covered it with some rags.

"Okay." He looked around at the cleaning supplies. Somehow, they lacked the dignity he felt this moment needed. The drawing of a skull on the label of a bottle of bleach gave him a fixed, bony grin. "Well, anyway. I might not be back. So, um, so long." He dropped the mocking bleach bottle into his bucket as an extra prop, picked up a mop, then walked out of the closet, carrying the bucket in one hand the mop over his shoulder. The mop hid his face just enough as he walked past the nurses station to the elevator.

If any of them looked up, they'd just see a janitor. Nobody stopped him walking to the elevator. He pressed the call button and watched the light that told him he'd summoned the elevator. Waited for it to go out with a ping, signalling that the elevator had arrived. Waited. Waited. Waiting for those doors to open was always the worst part of this, even when he had Face here to do most of the worrying. Now all alone, waiting and waiting, for the doors to open or for someone to put a hand on his shoulder or shout "stop", it felt like an agonising eternity.

At last, the ping came and the doors slid open. Forcing himself to appear casual, he stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. As the doors closed on his ward he let out his breath in a whoosh.

Deciding not to push his luck, he didn't even try going out the main doors, even though it should still be quiet around there at this time of day. Instead he found the kitchens and walked through whistling, past kitchen staff preparing breakfast and all far too busy to pay any mind to him. A back door stood open, a cool breeze wafting into the already warm kitchen.

Murdock walked out of the door and sighed. Phase one completed. Phase two, getting off the grounds, began now.

He dumped the bucket and mop. Stuffing his wash bag down the front of his overall, kept it out of sigh and gave him an almost convincing looking beer gut. Sticking close the wall, he worked his way around the building until he reached the area under his own window.

His jacket lay draped over a rose bush and he picked it up and brushed it off. It took a couple of minutes searching around the roots of the rose bushes before he found his cap. He put them on and stood for a moment, looked up at the window to his room.

Then he waved up at the window and the empty room behind it, turned and vanished into the VA's grounds.

+-+-+

"Allen!"

Amy's heart sank as she walked into the newsroom. Great. The sun was barely up and she's already made Marge Rocha mad. She tried to put on a winning smile as she approached the chief news editor's desk. It probably didn't go well with the dark circles under her eyes that no amount of concealer could hide.

"You look like crap," Marge said, scowling at Amy, through the haze of cigarette smoke that surrounded her.

"Marge, about that Regency murder story, I know Chris had it first --"

Marge waved a hand.

"Forget it. Boy needs to toughen up and not run to me with every little problem. I'm not his damn mother."

Amy smiled with relief. Making Marge annoyed could get you sent to obituary updating duties so fast your feet didn't touch the ground. Amy knew that Marge had been stuck on that job herself before clawing her way up to the news desk, back in the days the women were meant to get the coffee and look pretty. Nowadays people got coffee for Marge and it had better be damn strong or, well there were worse jobs than obits.

"Here," Marge handed Amy a sheet of paper. "Came in a few minutes ago. You're the A-Team expert, you write it up."

Amy read the paper with a sinking heart. The police had named Templeton Peck as the number one suspect in the murder of Celia Hart. Damn, she thought, I need to get to a payphone. She wanted to call the van, make sure the guys got a heads up.

"I'll get started right away," Amy turned away.

"Kind of a coincidence."

Amy turned back when Marge spoke. "Excuse me?"

Marge took a sip from a large coffee mug on her desk, and then looked up at Amy.

"That you were already on the story and now it's turned out to have an A-Team connection."

"Oh." Amy forced a half smile. "Yeah, that's kind of odd." Marge looked back at her, a long assessing stare. Uncomfortable, Amy fidgeted, feeling pinned by the gaze, like a butterfly to a board. So when Marge's phone rang Amy sighed with relief.

"News desk," Marge snapped, picking up the phone. "What? Well of course he doesn't want to talk to you, you idiot. You make him talk to you!"

Amy took the chance to make a break for it. She headed first to her desk and gathered up a notebook and folder, trying to look as if she was heading off to the archives to do some research. But her real aim was to get to a payphone.

The guys needed to know, the heat just got turned up.

+-+-+

Murdock sat in a diner, eating doughnuts and drinking coffee. He knew BA would frown at such a breakfast, and tell him to eat something more nutritious. He'd come into the diner because it had a payphone. And after he let the phone ring for a while, Hannibal had come on the line, sounding breathless.

"Hi, I need you guys to come pick me up."

"Murdock, I told you, it's best for you to stay at the VA and keep your head down." Hannibal sighed, sounding tired.

"Yeah, well, sorry, it's too late for the first one."

Silence from Hannibal's end for a few seconds. "You're out?"

"Free as a bird, Colonel."

"Well... go back."

"No."

"I can make that an order, Murdock."

"You can try."

The silence that followed was loud. Loud as a scream.

"Where are you?" Hannibal asked at last.

"Albie's Grill, on Wilshire. I can stay here, or if you want me to go someplace else."

"No, stay there. We'll come get you in a while." His voice sounded tense. "Murdock, I know how you feel, but --"

"You're mad at me, I know. I'm sorry Colonel, but I'm not sorry. See you in a while."

After he'd hung up the phone, he'd ordered some breakfast. Now he sat at the table, his wash bag incongruous beside him. Above the counter a TV played, silent. Murdock watched it blankly until a face he'd already come to know appeared on screen. Celia Hart. Claire Hartley. He wondered which name the news anchor was using. Damn, she'd been pretty. Just Face's type.

The picture of Celia vanished and another very familiar picture replaced it. When he stared up at the picture of Face, Murdock didn't need to be able to hear the news report to know what it meant.