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