Title: The Darkest Hour

Author: Wendy W

Rating: PG-13

Warning: Possible death of a main character in a VERY unpleasant manner (E-mail me for specifics), nothing graphic, but VERY intense situation with serious angst

Summary: A difficult case lands one of the team in a life and death situation

Disclaimer: Don't belong to me; couldn't afford the ammo

Archive: If you want

Comments: As long as they don't involve fruit or vegetables being hurled at me

Thanks: to Stephanie, who planted the seed for this story, then watered my subconscious to make it grow (utterly without my consent, I might add)

The Darkest Hour
by Wendy W
*************

Consciousness returned to him slowly, and it brought with it, confusion. He had opened his eyes, but still found himself enshrouded in complete darkness. Where was he, and why couldn't he see anything? He sensed he was in a small, enclosed space, however, he was lying down, and rather comfortable, all things considered, so it couldn't be an ordinary box or a crate.

Shaking off the last vestiges of sleep and disorientation, he blindly began surveying his
surroundings. There was absolutely no light, so he figured that the container must be completely sealed, and... air tight. Fighting off momentary panic, he began to explore the area around him with his hands. There was a large pillow beneath his head, and he felt the soft texture of velvet above him, and on either side of him. Beneath the soft cloth, he felt the cold, hard sensation of metal. Moving his feet to explore the lower half of the container, he found that the fabric was against the sides down there, as well. The container seemed to be rectangular, and he became aware that while he could move around, and even sit up a little, the overall size of the thing wasn't much bigger than him. Sealed rectangular box, velvet lined, made of metal... Horrible realization flooded through him. He was in... a casket!

(Part 2 )

The panic he'd kept at bay only a few minutes before, seized control. He frantically pushed up against the decorative fabric panel that masked the curved shape of the top. The panel pressed against the hard, metal lid, but the lid, itself, remained firmly in place. Desperately throwing himself against the sides while screaming for help, he tried to rock the casket enough to draw attention from anyone who may be outside. Again, the casket failed to move even an inch.

Realizing he was wasting precious energy and oxygen, he laid back against the pillow. How had he gotten himself into this, and where were the guys? He rubbed his eyes, as if trying to wipe away the darkness. The last thing he remembered, was Joseph Proffetti and his "advisor".

The team had been hired to help protect a jeweler, Antonio Beraducci, and his family, after they had been repeatedly robbed by a man the team had discovered was the nephew of reputed crime boss, Joe Profetti. This nephew, Dominic Sartori, was a favorite of his uncle, and seemed oblivious to the rules of "honor" that governed his uncle's world. Sartori chose to take what he wanted, rather than earn it, and despite his disappointment in his favorite nephew's way of "making a living", Profetti shielded him from the penalties of his crimes. Profetti's ties in the local police department and his vast network of "soldiers" on the streets, had left Antonio with no way to protect himself or his family, and the robberies had been becoming bolder, and more frightening. The last one had landed his only son in the hospital, with a broken arm and a skull fracture, and had resulted in the loss of a week's worth of profits. Antonio had realized that if he didn't do something, he would soon be out of business, or perhaps even dead. That's when he had gone looking for the A-Team.

(Part 3)

After accepting the case, Hannibal had decided that the only way to stop Sartori was to take down his uncle, first. As he'd devised a plan to ‘step on the slime-ball and his cronies', Hannibal's eyes had sparkled so brilliantly with the jazz, that they had rivaled the finest diamonds Antonio displayed in his store. Knowing his usual front door approach would be suicide for them all, Hannibal had opted for a less direct route to Profetti, namely, Profetti's beautiful and somewhat rebellious daughter, Teresina Rosa, or "Rosie" as she liked to be called. Counting on the notorious charm of his second-in-command, and Rosie's well known desire to embrace all things "American", Hannibal had decided Face would be the team's ticket into Profetti's world. With the help of his Lieutenant and his special brand of creative paper pushing, Hannibal had constructed an elaborate background cover for Face designed to impress any young woman, and soothe any self-respecting mafia dad. "Robert Reale", as Face would be known, was the son of a wealthy, but obscure, American tycoon. He was fiercely loyal to family, but loathing of the usual fame that comes with money. He was in New York to establish a base for his dad's European export business, and was well renown for his business sense and his way of making a woman feel as though there was no other woman as exquisite as she. The paper trail in place, the Lieutenant, thanks to Murdock and BA's surveillance skills, had been provided with a list of Rosie's favorite haunts, and had easily made contact with the beautiful Italian girl. She had quickly succumbed to his charms, and almost as quickly, he had been brought before her father, by Profetti's most trusted henchmen.

Joseph Profetti was a distinguished man, his salt & pepper hair and dark olive skin handsomely detracting from the ruthless, calculating mobster that lay beneath the polished surface. Having thoroughly investigated "Robert's" background, and judging the man to be a safe and harmless distraction, at least compared to some of the other men he'd "interviewed" out of concern for Rosie's happiness, Proffeti had allowed the two to see each other without any interference. Face had then taken every opportunity to eavesdrop, search desk drawers, and identify key staff, all while zealously "courting" Rosie in a way that left her breathless.

Breathing... how he'd always taken that basic bodily function for granted..., until now. Taking in the already stale air that surrounded him, he desperately wanted the chance to inhale the fresh, salty air of the ocean, again. He longed to feel the cold, crisp, air of a night in the mountains, revive his lungs. The mountains, the ocean, LA, Chicago, Borneo, and even Vietnam... all the different places they'd been. The team had traveled all over the world, but there were still so many more places he'd wanted to go, things he wanted to see, and not just because a job or a war took them there.

Now, he realized he may never have the chance. He felt the first, faint stirring of a headache, as his thoughts returned to the ill-fated case that had landed him here.

(Part 4)

It had been two weeks, and despite the amount of information Face had gotten with his rather limited access to the house and staff, he still hadn't gathered enough to nail Profetti. His break had come the next day, when Rosie had again invited him to her home for dinner, and the meal had been interrupted by one of Profetti's top men. Excusing himself, Profetti had gone to his office, leaving the young couple alone. Pretending to be a little sick from the wine, Face had gone out onto the patio for some air. The warm evening breeze had carried with it the loud voices coming from the office above them. He'd overheard Profetti detailing a major drug shipment that was set to arrive the following day. While Face had been wining and dining the lovely Teresina, the team had been making a nuisance of themselves by disrupting Profetti's business wherever they could, and Profetti was outlining the dire consequences should anything go wrong with the next day's shipment. So far, the team had been unable to do much beyond interfering with the mobster's gambling, and loan sharking businesses, but intercepting a large shipment of drugs would be exactly what they'd need to wrap up the case.

Quickly stepping back into the dining room, he'd excused himself by telling Rosie he'd needed to use the bathroom. Hurrying into the nearby library, he'd quickly called the van's number and gave the information to Hannibal. He'd hated having to take such a risk, calling the guys from Profetti's own home, but knowing Hannibal would need every second to formulate a plan, he'd taken the chance that he wouldn't be caught. Hurrying back to the dining room, he'd realized Profetti had already returned. Face had quickly returned to his own chair beside Rosie, and resumed his dinner as if nothing had happened. An hour later, the three had retired to the sitting room for coffee. Eager to leave as quickly as possible, but without arousing suspicion, Face had yawned "discreetly" and had risen to leave. Rosie had gotten up to walk him to the door, and Profetti had shaken his hand, warmly. Exchanging a gentle, but heartfelt kiss, "Robert" had bid Rosie a good night and headed down the sidewalk to his car.

Just as he'd been about to open the car door, a voice behind him had caused him to jump and turn around quickly. Standing there had been Joseph Profetti. "Robert, I wanted to speak with you alone, if you don't mind?" he'd asked pleasantly. Face had agreed, and they'd walked over to a nearby bench and sat down. The warm breeze he'd felt earlier seemed to have disappeared, and a sharp, chilling wind had replaced it. Preparing to feel a bullet tear into his chest at any second, he'd instead sat and listened, as Profetti talked about the village in Italy where he was born and had grown up, and all that he had built after coming to this country. Becoming more nervous as each moment passed, Face had prayed that whatever was coming, would be over with soon. He'd never enjoyed waiting... especially for death.

END PART 4