The GPS directional compass swivels as the black SUV speeds along heading south on Route 25 from Denver.  A red dot lights up on the screen. The occupant of the passenger seat dials into the voicemail of the cell phone he holds.  A few seconds later a woman's voice comes over the Bluetooth system.

"George, I been calling you all afternoon.  We need to talk.  I'm still in Colorado but I'll be back in Boston by tomorrow afternoon.  I need you to lock down everything in my office and at my apartment.  Get all the files. Everything.  Put them...somewhere safe.  Oh, don't forget to give Schrödinger his insulin shot.

George, it's incredible.  I...

I want to tell you more but..

Just call me as soon as possible"

When the message finishes the passenger quickly presses speed dial and waits for an answer.

A man's deep, accented voice fills the vehicle's interior.

"Speak."

"My Lord.  We have her location.  We are headed there now."

"Excellent.  Take her alive."

"As you command my Lord."

______________________________________

This isn't a date.  At least that is what Samantha Carter keeps telling herself as she roots through her sparse cosmetics bag trying to find the lip gloss she knows she had left in it.

No, she was definitely not meeting Jack O'Neill in 20 minutes for a date.  He was taking her to a bar, for beers with a dozen or more other people.  It's not a date when you're with other people. 

Besides, she thinks, I don't even like this guy. For one thing, he's military.  There, done, nothing else to say.  Oh and he is so full of himself.  He can't seem to find a comb. And he slouches. Of course, he is taller that you.  How often do you get to actually look up at guy?  Oh, that guy Mark and Marilyn paired you with at there wedding.  What was his name...Pa- Peter? Ugh.  I would have worn flats if I had known that the heels would afford me a view of his desperado hairline.  It must have been runnin' for the border since he hit puberty.

Finding the lip gloss Sam turns to the bathroom mirror.  Before she can get the gloss to her lips her face turns ashen.  This is what I'm wearing!?

All her workout bag contained was a pair of jeans, a sports bar that while making her daily 15 miles runs more comfortable, did nothing for the girls, and a worn Stanford University t-shirt.

It was while she stands dumbly staring at her image that she hears a loud rap on the door of her motel room.

Stepping out of the bathroom she looks over at the bedside clock as she walks to the door.

He's early.

Opening the door she repeats her thought out loud, "You're earl-"

Three seconds.  That's all it takes.  One second for her eyes to communicate to her brain that the person standing before her was not Jack O'Neill.  The next second for her brain to send to her mouth its only response,

 "George?"

In the third second she experiences, as it was later explain to her, being zatted.