The roiling blue of the Stargate wormhole reached out hungrily, consuming anything that came close to its grasp.
But the personnel of Stargate Command by now were used to the ways of the alien technology, and ready to cope. Technicians gave the event horizon plenty of space, monitoring the energy emissions, checking the point of origin and a dozen other details that could turn from mundane to lethal in a heartbeat. Klaxons blared, and armed men in flack jackets hustled into the Embarkation Room to take a ready stance, helmets down and weapons up and looking for trouble to wander in.
"Incoming travelers," echoed through the room, courtesy of the loudspeaker. The troops prepared themselves. The closed iris would protect them from most--but not all--of their enemies. Then--
"Code for SG-3," came the reassuring announcement, and the armed men relaxed. But only barely. The iris whirled open.
"Stay awake, people." It was General George Hammond, in the control room, safely behind three inches of plate glass and wishing for the fortieth time--and that was today alone--that command would allow him to be down on the main floor brandishing a weapon with his men. "They may be coming in hot."
It was not an idle observation. SG-11 had been the original reconnaissance team and when they were overdue, the marines of SG-3 and -6 were sent in to investigate.
A battered body and a tersely worded ransom demand was all that returned.
George Hammond was not a man to throw good money after bad, and had accustomed himself to making far more hard decisions than any man should. But neither was he a leader who would leave any man under his command behind if there was anything he could do about it.
SG-1 went in.
Hammond forced himself to relax the knuckles that had turned white on the back of Davis' chair as the results trickled out from the blue event horizon: tired men, dirty and limping but intact. One fondled the railing of the embarkation ramp as if he'd never thought he'd ever see it again, and another looked as though falling to his knees and kissing the floor would be an appropriate gesture of relief. Hammond counted: all of SG-3. All of SG-6. Yes, all of SG-11 as well. And, finally, SG-1. Major Carter was first, her P-90 held casually across her chest in readiness but no sign that their departure from P29J4-2 was anything but planned. Dr. Daniel Jackson came through next, the blue flood releasing him only reluctantly and followed by Teal'c and Colonel O'Neill, the latter limping and pretending that he wasn't holding onto the Jaffa's shoulder in order to keep his knee from dumping him to the floor. The Stargate closed.
All of them. All four teams, back and safe. Hammond looked forward to the de-briefing that he feared he might never hold. He leaned over the microphone. "Welcome home, people."
The next phrase from Hammond's lips halted as Major Urbanecek of SG-6 straightened himself with an effort, still on the ramp with most of the returnees. Urbanecek pulled his tattered uniform tight in a semblance of dignity.
"Atten-hut!"
Hammond stared. Damned if every single member of SG-3, -6, and -11 didn't hoist themselves up tall. Some clutched at the railing of the ramp to keep from toppling over, another surreptitiously used a team mate to help hold his head up high, but every single man there snapped a crisp salute and held it, eyes riveted on one Dr. Daniel Jackson.
Urbanecek pushed himself forward, his own salute as military as if he were facing his Commander in Chief. "On behalf on my men, and of SG-6 and -11, I'd like to thank you, Dr. Jackson, for our lives. You and the rest of SG-1."
"I--" Daniel looked around, blushing to the roots of his fair hair.
O'Neill grinned, and pushed him forward to receive the accolade. "You earned it, Daniel."
"You kicked their ass, Dr. J!" one man called out.
Daniel looked around helplessly, the red creeping up past his ears as he, civilian specialist and geek extraordinaire, accepted the tribute of over a dozen grateful Marines.
* * *
In a room located some hundred miles north of the impromptu celebration of Stargate homecoming sat a group of men. Looking at them individually and as a group would invite no comment; simply a small gathering of like-minded men together to discuss plans for some business venture or perhaps even a joint fishing trip. They sat around a large table, the excess chairs dumped with overcoats that protected each wearer from the chill September air. Refilled coffee cups sat in front of each. Only one took his coffee light.
The man in charge plunged the room into semi-darkness, and adjusted the picture on the wall, bringing it into sharp focus. The entrance to a military base dug into the side of a mountain sprang into clear relief, the soldiers on duty frozen in an instant of time. The camera had caught a hawk in mid-flight over the parking lot, looking fruitlessly for a mouse or something larger to bring back to its nest. A dusting of red and yellow leaves edged the road beyond the base.
"Cheyenne Mountain Base," he instructed the group. "Nominally Air Force, but all the armed services have contributed personnel and hearsay evidence suggests that the general in charge of this endeavor reports almost straight to the President and not many levels in between. That would be George Hammond, a man decorated in `Nam for bravery and several not so well-known accomplishments thereafter. The word is that he could have retired years ago and had his pick of plum jobs in industry. Obviously he has not, was hand-picked to head up this operation. This is one clever officer to steer clear of, gentlemen. He is the link between the base and Washington. His job is to make sure that the base has enough reams of paper and coffee on hand, and keep the in-house geniuses working and productive. That may sound trivial, but my sources say the position is anything but. He is not who we want, and he could be trouble if he gets wind of what's going on."
"Who do we want?" asked one of the shadowy men.
"Let me pull this lecture back a little further." He dodged the question. "The cover story is that these people are involved in a project on deep space telemetry. Amusing, but patently false."
"And the truth is--?"
"Unknown at present. But I have some outside speculators who think that they know what the real story is and that they can profit by this. They're willing to pay to take a gamble on this project."
The shadowy man nudged his neighbor. "I'm thinking we don't need to know who these buyers are. Safer that way." His neighbor nodded his agreement.
"And we don't need to know what they're doing in Cheyenne Mountain, either," the first man informed the men around the table. "That's someone else's problem. Our task is going to be facilitating the re-deployment of three key personnel. Not necessarily with their blessing or approval or that of the military."
He changed the picture of that of an attractive blonde, lithe and slender. "Major Samantha Carter, PhD in astrophysics, military brat with a family history in the Air Force. Super-genius type, had a couple dozen patents to her name about ten years ago, and nothing since. My guess is that the Air Force is keeping wraps on all of her work. Too classified to get them patented. Lives in a little place just outside of town."
"Not even any outside security at her place," an onlooker commented. "Looks easy enough to take down without a problem."
"Don't count on it. I did a little research on our fair major, here, and there's more to this package than you might think. About two years ago she got mugged. Let me re-phrase that: someone tried to mug her. He ended up with a three month stay in a rehab hospital and thinks he got off lightly. Don't underestimate this woman. You'll need to take her out as a group."
The next picture flashed onto the wall: a large dark-skinned man with brown expressive eyes almost over-shadowed by the knitted cap that he wore. The picture was grainy, as though enhanced a few too many times. The features on the man were blurred to the point of being unrecognizable.
"Geez, that the best picture you got? That's crap."
"Yes, this is the best picture we've been able to get. This man rarely appears in public. We've identified him as Dr. Murray Tilk, but there we lose the trail. Given what's going on, my backers think the guy's got a background in some field of physics and is working with Carter on the Cheyenne Mountain project. Like Carter, he probably has a PhD somewhere, although we can't find any trace of him in any college or in any business venture. A recent name change is probably what has muddied the trail, suggesting that this man is upper level expertise. Enough that the military won't let him out of their sight without some high-powered bodyguards to prevent exactly what we're being well-paid to do. Regardless, my backers want him and want him badly. Unharmed, like Carter. Neither one will be worth a nickel if they're damaged goods."
"I don't know," one of the others said doubtfully. "Look at the muscles on this guy."
"Steroids," another scoffed. "Weights. Guy like that, likes kissing his own biceps. Wouldn't know one end of gun from the other. He'll crumble, the first head lock I put on him, go whimpering to mommy." He turned back to the first man. "Anybody else?"
"So glad you asked." Another photo arrived, that of a gray-haired man who looked ramrod stiff in his dress blues, striding across the tarmac, a jet puffing behind him. "The third package that our buyers wish to purchase: Colonel Jonathan O'Neill, recently retired and now hauled out of retirement for this project. This is one wicked-ass man, gentlemen. His service record includes Iraq the first time, some `training' for certain South American government troops on the cocaine routes, and a number of missions so dark that one of my informants got blown out of the water just for asking. Do not, under any circumstances, underestimate this man. If even half the things they say about him are accurate, he could take all six of you down in under thirty seconds and have time for a second cup of coffee. His job is to play bodyguard for Dr. Tilk, which says how highly Dr. Tilk is regarded by the military. Nobody gets a bodyguard like O'Neill without reason. In order to get Dr. Tilk, we have to get O'Neill."
"And these are the folks your people want?" One of the men whistled. "The first babe, okay, but that O'Neill sounds tough to get through, especially if that scientist doesn't come out to play in public where we can get at him. You got a plan on how to get to this Tilk guy? How to get around O'Neill?"
"Fortunately, I do." The last picture arrived on the wall, that of an earnest looking young man with glasses, sandy hair clipped short and blue eyes staring intelligently out at the camera. "Dr. Daniel Jackson, Ph.D. in Archeology and Egyptology. This man is O'Neill's Achilles' heel. Jackson was laughed out of the archeology world with his cockamamie theories of aliens building pyramids and hasn't held a job in his field since. Because he speaks several languages, the Air Force took him on as a translator, to translate the research articles that are pertinent to their project for use by Drs. Carter and Tilk."
"You said Achilles' heel," came the reminder.
"Right. Normally a man of Tilk's importance would have a sergeant or two as a personal assistant. Instead, we think Jackson fills this role; there's some evidence suggesting that O'Neill got him the job. A glorified secretary, if you will. In addition," and the man paused significantly, "we've seen both Jackson and Tilk stay the night at O'Neill's on more than one occasion."
"You think--?"
"'Don't ask, don't tell,'" the first man quoted. "Wouldn't be the first after hours liaison that the brass has overlooked in favor of getting the job done." He dollied in on Jackson's face. "Achilles' heel, gentlemen. The weakest link. Grab this one, and O'Neill will follow like a moth to a flame. And once O'Neill is hooked, we'll have Tilk."
* * *
"You okay to drive, Daniel?" Jack leaned on a pair of crutches outside of Scotty's, searching the archeologist's face for signs of inebriation. "How many beers did you have tonight?"
"Only one, mother." There was no irritation in Daniel's voice. He'd gotten used to Jack's need to mother-hen his team and tried not to let it bother him. Most of the time it didn't. It was Jack's way of saying, `I care' without getting all mushy over it. "Yes, I'm okay to drive. Better than you, in fact, Jack. You've got some of Janet's finest little white pills in you, and a few beers on top of that. Didn't Janet say to take it easy?"
Jack sniffed. "I've got a designated driver. Ready to go, Teal'c?"
The smile the Jaffa gave had a great deal of anticipation in it. "I enjoy piloting your vehicle, O'Neill. More so than DanielJackson's. His vehicle lacks power as well as speed and has neither spaciousness nor luxury to recommend it. The sonic blaster in his vehicle is ineffective."
"Horn, Teal'c. It's called a horn. And it's not a weapon."
"Does it not cause your enemies to alter their course?"
"Well, yes, but--"
"Then it is a weapon. Non-lethal, but a weapon nonetheless." Matter settled. Teal'c folded his arms.
"Okay, just take it easy. Okay, Teal'c? Wouldn't want any of the cops around to try to give you a ticket. Might be a little tough to explain why you don't have a driver's license."
"Then I shall not attempt to explain. I will proceed straight to fisticuffs, as I have observed in your videos."
"Uh, Teal'c..." Jack started to say, when Daniel interrupted, spewing forth several phrases in Goa'uld that sounded instructional in nature.
They were. Teal'c looked startled, then the light of understanding lit his chocolate eyes. "Thank you, DanielJackson. I understand completely and will comply."
Jack looked from one to the other. "Daniel?"
"Just..." Daniel searched for a way to put it in terms that Jack would accept. "Just making a comparison. A little explanation."
He was saved from further discussion by Major Urbanecek and some of his men drifting out after them. The impromptu gathering at the bar was breaking up, and there were a lot of relieved soldiers who had insisted on showing Daniel and the rest of SG-1 just how grateful they were for the events of the past mission.
"Dr. Jackson," Urbanecek said, beer on his breath but appearing perfectly sober, "you don't know how good it feels to be drinking the piss water that passes for beer on good ol' Earth. If there's anything that any of us can do for you--"
"I was just doing my job, Major," Daniel said hurriedly. "You'd do the same for me."
"Yeah, but you haven't trained for this kind of stuff," another chimed in. Danzig wasn't as clear as his team leader and seemed on the verge of a sloppy drunk. Urbanecek, ever the good team leader, deftly relieved him of his car keys. Danzig stumbled on, oblivious to the theft. "You're just a civilian geek, and you sure pulled our fat out of the fire. I was sure we were goners."
Daniel winced. The man meant the term kindly. "It wasn't a situation that called for a military solution, sergeant. That's all."
"That's all, he says." The sergeant from SG-6 turned to his fellows, and then back to Jack, suddenly stone sober as soon as it suited him despite the tears leaking from one eye. The other eye looked close to following suit. "Colonel O'Neill, I and the rest of us would take it as a real favor if you'd give us the honor of going after you the next time you need some help."
Urbanecek nodded in agreement. "We mean it, sir, Dr. Jackson. There are a lot of us going home to the wife and kids tonight because of you."
This had gone on long enough. Daniel looked to Jack, clearly begging for a rescue, and Jack was happy to oblige. "Don't go getting all gushy on us, Major," Jack chided his fellow team leader. "Like Daniel said, it wasn't a situation that called for a military solution. That's why we have Daniel."
"And we don't," Urbanecek mourned. "Dr. Jackson, you ever decide you want a transfer to another team, you come talk to me. We'll pamper you more than Colonel O'Neill ever would. I know this little coffee joint..."
"Watch it, Major," Jack grinned. "That's my civilian you're stealing."
"Jack...!" The message got a little clearer. Daniel wanted an end to this little scene. All this gratitude was getting uncomfortable. Since Jack wasn't responding fast enough to his cry for aid, Daniel seized on another source of distraction. "Sam! Ready to hit the road?"
"All set, Daniel." Sam belted her leather jacket over her civvies. "Colonel, you're sure Teal'c can get you home all right? We can all fit in Daniel's--"
"Don't even suggest it, Carter," Jack said hurriedly, looking disdainfully at Daniel's little foreign economy job that barely qualified as having four seats. He turned to Teal'c. "Home, James."
A frown beneath a black knitted cap. "ColonelO'Neill, my name is Teal'c--"
"I know, I know! Just get the truck, okay?"
* * *
"Thanks for the lift, Daniel. I should get my car back sometime tomorrow." Sam unhooked her seat belt as Daniel pulled smoothly into the driveway in front of her house. The streetlamps were in full bloom, the moon a slender sliver of reflected glory. Gravel crunched under the tires of Daniel's car. "I really didn't expect it to go on so long at Scotty's. SG-11 can be pretty rowdy when they get going."
"I know what you mean," Daniel chuckled. "For a moment there I thought that Schmidt was going to start crying into his beer."
"No, he started crying into my beer," Sam giggled. "Ruined the flavor. Hey, who's that?" she wondered as a long dark sedan pulled up behind them, blocking the driveway.
"Idiots--" Daniel started to say. "How am I supposed to get out--"
"Daniel, down!" Sam caught on a lot faster than the civilian did. Something shattered the windshield, and Daniel yelped in dismay, dusting off the shards of glass.
"Move!" Carter yelled, ramming into high gear. She shoved her house keys at Daniel. "Get to the house and call for back up! I'll cover you! Move!" She wrenched the car door open and shoulder-rolled out onto the lawn, not waiting to see if her team mate followed her instructions. Her revolver, hastily pulled from her purse, snapped into position and she fired a couple of rounds at the men advancing on her.
One went down, screaming.
"Get her!" another yelled. "Shoot!"
Carter ran for the side of the house for cover, pulling as many assailants away with her, seeing Daniel huddled at the front door of her house fumbling with the keys. She willed him to hurry. She fired off another round one-handed, not hitting anyone but making them keep their distance.
"Shoot! Shoot!"
Carter felt a sudden burn in her shoulder. What? The burn spread, and her thoughts turned foggy.
What? She pulled a small feathered dart from her shoulder.
Crap.
* * *
Daniel turned the doorknob just as they reached him. One of the men grabbed his shoulder; Daniel's hard won lessons in self-defense at the hands of Jack and Teal'c came into play, and he reached over and around and yanked.
The arm came out of its socket. An odd feeling, Daniel thought crazily, knowing that he had just caused the startled gasp of pain. Jack was right. That move does work. He lashed out with a kick, intending to force them back so that he could get inside and call for help.
The two remaining men were expecting that. After Daniel's unanticipated demonstration of skill, they changed their tactics. One blocked, and swept Daniel's feet out from under him. The other pounced on him, shoving his arm around Daniel's windpipe and his other pulling back an arm. A knee in the small of his back, and the capture was complete.
"You little SOB," the man with the dislocated arm snarled. "You weren't supposed to give us any trouble." He kicked Daniel in the head.
The lights went out. The last thing Daniel heard was, "ease up, Red. We need him--"
* * *
It took more than a couple of Frasier's little white pills to completely knock Jack out, and a couple of beers on top of it still wasn't enough, which was why O'Neill was awake and sober by the time the phone on his nightstand completed its third ring. That, and a certain amount of training left over from his Black Ops days that had left him on a permanent state of alert.
First things first: the time. 0237, in bright red digital numbers. Possibly a crank call, but also the time of night when the most disastrous problems arose, usually necessitating a fast trip into the SGC. His knee barked at him; O'Neill would need to haul his designated driver Teal'c out of kel'no'reem if he needed to go anywhere. That was okay; anywhere they needed Colonel O'Neill, they'd probably need Teal'c as well.
O'Neill felt ready. He leaned over and picked up the handset. "O'Neill." With a this better be good growl.
"Colonel?"
"Carter?" He sat up. Carter wouldn't call him on a whim. Not at this hour.
Her voice was replaced by a rough male one. "Colonel O'Neill, listen very carefully. We have Major Carter, and we have your little boy Jackson. We know that Dr. Tilk is spending the night at your house. We saw him go in, and he hasn't left yet. Hope you're enjoying yourselves."
"Who?"
"Don't play games, O'Neill. Dr. Murray Tilk, the scientist who is spending the night at your home. The same guy who spends most of his time on the base. The two of you have fifteen minutes to get dressed, get into your truck, and go to the pay phone on the corner of Main and Lexington. Do you know how hard it is to find a working pay phone these days? Damn phone companies think the entire world has gone cellular," the voice added conversationally. Then: "don't be late. And don't call for back up. You won't like the consequences." The man abruptly hung up.
O'Neill contemplated the call for less than two seconds then yelled, "Teal'c!"
* * *
Teal'c jerked the truck to a halt in front of the pay phone which stood outside an all night diner. O'Neill jumped out, crutches in hand, cursing as his bad knee refused to cooperate. He swung the crutches into position, hobbling over to the pay phone and snatching it up on the first ring.
"O'Neill." Out of breath. Teal'c at his back.
"You made it. Good."
"Where's Carter and Daniel?" O'Neill snarled. "What do you want? Let me talk to them."
"Not yet. Drive north on Route 73. Start now and stick exactly to the speed limit. And turn your cell phone on. You'll be contacted."
"Wait!" O'Neill jumped in. "Let me talk to them!"
"Did you call Cheyenne Mountain?"
"No," O'Neill lied. "There wasn't time."
"Liar. Start driving. You'll be contacted shortly." Click.
O'Neill looked angrily at Teal'c. "Get back in the truck. We've got our itinerary set out for us." He set the crutches under his arms, hustling. Damn rotten timing for his knee to be out. He needed all of his parts in working order, not just his head.
"MajorCarter and DanielJackson?"
"I don't know," O'Neill was forced to admit. "But this doesn't sound like a joke. And I'm not laughing." He hoisted himself back into the passenger cab of his truck, pulling the crutches in after.
* * *
"What are you doing!" the man in charge bellowed, coming back into the warehouse. The facility was large, but packed with boxes in all four corners and stray wires and nails littering the floor. Four small windows dotted the sides, small enough not to allow much in the way of starlight to enter, and the inhabitants compensated with overhead fluorescent lighting. There was a skylight, but it too was opaque as befitted an opening used only to hoist large crates through. One side of the building had been caged off, probably to protect the supervisors from disgruntled employees. The man in charge felt a certain empathy for those long gone managers as he yelled, "Leave her alone! You want to ruin everything?"
"I wasn't gonna hurt her. Just find out a little about the Cheyenne project."
"You call this not hurting her?" The man in charge pulled Sam up by the arm. Her ripped sleeve dangled, and the rest of her came with it, held fast by ropes around her wrists. "What about this?" he yelled, indicating the fast darkening bruise on Sam's cheek.
"That was her. She fell when I grabbed her."
The man sent up a silent prayer for patience. He pointed to Sam. "Let me make this very plain, so that even you can understand. This one: hands off. She's worth a lot of money to us. That one--" and he pointed at Daniel staring at them from the cage in the corner, "is the one that I am going to use as a lever on O'Neill, so I don't want you touching him, either. Not until I tell you to. Clear?"
"I--"
"Clear?"
"I just--"
"Hell." His patience blew. He took out a pistol and shot his errant underling twice in the stomach. The man's mouth opened, but nothing emerged but the last gasp of life and he toppled over onto the cold cement floor.
"Stupid SOB." The man in charge wrenched Sam to her feet. "Take note, major. Do as I say, and do it immediately. Don't cross me. Clear?"
"Clear." Sam, not as stupid as the late kidnapper, had learned from the episode.
"Good. Get back inside the cage." He shoved her toward the fenced in area where Daniel stood, hands clenched on the bars, unable to do anything. He next pointed at Daniel. "You. Get out here."
"Leave him alone!" Sam demanded. "You don't need him. He's only a translator," she argued, building on what she'd already learned. These men had done their homework, but were receiving a failing grade for content. A lot of the information they'd gotten was just plain wrong. Maybe she could persuade them to let Daniel leave. "Let him go."
"Not a chance, major. I've got plans for your little secretary. Tell me, do you like him as much as O'Neill does?"
"What do you mean?" Sam asked nervously.
But the man in charge had already moved on. He pushed Daniel into the center of the warehouse, training his gun on the man. Sam sawed at the ropes tying her hands together, hoping to get free.
"Stand there," the man ordered Daniel, pulling out his cell phone. Keeping his eye on Daniel and the gun cocked, he dialed a number that Sam recognized even from a distance. The voice over the line echoed in the cavernous warehouse.
"O'Neill."
"Pull over."
"Why? Where are you? Let me talk--"
"Pull over now or you'll be delivering a eulogy."
"All right!"
They could hear the crunching of stones beneath the truck as Teal'c pulled off the road, the sounds coming clearly over the air waves.
"Good. Now toss your cell out the window."
"What?"
"O'Neill, the next time you make me repeat myself, your little bitch here is going to regret it. I'm not going to have anyone trace the damn call. Throw it away!"
A quiet crash, and the line went dead. The man in charge leered at Daniel. "Lucky for you O'Neill knows how to follow orders."
Sam didn't know how the archeologist did it, but Daniel pulled himself a little taller, giving himself that slight edge. The bruise on his temple looked ugly, but his voice was clear. "You don't know how much trouble you're in right now. I seriously suggest that you untie us both and start running before they get here. I may be able to persuade Jack not to kill you when he finds you."
"Jack, is it? Listen, little man." The man in charge was not amused. "The only reason you're still alive right now is because you're O'Neill's favorite little bed warmer." Daniel blinked. That was news to him. "You are O'Neill's Achilles' heel, the weakest link in the chain of the Cheyenne Mountain project." He gestured, his cell phone still in his hand. "If I were you, I'd be hoping that O'Neill doesn't decide to move back to dating women. Other than that, you're worthless. I need the scientists from the Cheyenne Mountain Project, not their pretty little secretaries. So when I tell you to beg, I want you to be making so much love to O'Neill over the phone that he'll get here faster than the speed of whatever it is that he and the major here and Dr. Tilk are working on. Get it?"
* * *
Someone pulled open O'Neill's car door. A red-headed man with one arm in a sling and brandishing a cell phone pushed O'Neill over along the bench seat and settled on the car seat beside him. "Drive."
"I take it you're our new tour guide?" O'Neill inquired, sizing him up. One-armed bandit, a Beretta with the safety on snapped into a shoulder holster and with absolutely no appearance of nerves. This was a man who didn't care if O'Neill punched him out because he had an ace in the hole. Two, actually: Carter and Daniel.
Red was unimpressed with O'Neill's sense of humor. He held his own cell up in the air. "I will be checking in every ten minutes. If I don't check in, you will be out one pretty little secretary."
"If you injure either MajorCarter or DanielJack--"
"I'm making the threats here," Red told Teal'c, "and the phone calls. You drive."
"Obviously our new friend here believes in safe driving habits," O'Neill mentioned to Teal'c, sarcasm hanging out in the wind to dry. "No talking on the phone and driving at the same time. Did you bring your hands-free option?"
Red ignored him and punched in the numbers. O'Neill tried to follow what he was doing, but only made it to the first four digits. Red spoke quietly. "I'm here. Everything's fine. O'Neill's mouth is working."
"Let me talk to my people," O'Neill butted in.
"Wouldn't have it any other way." Red handed the phone over.
"Carter? Daniel?"
"Jack?"
"Daniel? You and Carter all right?"
"A little dented but okay," Daniel assured him. "Is `Dr. Tilk' with you?"
"I am here, DanielJackson."
"Good. This guy here wants me to plead for our lives. Consider it done." Then Daniel spoke swiftly in Goa'uld. "We're being held in a large building on the outskirts of a small town; I don't know the name. Sam says we drove for a little more than two hours to get here. The sign outside the building said Tractor Repair--" he shouted the last as the phone was pulled from him.
The rough voice came back on. "Colonel O'Neill, it is clearly past time to demonstrate the consequences of displeasing me. Despite my warning, you called for back up before leaving your home, then you lied about it. That did you no good, since we moved you along too quickly for your people to catch up with you, and we both know it. Now your little bitch here is trying to pass on information; again, useless in your present circumstances. I think that calls for a demonstration. There will be no further incidents."
"If you hurt either one of them, I'll track you down--"
"Are the irons hot enough?" The man spoke to one of his compatriots, but the message was clearly aimed at O'Neill. "Good. Hold him down. Get his boots off." The man's voice became clearer; he now spoke directly into the phone. "Did you know, colonel, that the sole of the foot has over five hundred nerve endings?"
"Don't do this--"
"Jack, don't give in!" Daniel shouted. "No matter what, don't--"
It started as a grunt, a man in pain, trying to hold it inside. Jack and Teal'c heard Sam in the background, shrieking at the men to stop. The grunt built to an agonized groan of despair, then abruptly cut off.
"Daniel!" Jack whispered.
"Well, well," the man said over the phone in a deliberately conversational tone. "Who would have thought that he would pass out so quickly? The little wimp. Guess the big strong colonel likes his pansies weak." Then his voice turned rough again. "Don't cross me, O'Neill. Do as you're told." He severed the connection.
"Daniel!" Jack turned on Red, holding out the phone. "Get him back!"
"Ten minutes," Red smirked, and leaned over to speak to Teal'c. "I'd push the speed limit, if I were you. That was just the beginning for your boy toy."
* * *
Daniel huddled on the cold floor, shuddering, head held in his hands, blood seeping from where he'd bitten through his lip. Red burns stood out angrily on the soles of his bare feet.
"Do that again," the man in charge snarled, "and you're a dead man. You say what you're told to say, and no more. In English." For good measure, he kicked Daniel in the ribs. Daniel cried out and rolled to try to get away.
"Let him alone!" Sam yelled. "I told him to do it! Hurt me if you need to punish someone!"
He glared at her. "Too much noise, and I'll gag and hogtie you, bitch." He turned back to Daniel. "Move, and you're dead. Understand?"
Daniel nodded. The floor was frigid but lying here trying to regain his addled wits sounded like a very good idea. Sweat beaded off of him.
"What did you tell him? What language?"
Daniel thought fast; not an easy task under the circumstances. "Swahili."
"O'Neill doesn't speak Swahili."
"'Dr. Tilk' does." Daniel swallowed hard. The pain in his feet was making him nauseous. He closed his eyes, and still flashes of light darted here and there, setting off fresh waves of agony. "Tilk..." He felt a booted foot prod his ribs and roll him over, and that set his stomach off. He erupted onto the floor.
"Dammit." The boots backed off. "Lie there," the man in charge growled. "Don't move."
Not a problem. Just go about your business. I'll just lie here and pretend that I'm not alive any more.
* * *
Teal'c's face was set in his usual impassive stare. O'Neill wondered what is was that Daniel had told him. He'd recognized the Goa'uld and cheered silently. Of all the languages that could possibly have been used, it was the one that Daniel's and Carter's captors couldn't possibly have understood unless they were somehow connected with Stargate Command or the NID and probably not even then. That narrowed the playing field down and gave O'Neill a better hint of what they were dealing with: not NID or Stargate Command. There were plenty of people out there with a grudge against a certain colonel, but Daniel had single-handedly eliminated almost a third of them.
Rough Voice Guy himself had also cut down the number that it could be. The voice had referred to Daniel as if he and O'Neill were an item. That in itself was ridiculous, and anyone who knew O'Neill well enough to hate him knew that. And Daniel hadn't argued, which meant that he and Carter were playing along, stalling for time. O'Neill agreed; the pair were on the spot, with better intel. O'Neill would be guided by their actions for the time being. If he could only get Teal'c away from Red, here, he'd find out more from what Daniel actually said. O'Neill had no doubt that Daniel had given out a lot more information on how to get the entire team out, hopefully in one piece.
He shifted uncomfortably; his knee ached abominably. Frasier's magic pills had worn off hours ago. Not that he wanted more drugs. He needed his mind clear. But hobbling after these kidnappers was not in the best O'Neill form, and poking at them with crutches lacked flair.
Of course, get Sam and Daniel out of this mess, and Jack wouldn't care if he had to ask the Man in the Moon for help.
Red checked his watch, poking under the sling to look at it. "Time to check in," he said with excessive cheerfulness when they heard a siren behind them. Red saw the lights blinking behind them and cursed. "What the hell do you think you're trying to pull?"
"You instructed me to proceed swiftly."
"Not get pulled over by the cops!" Red thought fast. "No funny stuff, understand? Be polite, apologize, and accept the ticket without giving the cop a hard time. Where you're headed, you're not going to have to worry about paying it."
"That's going to be a little difficult." Jack was just as dismayed at this turn of events as the kidnapper. "Teal'c doesn't have a license."
"What!" Red ground his teeth. This was not going according to anyone's plans. "Shit. What the hell is he doing driving? O'Neill, you talk that cop out of this, or he's a dead man in blue. Hear me?"
"I hear you. Teal'c, roll down your window."
The officer strolled up, shining his flashlight into the car, focusing first on Teal'c in his black knitted cap, then O'Neill, then Red. Three men in a pick up truck, one with a wool cap and the other with a sling and all three looking grim at three in the morning: Jack would have been surprised if the cop wasn't suspicious and had a hand on his service revolver. "Where's the fire--" the officer started to say.
O'Neill didn't let the man finish. "National Security, officer. Colonel Jack O'Neill, United States Air Force. This is an urgent matter." He held up his identification. Officer, you don't know how urgent. Just turn around and walk away before someone gets hurt.
"Oh, really? I've heard that one before, colonel. Late getting back to the base, are we?"
Jack ground his teeth. Didn't the man know that O'Neill was trying to save his life? "Officer, I'm aware we were speeding. As I said, this is a national security matter. This is not a game, and this is not a joke. If you'll just let us be on our way--"
"Stay here." The officer was going to be a hard ass. "If your ID checks out, you can be on your way in a moment or two." He turned to go back to his car.
"Hell," Red said. "Damn fool." He hopped out of the truck, crossed around the front, and shot the officer in the back. Then he jumped back into the cab, the reek of gunpowder drifting in after him. "Drive."
"You shot him!" O'Neill yelled.
"Yeah. And I'll shoot you in the other knee if Dr. Tilk doesn't get moving. We're late for this call, O'Neill." He punched in the number swiftly and spoke. "Yeah, we had some trouble. We got pulled over by a cop for speeding. No, he was going to ID O'Neill here, but I stopped that idea. What? Okay." Red handed the phone to O'Neill. "He wants to talk to you."
O'Neill accepted the phone warily. "O'Neill."
"I warned you what would happen if there was any trouble. Now listen very carefully."
The bang echoed in every corner of the truck. Jack froze. He knew that sound. It was the sound of a gunshot. And it was followed by a scream. "Carter? Daniel?"
* * *
The man in charge held the phone out toward Sam still captive behind the bars of the cage in the warehouse. Her hands were white-knuckled, her eyes glued to the man lying still on the floor.
"Talk to him. And say the right things, major. I'm not in a patient mood."
Sam swallowed hard. Her voice wobbled. "Colonel?"
"Carter?"
"He's...he's still alive, sir. He... They shot Daniel, sir."
The man in charge jerked the phone away. "That's right, O'Neill. I just shot your little snook'ums in the gut. He's bleeding, but not too badly. I tried to stay away from the good parts. But it does demonstrate just how serious I am. Another stunt like the one with the cop, and the next bullet will take off parts of him that you're probably very fond of. I hope I've made myself clear." He snapped the cell phone shut without waiting for an answer, shoving the instrument into his pocket. "Duke, get the van ready. They'll be here within thirty minutes."
Sam clutched the bars of her cage. All she could see was the crumpled form lying on the cold cement. "Please let me help him."
"No."
"Please," Carter begged. "He needs medical attention. I've had training as a medic; let me go to him."
The man in charge reconsidered. "All right. But take notice, major. I need you; you're worth a lot of money to me alive. If you make one wrong move, I'll put a bullet through your kneecap. And that won't affect your monetary value one iota."
* * *
"Pull over," Red ordered.
"Why?"
"I'm driving this last leg," Red informed Jack and Teal'c. "Unless you want to make an issue of it?" He dangled the cell phone tauntingly.
"Your arm is injured. It will impair your efficiency."
"Won't make a difference. Or would you like to take this argument to the boss?"
Jack breathed through his teeth. "Let the Wookiee win, Teal'c. Let him drive."
"Very well, O'Neill." Teal'c pulled over, declining to question his team leader on the obscure Tau're reference.
Red slipped into the driver's seat, opening the cell phone as he did so. "So far, so good," he reported to the unseen voice calling the shots. He listened a moment.
"Let me talk to Carter," Jack insisted.
"Boss?" Receiving permission, Red held out the cell phone to Jack, smirking. "It's getting pretty touching over there. Your boy isn't doing too good. He's losing a lot more blood than they thought he would. Your little Major chick is starting to get hysterical. Women do that, don't they? Even military chicks. You ever boff her when your little archeologist friend is out of town? Just for the variety? Bet she feels real good when you get her hot. Or maybe you leave her for Dr. Chocolate, here." Teal'c's fingers started digging holes in the seat cushion. But the Jaffa kept silent.
Jack ignored the taunts. He put the phone to his ear. "Carter? How's Daniel?"
But it was the man in charge who spoke. "He's alive. Whether he will stay that way is up to you, colonel. After you surrender yourselves to me I will permit you to call 911. That's assuming that you cooperate fully. I suggest you hurry."
There was some groaning in the background, and Carter's voice on top of that. "Keep breathing, Daniel. That was a bullet from a .38. It's not too large; they don't have anything bigger. Please, let me have some of those blankets," she pleaded to the man in charge. "Those crates from the Honduras have blocked the wind from getting in, but he's still too cold. I think he's going into shock."
Thanks, Carter, O'Neill thought to himself. Just a couple of pistols, no automatic weaponry to worry about. Keep that info coming, Major. If I can get to a phone without Red hanging on my every word, I'll have someone look up where crates from the Honduras might be stored.
Daniel could just barely be heard. O'Neill held the phone away from his ear slightly so that Teal'c could hear as well: Daniel was putting out words in Goa'uld in between each moan, the syllables nothing but gasped nonsense sounds to his captors. Way to go, Daniel!
"I'm sure you can hear that they are both alive," the rough voice said. "In fact, it sounds like Major Carter is suggesting that you proceed with extreme haste. I advise you to listen to her."
That's not all she's telling us, you son of a--
* * *
"Please," Sam begged from inside the cage. "At least give me some bandages for him. A blanket. He's cold. He's going into shock."
The man in charge looked her over very carefully. "I am willing to consider a trade. Information for a blanket."
"No. I can't give you that."
He shrugged. "Your decision. Just some very basic information. What is the purpose of the Cheyenne Mountain project?" He gestured to the pile of coarse packing blankets tossed carelessly in the corner of the warehouse. "Your choice."
"Deep space telemetry. I swear, that's the truth."
"Try again. Your acting isn't that good."
"Plea--" Sam interrupted herself, closing her eyes in anguish. "All right. We're building a weapon that will be years ahead of anything else imaginable."
"Details, major."
"It's a satellite. That's where my expertise comes in. I'm an astrophysicist." Stick to the truth as much as possible. That's what O'Neill had taught her. Makes it easier to keep your stories straight.
"Very good." The man in charge picked up a blanket and dangled it tantalizingly in front of her, just out of reach. "You're almost there. What does the satellite do?"
"It's a weapon. A super-powered laser, that uses light directly from the sun. It concentrates it, and will be able to aim it at any point on Earth. Give me the blanket," Sam begged.
"Not yet. What about Dr. Tilk? What is his contribution?"
"Optics," Sam said immediately. "He developed the laser. Without him, there would be no weapon."
"And O'Neill? He's not just a bodyguard for Dr. Tilk. That's a given, despite what people have been told. My buyers wouldn't be spending that kind of money for someone they didn't have a direct use for."
Sam blinked. This bunch was off-base by a country mile. O'Neill, a bodyguard? Teal'c needing one? She thought fast. "Colonel O'Neill's area of expertise is getting the two parts of the weapon married with tactical ballistics. There's a lot of technology involved in getting the laser hooked onto the satellite, and deciding the orbit it needs to be in for optimum effectiveness. His expertise is invaluable. Please give me the blanket. And bandages."
"One thing at a time." The man in charge handed the blanket through the bars. "Amazing that a man can get as high up as O'Neill and still keep his affair with his little secretary under wraps. Though I suppose it helps that Tilk makes it a mnage a troi. Frustrating for you, isn't it, Major? All those men around, and none of them want you? Idiots."
Sam bit her lip.
"Just goes to show how far this man's army can sink." He looked up. "I used to be in the military, you know. Before I went independent."
Just goes to show how far this man's army can sink. But Sam kept her thoughts to herself, tucking the hard-won blanket around her team mate, shielding him from the view of the kidnappers outside the steel bars. It wasn't much, but it was all she could do at the moment. She bit her lip at the sight of the blood still oozing sluggishly from the ugly black hole in his side. "It's all right, Daniel. The colonel is almost here."
"Good," Daniel muttered, keeping his eyes closed. "Here." He handed over the slender pieces of wire that he'd managed to hang onto while being dragged back into the cell. There were several of them, littering the warehouse floor. It didn't look like a weapon, but he had confidence in his team mate. Another O'Neill lesson came to mind: when you're a prisoner, take everything. You never know what will come in handy. "Sam, how many men have you seen?"
"Four, including that bastard out there. He's already shot and killed one of his own people. Why?"
"Next phone call, Jack's going to insist on talking to one of us. Given the circumstances, it's probably going to be you. Tell him fo'ahim to'ol."
Sam repeated it quietly, so that the man in charge couldn't hear. "What does it mean?"
Daniel smiled, and closed his eyes. "That there are four of them, and that they are second-class warriors. Teal'c will understand."
* * *
"Give me that!" Red snatched the phone back from Jack. "You want to get your boy killed? What was that phrase that the bitch used? What did it mean?"
Jack steeled himself. It helped that he didn't know what Sam had told him in Goa'uld. Teal'c would, but Red didn't know that. Red had been told that O'Neill was the dangerous one, the one to watch. To Red, `Dr. Tilk' was just another hapless civilian scientist geek, like Daniel used to be. "You have very little to threaten me with," he told Red. "Daniel is already as good as dead. And your people won't kill Carter. Shut up and keep driving. Get this over with so I can rip out your other arm and feed it to you with a spoon."
"I give the orders, O'Neill. Remember that." Red pushed on the gas pedal. "Your boy isn't dead yet."
"You go this fast, you'll have another cop breathing down your neck."
"Shut up." Red risked a look away from the dark night road. "I have a license. And we're behind schedule."
"Every cop in this state is looking for this truck by now," Jack pointed out. "And they won't be satisfied to simply ask you nicely to pull over. They'll shoot my truck full of so many holes that a full body job and new paint won't touch it."
"In about ten minutes, that won't be a problem." Red refused to let Jack get under his skin.
"Look out!"
The three point white-tailed deer that darted out in front of the truck never had a chance. Neither did Red. The truck hit the buck a glancing blow, and the deer went spinning off onto the side of the road. The truck caught a tire on a boulder on the same side, slewed around, and rolled.
* * *
"Get her out here!" the man in charge yelled at his two underlings. "What did you tell O'Neill? What damn language was that? Get her out of the cell!"
The dark-haired one yanked on the bars. "It's stuck."
"Un-stick it, idiot."
He swore. "She jammed the lock."
"What?"
"She stuck something in there. She jammed the lock!"
The man in charge added another curse. Sam could see what was going through the man's mind--his plan was going to hell in a hand basket. Fast. O'Neill's party was late with their next call, information was being passed between captives, and now they couldn't extract the one asset that they thought they had in their possession: Carter.
He pulled out his pistol and aimed it through the bars. "I told you not to cross me, major. Your boy there is going suffer the consequences."
Sam knelt in front of Daniel, hands on hips, blocking him from the man in charge and giving him a large target of herself to aim at. "Go ahead. But you'll have to go through me. Literally, buddy. Shoot me, and see your retirement fund go up in smoke. You want that?" And held her breath.
The man glared, then uttered an exclamation of fury. He rounded on his helpers. "You. You've got ten minutes. Get a pair of bolt cutters. O'Neill and Tilk will be here in twenty, and we need to be ready to go."
"Where am I going to get bolt cutters at this hour? It's four in the morning!"
"I don't need them bought and paid for. Just get some. There's a hardware store in town. Hurry."
* * *
O'Neill slowly pulled himself up to a sitting position. His knee throbbed even more. The rest of him wasn't too great. Stupid kidnapper.
He looked around. He'd been thrown from the cab of the truck, and, by the looks of it, his exit had been through the shattered front windshield. The truck itself lay on its side with the radiator hissing its heat off into the cool of the night. He felt for the sudden pain at his forehead and brought his hand back down with blood. "Crap."
"ColonelO'Neill."
Good. Teal'c was up and around, which meant a big plus for the good guys.
"Over here," he called back. "You okay, big guy?"
"I am well, O'Neill. My symbiote has already repaired the damage. Our `tour guide' however, is not."
Pit of the stomach time. "He's not?"
"Indeed. He is dead. The deer has run off."
"Best off of all of us. Bully for Mother Nature." O'Neill allowed Teal'c to help him stand up, balancing on one leg and looking around for the crutches. One of them was bent, the other intact. "How the hell are we going to get to where Carter and Daniel are? Where's the damn cell phone?"
Teal'c looked grim, even more so than usual. "Crushed and inoperative. There is no method for contacting MajorCarter's and DanielJackson's kidnappers."
"Crap." Jack could feel this whole scenario sliding off the deep end, taking his stomach and the ice cubes in his blood with it. Then something caught his attention. "What's that I hear?"
"Engines, O'Neill." Jaffa hearing was more acute than a human's. "A number of vehicles are approaching at great speed." He cocked his head, listening further. "As well as an airborne craft. I believe it may be a helicopter."
"Crap again. State police, looking for a murderer. Who is conveniently dead, but they don't know that. How much you want to bet that Colorado's finest will think that we did it?" What else could go wrong? They so did not have time for this, not to mention a very realistic possibility that Colorado's men in blue would be in the mood to shoot first and ask questions later. He wouldn't blame them, but the time needed to straighten this part of the mess out would mean that Carter's and Daniel's part of the mess would get a whole hell of a lot more messy. He made a decision. "Teal'c, don't say a word to them. Let me do all the talking. But first, tell me what Daniel and Carter were saying in Goa'uld. And hurry it up."
* * *
"No answer." The man in charge snapped the cell phone shut. "Where is he?" he fretted. "Something's happened." He looked at his watch. "It's been fifteen minutes. Red should have checked in. Or gotten here by now." He glared at Carter. "What do you know about this?"
"Me?" Sam glared back. "I've been stuck in this cell all night. I know even less than you do." She looked down at her team mate lying on the concrete floor beside her. Daniel, if anything, looked paler than before. She'd gotten the wound to stop bleeding, but not before he'd lost too much of his blood. Sam was scared. Daniel needed Dr. Frasier. He needed her now.
But he slipped his hand out from under the blanket, seeking hers and squeezing. Jack will find us, was the non-verbal message. No one left behind.
Sam gave Daniel's hand a return clasp. "Hang on, Daniel."
The man in charge came to a decision. "We're cutting our losses," he declared. "Bolt-cutters, now. Get her out of there. Tie her up and toss her in the van. We're not waiting any longer."
"What about him?"
The man in charge considered. "He's done for. Don't waste the bullet. If O'Neill is coming for us, we may need every slug we've got."
But the other man, stationed at the window, stopped them. "Someone's coming up the drive."
"Is it Red?"
"Can't tell. It's a truck. It's too dark to tell if it's O'Neill. Wait, they're getting out. It's definitely O'Neill; one of `em's on crutches." He turned back to the other three. "Was Red wearing a hat?"
"He could have picked one up," the man in charge said impatiently. "His arm in a sling?"
"Yeah, and he just took a gun out of the sling. He's got Dr. Tilk with `im, too. He's got `em both under control. They're headed in."
"Hurry up with the bolt cutters," the man in charge ordered. "Get Carter tied up. We don't need any last minute heroics. We'll secure O'Neill and Tilk, pack them into the van along with Carter, and move out fast before anyone can track them. Earl, set up something to torch the place after we leave."
Another squeeze of her hand, and Sam looked down. "Daniel?" She leaned over to listen.
"A bunch of last minute heroics sounds pretty good right about now." Daniel coughed, a trickle of blood springing to his lips. Carter wiped it away with the edge of the blanket. "Sam, if you have the chance to escape, take it."
"I'm not leaving you here to die, Daniel. Remember what Colonel O'Neill says: no one left behind. You just stay right here, and we'll get you out of this. I'm sure the colonel has a plan," she lied. He hasn't had time to create a plan. This man here has had him racing to keep up. Even the colonel couldn't arrange things with everything these guys have been throwing at him.
"I'm the weak link, Sam," Daniel whispered. "Don't die because of me. Don't let Jack throw his life away, or Teal'c's."
"No one's throwing anyone's life away," Sam hissed fiercely. "Trust in the colonel."
Clang. The bolt cutters went through the first bar. Two of the men applied muscle and bent the bar back. Sam stood up. If anything was going to happen, it would happen in the next few minutes. Colonel O'Neill and Teal'c would not allow themselves to simply be taken away without so much as a whimper. And neither, Sam vowed, would she.
Trust in the colonel.
The dark-haired subordinate opened the door to allow the trio to enter. O'Neill was first, hobbling slowly on crutches. He spread his hands to the side as he came in, demonstrating that he had no weapons. The man in charge held his own revolver at ready in case it was needed. But O'Neill, after a quick frisk, passed as clean.
"So you're the fellow who's been causing all this ruckus," O'Neill said with a deadly sort of quiet. Sam had heard that tone before, and was grateful that it had never been directed at her. It was the Black Ops voice, the one that said that something very bad was going to be happening very soon, something that would require a great deal of high level cover ups, things that usually happened very far away where covering up was a good deal easier than here in Colorado. "Carter, you okay?"
The man in charge was not unaware of the danger. However poor his information source had been, Sam realized, this part was entirely too accurate. He was treating O'Neill with a great deal of caution. He gestured with the pistol, stationing himself too far away for O'Neill to even think of any sudden moves that wouldn't end up with one or more unintended dead bodies. "Sit down on the floor, colonel, your hands in front of you where I can see them. Do it slowly."
"I'm getting too old for this," O'Neill complained, using the crutches to help him get down. "This cold concrete can't be good for my arthritis."
Still in that Black Ops voice. Sam readied herself. The bolt cutters went through a second bar. The pair working at it tried to bend the bar back. It resisted. Two men weren't enough muscle-power.
Teal'c was next through the door, surveying the scene impassively. His gaze lit upon Sam, then on the blanketed bundle behind her. The frown tightened imperceptibly.
"And this must be Dr. Tilk." The man in charge waved the gun. "Hand cuffs, Earl. Then put him in the van." He glanced around, nodding at the sound of the cuffs snapping onto Teal'c's wrists. He spoke to the pair still wrestling with the iron bars on the erstwhile cage where Sam and Daniel were trapped. "You get her out yet?"
"Almost. These bars are tough."
Red came in through the door last, hat pulled down over his face and arm in the sling. O'Neill chose that moment to speak. "You really ought to consider surrendering right now. Before anyone else gets hurt." He spoke to his shirt pocket. "Now would be a good time, lieutenant."
`Red' pulled a gun out of his sling and steadied it with two good hands. His cap fell to the floor, and the man's hair was anything but red. The little tag on his shirt read, `Urbanecek.'
Every window in the warehouse shattered, sprouting a head and a P-90, all aimed at the four kidnappers.
The skylight in the warehouse was wrenched open and four ropes tossed down. Four Marines rappelled to the floor, their own weapons instantly in their hands.
A helicopter poured a high beam from a searchlight through the open skylight, blasting the room with wind and photons. Sam bent over Daniel to protect him from the flying dust.
The man in charge didn't know where to point his weapon. His revolver, so menacing just a short moment ago, looked impotent next to the massive display of firepower that had just dropped in unannounced. He pointed it first at O'Neill, then Teal'c, then Red/Urbanecek, then back at O'Neill who was still sitting on the cement floor with icy satisfaction, his sore knee stretched out in front of him, crutches across his lap.
"Don't be a fool," O'Neill told the man who was no longer in charge, his voice harsh. "You have one chance to get out of this fiasco alive. Put your gun on the floor and your hands in the air. That goes for all of you."
The underlings complied instantly. They were out-numbered, out-gunned, and out-flanked. But they weren't stupid.
The man in charge hesitated.
Teal'c lifted his hands. The hand-cuffs that encircled his wrists gleamed brightly in the lights. Muscles bunched; metal screamed in protest. Slowly the links to the chain bent, and elongated into tortured ovals. Then a loop snapped. The weakest link broke.
Teal'c held his arms apart, displaying the broken chain, the look of murder in his eye. There was nothing said; nothing needed to be said.
The man in charge put his gun on the floor and raised his hands.
* * *
Major Urbanecek tabbed his radio. "Situation under control. Send down the doc."
It was a sight that Samantha Carter never thought she'd see: Janet Frasier, MD, serenely sailing down on a cable, rapelling to the concrete floor of the warehouse. Two medics followed, a sturdy metal stretcher between them loaded with supplies. One of the marines hastened to assist the doctor with her gear, gallantly releasing her from the ropes attached to her harness.
"Thank you, lieutenant." Frasier snatched up the first pack. "Where's Daniel?" And then: "how am I supposed to make a house call with these bars in the way?" Glaring at the kidnappers being hustled into handcuffs.
It was the signal that Teal'c had been waiting for. Having been deprived of the opportunity to inflict injury on his foes, he availed himself of the chance to demonstrate yet again how fortunate his foes were to have avoided violence. Casting a contemptuous glance at the kidnappers, he took hold of the bar that the two had been unable to twist out of the way even with the assistance of the bolt cutters.
Metal creaked, and bent. The hole between the bars widened to human proportions.
Dr. Frasier stepped through, med pack in hand. "Thank you, Teal'c." She knelt. "Daniel?"
"Really glad you're here, Janet," he whispered.
"I can tell. You're flat on your back--again." She nodded approvingly at Sam. "Nice work, Sam." The doctor raised her voice. "Can we get that stretcher over here? And somebody radio ahead to tell the OR team to scrub up. We'll be coming in hot."
Sam stepped back out of the way to allow the medics to do their job, lifting her team mate onto the stretcher and tucking more bandages where they would do the most good. Frasier got a line started in seconds, pushing in a couple of cc's of morphine for good measure. Sam lifted her foot up to get out of the cage, allowing the Jaffa to give her a steadying hand in clearing the bars that he had bent out of the way.
She stopped briefly to speak to the man no longer in charge. "You're an idiot."
He just looked back at her with malevolent dislike.
"You thought that Colonel O'Neill, `Dr. Tilk' and I were the brains behind the Cheyenne Mountain project?" Sam jerked her thumb at Daniel, being lifted on the stretcher out of the cage, six massive soldiers easily hefting the weight. "Daniel Jackson has done more for the project than any of us. Think about that while you rot in your own cage." She stalked off to where Jack stood.
"Ready to go home, major?"
"More than ready, sir." Samantha Carter took a deep breath, willing the shakes not to start until she was away from here. O'Neill gave a barely perceptible nod, an approving dip of his head and a non-verbal: you did good, major.
* * *
"Out!" Dr. Frasier insisted. "Dr. Jackson needs his rest."
"Doc--"
"Which word did you not understand, colonel? Out? Or out?"
"But this is my house," O'Neill protested, gesturing at the homey surroundings. "This is my guest room, and this is my guest. They're eating my food. They're drinking my beer. Except for the ones on guard duty," he amended. "They wait until they go off shift."
"And you're making up for it by taking the poker pot every night." Frasier wasn't fooled. "I only let you bring him out here to your house to recuperate, colonel, because he wasn't getting any rest in the infirmary with every blessed Marine in the place coming down to check on him every ten minutes. I didn't expect you to invite the entire SGC complex to your house instead."
"General Hammond insisted that he have someone on guard duty at all times." O'Neill successfully slipped the general's name into the mess. Sometimes name-dropping worked.
And sometimes it didn't.
"And did the general insist that Dr. Jackson continue to work on his translations?" Frasier asked sweetly, indicating the tall mound of paperwork stacked carelessly on the nightstand. "No? I thought not." With a strength far beyond what would be expected from such a tiny woman, Frasier scooped up the heavy stack of paper and dumped it onto the floor of the guest bedroom. In the corner. Far away from the afore-mentioned Dr. Jackson who was propped up on pillows, text book in hand and three more nestled on the bed beside him.
"Hey!" both O'Neill and Daniel said together.
"I can't reach that." Daniel's argument was the first to hit the air.
"Your point being, Dr. Jackson? Does one of us need to be reminded of the definition of the word rest? Here." Dr. Frasier handed over a couple of little white pills.
"Janet, these put me to sleep," Daniel tried to complain.
"And I'm about to change the dressings on your feet. Need I say more?"
"Oh." Daniel looked at O'Neill. "Water, please?"
* * *
Frasier appeared at the top of the stairs. "Could I get some assistance up here?"
Three Marines volunteered on the spot. O'Neill shot them down. "I'm pulling rank. He's my civilian. Sorry, fellas."
"I have no rank in your armed forces," Teal'c pointed out. "I will attend Drs. Frasier and Jackson."
"I haven't seen Daniel all day," Sam grumbled. "I just got here an hour ago, and Danzig is taking all of my poker winnings. It's my turn."
Urbanecek put in his two cents. "I don't have much time. I dropped by on my way home, and haven't done anything yet."
"--except play poker and drink beer!"
"What about me? Danzig and I--"
"I was going to fold anyway--"
"Enough!" O'Neill bellowed. "Teal'c, Carter, Urbanecek, upstairs. That should be more than enough to do the job. The rest of you, wait your turns! Sheesh!"
Frasier gave him a tight-lipped smile. "See what I mean, colonel? Either Daniel gets some rest, or I put him back in the infirmary with an honor guard composed strictly of nurses: Lilly, Becky One and Becky Two--"
"Okay, okay, I get the message. Enough! Sheesh!"
Frasier's victim looked thoroughly relaxed, courtesy of a couple of little white pills that would fetch a hefty price on the black market, but Jack had seen Daniel through enough injuries to be able to spot the tell-tale tightening of the blue eyes that belied the oft-repeated, "I'm fine." Teal'c effortlessly shifted the man into a more comfortable position on Jack's guest bed, Sam adjusting the pillows behind his head and Urbanecek tucking in the covers with a gentleness that surprised O'Neill until he remembered the three little golden-haired princesses that called Major Robert Urbanecek `Daddy' every night that he wasn't off-world.
"Go to sleep, Daniel," Janet instructed sternly, affection for her patient edging the words.
"Um." But there was something worrying at the archeologist, something he hadn't puzzled out yet. "Major Urbanecek?"
"Call me Rob, Dr. J."
"Rob." The smile was drowsy. "I keep meaning to ask: how did you find us so fast?"
"We're Marines, Dr. J. Stargate Marines." He grinned. "All it took was the one call from the colonel, and we had a chopper in the air and half a dozen Jeeps on the ground. We located his truck on the highway north, and tracked him all the way. Piece of cake after that. Oh, and you'll be glad to hear that the cop that got shot is expected to make a full recovery. Bullet ricocheted off a rib."
"Oh. That's good." The pills were taking over fast. "Jack?"
"Daniel?"
"Those men."
"The kidnappers?" It didn't take much to figure out what Daniel was thinking about.
"Yes, them. What happened to them? After, I mean."
Jack exchanged a guarded look with Sam and said fiercely, "They're not coming back after you, Daniel. I don't care what they told you, you're not a weak link in this chain. You don't have to be afraid. Hammond has SF guards posted everywhere, eating up the contents of my freezer."
"I'm not afraid, Jack." Even with eyelids at half mast the indignation came through. "I heard something about a fire in the warehouse. What happened to them? When will the trial be?"
"There will be no trial," Teal'c rumbled, his back to the corner so that he could observe both the door and the window at the same time. Although the likelihood of danger stood near zero with the SF guards downstairs and two more roaming the neighborhood, the Jaffa was having trouble standing down from high alert. "The warehouse was burned to the ground. There is no evidence left of any crime."
"What do you mean, no trial? No evidence? How can there be no trial?"
Sam seated herself on the edge of the bed, taking up the archeologist's hand. "Daniel, this is national security. Despite the fact that those men really didn't know anything, a trial would mean bringing the Stargate program out into the open. None of us can afford that. The world isn't ready." She tried to grin, and gestured at her imposing team mate in the corner. "Can you imagine having Teal'c on the witness stand?"
"No, I suppose not." The words sounded slurred.
Major Urbanecek folded his arms across his chest. "Dr. Jackson, we of the Marines--the entire Stargate Command," he amended, "we honor our debts. You go after one," and he pointed at Daniel, "or you go after four," indicating the entire SG-1 team, "and you'll find a bunch of very pissed off highly trained soldiers on your ass. Believe me, those men are no longer in a position to harm anyone ever again. Ever. The problem has been dealt with. We look after our own."
Daniel looked alarmed, trying to decipher the hidden meaning in the major's suddenly fierce declaration. "What did you do to them?"
"Which means, Daniel," Jack summarized, smoothing it over for the civilian, carefully not answering the question, "that even if others don't, the people around you understand very clearly that you are not the weak link at Stargate Command. We are all a team. A very close-knit team. Each one bringing his or her own skills to the whole. Got that?"
"Got it," The pills were winning.
"Go to sleep, Daniel."
Daniel sighed. "Right."