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Power
and Punishment by Jb
Kinsey stared out the bay window, a disgusted scowl further darkening his typically closed-off features. Armin was dead. Not that he gave a damn for the reporter himself. With rising anger Kinsey thought of the months of hard work he had put into this… all of the delicate and shrewd maneuvering which died along with the reporter. Kinsey didn’t believe in accidents, especially not accidents with
such unfortuitous timing. Stiff with resentment, he turned to snatch up
the telephone. They’d pay for this. They’d pay dearly. Are you all right? No, I’m not. But I will be. Yeah, right. When pigs fly. It was too much this time, simply too much. Daniel stared at the monitor, the words he had typed blurring into meaningless dark smudges. He didn’t think he could do this. He didn’t even know where to start. The recent and all too painful memories tore at him, his headache worsening by the minute. ‘Apophis’ baby… oh god… out of my wife… with my own hands. She’s gone again.’ Feeling his eyes start to sting, Daniel pushed back from the keyboard wondering how in hell anyone, never mind himself, could depersonalize this kind of waking nightmare. Well, Hammond was just going to have to wait for his report. Daniel had thought, in the hours just after their return from Abydos, that given a bit of time he would be able to push it to the back of his mind just as he had done before. After the Chulak mission it had taken a few months but he’d kept himself busy, gotten involved in his work; he’d been able to redirect his everyday waking consciousness from the sadness and loss. Painfully, over the last few days he had come to realize that at some point late in the past year, with incredible stealth, the very premise on which he thought his life with the SGC centered had taken a left turn. Unrecognized, his focus had evolved; somewhere along the line his work with the SGC had come to be transposed with his quest to recover his wife. The diversion had evolved into the vocation. He understood, now, that out of a sense of powerlessness he had put Sha’uri and his pain on the back burner, doing little proactively to pursue that interest… unconsciously simply awaiting the turn of the Abydos year when he would bring it to the forefront once again. ‘And… oh my goodness… now it sure is the front runner.’ Four days of stolen non-sanctioned leave. Ninety-some-odd hours of being holed up in his apartment, staring at the walls trying to choke back the tears while strung out on way too much caffeine, living only on endless pots of coffee and chocolate bars. Daniel had finally gone back to the Base and an official, albeit gentle, dressing-down only when repeated telephone messages from General Hammond and Dr. Fraiser became just too annoying to ignore any longer. ‘So, now what? Go out and find a whole new life to use as a distraction?’
A slight intrusion into his personal space abruptly pulled him back from
his thoughts. As the sensation of a light touch on his face surprised
him, Daniel instinctively jerked his head back. His hand came up to knock
away whatever he had felt on his cheek. "Whoa!" Sam Carter pulled back as Daniel suddenly swiped at her hand. "It’s okay, Daniel… it’s just me." She caught his hand in hers, squeezing gently, raising her other hand to his face once again. "Didn’t mean to give you a start…" Gently, Sam brushed away the tear that was trickling down his cheek. Daniel gave her a confused look, apparently not realizing that he had been lost in thought. He suddenly seemed to become aware of the wetness on his face and, a little self-consciously, he brushed at his cheek with his sleeve. "Sorry. I guess I zoned out for awhile." Sam looked at the computer monitor, noting the sparse beginnings of an official mission report. Made a wry face. "No wonder, Daniel." She looked closely at him. ‘There’s no way he can do this’ she thought. "Daniel, maybe I could help you with this? Maybe… if you tell me what happened, I could write it out? Sort of, translate it into ‘officialese’ for you?" Sam gave him what she hoped was an encouraging look. Her heart went out to him as he simply averted his eyes, obviously completely lost. "Come on, Daniel, let’s just get it over with." So, giving up his seat to her in favor of the floor in front of the filing
cabinet, Daniel closed his eyes and allowed himself to go back one more
time, and the act of producing the most godforsaken damned report of his
entire life finally got underway.
Along with all the exacting work Kinsey had done before the reporter died, he knew now that he would salvage not only the situation but also his career, not to mention recovering his political power. Power. Kinsey was a very wealthy man; enough money to last five lifetimes, but… power. Power was everything, and they had ripped a goodly chunk of it away from him. Armin would have been his revenge, but when Armin had been killed before he had a chance to go public Kinsey had been forced to go back and re-examine everything. Only to discover now that actually it was better than ever. Now it would not be mere revenge, not just an act of vengeance... it would be vindication that he would achieve, and the end of SG-1. Kinsey fingered the pages of the open report, one of three which lay on the desk before him. It detailed the latest fiasco to come out of the Stargate Project, and surprisingly enough it had provided him with the solution he needed. Jackson’s wife had given birth to the child of a Goa’uld. Herself a Goa’uld, Jackson’s long lost wife had escaped through the Stargate after her loving husband had hidden the child away. ‘Perfect.’ Kinsey allowed himself a satisfied smile. He was intrigued by the tone of the report. Submitted a scant week after the event, the language was precise and detached. All in all it was very objective; a dispassionate narration of a chronology of events which one would have thought must have been intolerably painful for a passionate young man like Jackson. Interesting, how well the tone of the written report played into Kinsey’s own hands. The other two reports dealt with the invasion from space. First, there was Jackson’s considerably more loosely worded – precariously emotional, in fact – report on his experiences in the ‘alternate reality’. It had been written retrospectively, and in light of the events which had followed his experience Jackson had seen fit to subjectively validate his ‘parallel plane’ theory with references to those subsequent events. Kinsey snorted. What a lot of bullshit. But once again, it was crap that fit right into his fan. The very unbelievability of it… was so perfect. The other report, a lengthy and detailed description of the unauthorized excursion which had culminated in the destruction of the Goa’uld ships, had been submitted by Colonel O’Neill. The thought of O’Neill made Kinsey’s toes curl in disgust. He disliked that man. Self-assured, argumentative, disrespectful. That mission record included a short addendum by Jackson explaining how he had come to show up through the Stargate all in one piece, as healthy as a horse, after reportedly being mortally wounded on the Goa’uld ship. ‘SG-1, the wonders of the SGC, single-handedly skulking around on an interstellar spacecraft, for Christ sake. Saving the Earth. What a bunch of…’ Kinsey abstractedly thought. His trembling hands tightened on the folders, sweat from his palms staining the covers. Those incompetent glory seekers on SG-1 cost him not only his power base on the Appropriations Committee, but his reputation in the inner circle itself. He’d made an error in judgment with the missiles, everyone had said. In private, the President had accused him of arrogance. Well, someone had made a sizable error all right, but it wasn’t him; they’d all soon learn that there were much bigger errors than anything he had ever done. Nobody got away with underestimating a Kinsey... Well, everything was in place now. That spineless weasel Samuels – reluctant but very much motivated by a need for self-preservation – had done his job, providing not only the technology but also the access. The others were ready and waiting: hardened professionals not likely to make any mistakes. All that was needed now was to await the correct time. Kinsey gathered up the reports, and as he did so a loose sheet of paper dropped out from the bottom of the pile, fluttering to the floor. Frowning, he reached for it, and as he picked it up he remembered what it was. A curse of outrage escaped him as he grabbed up the offensive page and turned it face up toward him. This had come back to him, to his house, to his private residence… how dare he! In the days immediately following the destruction of the Goa’uld ships Kinsey had sent four of these to the SGC, each one personalized for each member of SG-1. It had about killed him to do it, but he had been a politician for a long time and knew when to feint left and when to parry right. Each certificate of acknowledgment was framed in expensive oak and polished glass, on the very finest parchment with his signature and seal. The memory of how his guts had churned in anger and humiliation as he had painstaking worded his congratulations and appreciation for their efforts, now surged within him and fed his current resentment and rage. This one had come back, folded precisely in three and mailed in
a number ten envelope, addressed to him at his home. Scrawled across the
face, carelessly obliterating Kinsey’s signature and careful diplomacy,
were the words ‘return to sender’. And he’d had the nerve
to keep the frame.
It had been over ten days now, but it was clear that Dr. Jackson remained preoccupied with the events that had taken place on Abydos. As for O’Neill, unfortunately it seemed that Colonel O’Neill was still feeling in some way responsible for the death of that reporter. Hammond didn’t know what was wrong in Captain Carter’s life, but she was not exactly concentrating on her work. In fact, she had uncharacteristically made a number of obvious errors in the database lately. This morning’s pre-mission briefing had been a joke. O’Neill had been bored with the idea of the short recon to a previously visited planet, Carter had been irritable, and Jackson… well, his body may have shown up, but he certainly had not. The only saving grace had been Teal’c, rock steady and attentive. They had gone through the MALP tape, or at least had tried to. O’Neill had commented on the poor video quality, Cater had taken offense and snapped at him, and then Dr. Jackson had left his seat and stood with his back to the room staring out at the Stargate. Nevertheless, Hammond expected them to level out once they were under way, except that just as he was preparing to dismiss SG-1 Teal’c had spoken up, expressing concern over the mission. Teal’c was worried about how the team would perform; he did not have confidence that his team mates were "able to put aside their individual concerns at this time". The response from O’Neill and Carter was, predictably, amazed self-righteousness. Jackson had let out a slightly hysterical-sounding laugh, flapping a hand at them all as he suddenly had turned and left the room. "Three days, starting right now. Go home. Sort yourselves out and when you come back, I expect you to behave professionally. Now, get out." General Hammond had made his pronouncement and left the room before his words had even registered with the three remaining there. Now, through his office window, he could see the three of them still sitting in the briefing room. ‘Hopefully’, he thought, ‘sorting themselves out’. He picked up the telephone and punched an internal extension. Dr. Jackson had probably headed for his lab. At the fifth ring, he hit the hook button and instead rang up Security. "Locate Dr. Jackson for me, will you, and have him report to my office. Tell him, right now. And, Airman, feel free to accompany him." "You just sent Security off after Daniel?" O’Neill’s eyebrows lifted, nonverbally seeking permission to enter. Hammond waved him in, indicating that he should shut the door. The General glared at O’Neill, his bald head aggressively jutting forward. Sinking into the chair opposite, Jack decided that silence was probably golden right now. "Colonel O’Neill." General Hammond was going to launch into a tirade about the Colonel’s failure to keep his team intact during a trying time, but seeing the dejected expression on the man’s face he decided the better of it. He softened his tone. "Colonel. Truly, it was an accident. It wasn’t your fault." He raised a hand to forestall the protest he saw blooming in the other man’s face. "Just as it wasn’t Dr. Jackson’s fault that his wife was impregnated by a Goa’uld." Jack sagged. "Yeah." His voice was quiet, tired. "He doesn’t deserve it, does he? Nothing seems to go right." He wiped a hand across his face. "Daniel’s on the edge, General. He avoids all of us, hell, he won’t even look at me. I don’t know how to help." "I know, son. He seemed to being doing pretty well before all this happened, but maybe this has come too soon after that sarcophagus problem. He just needs to get some confidence back." "That’s not likely to happen if you send Security out after him, y’ know. Not exactly a confidence builder." Hammond’s smile was sympathetic. "Just want to let him know that I support him, and that he should go home for leave, Colonel. That’s all." He paused. "So now, what about you and Captain Carter?" "Hey, I’m fine. Just letting Daniel drag me down, I think. Carter… I don’t know. She’s not exactly herself. Whatever it is, she hasn’t confided in me, that’s for sure." O’Neill slapped the arm of his chair. "Actually, a long weekend sounds great. I think I’ll pack up and go for a hike, camp out for a few days. Maybe take Teal’c with me?" Hammond waved his assent. A knock on the door heralded the arrival of
security, with a very strained Dr. Jackson in tow.
The word went out within an hour of the leave assignment. The proper people were informed. Wheels were set in motion. In his office, Kinsey got the call and thought what a pleasant surprise this was… he had only had to wait a few days for the right time to reveal itself. Everything was going his way now. He nearly wet his pants in anticipation.
The boss wanted an immediate takedown and proper preparation with the drug, with no bruises or other visible signs of violence. They would have preferred to use an subcutaneous injector as it was so much easier, however that had been nixed. Apparently the drug had to be administered intravenously. That meant they would have to hold their mark, be very careful, and get the drug injected as quickly as possible. When they had suggested chloroform or tranquilizer darts, their employer had said no to any agents other than the ones supplied. They were some sort of experimental stuff, or something. That made it inconvenient, but not impossible. After all they were professionals; there were ways to take someone down without a fuss. It would have to happen in an isolated area. The parking garage would be perfect; it was underground, mostly unoccupied during business hours, and sealed off from prying eyes by a security gate. They followed long enough to be certain that the target was in fact heading there and then sped off past, taking the alleyway shortcut as they had planned, to get there first. Traffic lights cooperated beautifully. The illicitly acquired keycard
for the parking garage gate worked just fine and they were in and parked
two stalls down when their mark drove in. There was no one else there.
Daniel, stinging from being hauled into Hammond’s office and forced to listen to the proclamation on how poorly he was coping, was somewhat less than his usual polite self. "Oh sure, Jack. What a brainstorm. A camping trip. Just what I need." "Daniel… Hammond said you can’t stay on base. It’s a perfect opportunity to get away from, uh… everything. Come on, you just might like it." "Right. Cold coffee, dirt, pissing in the woods… what a great way to get away from it all. The perfect distraction. Well, thanks… but no thanks." With a pained look, Daniel had turned his back and was gone. With some misgivings about leaving Daniel alone, Jack gathered up Teal’c and they busily prepared for the next two days’ hiking trip. Sam Carter hurriedly packed and went to the airport to fly stand-by to Washington to see her father, and… As for Daniel Jackson, well..
Most of all he was angry with himself, because he knew Jack was right. He had tried to get a handle on this but somehow he couldn’t. ‘Sha’uri…’ his heart twisted. Daniel could still smell her, taste her sweat as he had kissed her cheek as she fought against her labor pains. Still heard her voice screaming as she tried to hold the baby inside, telling him that she didn’t want to lose him. Daniel slumped in the seat, suddenly too demoralized to even get out of the car. His anger dissolved into oppressive despair. Didn’t they understand anything? He had already tried this, for four days; it hadn’t worked. It just got worse and worse. How was he supposed to survive the next three days on his own, alone, with nothing – no work, no distractions – to come between him and those tortuous memories? Oblivious to the two men who sat waiting and wondering in the car two
stalls down, Daniel lowered his forehead to rest against the steering
wheel and shut his eyes against the painful memories which just would
not leave him alone. They were getting a bit nervous. Had the target seen them? Their mark
was just sitting there in the car… not normal behavior at all. Worried
that he might somehow be on to them and, God forbid, might have a cellular
phone in the car, they made the initial mistake.
Not especially known for rapid purposeful reactions, Daniel was too slow to prevent the door from opening. He was, though, fast enough to get his legs and arms organized before the other man could reach in to the car. Ducking his shoulders and twisting to the left, he pushed out with both hands and dove out of the car, feet moving to run even as they barely hit the concrete. His would-be assailant was knocked flying. Daniel felt a flash of satisfaction as he heard the grunt of surprise and saw the handgun drop from the grip of the other. He made it all of four paces from the car, however, before coming solidly up sideways against a huge brick shithouse of a man. Impossibly strong hands grabbed him by both upper arms and yanked him around. Daniel found himself staring straight ahead at a muscular black-skinned neck bordered on top by a navy balaclava and on the bottom by a dark T-shirt. ‘Teal’c?’, was his first scattered thought. His second thought was… ‘Nope. Definitely not.’ The owner of the impressive neck was anything but a friendly. The big man shifted his grip, spinning Daniel around to face in the opposite direction, rapidly enveloping Daniel’s arms and chest in an immensely painful huge-armed embrace across his ribcage. Then the other man was there in front of him, waving cold metal in his face. He felt the gun muzzle come to rest forcefully up against his neck, just under his chin. The pressure of recent events and his pent-up distress now combined with this new threat/fear/confusion and all of Daniel’s frustration spilled over. He let out a deep growl. Stomping down and back with all his might, he found the shin just below his captor’s knee with the first blow. Twisting furiously at the same time, he managed to break free and threw himself forward at the man in front of him, knocking him away. While Daniel’s technique was initially successful, it proved unlucky… as the very irritated man in front of him strode forward, leveled the pistol, and precisely aimed it at the dead center of Daniel’s chest. Daniel heard and felt the impact at the same time. Fire flared in the
middle of his chest and his lungs seized up as the wind was knocked out
of him. Falling back into the strong grip of the man behind, he caught
sight of a gloved fist coming at his face, and then… nothing.
Samuels told himself that he wasn’t a bad man; he might be forced into this, but he refused to be involved in that way. Yes, he resented SG-1, and yes, Kinsey had him over a barrel because of his part in feeding Armin and preparing - actually, in manipulating - the facts… and of course there was that missile bungle… But to actually see Jackson when they brought him in here… no way. That smacked of participation far in excess of what was acceptable. Samuels did his best to convince himself that he really wasn’t involved at all; he just provided some, well, some stuff, that’s all. As he reached for the door, it suddenly flew open. Samuels was nearly flattened by the two burly men who burst into the room and unceremoniously dumped their burden onto the floor at Samuels’ feet. Mouth wide open, Samuels stared speechlessly at the damage. "A’right… you said he’d be easy… an easy mark, you said." A strong dark hand grabbed Samuels by the lapel of his jacket. "Well he’s not bloody easy is he now! He was a goddamn pain in the butt, what he was." The man’s dark face was filled with anger. He shook Samuels slightly. "There’s no friggin’ way we’re gonna take the rap if the rest of this goes bad." With a huge effort, Samuels managed to dredge up a semblance of composure out of the panic he felt welling up. He pulled back out the man’s grasp. Jackson lay on his side on the floor, unconscious, a sizable tear and powder burn on his shirt-front and bleeding moderately from a small gash just below a swelling left eye. Looking at the two kidnappers with an expression of what he hoped was disgust and not the fear he was feeling, Samuels knelt beside Jackson. "You shot him?! That blank could have seriously hurt him! Shit. He’s going to have to have a hell of a bruise on his chest, not to mention a black eye." Samuels lightly slapped at the young man’s face. Daniel’s head lolled and his eyelids fluttered ever so slightly. "Has he had the second injection?" "No. Do it yourself." The man held a syringe out to Samuels with his gloved hand. Samuels ignored it. "He wasn’t supposed to get hurt. No visible signs of trauma, no evidence." He rose and turned to the two men. "This jeopardizes the whole operation. You blew it." He started to walk away, only to be intercepted. "No bloody way we’re doing the rest of this ourselves. Wasn’t us blew anything. You said he was a freakin’ professor, a wimp. You…" the words were punctuated with forceful stabs of a finger to Samuel’s chest "are...staying…here…with…us…to do this." The second man placed himself behind Samuels, leaned forward, and quietly whispered in his ear. "The drug will wear off soon, Sir. You’ll want to give that injection now. Or, how about we all just sit here and let him have a good look at you when he wakes up? Then maybe we just take him out and drop him off at the nearest police station? Maybe give him your wallet to turn in?" ‘Oh shit.’
He laughed. Gut shaking, chest clenching, tears in the eyes, hysterical
laughter. Once again he couldn’t believe his luck. He should have
realized it himself beforehand… but he hadn’t thought of it.
Once again, God was on his side, leading him down him the path to redemption.
Once again, things couldn’t be better.
He had told Kinsey about the complication but the instructions were to go ahead anyway. The implications for Samuels were not pleasant. Now that it would be clear that Jackson had been abducted – or at the very least assaulted, if the drug worked like it was supposed to and Jackson didn’t remember anything – so, if they went ahead with it nobody would ever believe the evidence. They’d all believe Jackson was set up, and since Kinsey would be the one to present the evidence, he’d need a patsy to put the blame on when it all came falling apart. That would be Samuels. He toyed with the idea of disobeying Kinsey, of just taking the archaeologist and dumping him in an alley somewhere. The man was still unconscious; he couldn’t identify anyone. No real harm done, yet. His eyes fell on the hi-tech equipment beside him, equipment that would record whatever words that were on the list that they could get Jackson to say. Equipment capable of seamlessly re-ordering the recorded data, even synthesizing the more simplistic missing words to match Jackson’s speech patterns, until the entire string of necessary phrases was constructed. Samuels had obtained that equipment, not to mention the drugs, outside of legal channels. No. He couldn’t just dump Jackson. Kinsey had been very forceful; he wanted it to go ahead. If Samuels ignored him, Kinsey would have him for life for his role in this, for sure. Either he sold his soul to Kinsey, or the missing equipment and the experimental NID drugs would be traced right to him. No matter what, his balls were in a sling on this one. Samuels wished he had understood the depth of Kinsey’s disturbance earlier. He would never had allowed the man to coerce him into this. It was very apparent now that Kinsey wanted – was really trying hard – to actually believe the story they had concocted about Jackson. He’d just have to hope that Kinsey didn’t get impatient with the evidence, that he’d wait long enough after Jackson’s release before revealing any of it. Samuels prayed that the experimental drugs would do their job. If Jackson
were to remember anything… anyone…
Stripped down to his briefs, he started to shiver in the cool dry air. The room he found himself in was dark; he could just make out the vague shadow of a narrow bunk in one corner, a chair beside it. Walls were large expanses of blackness. He could tell where a door was by the thin line of faint light which seeped through around the frame. Daniel was on the floor, hands cuffed behind him, and he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was or how he had come to be in this position. ‘God.’ His head felt like it was overstuffed with cotton wool. Nothing made sense. Struggling to think straight, he realized that the last thing he remembered was… what? General Hammond, and Jack; being told he wasn’t fit for duty. He listened for any sounds, strained his eyes peering through the gloom for any movement. There was nothing. "Shit. What the hell is going on?" Before the words had completely left his mouth, the door swung open and a stocky figure was framed against the soft light from without. "You’re awake." ‘Yeah. No kidding’ Daniel thought. He knew he had spoken very softly, simply muttered to himself, really; so… the room must be well monitored. Trying to ignore the man in the doorway he struggled to focus his thoughts, trying to locate cameras or other monitoring devices using the light falling from the doorway, but from his position on the floor it was too difficult. He awkwardly rose onto to his knees, and swept the walls and ceiling with his eyes. "Sorry. Can’t control the heat in here." Daniel settled his eyes on the man at those words and he now rose to his feet, very conscious of being at a distinct disadvantage. "Your clothes got… soiled. When they’re clean, you’ll get them back. I’m John... Mr. Doe, but you can just call me John." The voice was muffled slightly by the balaclava the man wore, but his tone came through loud and clear: despite the apology and the inane introduction, this man was not to be trifled with. Daniel did not respond, other than to let his eyes drift off to one side
when he couldn’t hold the man’s gaze any longer. A huge knot
was growing ever tighter in the pit of his stomach. He was quite frightened,
but darned if he would let this ‘John’ know that. He didn’t
recall how he got here, and from the painful bruising on his chest and
the comment about his clothes, he thought that maybe at this point not
remembering was all for the best. ‘John’ stood silently for a few moments. Now that the mark was awake and not fighting there was finally an opportunity to appraise him, to assess how best to proceed and get the most out of him in the shortest time possible. The drug was doing it’s work; the young man’s eyes were foggy with confusion and his reactions were a little slow. He stayed in the open doorway, not making any moves. Light spilled out from behind him, and he watched his captive use the suddenly available illumination to swiftly survey the room, noting how the obviously stiff and chilled young man ignored his own imposing presence in favor of getting a handle on his surroundings. Very pragmatic, even while under the influence. A wimp, eh? Not likely. John could see that the kid was uncomfortable, could see the fine lines of pain on his face and the telltale of fear in the shallow breathing and the darting movements of his eyes. But John could also see the strength of will and courage of his captive, in the steady stance and intentional silence, despite the effects of the drug. "Look. I don’t want to hurt you. There’s something we need from you, and after we get it you can go. That’s it. Simple as that." There was no response. John shook his head. This was supposed to be a quick in and out. A shot or two of the drug, a little mental and/or physical coercement, some conversation… wham-bang-done. But with the surprise in the parking lot and now this stoic reaction, he was starting to think otherwise. John had broken lots of men. He knew when to tread softly and when to stomp down, but most of those other men were fairly predictable. He had an uneasy feeling about this one… there were too many mixed messages. Obvious intelligence barely dampened by the confusion brought on by the drug. Passivity belied by non-compliance, fear tempered by courage. Despite the short timeline they had to work with John wondered if maybe overt force was out of the question. John’s gut told him he’d better not push this particular victim this early on. Even though there were clear signs of fear here, he thought that this one probably wouldn’t respond well to threats. Too bad. That was often the easiest way, maybe not for the victim, but who really cared about that. He pushed aside his irritation at the thought of possibly having to use milder – more time consuming – methods. Time was short, so he’d best get on with it. "So, what should
I call you? What’s your name?" The unexpected question was confusing. Uncharacteristically, Daniel couldn’t get his thoughts together enough to even comment. His mind felt… wrong, sluggish. Drugs? Could he have been drugged? Something they wanted? Who were they? This ‘John’ character suddenly was gone from his relaxed stance in the doorway, unexpectedly appearing at Daniel’s side, the stealth and swiftness of the movement giving Daniel a scare. Barely as Daniel’s mind registered that presence, his forearm was taken in a firm grip and he was spun around. He heard the tinny sound as the metal cuffs were released from one wrist, and then the world did another quick loop and the man re-cuffed him, this time with his hands in front. "Come here." Daniel was dragged forward through the doorway. "This door will be unlocked. You can come and go through here whenever you want. Bathroom is through there." A hand waved toward a second doorway just inside the small hallway they had entered. The hall was short, more like a tiny vestibule, one single light fixture in the ceiling. A pedestal sink and toilet were visible through the open door of the small bathroom. Another door set opposite was closed. "That door’s always locked. Bad stuff if you go there. Don’t even try going there, buddy." "So, you got a name?" Daniel turned a blank look onto the other man. There was a lengthy pause as John Doe waited for a response he clearly wasn’t going to get. "All right. Okay if I just call you… Bud?" Christ. It was surreal… he was being shown around like he was someone’s house guest. Standing dumbstruck in the hall, Daniel’s head nodded ever so slightly. He’d been kidnapped by people who didn’t even know his name? Hell, what did he care what this man called him. John Doe returned the nod, more positively. "Good. Yeah, I like that. Bud. Good buddies, you ’n’ me, eh?" Daniel was propelled back into the small room where he had started out. "There’s no light switch in here; we have control over it, so don’t be surprised when the lights go on and off." Then, the big man was gone. Too late, Daniel got himself together enough to realize that he needed to move quickly and get to the door, to see the hall door – the locked one – open. He was too slow, reaching the hall just in time to hear the lock on the
other side of the far door clicking home. Not a word. He hadn’t said anything. Samuels looked at the list on the table in font of him. About sixty specific words were needed. Even more would be better. Samuels let his eyes roam over the hi-tech equipment arranged on the table before him. The zoomed-in video display framed Jackson sitting on the edge of the bunk. The room lights had been adjusted to provide some low level illumination. For such dim light the quality was incredible; Samuels could even see the fine hairs on Jackson’s legs. As John Doe walked over, Samuels looked up at him. "So when do you get this show on the road?" He got a raised eyebrow in response. "On the road? Hell, we’re half there." "What? What do you mean? You haven’t even started. You’ve got nothing." Samuels’ body and his voice both rose, tension getting the better of him. Lurching up from his chair, he waved a shaking hand at the video display. "He hasn’t so much as sneezed at you. We need a lot… what about his name? God! You couldn’t even get him to say his name!" "Oh, don’t you worry. He will." John Doe sat in Samuel’s chair and grinned at his cohort against the far wall, the mean tempered dark-skinned operative who stood opposite, huge arms folded over an equally huge chest. He cast a dangerous look in Samuels’ direction. Samuels felt his stomach churn. Now that he was actually faced with this,
he wasn’t too sure he could handle it. If they had to, to… abuse
Jackson… John saw the expression on Samuels’ face change, sicken. "Oh, don’t go all silly on us. It probably wouldn’t get us anywhere to hurt him Not the type for that. We’ll need to be sure to give him some more of that drug right on time. He’s still really foggy, but if his mind clears a bit we could have a big problem with him." It was clear that the cause of the greenish tinge to Samuels’ face was not limited to Jackson’s state of health. "So… what… how will we get what we need? We don’t have much time, we have to get this done and get him out of here. His leave ends in less than three days!" John raised an eyebrow and glanced over to his partner. Samuels wanted Jackson released according to the original plan? He thought, ‘Either this guy is incredibly naïve, or somebody miscalculated.’ For sure, John knew in his gut that someone had badly misjudged the good Dr. Jackson. He looked at the image on the monitor. This wasn’t going to be any quick in and out. Besides, the bruises on the young man’s chest and face were coming up quite nicely; the shiner to his left eye was going to be simply awesome. John looked at Samuels with an amused expression. ‘Get him out of
here… in under three days?’ What… did Samuels really
believe that his mystery boss would let damaged goods show up on the market?
He snorted.
He couldn’t afford to have the man walk out now. He was Kinsey’s final coup de grace, and his protection. He’d have to contact Samuels, have to set a fire under the weasel that would singe the hair right off his butt. Samuels would need to hasten this along; Kinsey had to have the final evidence now, before Jackson’s leave was up. Releasing the evidence now would be the only way that this would work. Before, when the plan was to return Jackson to his apartment on schedule with his memory of recent events obliterated by the drug, there would have been time. Lots of it. The evidence could be compiled and released later… in fact, much much later – months, in fact – would have been much better, in order to alleviate any possible suspicion which might arise when Jackson realized he had lost a few days. When Jackson was bruised up, though, that became impossible. It was crystal clear to Kinsey that this was better; it was all for the best that Jackson had been roughed up. He was convinced of it. If the evidence was there, for all to see, and then Jackson ostensibly used the back door, deserted his post, never showed up for duty… Kinsey clenched his fist so hard that his fingernails dug painfully into
his palm. He could take care of the operative. The money meant nothing
to him. Samuels, though… Samuels better not let him down now. Jackson
himself would be confirmation of his own duplicity. Jackson would bring
down SG-1. Kinsey was determined.
While he knew that Kinsey would be angry and would not want to call it off, Samuels had really thought that once the senator knew that it was impossible to get this done on time, that he would stop this… this… nightmare. But Kinsey had totally flipped out. Kinsey had said he wanted to release the evidence the evening before Jackson’s leave ended. ‘Before!’ If the information was released before Jackson returned to the SGC, complete with black eye, bruises, and detectable residual levels of the NID drug in his system… Samuels finally understood just what he had gotten himself into here. Kinsey had no intention of letting Jackson go. And if he couldn’t get Jackson to holy fucking hell talk to them to say the goddamn words and if he couldn’t get the message put together for Kinsey within the next twelve hours, Samuels knew that his own life would be worth just as little as Jackson’s.
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