On Trust Alone

Author: Badgergater

Email: [email protected]

Season: 4

Episode: Watergate

Pairing: None

Category: Drama, action, hurt/comfort

Summary: Colonel O’Neill finds that it’s much more difficult getting out of Russia than it was getting in

Rating: PG, with one use of the F-word; Jack’s a little angry, and rightfully so

Warnings: Nastiness, a bit of foul language, a bit of foul play

Disclaimer: I don't own Stargate, and acknowledge the rights and power of those that do. I do own this fic, however, and it may not be posted anywhere without my consent.

Author’s Note: Special thanks to Sis, Nikka <G> for the first hand knowledge, Bev, too, and SS for the beta

-----------------------------------

I huddled in my cold cell, arms wrapped around knees for warmth, shivering in the darkness.

I couldn’t believe it had happened to me again.

Locked up in some stinkin’ cell.

Betrayed by someone I’d trusted, the one person I’d relied on most.

My commanding officer.

I always knew there was more to George Hammond than met the eye, always knew nobody got to be a major general by being the teddy bear he outwardly appeared to be.

But I didn’t think he’d be such a ruthless son of a bitch when it came to me.

Hell, I always thought he liked me. Sort of. At least some.

Obviously, he didn’t.

And he was a damned good liar, much more so than I’d ever given him credit for.

I shivered again, hunching my shoulders against the cold. Damn.

The last time I’d been locked up in a hole like this, on my own planet, it had been airless, arid and oven-hot.

Here, it was ice cold, damp and drafty.

I didn’t have to wait for the Russians to decide to hang me, or to shoot me. Hell, I was going to be dying of pneumonia any minute.

I shuddered again, then with a grunt of pain as broken ribs grated painfully against each other, forced myself to my feet, pacing to keep warm. Two strides on this side, two on that; two strides by two strides by two strides by two strides. That’s how big my world was. Of course, while movement warmed me, it also wore me out. Hard to have much energy when you haven’t eaten in God knows how long. So maybe I’d die of malnutrition instead of hypothermia? Didn’t much matter to me. Dead is dead is dead is dead.

If I ever get my hands on George Hammond, he will be dead, major general or not. And I’ll hunt down Harry Maybourne and break his scrawny neck, too.

I mean, do I have a target painted on my back? A 'kick me' sign pinned between my shoulders?

Did you know anger warms you up? The heat of anger… whoever coined that phrase must have known. Oh yeah. Doesn’t last long though, not long enough, because in a couple of minutes I was once again shaking with the cold, slapping my arms against my chest trying to stay warm.

Cold worse than Antarctica. Of course, there I was so sick I hardly noticed I was slowly freezing to death.

I was noticing it now.

Maybe that’s what they were going to do, just leave me here, let me freeze to death and give my body back to my own people, or, at least the ones I’d once thought of as my own. “Oops, sorry, guess this wussy American couldn’t handle the Russian weather. Too bad. Soooo sad.”

“Yeah, right. Bastards,” I growled, hoping that talking would stop my teeth from chattering.

It didn’t, of course.

God, it was cold in here. Cold. So freakin’ cold.

Suddenly, there were sounds outside in the corridor, the heavy tread of booted feet, words I didn’t understand, then the grating of the key in the door lock. I turned to face them, trying my best to look defiant.

The door opened with the whine of long ungreased hinges. It was so dark I couldn’t see their faces, but the dimmest of light glinted off the machine gun held by the guy standing back in the corridor. No chance of escape there.

The other guy, eyeing me warily, brought something in, a dark bundle of some kind, and set it down on the floor. He said something to me, more words I didn’t understand, then backed out.

The door clanged shut, the lock was locked, and darkness returned as their footsteps retreated.

Silence prevailed once again, except for my own ragged breathing.

At least they hadn’t forgotten me.

Suspiciously, I crept forward toward the dark bundle beside the door.

One arm wrapped around my chest, the other braced against the wall so I wouldn’t fall down, I let myself slip to my knees.

Reaching out, my fingers encountered dark, rough cloth.

Oh, God, a blanket. I snatched it up, wrapping it around my shivering shoulders like it was the finest million dollar mink coat anyone had ever owned. It was warm, that was all that mattered. I slid down to the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up to my chest, clutching it around me.

There’d been something else under the blanket. A rough, dented metal plate, two pieces of hard, dry bread, and a lump of something, sausage maybe, and a cup full of liquid. I picked it up, sniffing suspiciously. Maybe it had once been warm, there *was* a tiny bit of residual warmth to it, making it warmer than the surrounding freezing cold air. The liquid was watery and thin with some gristly something floating in it along with some unidentifiable stuff that I hoped was vegetable.

I forced myself to sip it slowly. The soup, if that’s what it was supposed to be, was bland, nearly tasteless, but it filled at least some of the hole in my belly. I crumbled the hard dry bread into the soup, soaking up the liquid.

Food and warmth... simple needs never to be underestimated.

Most importantly, I knew now that they didn’t want me dead. I hadn’t been sure of that before, not considering how I’d been treated, and how long I’d been left here, until I was beginning to think they really had just forgotten me.

Nope. They wanted me alive.

Which meant there was something else they wanted from me.

Oh damn.

^^^^^^^^^^

How did I end up here, a guest of Ivan?

Someone else screwed up, so I paid the price.

Typical.

The Russians had found the second Stargate, retrieved it from the bottom of the ocean, paired it up with the DHD they’d stolen from the Germans after WWII, launched their own low-budget SGC, and promptly screwed up. That’s the Russkies for ya.

Even now that they’d kicked out the commies, they were still a mess. Red Russians, White Russians, Black Russians, any Russians, all the Russians were trouble.

So they had to ask us, the good old US of A, for help, and of course, we helped them.

Stupid.

SG-1 saved their sorry commie asses. Okay, okay, so maybe *technically* they aren’t communists anymore, but that didn’t make them our friends.

Obviously.

So SG-1 saved them from their own stupid mistake, and all we asked in return was the head of Harry Maybourne, traitor.

Man, I tell ya, coming face to face with him in that freezer was a shock. Almost as big of a shock as watching a frozen guy come back to life. Of course, over the past couple of years, I’ve gotten used to shocking things, like weird looking aliens, resurrections, space ships…

Harry Maybourne, former NID Colonel, had sold us out to the Russians. From what Dr. Markov had told us on our way to the top secret Siberian Russian Stargate base, Maybourne must have given them every single mission report and SGC file.

Damn fool.

Damn *traitorous* fool.

Washington wanted him back.

So somehow some brain dead person, probably at the Pentagon, had decided *I* was the one who should make nice to the Russkies so we’d get Harry back for a court-martial.

I should have left him in the freezer.

It would have saved me all of this.

We’d saved the Russians, and the rest of the planet probably too. My team went home, but someone had to go talk nice to the big shots in Moscow so that we could get Maybourne extradited. Not that it was going to happen openly, no.

So Hammond sent me.

Guess someone had heard about my wonderful success as a diplomat, you remember the summit with the snake trio and Thor, where I managed to piss off everyone even before the talks started?

So, yeahsureyoubetcha, send Colonel Diplomat O’Neill to talk nice to the Russians.

Didn’t these people read my dossier? Didn’t they know I don’t like the Russians?

Okay, so the truth is, I don’t like most anybody else, hell, I don’t even like most Americans. I have little tolerance for fools, sycophants or toadies, regardless of their nationality. But, I’m a soldier, and contrary to public opinion, I *do* follow orders, and so I *did* get on that Russian deathtrap of an airplane.

I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. Politics has never been my strong suit.

Besides, I thought I could trust General George Hammond.

Fool that I am.

^^^^^^^^^

The blanket helped warm me for a while but soon the cold began creeping in once more and the shaking started anew. I know shivering is the body’s way of warming you up, but it also expends a great deal of energy, energy I didn’t have.

Think, Jack, get your mind off how cold and miserable you are, and think how you can get the hell out of here.

First, I had to find out where here was.

I didn’t know anymore.

I’d been on my way to Moscow.

*Hammond* had sent me to Moscow.

SG-1 and Dr. Markov had managed to shut down the gate after returning the liquid alien thingies back to their home planet. Daniel, Carter and Teal’c had been sent home.

Not me though, I’d been assigned the task of figuring out what to give the Russians in order for the Russians to give Harry Maybourne back to us.

Damn it, this was all that weasel’s fault. If Harry hadn’t been in Russia, where he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be for cryin’ out loud, then I would have gone home with my team and I’d be snug in my own warm, comfy bed with a full belly and quite a few less bruises, contusions and broken bones instead of freezing my ass off in this Russian icehouse.

But no, Maybourne had been selling American Stargate secrets to the Russians. True, after the whole mess with Makepeace and the Asgard and the Tollan, Harry needed to flee somewhere where someone would be interested in the things he knew. And since the secrets he knew were about the US’s Stargate program, he went to the only other place on Earth that had a Stargate: Russia.

Traitorous little weasel.

Men like Harry Maybourne make my skin crawl.

^^^^^^^^^^

God, I was cold. I was so tired, all I wanted to do was lie down, huddled into the meager comfort of the filthy old blanket they’d given me. But that meant sitting on the cold floor, my butt slowly freezing, until my body started to shudder with the cold, which caused my ribs to slide in directions they weren’t meant to when they were in one piece instead of two or three.

The cold drove me back up on my feet. Bracing my back against the wall, I pushed upward slowly. The floor shifted, the walls spun, the ceiling shuddered and threatened to crash down on me, but I closed my eyes and willed the gorge in my throat to retreat back down to my stomach, and so I got upright. Cautiously, I opened my eyes, steadying myself against the wall, thinking about each breath, forcing myself to breathe as deeply as I could despite the pain knifing through my chest.

Steady, Jack. No hurry.

Moving hurt.

Not moving hurt.

Breathing hurt.

Not breathing was not an option.

Move, Jack.

I moved.

Paced, which warmed me up a bit.

Thought about what had happened.

I’d been nearly to Moscow, me and Harry on that rickety Russian excuse for a chopper. We’d left the Stargate base on some Cold War era Soviet military cargo plane, flying eastward hour after hour, across the frozen wasteland of Siberia. Yeah, those Ilyushin jets, if you can call them that, they’re old, they’re cold and they’re slow. But at least it had stayed in the air, which was more than I’d expected when I’d heard those engines creak and whine to life. I’ve spent a lot of years in the Air Force, I’ve ridden in all kinds of planes, and I’ve got a pretty good ear for the sound of overstressed, under maintained engines.

I’d been so damned relieved to land at that airfield, to get off that plane, and get on that chopper.

Stupid, huh, Jack.

Trusting anyone.

Never trust anyone.

You know better, or you knew better, once.

Knew better than to blindly obey an order, trust a superior, call anyone friend.

Fool.

It had been a set up, and I’d walked blindly into it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I’d been told we were getting close to Moscow.

It was noisy inside the old Soviet era chopper. No one had offered me earphones, so I’d tried to protect my hearing by pulling down my watch cap and pulling up the hood of my parka. It had helped, but the constant whine of rotors and the roar of the engine had started a matching whine and roar inside my skull.

Harry sat across from me. My only consolation in this lovely journey was that the little rat bastard looked even more miserable than I felt.

Suddenly, the sound of the engines changed, and the chopper lurched heavily sideways.

I suddenly found myself wishing for those overstressed Ilyushin engines, because what I was hearing now was not the kind of sound you *ever* want to hear from the machinery responsible for keeping you in the air.

We were gonna crash.

The engine was straining, that peculiar high pitched whine making my teeth ache as I checked for whatever I could grab onto to cushion the landing, my eyes searching out the emergency gear, marked in the unfamiliar Russian lettering.

I could hear the crew chief yelling at the pilots, then turning and yelling at me in words I didn’t understand. Funny, he didn’t look scared. I hoped that meant he knew something about the situation that I didn’t.

Turned out he did, but it wasn’t at all what I expected.

We were descending fast, the trees and the rocks and the snow rushing toward us at a decidedly unhealthy rate.

The crew chief was back, shouting at me.

And then the pilot pulled up, the sudden maneuver throwing me hard into the wall, narrowly avoiding tossing me out the door altogether.

“Son of a bitch!” I shouted.

That’s when we hit.

Not a crash, not an accident but a controlled, hard landing.

Relief washed through me, until, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the crew chief come up behind me, a wrench in his hand. There was absolutely nothing accidental about the way he swung that wrench to make a solid, brutal connection with the back of my neck, just under the edge of my helmet.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I woke up, groaning, instinct prompting me to roll onto my stomach, arms wrapped around my throbbing head, pushing my legs up under me, forcing myself toward my feet. The overwhelming need to get up might have had something to do with how damned cold the ground was. Even in the fogged state I was in, I knew I couldn’t stay on that icy surface.

The attempt to get upright didn’t work.

Someone’s boot connected with my ribcage, and with a grunt of displaced air, I found myself back on the ground.

That wasn’t accidental, either.

The guy who owned the boot said something, I’d make bets it was the age old “he’s waking up.”

Footsteps. Another pair of boots, no, shoes, actually. The smell of aftershave, clean clothes, the scent of a strong cigarette… a voice, answering, in a different sounding accent.

A hand, reaching down, grabbing me by the hair, yanking me upright.

Bastards. “Wish you’d make up your minds. On the floor or get up, one or the other, huh boys?”

Not a kick this time, but a slap across the face.

My eyes popped open in reaction, blinking against the too-bright lights. There was a heavy Russian Slavic face, sneaky eyes, inches away from mine. I could smell the borscht on his breath. “Da,” said the voice, then a string of more Russian words addressed to someone other than me. He was still holding me up by the hair, since my legs were mostly uncooperative when it came to obeying my orders to stand. They kept buckling, which led him to yank me upright again and again. Finally, he turned back to me, sneering. “O’Neill. Your buyer is waiting most eagerly.”

I made my best effort to straighten up, despite the vertigo and the wobble in my knees. “I am an officer in the United Sta-“

The boot was back in my ribs.

I was back on the floor, gasping for air that my lungs weren’t able to drag in.

Borscht breath leaned down. “Your government has been informed of a little accident. The helicopter you were on crashed. Yes, we know, nowadays, it is so sad, we Russians are poor, our aircraft poorly maintained. Crashes happen. A grave loss, brave Russian pilot, co-pilot, crewmen, and one lone unfortunate American. Many regrets. We are searching for the bodies, but, ah, Russia is a very very big country. Radar works only sporadically so we are not sure where the chopper disappeared…” the man shook his head theatrically. “Sad, so very sad, the loss of life…”

“My commander won’t buy it,” I rasped.

Borschtman laughed. “Buy it? He’s already been bought. Harmon, no that is not quite right, Hammond, that is the name. He made a trade. You, for the other American, Maybourne. A show trial to appease your people, one that will keep your Stargate program alive. And having you will keep ours alive. You’ll tell us what you know about your program and your secret alien allies…”

I began to laugh. “Me? Oh that’s good. You think I know…” my question was cut off by that damned boot planted in my ribs again.

“You know, and we know that you know. Maybourne explained to us, about your little gray friends and the information you obtained on that planet.”

“It’s gone.” I gasped.

“You only think it is gone. Nothing is ever truly gone. We have specialists who work on the human brain. Things believed to be forgotten can be recalled, with the proper techniques. Your American military, it may be too squeamish to do what needs to be done. But we have no such scruples. But do not feel so bad. Your General Hammond is a hard negotiator. Your secrets will become our knowledge, but we have agreed to share them with your people as well.” Borschtman smiled, revealing crooked, stained teeth. “Of course, we will not share everything.” He shrugged. “But such is life, and politics. We are not so naïve and foolish as you Americans would believe.” He turned to the guards. “Now, make him look like he was injured in a crash. But don’t kill him.” Footsteps retreated across the room, a door opened and closed.

Booted feet came closer.

“Hey guys, now there’s no need…” I started.

The first boot broke one rib, the second broke another, the third connected with my jaw, but I didn’t think it was broken. Not yet anyway. Another boot made sharp contact with a kidney. I’d be passing blood for a week, if I wasn’t pushing up daisies.

Those guys weren’t amateurs. They knew how to do damage, painful yet not fatal.

And they enjoyed it.

One boot at a time.

^^^^^^^^^

I’d awakened to a world of darkness, and hurt.

There’s nothing like broken ribs to ruin your day. Every movement, no matter how slight or how careful hurts. Every breath hurts.

Every bump in the road is like another boot in the ribs.

I was being taken somewhere, not by chopper this time, but by some sort of big vehicle, sadly not an ambulance, a truck of some kind I supposed, one with broken springs, or no springs, obviously traveling across rutted unpaved ground, jolting me helplessly around in a space that was just big enough to give me adequate room to get rocked back and forth, then crash into the side of whatever the hell it was I was in.

Thump. Jolt. Stabbing pain.

Thump. Jolt. Gasp for air.

Thump. Jolt. Curse if I had enough breath.

Thump. Jolt. Pass out.

^^^^^^^^^^^

We traveled for a long time. I know that because it was late afternoon when they put me in that truck. Though I had no clue how long I’d been passed out, it was, from the position of the sun, clearly morning when we stopped.

The back of the truck was opened, letting in blinding light. Two men stepped in, shaking me awake and dragging me out of the truck. Two others stood 15 or 20 feet away, spaced a good 20 feet apart, AK-47s up and ready.

No chance to make a break.

We were in a snowy forest, huge trees lining the road on both sides as far as I could see in the quick glimpse I had of my surroundings.

More Russian words I didn’t understand, but I was pointed toward the side of the road, where another man, maybe the driver, was standing, legs wide, taking a leak.

Oh, got it. Potty break.

Shivering in the cold wind, I staggered over to the roadside, opened my fly, relieved myself, definitely not relieved to see the dark color of my urine, but glad it wasn’t pure blood at least. As soon as I was zipped back up, I was pushed back towards the truck.

I hesitated by the tailgate, unwilling to climb back in, knowing the effort was going to hurt like hell.

My two friends picked me up and tossed me back in.

Shit.

Now that hurt.

Dimly, I heard the doors close again, darkness returning as the lock and chains rattled and I felt the truck lurch into movement again.

Something rolled against my leg, something hard and roundish and metal. I stuck out a hand, groping at the shape in the pitch darkness, my fingers tracing the edges, and realizing it was a canteen, heavy enough to be full. Hands shaking from the cold, I opened the top, sniffing carefully. Smelled okay. I stuck a finger into the icy liquid, cautiously licked the digit… water. Seemed okay. Gratefully I pushed myself into a sitting position, and drank about a third of it, not knowing how long it was going to have to last. Then, bracing my back against the side of the truck, hoping to mitigate the rough ride, I waited.

The bouncing went on hour after hour after hour. The air warmed, probably daytime outside, and then I felt the temperature begin to cool again. Dusk? It was winter, the days would be short, the nights intensely cold.

We stopped once for another break where I was permitted out to relieve myself. I wasn’t given any more water, or anything to eat. The dour guards ignored my requests.

It was daylight again when we stopped.

I heard the guards get out, and I heard other sounds, too.

I had the distinct feeling I’d arrived somewhere.

Lots of talk outside the truck, all incomprehensible to me. I had a sudden fervent wish for Daniel and his linguistic skills, and then shook my head. Bad enough I was here, I sure didn’t want any of my team trapped here in this nightmare, too.

Finally, I heard the chains and lock rattle again, and the door to my cage opened.

I squinted against the sudden too-bright light after long hours of darkness.

A gruff voice issued an unmistakable order. Opening my eyes a slit, I saw another uniformed man waving an arm in a ‘get out’ gesture.

I closed my eyes, pretending not to understand.

My two old friends from the long road-trip once again climbed into the truck. Grabbing my arms, they dragged me toward the door, shoving me off the back of the truck. Thank God the snow was deep enough to cushion my landing. Even at that, I lay gasping for breath against the pain in my side.

Finally, rough hands hauled me upright, and pushed me forward.

I stumbled through the deep snow until we reached an icy, hard packed path that led up to a gray, featureless building.

My first prison, but not my last.

I’ve been here for days now, alone, cold, hungry.

Angry.

I knew the delay was part of the game, that wearing me down physically was a prelude to breaking all my mental defenses. Even more importantly, making me wait, anticipate whatever it was they were going to do to me to get me to tell them what I knew, which, ironically, wasn’t going to be what they were looking for. What could I tell them they didn’t already know? Obviously, they had all of SG-1’s mission reports, courtesy of Maybourne; Dr. Markov had known all about us.

So what else did they expect to get out of me?

If they really were after the knowledge of the Ancients, well, that was long gone. I knew that. I knew what it had been like when it was there, and let me tell you, I knew when it was gone. I hadn’t understood it when it was in my head, so there was no way hypnosis, drugs, brainwashing or anything else was going to extract any of it now. No matter what the Russians thought they could do.

I knew they’d experimented with all kinds of weird stuff. Hell, I knew shadowy groups in my own government had certainly done the same. People are the same all over, whether they call themselves the NID or the KGB.

Bastards.

^^^^^^^^^^^

Major Sam Carter walked into Daniel Jackson’s office. The SG-1 archaeologist was staring intently at his computer screen which showed a high resolution photograph of several pictographs. Daniel’s pencil scratched hurriedly across a sheet of paper as he made some notes, a small smile on his face as he jotted down first impressions of the document.

Sam was a step inside the door when she noticed Teal’c sitting quietly in the spare chair.

“Hi, Daniel, Teal’c, ” Sam greeted them, walking over to stand next to Daniel. “Is that the carving from PL9-964?”

“Yes, the one SG-4 brought back yesterday. Fascinating.” He tapped the eraser end of the pencil against the screen. “Here, this drawing, we saw one like it before on…”

“Daniel.”

The worry in her tone caused him to stop abruptly, turning to look at her, one eyebrow raised. “Sam?”

“Is something wrong, MajorCarter?”

“I think so. General Hammond just asked me to find you and join him in the briefing room.”

“So?” Daniel asked. “That’s nothing unusual.”

“He looked upset.”

“Wasn’t Jack due back from Russia yesterday?” Daniel suddenly remembered.

“Yes. I asked him about that and the General said there was a delay, but he had this odd look on his face…” Carter frowned.

Teal’c rose silently to his feet. “Then perhaps we should talk to the General.”

The three teammates hurried through the SGC hallways, riding silently in the elevator down to the 28^th floor and headed for the briefing room.

The door to Hammond’s office was closed, but through the window, they could see he was on the red phone, talking animatedly.

Teal’c stood, hands clasped behind his back, looking imperturbable as ever. Sam paced over to the window, staring down at the gate. Daniel headed for the coffeemaker, pouring himself a cup and making a second for Sam, carrying it across to her.

“Here,” he handed her the coffee.

She took it, drank a sip, then held the cup tightly with both hands.

The minutes stretched out longer and longer as the General was still on the phone. None of the SG-1 teammates said anything, each alone with his or her worried thoughts.

Finally, his door opened, and Hammond walked out slowly.

At the look on the man’s face, Daniel felt a knot begin to form in his stomach. “General?”

Hammond waved them all toward seats around the table. “Please,” he told them, waiting quietly while they took their places, O’Neill’s usual spot in the first seat on Hammond’s left conspicuously empty.

“I’m sorry to inform you,” Hammond paused, taking a deep breath. “The day before yesterday, Colonel O’Neill was on his way to Moscow via Russian military helicopter. It disappeared from radar, east of Moscow, in a heavy snowstorm. The Russians are searching for it, but it’s in a remote area, and the bad weather is causing problems…” The General raised his face to look at the stunned people around the table. “It is believed the chopper crashed and the crew and passengers are dead...”

General!” Daniel protested. “They could have survived, some of them at least…”

“Dr. Jackson,” Hammond’s voice was quiet, “it is quite unlikely. Before the weather closed in, one search plane spotted wreckage and smoke and no sign of survivors. Our own spy satellites showed an explosion and fire of some kind in the general area where the Russians believe the crash occurred…”

“We could help in the search, Sir,” Carter interjected. “With the satellite data, we could pinpoint the location…”

“Major, we all want to find the Colonel. We’d all like to think he survived. But the evidence strongly indicates otherwise.”

“Can we trust the Russian’s evidence, General?” Daniel asked.

“We have no choice,” Hammond insisted. “And we have no reason not to.”

“Could we not launch our own search?” Teal’c inquired.

“Not there. The Russians are a bit… testy… about American interference…”

“But, Sir,” the Major protested, “one of *our* people is lost. It would be only sensible for us to join the rescue effort…”

“People, we’re doing everything we can through diplomatic channels. We’re continuing to press the Russians to continue the search, and we’ve offered assistance, which they’ve declined.” Hammond sat back in his chair. “I’m sorry. You know I’m hoping they find the Colonel alive and well. But we need to be realistic…” He stood, the others following suit. “I’ll keep you informed of anything I find out. Dismissed.”

“Sir, isn’t there something…”

“No, Major,” he snapped, “there is *not*.” Without another word, he turned and headed for his office. Hammond sat down behind his desk, watching the three members of SG-1 slowly leave the briefing room. Once they were gone, he let his head drop into his heads. He had been the one to send Jack on that mission to Moscow. “Oh, God, what have I done?” he whispered.

^^^^^^^^^^^

I thought three days had gone by, judging by the one meal a day theory, when they finally came for me.

Once again, one man stood back, machinegun in hand, while two others took my arms and pushed, pulled and dragged me out of the cell, down a narrow dim corridor, up a short flight of stairs, and into a room.

There was a single, hard backed chair in the middle of the room, one solitary dull lightbulb overhead. A large mirror took up most of one wall.

“Hi,” I waved toward it, knowing it had to be a one way window so observers could watch what was about to happen. The brief glimpse I caught of my reflection was not reassuring… there were discolored yellow bruises on my stubble-covered jaw, my face was pale, cheeks hollow and my hair stuck up all over in untidy tufts.

One of the guards shoved me down on the chair. “Now isn’t this just mighty comfy.”

Shackles affixed to the arms of the chair were buckled tightly around my wrists; more chains on the legs were locked around my ankles. “Well, this is the cliché of all cliches.”

The goons left without comment about my wit.

Silence returned.

At least this room was a little warmer than what I was used to, I thought thankfully, desperately searching for something positive in what I knew wasn’t going to be a pleasant experience.

Why am I always right about such things?

Finally, after what I guessed was close to an hour, the door opened.

A well-dressed man, okay, well-dressed for a Russian, entered, one of the guards carrying a chair which he placed about six feet in front of me.

The guard left.

The man in the suit stalked around me in a wide circle, examining me while I watched him out of the corner of my eye. Finally, he stepped back to stand in front of me. He was tall, balding, barrel-chested, no longer young, and quite ordinary looking until you looked into his eyes.

Scary eyes, cold and ruthless.

This was not a nice man.

“Helllllo,” I said.

He smiled, if that’s what you wanted to call it, a twist of his lips that did not reach his eyes.

“Greetings, Colonel O’Neill,” his barely accented voice had a hint of mockery in it.

“I guess you have me at a bit of a disadvantage…”

“It seems I do,” he answered quickly.

I waved a hand as far as I could, considering the restraints. “I’m referring to the name thing. Since you know mine and I don’t know yours…”

“You do not need to know my name,” he peered down at me, “but you may call me Ivan.”

“Ivan, ah hah. Clever. That’s the Russian equivalent of Mr. Smith, I take it?”

Ivan smiled again as he turned and sat down on the chair, leaning back comfortably. “I have heard you are quite an amusing man, Colonel. That is good. It will make things so very much simpler. You will talk, I will listen, and we will be friends, yes?”

“Nyet.”

He laughed. “Very humorous, Colonel.”

I shrugged, not easy under the circumstances. “Ah, well, one should always try to learn a bit of the local language when one goes traveling abroad. Avoid the ugly American stereotype. It’s bad for the image.”

We stared at each other for long moments. When I didn’t turn away, he finally spoke again. “Well, we have wasted enough time on your little game. We have business to conduct.”

I sighed. “O’Neill, John J., Colonel, United States Air Force,” he let me rattle off the whole name, rank and serial number spiel without interruption.

“Thank you, Colonel, that is information we already knew, but it is very kind of you to confirm it for us. Now let’s move on to other things.”

“Nyet.”

He leaned forward, his voice switching from soft and friendly to as hard and cold as the icy woods beyond the walls. “I do understand your reluctance, Colonel, but you have no choice. You *will* tell me what I wish to know. So let’s start with your current job assignment?”

“That would be prisoner.”

Ivan’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. “That is not what I mean.”

“It’s the truth.”

“You are assigned to a military program called Stargate Command, based in Cheyenne Mountain, under the facilities for NORAD. What are your duties there, Colonel?”

“Annoying my CO, creating reams of useless paperwork, and depleting the commissary’s stock of pumpkin pie…”

Quicker than I expected from a man of his age and bulk, he was on his feet, his fist snapping out to land squarely on my ribs, the broken ones on my right side.

Air whooshed out of my lungs. I saw the proverbial stars as everything went black and shimmery and the room spun sickeningly. My lungs were demanding I suck in air at the same time my ribs were screaming at me not to breathe at all.

The lungs won. Son of a bitch, but that hurt.

When I finally got to the point I could raise my head and focus my eyes, I discovered Ivan was sitting closer to me, his eyes boring into mine, a look of satisfaction on his face.

“Not so much to say now, Colonel O’Neill?”

“Takes a real man of courage to hit a man who’s tied down and can’t hit back.”

I think he got the sarcasm. His eyes narrowed once more, and he leaned forward to whisper into my ear. “Intelligence, O’Neill, intelligence. A smart man knows it is much safer to hit an opponent when he is helpless. As you are helpless. And as you shall remain. Until you tell me what I want to know.” He leaned back, sitting down on the chair once more. “Now, I am a very patient man. We shall start again. What are your duties in the Stargate program?”

“Bite me.”

“What are your duties in the Stargate program?”

“Kiss my ass.”

“What are your duties in the Stargate program?”

“Fuck you.”

Ivan stood, and turned to the window. “I think it is time to move on to the second phase.”

There was a tiny click, like a switch being turned on, and then a tinny voice sounded from a speaker set high in the corner of the room. “I will send in Dr. Pusharin.”

Ivan walked back and sat down in front of me again, a smug smile on his face. “The doctor has some excellent drugs. Nothing like your American recreational drugs, which I understand induce some quite pleasant effects for the user. These drugs, on the contrary, will not make you feel better, Colonel.”

The door opened, a man in a white coat entering, carrying a syringe.

Damn, I hate needles.

“This is your last chance to cooperate, Colonel.” Ivan offered. “Once we begin with the drug, I cannot promise the consequences.”

“Apparently, you’ve never heard the American motto, Just say No?”

There was no humor in Ivan’s smile. “Have it your way, then Colonel. You have been warned.” The Russian nodded to the man in the white coat. “Doctor, you may proceed.”

The doctor walked up to my left side, silently. Pulling a scissors from the pocket of his coat, he cut the shirt sleeve open from my wrist to just above my elbow, exposing the joint.

“Hey, this shirt is the property of the United States Air Force you know,” I protested.

The doctor ignored me. Pulling a length of tubing from another pocket, he tied it tightly around my upper arm, snapping his fingers in the crook of my elbow to expose the veins.

The syringe was full of a dark yellowish fluid. The doctor brought it up, pricked the skin, and pushed. I watched as he drew back the plunger, blood backfilling into the syringe, and then he pushed the plunger.

Nothing happened at first. It stung a little, and then my arm started to tingle, a prickly sensation spreading from my elbow down toward my fingertips. As the sensation increased, I tried to shake my hand.

Pain blossomed.

Shit, what had he injected, acid?

I bit my lip and then I couldn’t stop myself. “Arrrgghhh!”

I writhed as the agony spread outward from my arm into my chest, my legs and my head; jerking frenziedly at the bindings that held me to the chair, desperate to do something, anything to get away from the pain.

I tried to stop, knowing I was only doing more damage to myself, but I couldn’t stop, my brain couldn’t override my body’s reaction to whatever the hell that stuff was and what it was doing to me. I could feel the cuffs tearing the skin on my wrists, feel my head hitting the back of the chair with more and more force, feel my jaw tensed, my teeth grinding, my fingernails digging into my palms.

And then I couldn’t feel anything at all but the stuff pulsing through my brain in rippling waves that I knew were going to make my head explode at any second.

^^^^^^

I woke up gradually, confused. My head ached worse than the worst migraine I’d ever had, worse even than when I’d had that skull fracture. The dim light hitting my eyes was like a spike driven into my brain. I slammed my lids shut. Eyes still closed, I tried to move my arms and realized I couldn’t.

I was sitting up in a chair, my chin resting on my chest, my head too heavy to lift. Every inch of my body hurt, every muscle twitched weakly. I was shivering and soaked in sweat and with horror realized I’d lost all control and fouled myself.

Something touched my chin.

My eyes popped open, and I realized someone had a hand under my chin, lifting my head.

The face was familiar. It took me a long minute to sort through my rattled brain to come up with a name. “Ivan.”

I must have whispered it aloud, because the face smiled. “Very good, O’Neill. Yes, I am your friend, Ivan.”

He let go of my chin and my head sagged back onto my chest. From the corner of my eye, I could see Ivan turn to someone standing behind him. “You fool!” he spat. “How much did you give him? You nearly killed him.”

Another, unfamiliar voice answered fearfully. “I gave him the standard dose. It’s possible he reacted more violently because of his already weakened condition.”

“Just be sure you get it right next time, or we’ll do the next dose experiments on you.” Ivan snarled.

“Y-yyes Sir,” the other voice answered, and then there were footsteps, the sound of a door opening and closing, and then silence, except for the harsh sound of Ivan’s breathing, the kind of thing years of smoking does to a man’s lungs.

The hand was back lifting my chin once more. “Colonel.”

I didn’t open my eyes.

“Colonel!” He shook my head.

Pain spiked.

“Open your eyes.”

I did.

He nodded. “Thank you, Colonel, for the information you’ve given us. I’m sure it will prove most useful.”

Information? What information had I given him? My brain was pretty well scrambled but I didn’t remember telling him anything. Then again, God only knew what I’d done under the influence of that drug. But, then, if they had all of our mission reports thanks to Maybourne, there really wasn’t much that I could tell them that they didn’t already know.

Or were they looking for other things I knew? Stuff from way back in the past when I’d been in Special Ops and had a couple of, um, ‘contacts’ with the then Soviets?

Ivan was talking again. I missed the first couple of words and then I heard him say something about “tomorrow. I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again. ” He said something in Russian to someone else, and then I heard his chair scrape and footsteps as he headed for the door.

Other, heavier footsteps approached. Someone was untying me, pulling me out of the chair, trying to prop me up on my feet. My legs weren’t working though, my traumatized muscles far too weak to hold me up.

The guards said something, and one of them laughed, and then, their hands under my arms, they carried me, feet dragging limply behind, out of the room and across the hall, into another room. Unceremoniously, I was dumped onto a bench. My clothes, BDUs all the way down to my filthy underwear, were stripped away. Unable to stand, I huddled as a bucket of luke-warm water was tossed over me, then another. Finally, with one of the men holding me up, the other dressed me in loose fitting boxers, coarse trousers and a heavy, rough woolen shirt. My laceless boots, socks stuck inside them, were shoved into my hands, and I somehow managed to hold onto them as I was towed down the hall and thrown back into my cold cell.

Fumbling, I tugged the socks onto my freezing feet, shoving them into my boots. The blanket was still there in the corner of my cell, and I wrapped it around my shoulders, curling into a fetal position.

The cramps started soon after. Every muscle shuddered with the force of them until I wanted to scream. I stuffed a corner of the filthy blanket into my mouth to stop myself from biting my tongue or breaking my teeth as much as to stifle the moans that welled up out of my throat.

It went on for hours, the trembling and shaking until finally I fell into an exhausted sleep.

My sense of time was totally shot. I didn’t know if it was minutes or hours or days when the door opened again. Too tired to raise my head, much less to put up any semblance of defiance, I laid on the floor as the guards entered. Once again one of them stood in the background, gun raised, as the other carried a container and came toward me. Roughly, he lifted my head and said something, poking at my jaw. Raising the container to my lips, he started to pour the stuff directly into my mouth.

My feeble attempt to pull my head away just made him laugh. He pushed the container against my teeth and tilted it until the liquid dribbled into my mouth.

It wasn’t water. It was broth or weak soup and I swallowed it rather than drown in it.

I slept a long time.

Waking up was unpleasant: stiff from the cold, every muscle, bone and joint bruised and aching, and with a splitting headache topping off the list of my miseries.

God, I hate Russia.

Looking around, I spotted a plate and cup sitting by the door. I’d been so out of it I hadn’t even heard whoever brought it.

Unable to get to my feet, I crawled across to it. I drank the water, needing both shaking hands to hold the cup. The food was ice cold, but I broke the bread into tiny bits and ate it, chewing slowly, pausing often to rest my aching jaw. There was a small piece of greasy meat, and I gagged that down, too, knowing I needed every bit of sustenance.

I staggered upright enough to relieve myself into the reeking bucket in the corner of my cell. Then, exhausted once more, I crawled back to the far corner and curled up in the meager comfort of the thin blanket.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The memorial service was brief, dignified and small.

The base chaplain spoke a few consoling words to the men and women gathered in the quiet cemetery. The flag draped marker was uncovered, the simple words engraved “Col. Jack O’Neill” and the dates of his birth and death. The flag was folded, and since there was no close living kin, it was presented to General Hammond. A salute was fired, and then ‘Taps’ was played, the haunting melody drifting across the cemetery, floating through the bare, leafless trees.

Quiet words were exchanged, and then people began to drift away. Finally, there were only three still standing beside the marker, a female officer in dress blues, a quiet bespectacled man in a dark suit, and a stoic, ebony-skinned man in suit and a fedora.

“I can’t believe it,” Sam Carter leaned against Daniel. “I can’t believe he died like this, so stupidly… If we’d been able to see…”

“Sam, we wouldn’t have wanted to see. He was unrecognizable… the chopper burned.”

“I don’t believe it was him. I won’t…”

“Sam, Janet confirmed the DNA test results. They matched Jack’s records. There was no mistake. We have to accept that he’s gone.”

Daniel reached out and wrapped an arm around the woman’s shaking shoulders. “I miss him, too, Sam.”

Finally, the three surviving members of SG-1 walked back to their car, and drove away in silence.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Sometime later, I didn’t know and didn’t care how long after, they came for me again. The guards strolled in, yanked me to my feet, and, half carrying me, half dragging me, hauled me back to that room, the one with the chair and the window and Ivan.

He was waiting for me.

Muscles still too weak for me to be able to stand up, much less put up a fight, I was strapped into the chair once more.

“So, Colonel O’Neil, I trust you slept well?” Ivan asked.

“Like a baby,” I mumbled, not having the strength to talk any louder.

“That is good. Then you are well rested and ready to continue our conversation. We shall begin again, at the point we concluded yesterday. You had told us about your Stargate missions, about your secret base under Cheyenne Mountain, and now we shall talk about other things that are of interest.”

“Hockey.”

Ivan looked quizzically at me. “Hockey?”

“We kicked your asses in the last Olympics.”

“Ah, more of your jokes, Colonel O’Neill. Yes, hockey was once a very important game here in Russia. Until you Americans, with all your money, bought all our best players. So hockey is no longer of great importance to us, Colonel. However, we would like to learn more about an organization called the NID…”

“Nutsos, Imbeciles and Deadheads.”

“How colorful. However, there are people in that organization who interest us greatly…” Ivan looked at a sheet of paper he pulled from his pocket. “Let’s start with a Senator named Kinsey…”

“Don’t know him.”

“You lie poorly, O’Neill. Senator Kinsey has visited your secret base…”

“Lots of people visit our base…”

“A strange fact, that a place so top secret should received so many visitors, true, but you know Senator Kinsey. There is no doubt.”

“Don’t.”

“Ah, well, then we shall have to refresh your memory, Colonel.” Ivan nodded toward the window. “I was hoping we would not have to do this again, that there would be no need for such unpleasantness. But if you insist on being stubborn, then I have no choice.”

“Neither do I.”

He nodded.

The door opened. The doctor entered, once again carrying a syringe.

My throat went dry. Just the thought of what that shit could do to me, what it felt like, how much it hurt, made my head swim. I could feel my hands shaking already, my heart starting to beat faster, my skin crawling with the knowledge of what was to come.

Ivan leaned forward. “You do not need to go through this, Colonel. No one would blame you. The drug is vicious and potent. Its qualities have already been demonstrated to you. You can talk now, and be spared.”

I swallowed. Taking a deep breath, I closed my eyes and shook my head.

“So be it then, Colonel. You have no one to blame but yourself.”

The routine started once again, the doctor baring my arm, finding a vein, and inserting the needle.

This time, it was worse. Maybe because I anticipated it, maybe because I was weaker, maybe because there was some sort of cumulative effect.

The surging pain came first, then a different feeling. I couldn’t breathe. I gasped for air, and then everything just sort of stopped. I had no control over anything. It was like my entire body, every muscle, every nerve, was paralyzed.

“Colonel?” Ivan’s voice sounded odd, worried, scared. “Doctor,” he shouted.

I heard everything through a kind of gray haze. I couldn’t move, not so much as twitch a finger, but I could feel it, all of it, as they untied me from the chair, laid me out on the cold floor, the doctor pounding on my chest. Frantic orders were shouted back and forth above my head, but I couldn’t understand them because all of it was in Russian.

And then the activity around me stopped.

A hand touched my neck, at the spot where’d you feel for a pulse, and then I heard more words. Someone kicked me in the side. I could feel it, felt the sharp stab of agony where the boot impacted my broken ribs, but I couldn’t so much as flinch.

Ivan was screaming. I didn’t need to know the words to know they were curses.

Footsteps receded.

It got very quiet.

Okay, I’ll admit it, I was scared.

I thought I was dead.

Someone pulled something over my head, and then I knew had to be dead because I realized it was a sheet. The way they cover a dead man.

Oh for cryin’ out loud.

My heart started hammering.

But if I was dead my heart couldn’t be hammering, could it?

Hands touched my shoulders, and my feet. I was picked up and slung onto something that smelled oddly rubbery. The hands moved my feet, my hands, my head and shoulders, and then I heard another noise I recognized. A zipper.

Son of a bitch.

A body bag.

They were zipping me up inside a body bag.

I was dead?

I went nuts.

Desperate to move, to shout, to let them know I was still alive because I could feel this, I could feel and hear and even if I couldn’t move I was alive, damn it, and they couldn’t close me up inside that bag… oh shit oh shit oh shit.

I tried to move, tried and tried and wanted to scream in frustration because not one single solitary muscle would obey my frenzied orders to do *something*.

I was being carried, then slung onto something hard with bruising force on my already battered body.

A gurney. They’d put the body bag with me in it on a gurney and were wheeling it, bumping and jerking, down a hallway.

I heard another sound I knew, a doorway opening, and even inside the bag, I felt a blast of cold air. The bag was picked up again, carried a few steps, then tossed into something. Another noise, suspiciously akin to the sound of a trunk lid being closed.

Then more motion.

Christ, were they taking me somewhere to bury my body in the forest? Bury me alive.

Shit.

I was hyperventilating. That’s when I suddenly realized that not only could I feel my heart pumping, I could feel my lungs sucking in air.

I started issuing adrenaline fueled orders, and bit by bit my body started working again. My hands, lying across my chest, responded first, and I felt my finger twitch. Concentrating, I ordered it to move again, and it did, this time two fingers, and then, after a bit, my whole hand moved.

I was sweating now, feverishly hot inside the closed bag as I felt my body returning to life, sluggishly answering my orders: fingers, hand, arm, shoulder, feet, legs. I started kicking against whatever my feet were jammed up against, pounding my hands on the lid above me. “Let me out of here damn you!”

The sound was annoying loud inside the body bag.

Motion stopped suddenly. I heard the crunch of footsteps on snow, then the sound of the trunk lid creaking open, and the zipper moving.

I blinked against the light, and recognized the face of the doctor.

“Ah, you are awake.” The face turned away from me. “See, I told you Nicholai, that it would work.”

A second face peered back around the doctor’s shoulder.

“I am Dr. Pusharin…”

“I remember you,” I growled.

“Ah, well, that is good." Pusharin turned to Nicholai. "See, no brain damage.”

“It was risky, Gregor.”

“A risk we needed to take, comrade. For which we will be well rewarded.”

The two of them dragged me out of the trunk. My legs were like jello, wobbly and unsteady, and they helped me into the car, stuffing me in the middle of the back seat between the two of them.

“What the hell did you do…” I didn't get to finished the question.

An elbow jabbed into my ribs, fortunately, the unbroken ones, though I ached everywhere.

“You would do well to be quiet, now, Colonel…” the man called Nicholai suggested.

“*You* would do well to tell me what just happened and where we’re going.” I insisted.

Nicholai smiled. “There is no need for you to know, Colonel. You will be well taken care of, I promise. You are a valuable piece of property. Now, be quiet, or we shall put you back in the trunk.”

Exhausted from the struggles, the drugs, the adrenaline high, and well, being dead, I faded out.

^^^^^^^

I really wish people would quit tying me up and dragging me around.

That’s what they did, when the car finally stopped.

“Just what is it you think I’m going to do?” I asked as Nicholai snapped cuffs around my wrists. “What, I’m going to escape? Out here?” I waved a hand at the snowcovered forest that we’d been driving through for miles.

“No, Colonel, you will not escape. We are simply taking all necessary precautions.”

“What you ought to do is let me go.”

Nicholai smiled. “No. Valuable property like you, we cannot let such a thing go to waste. We Russians have become poor, but we are not stupid. We make what money we can, where we can.”

“So who’s paying a big ransom for me? The only people who wanted me are the ones you just stole me from.”

“Ah, Colonel, you downplay your importance. There are others who remember you, and wish to become, shall we say, re-acquainted? I think you will find all your questions answered soon.”

Oh great. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.

Who'd have thought in just a few hours I'd be looking back on that car ride as a highlight of my little Russian road trip?

^^^^^^^^^^^

I spent the next few hours trying to think of who might want me enough to pay these men to snatch me out from under the control of the Russian government. I knew the former Soviet Union was chaotic, law enforcement an iffy proposition at best, and that rubles talked, as in he who could pay the biggest bribe got what he wanted.

In this case, me.

Well, money talked everywhere, money and connections.

But obviously, whoever wanted me had been willing to pay a great deal of money for this operation.

There was always the dim hope that my 'buyer' was a friendly. Maybe someone had discovered the truth about the so-called chopper crash, figured out where I was, and this was a rescue, odd as it was.

It was a very nice thought, and maybe, if this was a novel or a TV show, it would be true.

Maybe.

But this was real life.

A miraculous rescue was not likely.

Quite unlikely, actually.

Much more likely was that a vengeful someone I'd encountered during my Special Ops days had discovered that I was suddenly within reach.

If that was the case, it wasn't an old friend wanting to say, ‘howdy’ but rather, an old enemy wanting to say 'up yours.'

I had plenty of old enemies, on both sides of the Atlantic, lots of them on this side of what had been the Iron Curtain.

Well, I was soon to find out.

Until then, I couldn't waste my energy or strength on worrying. I had to get ready.

So I took a nap. If there's one thing I'd learned in all my years in the military, it was that you never wasted the chance to get a good night's, er, afternoon's, sleep.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I woke up when the car slowed.

Raising my head, I looked around.

It was pitch dark.

Not much else had changed.

The headlights revealed the ever-present trees marching along the roadsides as far as I could see. Large flakes of snow were falling in wind driven ripples.

Who wouldn't love Russia in the wintertime?

Well, it *was* spring, actually.

The car turned off the paved road and onto something much rougher. There were dim tracks in the new fallen snow. After just a few minutes, we reached a clearing.

Two cars waited there, both black, blocky and anonymous. The bigger, heavier, newer looking one, had its windows tinted black.

Two men, wearing heavy parkas and classic Russian fur hats, got out of the first car, and walked over to the one I was in.

Dr. Pusharin rolled down his window. Rapid fire Russian words were exchanged, then the doctor nodded.

Nicholai opened his door, grabbed the chains connecting my handcuffed wrists, and dragged me out of the car, tearing open the thinly scabbed-over abrasions that my frenetic reaction to that drug had caused, back when I'd been tied to that chair.

"Ow."

Nicholai smiled and tugged harder, pulling me toward the second car.

I shivered. The air was bitterly cold, the wind cutting through the coarse shirt I wore.

A window on the second car slid down. I heard someone moving around inside, and then a flashlight was turned on, it's beam aimed at my face, blinding me. I tried to throw up a hand to protect my eyes, but Nicholai jerked on the chains once more, preventing me from raising my arms.

I stood blinking, my eyes watering from the cold and the bright light.

More Russian words, I'd bet my whole month’s pay they were something along the line of 'yes, this is our lucky winner of a trip to nowhere anyone would want to go.'

A gloved hand handed a briefcase out of the window. Nicholai reached out and took it, handing over the keys to the cuffs I wore, then smiled at me as the window smoothly rolled closed.

Nicholai stepped back. The two new guys stepped up and prodded me toward the first car. Once again, I was shoved into the back seat of the vehicle, wedged tightly between the two men. Well, at least it was warmer inside that car than the cold outdoor air.

The car I'd come in, containing Pusharin, Nicholai and what I was sure was a briefcase full of money, left first. Then the other luxury car my buyer was in departed, the car I was in following close behind.

"So, boys, where are we going?" I asked. Not that I thought they'd tell me, but you know me, I can't ever stay quiet for long. "Gee, cat got your tongues? Don't speak English? Took a vow of silence?" I looked from one to the other. Neither looked at me, their eyes fixed straight forward. "So, my name is Jack O'Neill. Two L's. Nice to meet you. I'll just call you Igor and Eeyore, if you don't mind."

The one on my left, the one I'd decided would be Eeyore, sneered at me.

"Don't like the name? Too bad. Just think of it as a nickname." Eeyore rolled his eyes. "The silent treatment. Ah, yes, a classic response. But not very effective. Especially if you people want more tourists to visit this country. Take it from me, you really need to work on your hospitality skills. They suck..."

"Be quiet." The words were heavily accented but entirely understandable.

I ignored them. I wasn't sure if he was military, ex- more likely, but even so, I knew he sure didn't outrank me, which meant I didn't have to take his orders.

"Oh, hey, so you do speak! That's nice. And English, too, of a sort. Know any more? I could probably teach you a few things you'd find useful... ooofff."

An elbow was planted firmly in my ribs, driving the air out of my lungs. As I gasped for breath, something was shoved into my mouth, gagging me.

Oh great.

We drove for more long hours. I was getting really sick of traveling, and then I'd think about the consequences of arriving somewhere, and I'd suddenly find myself wishing the journey would continue for a long time.

But, like all good things, it finally came to an end.

It was still snowing, but the darkness was fading toward dawn when once again we turned off the main road and onto a smaller lane. The drive wound through the trees for another hour before we finally pulled up in front of a house.

It was big, and old, made of huge time-darkened logs, smoke rising lazily from the chimney. Snow covered the roof. It was quite a Christmas-card beautiful scene.

The car I was in drove past the house and around the back and toward another building. This one wasn't pretty. It was classic Soviet architecture, ugly gray block, light showing through a couple of small windows high up in the wall.

I was desperately hoping it was the garage, not the guest house.

I was wrong, of course.

One more time, I was dragged unceremoniously out of the back of the car. The bastard didn't give me the chance to get my legs under me, he just pulled me out by the cuffs and towed me across the snow, up a couple of steps, and through a doorway. I was still fighting to catch my balance and Igor wasn't helping, doing just the opposite in fact.

And enjoying it.

Which I wasn't.

My complaints were very effectively muffled by the hunk of cloth gagging me as I was dragged down a corridor. The floor was concrete, rough and cold, thumping painfully against my knees; the cuffs digging into my already bloody wrists; and my right shoulder taking a nasty crack against the doorway that was going to leave more bruises.

Finally, Igor gave me a shove that sent me sprawling into a small room.

I lay on the floor, unmoving, while the door clanked shut behind me, and the unmistakable sound of door locks and latches echoed through the room.

Slowly, I pulled myself up onto hands and knees, tugging the gag out of my mouth with numb fingers, fighting back the urge to retch. Breathing under control at last, I raised my head far enough to see a bucket sitting by the door. Shuffling awkwardly across the floor, I scrambled over to it. It was full of clean, cold water, and thrusting my hands into the icy liquid, I greedily slurped it off my palms.

Sitting back on my butt, I slid my legs around in front of me as cold drops trickled down my neck, more down my hands, stinging on my raw wrists. Leaning back against the wall, cautious of my sore shoulder and aching ribs, I assessed my new quarters.

It wasn't exactly the Hilton, hell, it wasn't even a Motel 6. Frankly, I imagined sleazy pay by the hour motels were better accommodations. I felt a sudden yearning for that SleepRite Motel back in Montana, sad as the place had been.

The walls and floor were bare concrete. There were two small windows near the ceiling, only about six inches high and maybe a foot wide, far too small for anything bigger than a cat to climb through, even without the bars. The water bucket sat near the front door; another bucket, empty, sat in one corner. A thin mattress lay on the floor, with an equally sorry looking blanket thrown on top of it.

The room was lit by a small, dim bulb. There was no visible wiring and, of course, no switch.

The temperature seemed a little warmer than my first cell, but not enough to be comfortable.

Scooting across the floor, I folded up the mattress and sat on it, wrapping the blanket around my shoulders as I leaned back into the corner farthest from the door.

I wasted a couple of minutes examining the chains still fastened around my wrists. I might be able to pick the lock, if I had something other than my fingers to work with. Which I didn't. Where was MacGyver and his Swiss Army Knife when you needed them? I wondered.

The cuffs on my wrists were caked with rust-red blood. Pulling the sleeves of the woolen shirt I'd been given down as far as they would reach, I stuffed them between the metal and my raw flesh, padding them as best I could.

With nothing else to do, I settled down to wait.

Ugly questions raced around in my brain.

How had I ended up here?

Where was here?

Who was the man in the car?

Why did he want me ?

And for what?

None of them had pleasant answers.

And they all came back to my commanding officer. Who had betrayed me. Sold me out, to the Russians, in exchange for their cooperation.

He had to trade them something, I’d known that all along.

And I guess it had been me.

I’d been a convenient commodity to barter.

Disposable.

Adequate.

I wasn’t sure anymore whether where I was now was still part of the ploy, or if, somewhere along the lines, the double-crossers had triple crossed someone. Was this the original intent? That whoever had me now was who was supposed to get me? Or had I been snatched, sort of like Peter robbing Paul? Or, in this case, Ivan robbing Igor.

^^^^^^^^^^^^

Exhausted by all that had happened to me in just a few short days, despite my uncomfortable situation, I slept. It’s one of the things you learn to do, as a prisoner, take advantage of anything you can get that helps you stay alive. Eat and drink what you can, when you can, because you never know when you’ll get the next opportunity. Same way with sleep.

Take advantage of anything that keeps you strong.

Use your resources, limited as they may seem.

Bide your time.

Think.

Watch.

Plan.

Never give up.

Take any available opportunity to improve your position.

Count on yourself. That wasn’t one they taught you in Special Ops. Nope, there they taught you to rely on your buddies, your teammates, your fellow soldiers in arms. Well, I was on my own. Again.

Rely on yourself, O’Neill.

I think I’m going to have that tattooed on my derriere.

^^^^^^^^^

I don’t know how long I slept, not long enough was all knew. I felt better, but better is relative, you know? I’d progressed from feeling really crappy to feeling merely crappy.

I woke cold, chilled at the way the thin blanket had slipped off my shoulders; stiff from lying curled up, trying to keep my feet and legs warm; and aching from the knocking around my body had taken over the past few days… especially my ribcage, shoulders and wrists.

Rolling awkwardly, because my hands were still cuffed, I got up on my knees, then leaned a shoulder into the wall and staggered upright, my creaking knees protesting vigorously. Bit by bit I worked my way fully upright, rolling my shoulders and twisting my neck, swinging my arms as far as the cuffs would allow. Finally, I walked a few steps, working the stiffness out of my knees and back. I made my way over to the bucket in the corner and relieved myself, shivering in the chill, zipping up quickly.

There were voices out in the corridor. I must have heard the guards coming in, that must have been what woke me.

The key rattled in the door lock. I stood back, watching warily, as the heavy door swung open. One of the goons, Igor I think it was, motioned me forward, waving his AK-47 at me menacingly.

“What?”

He pointed out the door, where I could see the other guard, the one I’d dubbed Eeyore. He was holding another AK-47.

Nothing like overkill. That’s a Russian for ya.

Igor waved the sub-machine gun at me again.

“That’s dangerous you know. The damn thing could go off.”

Igor smiled. Maybe he did know English.

“Out,” said my pal Eeyore. “That way.”

I went out into the corridor, toward the door I’d come in the day before.

“Outside.” Ol’ Eeyore wasn’t much of a conversationalist.

I opened the door, and the two goons followed me outside.

It was bright daylight. I squinted against the glare, my eyes immediately starting to water, and I stumbled over the step, barely catching myself. I heard Igor, or maybe it was Eeyore, chuckle, and I added another silent promise about what I’d do when the shoe was on the other foot, and I held the gun and he was in chains… Bastard.

The two men prodded me toward the big house. I didn’t tarry. The sun might have been out, but the air was still bitterly cold. We walked past the big black luxury limo with its dark tinted windows, which sat idling. Another man was loading suitcases into the trunk.

By the time we reached the back door of the dacha, I was shivering uncontrollably. Pushed inside the house, I got only a quick glimpse of dark wood paneling and heavy furniture before I was propelled into what must have been the main room.

As my eyes adjusted to the change of light, I saw that the walls here were covered with artwork in big, heavy frames. There was a thick oval Persian rug on the floor that was colorful and probably expensive. A huge stone fireplace took up nearly all of one wall; another was mostly floor to ceiling windows, thick, ornate drapes pulled shut against the overly bright sunlight.

The place was sort of like my cabin, only about a thousand times bigger, nicer, richer and more luxurious. But without the pond.

It was also clean and warm, something I hadn’t been in far too long.

In front of the hearth, where a fire crackled cheerfully, a man sat in an overstuffed leather armchair. I couldn’t see his face, it was turned away from me. He was very well dressed, by Russian standards at least, so the clothes were probably imported, a dark gray suit and a Navy blue shirt. His shoes, shined bright black leather, weren’t Russian-made either, I’d bet my month’s salary. His thinning gray hair was slicked back. In front of him, on a low table, sat a steaming cup of coffee, the strong European scent rising from it wafting enticingly across the room. It almost overwhelmed the heavenly smells rising from a dinner plate sitting next to it… meat and potatoes and something green, a vegetable, I imagined.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the food as I felt my mouth begin to water.

When was the last time I’d eaten a decent, even adequate, meal?

My stomach growled.

One of the dynamic duo said something in Russian.

The man turned his head.

I knew who he was.

Boris Krekorsky.

Oh shit.

My heart skipped a beat as I fought to keep my face impassive.

“How nice of you to join me, O’Neill,” he smiled showing yellowed, crooked teeth. “Come in. Sit down.” He waved a hand at the goons, and one of them shoved me hard on my bruised shoulder. I stumbled forward a step, then something tangled in my legs and I dropped heavily to my knees.

At least the carpet provided some cushion for a change. Igor was grinning.

Eeyore was smiling.

Oh shit.

“Have you nothing to say?”

“It’s been a while, Boron.”

He scowled. “Yes, O’Neill, it has.”

“Nice place you got here. A little ostentatious for a comrade…”

“This is the new Russia, O’Neill. A place where a man’s initiative is rewarded.”

“You mean, where he can keep whatever he can steal.”

Boris laughed. “I have heard you were an amusing man. And now I know it is true.” He sat forward in his chair, his grin disappearing, his face going taut and ugly. “But I don’t think you will find much here to amuse you.”

“What a shame.”

“For you, perhaps. I do not think you will much enjoy your stay. I, however, shall savor our time together. We will have some nice conversations. You can fill me in on all our old mutual acquaintances…”

“Gee, I guess no one told you that the Cold War was over…”

“This has nothing to do with our governments, O’Neill. This is personal. You cost me dearly. It took me many years to recover from the damage you and your friends did to me. Now I have you, and you shall tell me about the others, and they, and you, will pay the debt you owe me.”

“That might be hard. I’m sorta tapped out,” I spread my hands wide to show they were empty. “Not a single ruble on me.”

“It is not money I am looking for, O’Neill. Money cannot repay what your actions cost me.” Krekorsky stood and stepped across the room to stand above me. “This is a blood debt, O’Neill.”

“A little heavy on the melodrama, there, Boring…”

He spun around, his hand fastening in my hair, yanking my head upward at an awkward angle, forcing me to look up at him. “This is Russia. We do not forget the past. We do not forgive those who hurt us. I cannot recover what I lost due to your interference in my operation, but I can make you atone for it.” He released me, and stepped away as I twisted my head from side to side, trying to ease the cramped muscles. “I have business to attend to in Moscow, so I will be gone for several days. You will have plenty of time to think while I am gone, to anticipate what I have in store for you. Illya and Andrei will keep you company until I return. And then we shall spend much time together, O’Neill. And you shall pay your debt to me.”

“Bite me.”

He laughed. “I truly wish I could stay. You are an entertaining man. But because your… visit… was so unexpected, I shall have to take care of business matters before I can turn to the pleasure of watching you… squirm.”

Boris snapped his fingers. “Andrei.” The guy I’d been calling Eyore stepped forward, taking hold of the short chains between the cuffs on my wrists, dragging me several paces across the floor, pulling my arms up and forward, up onto a heavy wooden table. I tried to get up, but Illya was behind me, what I assumed was the butt of his AK-47 jammed into my back, and I couldn’t stand.

A shiver slid down my spine at the triumphant grin on Krekorsky’s face. “Just so you know what you have to look forward to, Captain…”

“It’s Colonel, now.”

He chuckled. “Colonel. How nice for you.” And then he said something in Russian, and nodded at the goons.

The gun butt disappeared from it’s spot jammed between my shoulder blades, but before I could move, it was swinging up over my head.

I jerked sideways, but with Andrei still holding my hands, I couldn’t move far.

At least not far enough to make a difference.

The heavy gun, with the full force of the Russian goon behind it, landed solidly on my left forearm.

Bone snapped with an audible crack.

I hollered.

The room was spinning as agonizing pain shot up my arm. Andrei released his grip on the cuffs. Gasping for air, my arms slid off the edge of the table, and I slumped to the floor, curling onto my right side, my right hand, still restrained by the cuffs, futilely reaching for my broken left arm.

The room was silent except for my rasping, gulping breaths.

I heard footsteps and then polished black shoetips appeared inches from my face. Once again, a hand in my hair forced me to look up. Boris stood above me, smiling. “That is just a small demonstration of what awaits you, O’Neill. Contemplate your future until I return.”

The shoes left. I heard Boris say something in Russian, then swift footsteps and the sound of a door closing.

I laid on the floor, eyes closed, ignoring the voices talking above me, until a new set of shoetips, boots actually this time, tapped my ribs.

Reluctantly, I opened my eyes.

“Get up!” Andrei ordered.

I shook my head no. “Can’t.”

Hands grabbed my arms, yanking me upright, pain shooting from fingertips to shoulder socket, and I groaned. Stumbling, half on my feet and half out on my feet, Andrei and Illya dragged me out of the big warm, cozy room, back through the kitchen, and out the door.

The big car was gone, that much I saw before my eyes started to water again from the too-bright sunlight on snow.

Didn’t last long, though, because in just a couple of minutes, I was hauled back into my lovely little accommodations and thrust back into the center of my cell.

I stood, weaving on my feet, while the door clanged shut and locked behind me.

So much for my field trip.

Awkwardly shuffling forward, I made my way over to the wall, turning around to set my back against the cold concrete. Slowly letting my knees bend, I slid down until I was sitting on the mattress once more.

I was soooo not enjoying my visit to Russia.

Boris Krekorsky.

Former director of the KGB’s St. Petersburg headquarters. Of course, it had been Leningrad back then, during the Soviet days. Back when I’d been stationed in Finland, and making the occasional adrenaline-inducing incursion across the border into forbidden territory of the USSR. Not that it had stopped me.

Krekorsky.

He’d lost his job, according to intelligence reports, after my team had managed to rendezvous with a defecting Russian scientist and escort him safely across the border. I’d always thought he would have ended up in the Lubyanka, a victim of the harsh discipline of his own top secret organization. The KGB didn’t much like failures.

And I’d been the one responsible for his failure.

Oiy.

Why did things just keep going from bad to worse?

I slept, dozing uneasily.

By the time I woke, I’d discovered a whole new source of discomfort to add to my already too long list. My left arm was swelling alarmingly, broken limbs have a way of doing that, I know from long experience. The problem was, I was still wearing the cuffs. My wrist had been raw before, now the cuff was getting tighter and tighter, the unforgiving metal cutting deeper into the hot, puffy flesh.

Bracing my back against the wall, I forced myself to my feet and made my way over to the water bucket. Kneeling, I used my right hand to cup some water and bring it up toward my face. Trouble was, moving my right arm meant moving the fractured left one, cuffed closely to it, and moving that one was *never* going to be on my list of favorite activities while cuffed and incarcerated.

Let’s just say it hurt.

‘Cuz it did.

Bending over as close as I could toward the bucket so I didn’t have to move my arms very far, I managed to sip the cold water, letting some dribble down onto my swollen limb. It felt good, but since I didn’t know how long that water would have to last me, I didn’t dare use too much of it. I made myself drink more, knowing the dangers of dehydration, and besides, it helped to fill my empty belly.

Kicking the mattress over closer to the bucket, I sat down once more, and tried to sleep.

Sleep wouldn’t come. I was too cold and too pissed and hurting way the hell too much to sleep.

So I started thinking.

Yeah, I *do* think, a lot, contrary to popular opinion in some circles.

Picked plan A, and discarded it. Didn’t think it was too likely that Beevis and Butthead were going to present me with the keys to the handcuffs, the cell and their car.

Picked plan B, and discarded it, because I was pretty sure no one was going to be bringing me my guns.

Picked plan C, and discarded it, because it was highly unlikely that a rescue team was about to storm through the door.

Picked plan D, and discarded it, because in the state I was in, and handcuffed to boot, it was not probable that I was going to be able to overpower two guys with machine guns.

So I settled on plan E, which I didn’t like much, because it meant I had to be patient, count on more than a little luck, and frankly, I knew it was going to be damned unpleasant.

But it was all I could think of.

^^^^^^^^

The first part of plan E wasn’t hard.

Lie here and act cold, hungry and hurt.

Gee, think I can play the part?

Yeahsureyoubetcha.

I’ve had lots of practice at this.

Pulling the meager blanket around my chilled body, I curled up tight on the mattress, and waited.

Eventually, someone came.

I heard the outer door open, heard voices and Russian words, then my cell door opened.

I didn’t move, just laid there, watching through eyes open only a slit.

Illya put down a tray, near the door. He looked over at me and said something I didn’t understand, then repeated it in a sharper tone. When I didn’t move in answer, he shrugged, and left, locking the door behind him.

I waited a long time. Though my stomach rumbled with hunger, and my mouth watered at the thought of food, yeah, even the piss-poor stuff I knew this would be, I made myself wait.

God, it was hard.

Finally, after what seemed like hours but I knew couldn’t be nearly that long, I stretched out my legs and opened my eyes, like I was waking up. Pretending like I hadn’t seen or heard my jailer come in, I sat up slowly, grimacing in pain, groaning. Inching my way across the floor in a crablike sort of motion, I slowly crawled over to the food.

Forcing myself to move slowly, ravenous as I was, I picked up the hard crust of bread, dipping it into the thin soup already gone cold, biting off a small bit and chewing methodically. I didn’t have to fake the look of pain on my face this time, moving my left arm promoted the dull ache to a searing, raging agony that made me want to gag.

I hoped to hell Andrei and Illya were watching and getting their jollies out of this, because when I got out of here I was so going to make them pay for every single bit of hurt they’d inflicted.

And there were plenty of bits.

Done with the bread, I used my right hand to grip the bowl, raising it to my lips to drink the remaining cold fluid. Globs of fat were congealed on the surface, but I forced down my rising gorge and made myself consume every drop.

Sustenance meant strength; strength meant hope; hope meant a chance. And all I needed was a chance.

Think plan E, Jack, think plan E.

Like the E-ticket ride at DisneyWorld, E was my ride outta here.

Done with my meager meal, I crawled back to my mattress and slept for real this time.

Enough light entered the small window high in my cell that I was able to tell that two days had passed. I’d been fed twice a day, always bread and soup, no utensils, just a bowl, plate and cup. Once Andrei had brought in a fresh bucket of water, hard chunks of ice floating in it, to refill my water bucket.

The other bucket hadn’t been emptied.

I’d gotten used to the smell.

But my jailers hadn’t, Dumb and Dumber wrinkling their noses at the odor every time they entered.

Me, I just laid on the floor and played ‘possum.

I never liked them much. But I learned from ‘em.

Use every trick you got. And when you’ve got none, or so it seems, play dead.

Or close to it.

My jailers had gotten used to me ignoring them. Once Illya had even come over and prodded me with the toe of his boot. I think he was worried his boss would be pissed if I died. No fun to torture a dead guy, everybody knows that.

So I groaned theatrically and rolled over on my back.

Illya blanched when he saw my arm.

Let me tell you, I’d have gone white at the sight myself. Swollen up to about twice its normal size, the skin all splotchy and shiny. The cuff was buried in the puffed up skin, a red welt marking its location.

The whole thing felt about as good as it looked, in case you’d like to know, though I’m sure you don’t.

Illya, damn him, didn’t feel sorry enough to release me, though. Although, I have to admit, I’m not sure he could even have reached the cuff to unlock it, it was buried so far into my swollen flesh.

When he left, I once more crawled over to my food and ate it stoically. Same boring stuff, bare sustenance. Man, I’d have killed for a steak. Or a big honkin’ baked potato. Or a salad. Anything green and leafy that didn’t come coated in a layer of fat.

Beggars can’t be choosers, I reminded myself as I ate.

Climbing to my feet, I stumbled over to the slop bucket and relieved myself, pleased to see the urine looked more yellow than red. At least one part of my body was recovering.

Night fell once more.

In the morning, plan E… E for escape.

^^^^^^^^^

Sometime after dawn, I heard familiar noises… the creak of the outer door opening, the tap tap tap of footsteps in the corridor, the rattle of the key in the lock, the sound of voices speaking words I didn’t understand…

I looked across the cell. I’d emptied out the water bucket. It was lying on its side, my blanket thrown over it, the mattress pulled around and all the stuffing jammed into one end. It wasn’t much of a decoy. I just had to hope that my jailers had grown complacent enough not to give it a really good look.

They didn’t.

The door swung open, and Illya stepped in.

His entrance was perfect. Holding the tray in his hand with my breakfast on it, he turned to his left, bending down slightly, toward the spot by the door where he usually left the food.

Toward the spot where I waited.

In the split second before my boot impacted his chin, I saw his eyes go wide and his mouth start to open.

Too little, too late.

I spun, swinging my left leg up, driving the blow ‘through’ his chin, the way a prize fighter throws a knockout punch. The contact reverberated through my bones, from my toes all the way to my skull, but my adrenaline was surging so hard I didn’t feel it. Good thing.

As Illya, on the way to the floor himself, dropped the tray with the ringing sound of tin hitting concrete, I bent and grabbed the handle of the slop bucket. I didn’t think Andrei would be dumb enough to get in so close that I could hit him with the pail, so I threw the contents at him.

Instinctively, he threw up his hands.

Anyone would have.

It smelled *bad, okay? What do you expect, days worth of, you know… I don’t have to point it out to you, do I?

Bet it stung a little, too.

Maybe he even inhaled some, because he slipped to his knees, making a pretty hideous gagging sound, wiping at his streaming eyes.

Without a qualm, okay, okay, I’ll admit, enjoying it, I kicked him in the groin and followed it up with a knee to the point of his chin as he sagged toward the floor.

Damn satisfying, it was.

Sliding to my own knees, breath coming in ragged gasps from the brief but intense exertion coupled with the adrenaline rush, I tried to calm my breathing, ignoring the waves of nauseating pain rolling up my broken arm.

No time for that.

First things first. A weapon. I picked up Andrei’s gun from where it had fallen on the floor, checking that the clip was full and the safety on. Slinging it over my shoulder, I rolled Illya further into the room, then, puffing some more, managed to drag Andrei in with him, trying not to touch the wet spots on his clothes.

Once I had them both inside, I pulled Illya’s coat off of him. It was a bit big, but that was fine. Left room to hide the Kalishnikov. I took his sweater too, struggling to pull it over his head, but knowing I’d need the warmth of it.

Rifling through his pockets, I helped myself to the handful of coins and a crumpled wad of rubles I found there. Andrei had more money, and other equally useful items in his pocket… a good pair of gloves, a drivers license with his picture that, in the dark and with me all bundled up, might get me past a checkpoint, and a small pocket knife. I took Illya’s heavy woolen hat, too.

The keys were still in the lock. I pulled the door shut, leaving the two of them inside, and stuck the keys in my pocket.

Hurrying down the hallway, I opened the door a crack and looked out. There was smoke rising from what must be the kitchen… did that mean there was someone else there? Deciding that, even if someone was watching, wearing my jailer’s coat and hat, they’d not question it, I wrapped the coat around me, and stepped boldly out.

Following a well trodden path in the snow, I walked around the far side of the building I’d been kept in, and found another door.

Stepping in, I let out a big sigh of relief. The car was inside; not Boris’ big fancy model with the darkened windows, but the smaller one I’d been brought here in.

Anxiously, I opened the door and looked inside.

No keys.

Damn.

I looked over toward the house. The keys hadn’t been in either man’s pocket, and they weren’t in the ignition. Glancing around, I didn’t see any keys hanging on the walls… damn it. They must be in the house. I might be able to hotwire the car but there was something else I needed to do first. I needed to get the cuffs off. Normally, I’d most likely have been able to pick the lock, but with the way my arm was swollen, I couldn’t even get at the damn lock. There was a bench covered with tools, and I looked around, hoping to find something that would work. There was a vise, which might have worked, but I couldn’t find a way to set the chain into the grips and still turn the handle with enough force to do any damage.

The cuffs were going to have to wait.

Finally, I crawled under the dash, and using Andrei’s knife, I cut, stripped and spliced the wires and the car started.

Backing it carefully out of the garage, I quietly drove away.

In my rear view mirror, I saw a stout woman step out of the kitchen doorway, waving at me as I drove off.

I barely made it out to the end of the driveway. Steering was nearly impossible, because my hands were still cuffed together. Using the good one to drive meant moving the other one which hurt so bad it brought tears to my eyes. Don’t ever let anyone tell you that broken bones are fun. I even wasted a long minute wishing for just one dose of Doc’s good drugs.

Finally, reaching the highway, I had to figure out which way to go. Sort of an eeny, meeny, miney moe thing, I picked right. I drove for ten minutes or so, not meeting any other cars. The sky was overcast, heavy clouds hanging above the trees. It looked like more snow, but the road was clear for the moment.

Spotting a deserted looking house where there were no fresh tire tracks or footprints in the inch or two of most recent snowfall, I drove around behind the house, out of sight of the road.

Climbing out of the car, I pulled the AK-47 out with me, setting it on single fire. This wasn’t exactly the ideal way to be removing the cuffs, but desperation fuels initiative. It took me a couple of precious minutes to find a way to safely hold the stock against my shoulder while aiming the barrel at the narrow chain between the cuffs at an angle where my fingers could reach the trigger, but finally, I was as satisfied as I was going to get. Steadying myself, I inhaled, and squeezed off a round.

The shot was incredibly loud, echoing through the silent forest.

Shit… I’d missed!

Tucking the stock back against my shoulder, once again I pulled the chain in front of the barrel and pulled the trigger.

I heard the bullet whine off into the woods at the same time my right hand flew back as the tension was released. My left arm dropped like a rock.

With a moan of mixed relief and the molten fire of aching bones, I slid to my knees in the snow, staying there a long minute. Finally, I forced myself to get up, cradling my left arm against my chest, crawled back into the car, and drove away, the rising sun at my back.

Plan E had worked.

Now came the hard part: getting out of Russia.

~~~~~~~~~

I knew I was somewhere near St. Petersburg. I’d seen a road sign on my way in, days before. Trouble was, I didn’t have a clue as to where I was in relation to the city, or the Finnish border, or anything else useful.

Driving aimlessly around was dangerous to say the least. And, of course, the gas in the car wouldn’t last forever. Time for part two of Plan E.

They’d start looking for the car, sooner or later. That depended on how long it took the lady in the house to discover the men I’d locked in my old cell. Of course, since Boris wasn’t supposed to have me in his possession, maybe there wouldn’t be the Russian equivalent of an all out APB for me. That was my only hope.

So, okay, the sun was there, which meant it was going to set over there, which meant that way was west, the nearest direction out of Russia. Of course, my old pal Boris also knew that the border was that way. And that I knew that area, even if my knowledge was 10, okay, 15 years out of date. Some things might change, true, but the rivers, lakes and mountains wouldn’t have moved.

Or the railroads.

Railroads.

Transportation.

So, where was the nearest railroad?

Finally, I came to a bigger highway, more cars, lots more cars than I remembered from my last visit to Russia, which yeah, *had* been a long time ago.

Think Jack, remember what you’d learned. I couldn’t read a word of Russian, but years ago, when I'd been stationed quite close to this part of the world, I had memorized the names of a few pertinent towns, like Leningrad, which no longer existed. Crap. But wait.. Pavlovsk… that name I recognized, probably because it reminded me of the name Pavlov which reminded me of dogs. Pavlovsk, that was south of the now renamed city of St. Petersburg. So if that way was Pavlovsk, I needed to go the opposite way to get into the city. St. Petersburg was a big city, lots of people, even lots of foreigners there, and I could be anonymous. The city was also a good choice because there was a big, honkin’ train station there, passenger trains, freight trains, all kinds of trains that went all kinds of places… yeah, I really had studied a bit about Russia when I was assigned in that area.

A rail line ran from St. Petersburg, along the shoreline, and right on into Finland.

The border between Finland and Russia had been damned well guarded all those years ago, fences, motion detectors, barbed wire and armed guards who liked to practice their marksmanship. Maybe things had slacked off some, but I couldn’t count on it.

So the train looked like my best bet.

Having gotten my bearings, I drove on.

^^^^^^^^^

There was enough traffic that I didn’t feel too conspicuous, but nowhere near what one would expect in an American city of even a fraction of its size. The day was cold, and there were a lot of pedestrians going about their business, all well bundled up against the chill, so I wouldn’t stand out there either. As long as no one tried to talk to me, I’d be okay.

I hoped.

Finally, I saw a sign I recognized, the Moskovsky Voksal, train station, one of five in the city. Going past, I went down several blocks, and turned right, cruising around the block, and entering a neighborhood of the ubiquitous bland Russian gray block housing. There were a few cars parked on the street, and eventually finding an empty parking place, I pulled in. I rolled down the driver’s side window, shut off the engine, and walked away.

In a few hours, I knew the car would be long gone. Hopefully Boris would never find it. Or if he did, it would be so far from where I’d left it that there wouldn’t be a clue as to where I’d gone.

Grinning behind the collar of my coat, raised against the wind, I walked as quickly as I could toward the train station.

It was big and old, and though it might have been grand once, the walls were now darkened by decades of smoke from thousands of pungent Russian cigarettes. The place was full, people everywhere but no one looking at anyone. I wandered around for a while, carefully meeting no one’s eyes, watching the pattern of arriving and departing trains.

Walking back into the central terminal, I came around a corner and saw him, standing near the front door.

Andrei.

Shit.

How had they found me so fast?

Someone must have spotted the car as I was leaving the area around the dacha.

Isn’t there an old country song that says ‘if it weren’t for bad luck, I’d have no luck at all?’ I suddenly knew *exactly* how that guy felt.

I slipped back out the door, onto the train platform. A guy in an official looking uniform, a conductor, a security guard, I didn’t know which, eyed me, and I turned away, walking down the side of the train as if looking for someone. Near the end of the train, I stepped up into a car, then quickly stepped off the other side. Bending low, I ran along the far side of the car, back the way I’d come, all the way back toward the end of the train. Praying the damn conductor guy wasn’t looking my way, I climbed up onto a step, into a car, walking through the crowded space as if searching for a seat, then on out the back door. Peering around, I couldn’t see the conductor, or Andrei, so I stepped off the train, and strode quickly back into the station.

A bus was pulling up at the curb out front.

Hurrying through the station, I joined the group queuing for the transport. I watched the people in front of me pay, pulling the coins I’d taken from Andrei out of my pocket, fingering through them like I was looking for the right change. At the door, the driver, annoyed by the way I was slowing the line, snatched a coin out of my hand and waved me on back.

Sighing, I climbed aboard the bus, taking a seat near the rear. More and more people jammed in, the air becoming almost unbreathable with the heat, the reek of gasoline, the stale smell of cigarettes and unwashed bodies and recently mothballed clothes.

No one seemed to be talking to anyone.

That was good.

Long minutes stretched. Why weren’t we moving?

The bus was full. Around me, I could hear a murmur of voices growing, probably asking the same question I was, though not with the same growing sense of concern.

‘Move, damn it,’ I silently urged the driver.

Finally, with a groan from the engine and an ominous grinding of the transmission, the bus lurched into motion.

Stop and start.

People got on, people got off, more exiting than boarding, the crowd thinning slowly. The swaying, airless ride went on and on. I was exhausted, hungry hurting and- okay, I’ll confess- scared. Just a little.

Finally, we reached a place I knew.

Gratefully, I climbed off the bus and walked into the museum. Public place. They’d have telephones.

They did.

I walked over quickly, closed the door tightly, and dialed the number I’d memorized years before. Dropped coins into the slot at random, hoping I had enough. Waiting impatiently as the phone rang, praying I’d remembered right after all these years, praying the number hadn’t been changed or they’d moved or something equally disastrous.

At last, the phone was picked up.

A heavily accented Russian voice said something.

Shit.

“Victor?” I hoped my raspy voice would hide my American speech, at least a little. “Ivan Devonitch...” I knew I butchered the pronunciation.

The woman asked a question I didn’t understand.

“Ivan Devonitch,” I repeated.

“Da.”

The line went dead.

I could feel rivulets of sweat rolling down my back, beneath the coarse shirt.

“Hello?” A man’s voice, sounding puzzled, but American. “Ivan?”

Having no choice, I took a deep breath, and answered. “I know it’s been a very long time, Victor, but I’m visiting the city and hoped we could meet for a drink, a chance to reminisce about old times.”

I heard his indrawn breath on the other end of the line. “Yes, it has been a very long time, Ivan. I had not thought to hear from you. You should have told me you were coming. Did you bring Elena?”

My heart skipped a beat as I heard him answer with the codes I’d memorized years ago. “It was short notice, unexpected business actually. And sadly, Elena had to stay home. With the children. In Helsinki.”

“Let’s meet, then, Ivan. At our usual place, where we used to drink toasts to the future.”

“Yes. In ten minutes?”

“Fifteen,” he corrected.

I sighed deeply as I hung up the phone. I’d made contact.

Leaving the phone booth, I walked across the square and toward the old hotel. It was a converted czarist palace, I think, ornate carved stonework decorating the front.

I heard English words behind me, and started, then told myself to relax. This was a place many foreigners stayed, there should be lots of English spoken here.

Figuring they wouldn’t let me in, dressed as I was, and with no ID, I waited outside, lighting a cigarette from the pack that had been in Andrei’s coat. I hadn’t smoked in years, not since I’d quit for the second time, but tense as I was, I really, really wanted to take a pull on it. I could feel the way the smoke flowing down my throat would relax me, take the edge off. I looked longingly at what I held in my hand, and told myself no.

I pretended to smoke it as I waited.

Finally, an unfamiliar face appeared before me and asked, in perfectly unaccented American English, “Do you have an extra cigarette?”

I looked at him carefully.

The man was staring at me, his gray eyes intently studying my face and clothes. He was probably older than me, about my height, dressed in a long, fashionable overcoat that looked expensive, thick leather gloves covering his hands. His face was wary. There were tight lines around his eyes, and I could see glints of gray in his neatly trimmed hair.

I fumbled in my pocket, careful not to let my cuffed wrist show beyond the sleeve of the coat, and handed him a cigarette. He lit it from a gold lighter he pulled from his pocket, an American flag engraved on it. “Let’s walk, shall we?” he suggested.

We walked half a block before he paused, puffing on his cigarette, and spun to face me. “Now, who the hell are you and how did you get my name?” he hissed in a low voice, his eyes sharp and glittering, raking over my face.

“I was stationed in Finland…”

“A hell of a long time ago…” he snorted.

“Yes, it was. I didn’t have any other way to get in touch with anyone.”

“You’re damned lucky I even remembered those codes. It’s been ten years…”

“More like 15…”

He nodded, exhaling a cloud of smoke into the chill air. “Now, who are you?”

“Colonel Jack O’Neill, United States Air Force.”

“Who?”

I repeated my answer.

“What do you need me for? The Cold War is over.”

I snorted. “That doesn’t mean the Russians are our friends.”

“That’s not what most believe.”

I shrugged. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“That’s for sure.” He was still studying me.

“I’m supposed to be dead, I think.”

Incredulity replaced his air of superiority. “You think?”

“I was in Russia, Siberia actually, on my way to Moscow, working on… extraditing an American, and the chopper I was on crashed. Not an accident by the way.”

“And…” he was waiting for me to go on.

“Apparently, the Russians thought I had some useful information.” Well, I was pretty sure it was more than that, more like a trade, me for that sleazy traitor Maybourne, I was thinking. “And they planned to make me to tell them things I didn’t think I ought to tell them.”

“So what, you escaped?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then how in the hell did you get here, and in a get up like that?” He pointed at the oversized, obviously Russian made coat I was wearing.

“After the crash, the Russian government, or at least, some secret branch of it, had me. And then another group of Russians snatched me away from them. Handed me over, well, sold me, actually, to an old friend…”

Victor’s eyebrows rose. “And that would be?”

“Boris Krekorsky.”

He whistled. “Strange friend.”

“Very.”

“And…”

“Boris had plans I didn’t exactly want to be a part of. So I escaped. His people are looking for me.”

“Officially?”

“Does he still have official standing?”

Victor shook his head. “I doubt it. He’s got power though, maybe more important than what the feeble Russian government could give him. If he’s after you, you’re in trouble.”

I damned near laughed out loud. Trouble? He had no idea.

Victor finished his cigarette, tossed it down into the snow, and crushed it out with a twist of his boot. “So, you need a way out of the country?”

“That would be it, yes.” Stating the obvious.

“Okay, come with me then.”

We walked briskly back to the front of the hotel, where Victor collected his car from the valet parking, and we drove in silence to his home.

It wasn’t quite the U.S. embassy, but it was damn nice. The house was old, a rambling 3-story classic Victorian I noted as Victor tapped the intercom, answered a question from someone within, and then, when the door opened, waved me inside. The interior of the house was even more impressive, as I got a brief glimpse of tall ceilings, ornately carved woodwork, and shining wood floors. The furnishings were modern and obviously expensive. We walked through to the back of the house, to the kitchen, where a woman stood waiting. Victor’s introduction was succinct. “This is my wife, Yvonne.”

Yvonne was average height, middle-aged like her husband, dressed casually in a colorful sweater and gray slacks. Her hair was long and dark, neatly folded into a hair clip at the base of her neck, and she wore a tasteful amount of make-up. She looked wealthy and elegant, like she belonged in this very nice house.

I, on the other hand, felt very out of place, grubby and dirty.

Yvonne smiled and extended a hand. “Nice to meet you.”

I smiled back. “I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t shake your hand,” I told her, holding up my arm and revealing my handcuff bracelet for the first time.

Yvonne gasped.

Victor, who was heading for a sidebar where half a dozen bottles filled with liquids ranging from honey colored to smoky, spun around. “We’d better take care of those.”

“Actually, I’d appreciate a bath first, something to eat and some aspirin, and a little first aid…”

There was real concern on his face then. “First aid? You’re hurt? Why didn’t you say something?”

I shrugged. “Not much to be done for this at the moment anyway,” I answered, shrugging carefully out of my coat, holding my left arm tight against my side. “Broken,” I nodded my chin downward.

My host and hostess exchanged glances, nodding at each other, as if they’d probably done this before, and I suddenly realized certainly they had, or something close to it. That was their task here, anyway, to serve as a safehouse for Americans undercover or in trouble. I was damn grateful they’d kept at it, after the cold war was over.

Victor was looking me up and down. “I’ll find you some clean clothes.”

“I’ll draw you a bath,” Yvonne waved me to follow her and I walked up a flight of stairs, feeling more and more weary with each step, brought on I supposed by the warmth and the adrenaline let-down, now that I was here. The bathroom was as big as the other rooms, made for royalty, I suppose. There was one of those huge old claw-foot bathtubs sitting in the corner.

As the water ran, Yvonne pulled soap, washcloth and towels out of the cupboard, then stepped closer to me. “Let me help with that sweater…”

I raised my left arm, hissing at the how much that simple movement hurt, then leaned forward so she could pull the sweater over my head. One handed, I unbuttoned the wool shirt I wore, and she pulled the sleeve so my right arm slid free. Then she stepped behind me and pulled the shirt off my back and down my left arm.

You know how, when you’re driving down the highway and there’s a car wreck, that you know you shouldn’t look, but you have to?

Well, my arm looked like it had borne the brunt of that wreck… black and blue and swollen from fingers damn near all the way to my shoulder. It made the rest of me, the old yellowed bruises on my ribs and shoulder, look downright benevolent in comparison.

Yvonne looked at me dispassionately, pointing at my ribs.

I shrugged. “Nothing you can do for the ribs.”

She nodded, then shifted her gaze to my arm. Carefully she took hold of it, her fingers gentle on my forearm as she examined my wrist and the cuff tight in the swollen flesh. Her fingers felt cool and soft against my skin. “This could be a problem.”

“Ya think?”

She smiled then, and nodded. “We need to get the swelling down…” briskly business like, she turned to the tub, turning up one of the handles which now poured steaming hot water. Turning back to me, she pointed to a chair. I sat down gratefully, and let her unlace my boots and slide them off. She said nothing as she slid my socks off, and set them on top of the dirty shirt and sweater. Standing again, she pointed at the pile of clothes that no super strength detergent was ever going to get clean. “I’ll assume you don’t want those back.”

I nodded, and stood. “I can handle the rest from here.”

“You’re sure?” There was nothing untoward in the comment, just very straightforward and matter of fact.

“Absolutely.”

She left, and I awkwardly unbuttoned and unzipped my trousers and slid my pants and underwear down my legs, kicking them over to join the stack of the rest of my reeking clothes.

With a sigh of heavenly relief, I stepped into the steaming tub and sank down.

The liquid warmth felt unbelievably good on my aching body. The big tub allowed me to stretch out my long legs in luxurious comfort. I ducked my head under the water, rinsing my hair, lathering with the soap and one-handedly working the suds into my scalp.

You don’t know how good it feels to be clean until you’ve been so damn filthy dirty you can’t even stand yourself, like you’d been a month in the desert or weeks on maneuvers or deep undercover.

I’d nearly fallen asleep in the warm tub when there was a knock on the door. I looked around quickly for something to cover myself, then realized I hadn’t a thing except the water, which had a dirty film that would block her view.

But it wasn’t Yvonne, it was Victor, carrying a stack of clothes. “These should fit. We’re about the same height, but you’re thinner…”

He wouldn’t have said that a couple of weeks ago, I thought.

“Yvonne is making you some dinner, and after, I’ll see what I can do about getting those cuffs off.” He sat down a class of water, and a packet of Extra Strength Tylenol. “It’s all I can give you. Sorry there’s nothing stronger.”

“That’s fine,” I answered gratefully, popping down the capsules and washing them down with the water.

Finally, skin scrubbed and hair clean, I stepped out of the tub, wrapping myself in the soft heavy towel. Within a few minutes, I was clean, dressed in a pair of black trousers and a gray sweater, wandering out of the bathroom and back downstairs. There were heavenly smells coming from the kitchen, my mouth watering so that I was afraid I’d be drooling. I hadn’t eaten all day; hadn’t eaten my fill since, well, since I’d left home, way the hell too long ago.

When I walked into the kitchen, they were both waiting, the table set… meat, potatoes, vegetables, bread, a glass of milk beside the place Yvonne pointed me to. “Calcium is good for mending bones,” she explained as I took a seat. “You look much better.”

“Feel better, too, thanks.”

We ate mostly in silence. Despite my ravenous hunger, I ate slowly, and really couldn’t eat that much. A week on an all-but starvation diet will do that to you.

Finally, done with the meal, Yvonne cleared the dishes from the table and brought out a first aid kit. Victor brought in a set of tools.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“We better get the cuff off before we try to splint it,” I suggested.

Victor nodded and sat down in a chair next to me. It took only a minute for him to pop the lock on the cuff on my right wrist. Next, I carefully raised my left arm and laid it on the table, noting that the long soak in the tub did seem to have brought the swelling down a little. My host pulled out a set of tiny, fine tipped tools and set to work at the lock on the cuff. Finally, shaking his head, he looked up at me. “I can’t get it at. You’ll have to hold your arm, like this, across your lap…” he showed me.

Using my right hand to support my left arm, I moved it off the table and set it on my lap, atop a small decorated pillow Yvonne had brought from one of the other rooms.

It took quite a while. I know he was trying to be gentle, but each tiny bit of pressure hurt. I bit my lip and fixed my eyes on a picture on the wall across the room, a picture of a snowcapped mountain range that looked a lot like Colorado, letting my mind drift amid memories of a little meadow high in the mountains, where I used to take my family fishing…

“Ahh.”

“Sorry,” Victor was intent on his work, “almost got it I think.”

I tried to hold my arm still, muscles quivering, and then with a tiny click the cuff popped open. Carefully, Victor pulled it away, crusted bits of blood and skin sticking to the metal as my wrist began to bleed.

Yvonne was waiting with clean cloths and warm, soapy water. The liquid stung against the raw flesh, and when she patted the wound dry. Taking a large dollop of creamy salve from a small round container, she carefully slathered a generous amount on my wrist.

I jerked reflexively at the biting sting, then relaxed as it began to go blissfully numb. Victor’s wife finished by wrapping the wound in neat white bandages.

“Now,” Victor, who’d been standing back watching his wife work, stepped forward, once again taking the chair. “There’s not much I can do for this arm now. You know it may need to be re-set after you get home?”

“Yeah,” I answered wearily, knowing just how much fun *that* was going to be. “Do what you can, stabilize it…”

He nodded. He’d brought several thin pieces of wood, each about eight inches long and three inches wide, and set them on each side of my forearm. Yvonne held them in place while he took an Ace bandage and began to wrap it around my arm, starting at my wrist and working slowly upward to my elbow, overlapping and snugging each wrap.

Broken bones are so much fun. I could feel the sweat popping out on my face as I silently listed just what I’d do to each and every one of those sons of bitches who were responsible for doing this. That doesn’t stop the pain, but it does stop ya’ from thinkin’ about it, which is almost as good.

By the time my doctors were done, I was feeling pretty ragged.

Yvonne brought me another glass and more Tylenol, and I took them gratefully.

“We’ll discuss what we’ll do next in the morning, when you’re feeling better,” Victor promised as I followed him back upstairs, into a huge bedroom. Crawling under the covers, shifting my hips until I found a reasonably comfortable way to lie on my side, I fell into an exhausted sleep.

Sunlight peeked in around the drawn curtains when I woke in the otherwise dim room. Disoriented for a minute, thinking it might all be only a dream, I stretched, reveling in the luxury of being warm, fed and without any new bruises for a change.

This was like moving up from the local SleepRight Motel to the Beverly Hills Hotel, not that I’d ever stayed in a place quite that swanky.

I must have slept late. Rolling carefully out of bed, I dressed in the same clothes I’d put on last evening, threw some water on my face in the adjoining bathroom, where I also found a new toothbrush and paste, and a comb. Finishing my morning ritual, I headed downstairs in my stocking feet, in search of food.

My hostess must have heard me stirring because, just as I stepped off the last stair, Yvonne walked in, carrying a newspaper. “Ah, you’re awake. Feeling better?”

“Much.”

“Hungry?”

“Very.”

She started setting out pastries, and retrieved a pitcher of juice from the refrigerator, pouring me a glass. I drank it gratefully as she set the water on the stove to heat. “Coffee in a few minutes.” She came over and sat down across the large table from me. “Victor’s gone to the office. He’ll be back for an early lunch and you can talk then.”

She watched as I ate until I couldn’t swallow another bite, then sipped my coffee. Even with the caffeine, I was feeling sleepy again.

“Go back up and rest,” she suggested.

I took another pair of Tylenol, and went back to bed.

^^^^^^^^^^

The sound of Victor arriving home woke me. I was pretty much slept out by then, feeling better thanks to the food, the rest and the first aid.

We ate lunch together, my appetite back, and took our coffee to the den.

“So, O’Neill, I take it you need to get quietly out of Russia?”

“Very.”

“I could get a message to your people and have your passport sent here.”

“Wouldn’t that raise some eyebrows?”

“Diplomatic pouches can’t be opened.”

I nodded and then said, very carefully. “I’m not so sure I want to use… official… channels…”

His eyebrows rose a notch. There didn’t seem to be much that flustered Victor, but that statement got his attention.

“Really?”

I raised my chin. “Yes, really.”

“I take it you don’t know how, or who is responsible for…” he waved a hand at me.

“That would be it.”

“Ah ha.” His smile turned pensive. “That does complicate matters. Considerably.” He stood then, looking down at me. “I’ll have papers for you, and a way out of the country. Where you go, then, is up to you.”

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Once he’d left, Yvonne got out the first aid kit again, cleaning the nasty wound the cuff had made on my wrist. It was red and angry and hurt like hell as she worked. Her movements were quick and efficient. She said little while she completed the task, and patted my hand affectionately when she was done.

After lunch, and more Tylenol, I discovered I could barely keep my eyes open, and went back to bed. I needed the rest, I’d need to be at my best to get the hell out of Dodge-ski. Soon.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

I was reading a two day old copy of USA Today when Victor returned. It was already dark, the day length short in this far northern city.

After dinner, he and I sat went to his office. Like the rest of the house, it was elegant, paneled in dark, rich looking wood, furnished with a heavy desk that held a computer, and two comfortable chairs arranged in front of it. Waving me at one of the chairs, Victor walked around behind the desk. He pulled a packet out of one of the drawers. “This should work for you,” he said, handing over a familiar looking small blue booklet with gold lettering.

A passport.

Kissing it would probably have been a bit too melodramatic, even for me.

Opening it, I read the name, John J. Anderson, followed by my actual vital statistics of birthdate, height, weight, eye and hair color. My picture was inside, the photo Yvonne had taken of me earlier in the afternoon already in place. “This looks… real.”

“It is.”

I cocked an eyebrow in question.

“Don’t ask.”

I didn’t.

“So…” I waited for more information.

“Tomorrow, if you feel up to it…”

“Oh, I’m up to it,” I assured him.

“Tomorrow, then, you’ll take the morning train to Helsinki. Train 34, the Repin, from the Finland Railway Station, I’ll drop you off there and you can buy a ticket. The station is just across the Neva River, and lots of western travelers will be on it. You won’t stand out. You’ll need to be there an hour before the train leaves at 7:17. It takes about six hours to reach Helsinki. With the time change, you’ll arrive shortly after noon. Take a taxi to the airport, and there will be a ticket waiting for you, for the overnight flight to Chicago, then on to Denver. From there, you’re on your own.” He pulled a suitcase out from under the desk. “There are several changes of clothes in here. Traveling without a bag would look suspicious.” He handed me a small wallet, complete with more identification, a driver’s license, business cards, and both rubles and Euros. “There’s enough cash there for your train ticket, the taxi, and meals.”

I didn’t know what to say. “Thank you.”

He nodded, businesslike. “No thanks necessary. It comes with the territory.”

I really wanted to ask him what territory he meant, and what he really did, and how often he’d done this, but those were questions I knew not to be asking. Just like he wasn’t asking me for more details. I’d dallied around on the dark side of military operations long enough to know that this was how the game was played. But that didn’t mean I wasn’t grateful.

I didn’t sleep well that night. No longer exhausted enough to sleep beyond the steady ache in my arm, I spent a lot of time worrying if Krekorsky’s people were still looking for me; wondering about what I was going to do once I was back in the states; questioning who I could trust and if I would be safe in my own house; and contemplating how I was going to deal with General Hammond.

I’d trusted him, trusted him completely. No, I’d never been fool enough to believe he was who he seemed to be on the surface. I knew he had connections far darker, deeper and uglier than my own. I knew he did what he had to do, and that he had orders to follow just like I did. But I also knew that someone had betrayed me, and as far as I knew, the man who’d assigned me the mission was the likely suspect. It was an ugly thought. A hundred different scenarios drifted through my head, time after time, roiling and twisting around like snakes in a barrel, until my thoughts were so tangled, I didn’t know what to think anymore.

^^^^^^^^^

Once again, Victor supplied me with appropriate clothes, a thick, oversized Navy blue sweater that quite effectively hid my splinted arm, black jeans, hiking boots, a bulky black nylon jacket, a New York Yankees baseball cap and a backpack to go with the suitcase. Even the luggage tags were filled out. Victor and Yvonne had thought of everything.

Both of them rode to the train station with me. They played their parts well, getting out of the car in the kiss and cry area in front of the station. Yvonne hugged me, and kissed my cheeks in that European way. Victor shook my hand, then enveloped me in a bear hug like we were old friends. I slipped on the backpack, hefted the suitcase in my right hand, and turned away. “Thanks for everything,” I waved carefully.

“Come again soon,” Yvonne smiled, and sold the lie like an Academy Award winner.

The station was busy. I heard half a dozen languages, recognizing several including Finnish and English, both British and American versions. I relaxed a little then, feeling more at ease, and definitely less conspicuous. Dressed like a casual American traveler now, passport and ID safely stashed in my pocket, I navigated through the crowd to Counter #9, handing over the rubles Victor had given me. “One, ticket to Helsinki.” The bored looking cashier took my money, glanced desultorily at my passport, and handed back the passport, a ticket and some change.

I turned, bumping into a group of what looked like Finnish high schoolers, following them toward the train platform. Finding a seat in what I hoped would be a quiet corner, my left side toward the window so no one could jostle my aching arm, I stretched out my legs and settled into my seat for what I hoped would be a boring ride.

It wasn’t, of course.

You have noticed that these things never go easy for me?

It was noisy on the train. The group of kids were at the front of the car I’d chosen, talking excitedly. An American couple sat down on the seat across from me, a short 30-something woman with too much makeup and poofy hair, and a short, roundfaced and balding guy who looked like the quintessential world weary traveler. The woman fussed around, carefully stowing her carry-on luggage, adjusting a pillow and blanket and her coat.

I tried to ignore them, but she was the excited tourist type.

After rearranging her things in a Martha Stewart manner, the woman’s gaze suddenly latched on to me. “Hi, I’m Debbie McGinn. Karl and I are from Cincinnati, well, near Cincinnati, Dillsboro actually, which isn't even in Ohio, it's in Southeastern Indiana, you know, but it’s just such a little bitty place that no one’s ever heard of it so I just tell everyone Cincinnati to save confusion. This was our first trip to Russia. We loved it. Have you been here before?” The woman bubbled on.

“Ah, yeah.”

My quiet answer didn’t dissuade her. She seemed desperate for someone to talk to. Karl’s gaze raked once across mine, then he looked away, appearing bored. I got the distinct impression he was glad his wife had found someone to talk to besides him. “You’re the first other American we’ve met since we got here, well, you are an American, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Where are you from?”

“Colorado.”

“Really. That’s a lovely state. Karl and I were there for my cousin’s wedding last year. Do you like it there?”

“Yes.”

“I thought it was lovely, but the mountains gave me a headache, from the altitude. Do you have that problem?”

“No.”

“Ah, you’re a native Colorado-an then?”

“No.” I was hoping she’d get the hint from my one word answers, but it wasn’t sinking in.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name, Mr…?”

“Anderson.” I sighed.

“What brought you to Russia then, Mr. Anderson?” she seemed disappointed that I hadn’t given her my first name, but not disappointed enough to stop talking.

“Business.”

“Oh, dear, well I do hope you had a chance to sightsee. The place is just so, well, different. Not at all like being in the U.S. We’ve never been so far from home before, but Karl and I, we, well, at least I, always dreamed of seeing the Hermitage. It’s magnificent. What did you think of it?”

“Too many business meetings to sightsee.”

I was hoping that would quiet her down, but instead, she seemed to take it as an opportunity to tell me about all I’d missed.

I let her talk, letting the words go in one ear and out the other while the train filled, the conductors walked through, and finally, to my immense relief, the engine growled and the train clanked and spun into motion.

I watched out the window as we pulled away from the station, past rows of apartment buildings put up after WWII, square block, dingy and gray utilitarian housing. Finally, we left the city behind, emerging into the countryside. Mile after mile, there was nothing to watch but the unending pine forest.

Debbie, finally realizing that I wasn’t much of a conversationalist, had started annoying, er, talking to the people sitting in the seat across the aisle.

I slid down into my seat, trying to find a comfortable position. Maybe I could nap a bit, make up for some of that sleep I’d missed out on the night before. I pulled the baseball cap down low over my eyes and dozed with the rocking motion of the train.

I’m not sure what prompted me to look up. Maybe he’d said something to someone, and I’d recognized the voice, maybe the pause in the footsteps just roused my overcharged senses, but something caused me to carefully open my eyes a slit.

My old friend Illya was walking down the center aisle of the train car. Trying to look casual, like he wasn’t looking for anyone, like he was cruising for an empty seat.

Crap.

Shit.

Damn.

Son of a bitch.

Easy Jack.

You look different. You’re clean shaven, well-dressed, your face hidden by the hat. You don’t look at all like the man he saw, with a bruised face, stubble, dark rings around your bloodshot eyes, dressed in ill-fitting, dirty castoff clothes.

Trapped in a corner with a bunch of tourists.

The train car felt suddenly hot and airless, suffocating, smothering.

Unsafe.

I forced myself to stay still, and think.

We’d be over the border soon, and then I’d be safe. All I had to do was sit here, quiet, unobtrusive, just a tired tourist on his way home, and no one would notice me. Illya had already walked past.

I took a deep breath, and tried to calm my jangling nerves.

Piece of cake.

Sit and look boring.

Don’t draw attention to yourself.

Keep cool, calm, relaxed.

Nothing to it.

It was working, until the train began to slow down.

We were at the border.

Victor had warned me that at the border crossing the train would stop and guards would come aboard and check passports and other ID.

No big deal, he’d said. SOP. Just Russian paranoia.

Remember, Krekorsky didn’t have any official standing anymore. He was just another Russian citizen, a rich one, perhaps, but he had no governmental power anymore.

None.

There were several young men in uniform, AK-47s slung over their backs on shoulder straps, entering the front of the car. They were taking passports from the giggling Finnish teenagers. They didn’t seem particularly watchful, I thought. They were just going through the motions.

Done with the kids, the guards moved on to the middle of the car. They seemed to be checking more closely now, actually looking at the passports, then at the faces of the passengers.

Don’t sweat it, Jack, I reminded myself. The passport is perfect. You’re Jonathan Anderson, travel consultant, looking into setting up an adventure travel business…

The guards moved closer, working the row of seats in front of me.

Debbie was digging through her purse, looking for her passport and Karl’s, too.

The guards stepped to our row, saying something in Russian, but obviously asking for passports. I handed mine over. The soldier, who had stripes on the sleeve of his coat probably indicating he was an NCO, looked very carefully at my picture, then over at me. He said something in Russian.

I shrugged, indicating I didn’t understand.

He pointed to my head, made a sweeping motion.

He wanted me to take off my cap.

Crap.

I pulled the cap back off my forehead just as the door to the compartment opened and two men stepped in… Illya and Andrei.

Damn.

They recognized me right away, stood staring silently as the guard handed back my passport, and moved on to check the McGinns.

I didn’t move as the guards finished their task and brushed past my two old friends and on to the next car.

Andrei and Illya were still standing in the aisle, staring at me.

“Hi, boys,” I waved at them.

“Come with us.” Andrei reached over and grabbed my arm, pulling me to my feet.

I stumbled over Karl’s feet, instinctively reaching out to catch myself against the back of the seat with my left hand, and immediately regretting it as pain raced up my arm.

Andrei simply yanked harder on my right arm, forcing me into the aisle, pushing me ahead of him, toward the front of the car.

“Mr. Krekorsky will be very glad to see you,” Andrei whispered into my ear.

“The feeling’s *not* mutual.”

Another shove, and we reached the front of the car, stepping onto the little platform that separated the cars, and into the next one. It, too, was full. I looked over the sea of faces, seeing no one I knew, no one who I could call on for help, my mind whirling, wondering what I was going to do.

Just then, with a jerk, the train started into motion once more. Quickly it was building up speed.

Damn it. I was across the border now, I should be safe, except for the fact that Krekorsky wouldn’t give a damn about violating my rights, or the sovereign nation of Finland. Since he wasn’t an official anything anymore, he’d just do as he pleased, which was not going to be anything pleasant for me.

The train was moving fast already, the tree covered landscape slipping past as I looked out the window.

We passed through a second car, and a third, and moved into the first class section, nice private little compartments where no one could see or hear.

My mouth felt dry.

I’d already had more than enough of Boris, and I knew he’d just been getting started.

I had to do something.

Andrei, who was walking in front of me, still had his hand on my arm, Illya trailing behind, sandwiching me in the middle as they pushed me toward the front of the car. We stopped, Andrei reaching up to knock on a door, saying something in Russian, his attention focused waiting for an answer.

Now or never.

I knew how much it was going to hurt, but I knew I had no choice.

I swung my splinted arm as hard as I could into his throat. The wood snapped with an audible crack as pain erupted along the length of my arm, my vision going gray and shimmery for a moment. Dimly, I saw him sink toward the floor but I didn’t have time to watch, didn’t wait to see his reaction as I spun and kicked out as hard as I could, catching Illya in the chest. He crumpled. I leaped over him, running hard for the back door of the car. I was about two strides from the door of the car when I heard the compartment door open, and the shouting began.

I didn’t slow down.

I dived through the door, looking frantically for some way to block it. Seeing nothing, I ran through the next car, faces turning to stare incredulously after me. I hadn’t reached the far end of the car before I heard the door open behind me. Turning, I saw it was some other goon I didn’t recognize, a red-faced Boris right behind him, shouting something.

I kept running, out the door, into the next car.

The aisle was blocked, some of the Finnish kids were sitting on the floor, playing some sort of card game. I grabbed the top edges of the seats, ignoring the pain in my arm, pole vaulting myself over the blocked aisle, toward the back of the car. I had one brief glimpse of an astonished Debbie McGinn staring after me as I slammed the door behind me.

There was a lock on this one, a little bar that fit into a groove that would hold the door shut.

But it wasn’t going to last long, not against anyone determined to get me.

Boris and his goon were already at the door, pounding on it. Illya and a green looking Andrei were in the front of the car, trying to get past the kids who were craning to see what all the excitement was about.

I turned to the next car, and discovered it wasn’t a passenger car, but a freight car.

The door was locked.

I pulled at it ineffectually, and realized it really didn’t make a difference, because I couldn’t keep running for long before I’d run out of train.

Which left me with only one option.

I stuck my head around the corner of the car and looked out.

Okay, so I’ve done dumber things in my life, that’s a given. Jumping off a train wouldn’t be considered smart in anyone’s book, but at least there were big snow banks piled up alongside the tracks. As long as I jumped far enough to clear the rails and ties, it shouldn’t be that bad of a landing, even as fast as we were going.

Should it?

I didn’t have much room to maneuver, the tiny space much too short for me to get any kind of a real running start. Standing at the far edge of the little platform, I took a couple of deep breaths, ran three strides, and launched myself outward like a long jumper.

The snow, thank goodness, was deep.

And soft.

I windmilled off the train, landing awkwardly, sprawled face first in the icy cold cushion, sliding down the far side of the snow bank toward the woods.

It was like landing in quicksand. I floundered, pushing myself forward, arms flailing, legs straining to force my way out of the snow pile. The footing was icy, a cold wind tickling my ears, as I immediately started to shiver. I tried to wrap my arms round my chest, but just thinking about moving the left one, now sans any kind of protection and stability, made it throb all the more. It hurt so bad I wasn’t sure if the wetness on my face was my eyes tearing from the cold or the pain. Both, probably.

It didn’t help that I could feel the cold wetness of snow sliding down my neck, under my jacket, into the tops of my boots.

Crap.

Once more, it was out of the frying pan and into the fire or in this case out of the ice cube tray and into the deep freeze.

So I’d escaped Boris once again, maybe for good, but I was alone in the cold, without adequate clothes, and no idea how far it was to the nearest town.

If it weren’t for bad luck, you’d have no luck at all, O’Neill, I reminded myself. Then again, I could be back on that nice warm train, with Boris and whatever ugliness he had in store for me.

I’d much rather contend with the snow and the cold.

They were enemies without a personal grudge, enemies who played fair, who had rules that, even though I might not like them, I could understand. They were enemies I stood a chance of defeating.

Shaking as much of the snow out of my clothes as I could, I started walking along the train track.

^^^^^^^^^^

Moving kept me warm, at first.

I knew enough about cold weather survival to be careful not to get overheated, not to sweat, because cold and wet equals damn cold. Of course, my sweater and jeans were already damp from the snow pile I’d landed in.

Still, it wasn’t too bad until mid-afternoon, when the sun started to sink toward the horizon.

Surrounded by the dark and endless woods, I shivered as the sun set.

Darkness descended.

The air grew colder.

I began to worry about nasty things like hypothermia and frostbite.

Here and there I came across a gap in the trees. Sometimes there were roads, but there were no signs of cars, homes or people, so I kept on, following the train tracks, knowing sooner or later I’d have to find someplace. Wouldn’t I?

I was thirsty now, but I didn’t want to eat any of the snow. That uses a lot of body heat, body heat I didn’t have to spare. I was tired, and hungry, my feet aching from the unfamiliar boots, my broken arm throbbing steadily, my cracked ribs aching dully with each indrawn breath. I’d managed to keep the stocking cap and one of the gloves that had been shoved into the jacket’s pockets, but I’d lost the other so I kept one hand jammed into my coat pocket. They were warm enough, but my unprotected face was getting steadily numb from the cold.

Pretty soon I was going to have to think about stopping for the night. I needed to rest, find some shelter out of the wind. Besides, stumbling along the track in the dark wasn’t so smart, either. An incapacitating though minor injury like a sprained ankle or wrenched knee at this point could be deadly.

This time, when I reached a crossroad, I was going to look for someplace to rest, even if I had to simply dig a snow cave in one of the big banks of the white stuff.

That’s when I saw it… far down the straight track-lights.

Like a town.

A village.

Hell, a farm.

Anyplace.

Picking up the pace, I headed down the snow-covered track, slipping and sliding on the icy surface, but moving right along.

The lights seemed never to get any closer, or so it seemed. Hours I walked I think, and then, finally, there was a little bend in the road and I was there, a cluster of houses.

Hiking up to the first door, I knocked.

A man came to the door, opening it only a few inches, peering warily out at me.

I struggled for the few words of Finnish I’d learned long ago, back when I’d been stationed in the country, but my mind drew a complete and utter blank. “Ahhh….” The man looked only more puzzled. Damn, I hadn’t ended up back in Russia, had I? That wasn’t possible, I’d followed the train track. Trying again, hoping he knew some English, “Hello. I’m an American. I’m lost.” I waved back the way I’d come. “The train?”

Someone else was in the room, another face came to stand behind the man, this one younger, a teenager. “American?” he asked.

“Yes!”

“You came from the train?” he seemed puzzled.

“Ah, yeah, fell off the train to Helsinki, into the snow. Been walking, for hours.” I tried to put on my best 'I’m just a lost and friendly guy' smile.

The youngster started talking rapid fire to the older man, in words I didn’t understand. Neither one was smiling, the words getting louder.

Finally, the boy turned back to me. “You are cold, yes?”

“Very.”

“Father says, you may come in. No trouble. We like Americans.”

“Thank you,” I muttered as the door opened wider, and I stepped into the warmth. God, it was wonderful: heat, light, no wind, no snow and best of all, a mug of steaming hot, strong as nails coffee, just the kind Daniel would have liked.

They kept looking at me oddly, as if waiting for an explanation. I don’t suppose they got many American visitors out there, and not many people were dumb enough to fall, or jump, off the train. I think the old man figured I was either a drunk or a thug. He spent the whole night sitting in the corner, smoking and glaring at me like I was a fox circling the chicken coop. The kid just wanted to try out his English on a real genuine American, so I obliged, huddled close as I could get to the roaring fire. The boy even helped me wrap up my arm one more time.

So now I was out of Russia, but my problems were still far from over.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

The next day, Peter and his father drove me to Helsinki, and in return I gave them the Euros Victor had provided for me. At the airport, the check-in staffers were suspicious that I was a day late and had no luggage, but after using my charm and a few well constructed lies on the booking agent behind the counter, I got a seat for the flight home.

Fourteen hours later, I was deplaning in Denver, Colorado.

Back home.

In the land of the free and the home of the brave, and still in a heap of trouble.

I mean, when you’ve disappeared, and been left for dead, just suddenly reappearing and saying, ‘Hi kids, I’m back, and by the way, I think our boss doublecrossed me’ wouldn’t exactly be a smart thing to do, you know? I didn’t know who I could trust, except for my own team. But I wasn’t sure how or if I could get a call through to them. I’d been gone a long time, several weeks, it was likely, if they’d been told I was dead, that SG-1 was back in the mission rotation with a new CO. The only people on Earth that I knew I could trust could very well not *be* on Earth.

And I really didn’t want to drag them into my mess.

But I didn’t have any other choice.

Teal’c would have been my first choice, actually, because the big guy can take care of himself. No way, though, could I call in to Cheyenne Mountain. So I couldn’t get to him.

Daniel was a civilian.

Which left Carter.

I called her house, and the phone rang and rang and rang, and when the machine picked up, I hung up. Leaving a message might not be too smart.

So, okay, that left Daniel.

I dialed his number and waited while the phone rang once, twice, three times. I was just on the verge of hanging up the line when I heard a clunk-clunk and a confused sounding archaeologist’s voice.

“Hullo?” he sounded half awake.

He shouldn’t be asleep. It was only a little after 9:30 p.m. “Daniel?”

“Yes. Who’s this?” he sounded suspicious.

“An old friend.”

There was a long pause. “Who is this?” he sounded suspicious now.

“It’s me, Jack.”

“That’s not funny.” The bang rattled my eardrums as he slammed down the phone.

Shit.

I dialed the number again.

He answered on the first ring, his voice angry.

“Whoever this is…”

“Daniel, listen to me. Please. It really is me, Jack O’Neill,” I frantically tried to think of something that would convince Daniel, something that only I would know. “When you came back from Abydos, at my house, you had one beer and you were drunk. You told me about grinding yaphella flour…"

"Yapheta," he corrected me automatically.

"Right, and I told you that you were a cheap date…”

“Jack?” his voice sounded odd, hopeful. “It can’t be…”

“But it is me. Really. It’s a really, really long story, but I need you to come to the airport and pick me up. I’ll explain it all, I promise.”

Daniel sounded wide awake now. “Jack, my God, we were told you were killed in a helicopter crash. I’ve got to call Sam and Teal’c, they’re at the mountain.…”

“No. Don’t. Daniel, listen, what happened in… what happened to me, someone we know might have been involved, someone at the SGC. So we can’t trust anyone…”

“Sam and Teal’c wouldn’t…”

“No, they wouldn’t. But someone might overhear, might give it away. I’ve got to talk to you first. Please…”

I could almost hear the wheels turning in Daniel’s brain as he considered what I’d said. “Okay,” he said at last, sounding reluctant.

“Denver Airport, International terminal, first hallway to the right, at the phone banks.”

I waited what seemed like forever for my teammate to arrive. Finally, the familiar figure walked in, looking around warily before turning right and walking toward me.

I waited, letting him walk on past, being sure no one was following him before I stepped out of the doorway to the bathroom and walked up behind him. Except for us, the corridor was deserted this late at night.

“Just keep walking Daniel,” I whispered.

“Jack,” his voice sounded edgy.

“Not now, just walk. There’s a bathroom ahead to the right.”

We stepped out of the hallway, into the entrance to the bathroom, and he stopped, spinning around to look at me. “It really is you.” he said, looking a little shaky.

“Yeah. In the flesh.”

“They said you were dead, that the chopper you were on crashed.”

“Who said?”

“General Hammond.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Daniel was staring at me, his eyes wide.

“I think Hammond was the one who set me up.”

“The General?” Daniel shook his head. “No way, Jack.”

“Yes, way, Daniel. Someone gave me up to the Russians. I think I was the payment in return for extraditing Maybourne. He did get back here, didn’t he?”

The archaeologist nodded. “He’s been tried and convicted, sentenced to Leavenworth for treason and desertion and a bunch of stuff. But how?”

“The chopper didn’t crash until I was off of it. They killed their own guys to cover up what happened to me, that’s how badly they wanted me.”

“Who?”

“The Russian government.”

“But how could Hammond be involved?”

“Daniel, someone told them who I was, and what I was involved in, and that I knew things Harry didn’t. And if Maybourne didn’t buy his freedom by fingering me, than someone else gave me up. And the only one who knew I was going to Moscow was Hammond.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Well, I didn’t want to, either. But I’ve had a lot of time in the past couple of weeks to think about it. Hammond knew where I was, and where I was going, and why. No one else even knew SG-1 was in Russia. Maybourne was with you, and Dr. Markov, too. Me? I was the expendable commodity. We had to get Maybourne back, had to know what he’d given up to the Russians about the Stargate program. Hammond told me we were making a trade, but he wouldn’t tell me what it was we were trading.”

“Jack, he wouldn’t have…”

“Daniel, he’s no teddy bear, and we all damn well know it. You think I’ve got secrets, huh? He’s got secrets inside of secrets inside of more secrets. He knows things I can’t even get close to, and I’ve got the Air Force’s highest security clearance. But his is miles above mine, the kind of stuff they’d write spy novels about, if anyone would believe such crap existed.”

“That’s pretty circumstantial evidence, Jack. Other people must have known. Hammond reports to his superiors in the Pentagon, and the White House. He couldn’t act without their knowledge.”

“Maybe, maybe not. But I was told, flat out, that I’d been traded. By Hammond.”

“Someone told you that?”

“Yes.”

“Doesn’t that make you suspicious?”

“Daniel, no one expected I’d ever get out of Russia alive. They faked my death, so no one would come looking. There was no reason for them to lie to me.”

He still didn’t look convinced. “So what are you going to do about it?”

“Confront him.”

“Jack, is that wise?”

I swung around to look at him. “What other choice do I have? I’ve been declared dead by my own people. I’ve got nowhere to go, no home, no job, nothing. I don’t exist anymore, Daniel.” I started walking toward the airport exit. “I’ve got to know what went on.”

“Then what?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t thought that far.” Truth was, I didn’t have any answers. I’d have to head for Alaska or Canada or someplace where I could disappear into the wilderness."

Daniel stopped, forcing me to turn back to him. His face wore a worried frown. “Jack, you can’t…”

“I have to Daniel. I don’t have any choice.”

He stared at me a long time, and finally, started walking with me, out of the airport and into the night.

^^^^^^^^^^^

The ride back to Colorado Springs was long and silent.

Finally, Daniel asked. “What’s wrong with your arm?”

“It’s broken,” I snapped.

“The chopper crash?”

“No, a goon with a gun butt…”

“Ouch.”

“Yes.”

He slid a quick look over at me. “Are you okay otherwise?”

“Yeah.”

He didn’t believe it, I could tell that from his expression, just like he could tell how angry I was. He didn’t even try to dissuade me from going to the General’s house.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^

It was nearly dawn when we pulled up on the quiet street where Hammond lived. The lights were on in the house, he was an early riser, but I was sure I’d have an hour before his driver showed up.

Taking the gun that we’d retrieved from Daniel’s apartment, I tucked it into the waistband of my jeans, and hiked around the back of the house.

Peering through the French doors, I could see Hammond was seated at the kitchen table sipping coffee as he looked at the morning paper.

I rapped my knuckles against the glass, and he turned, his face going a shade paler than usual before breaking into an amazed look. He jumped to his feet, hurrying to the door. “Jack? What the hell?”

I pushed in past him.

He turned, his gaze following me, a look of disbelief on his face.

“Jack, I can’t believe this…”

“Don’t,” I snapped.

His look was more and more puzzled. “What…”

“You know what,” I stared at him.

His puzzlement was turning to anger now. “Colonel, I don’t know what. The last I heard, you were on a Russian helicopter that crashed, and we were told you were dead.”

“Riiiiggghhht.”

“Jack, I’m glad you’re back.”

I shook my head. “I’ve got to hand it to you, General. You almost convinced me with that line. Delivered oh so sincerely. If I didn’t know better, I’d have believed it…”

“Believed ? Jack, what the hell are you talking about?” He took a step toward me.

I pulled the gun out from behind my back and pointed it at him. “I’d prefer you kept your distance.”

His puzzlement was pure anger now. “Colonel O’Neill, I don’t know where the hell you’ve been or what’s happened to you, but that’s no excuse for pointing a gun at me.”

“Oh it isn’t?

“No!”

His anger and surprise seemed genuine, just like the look on his face when he’d first seen me, the look that I’d seen before, when I’d returned from missions that had gone sour. I suddenly remembered how he’d been the one to join Teal’c and Bra’tac to fly to our rescue when Hathor had held us prisoner in the fake future SGC. Or the look on his face when I’d returned from the Asgard ship, and the Russian sub.

George Hammond liked me, despite all the trouble I’d given him. Or so I’d always thought. But… “You sold me out.”

“I sold you out? Jack, listen to me, I don’t know what’s wrong with you, but I never sold you out. Never. The Russians said you were dead, showed us pictures of the crashed chopper. Hell, the Pentagon even identified your body…”

“My body?”

“Yes. Your remains were sent back to the U.S. and the standard tests were done, identifying the body as yours…”

His tone was so sincere, dare I believe him? “But it wasn’t me….”

“Obviously not. Jack, I had no reason to suspect anything. Standard procedures were followed. The military’s recovery team brought back a body and it was DNA matched to you…” He suddenly looked as angry as I felt. “Those bastards.”

“Who?”

“The Pentagon, the NID…”

“They’re in on this…”

“I’d bet my Troy Aikman autographed football….”

“But how?”

“My orders to send you to Moscow came through the White House, through a military aide named Frank Simmons. Ten to one, he’s linked to the NID. Jack, they’d do anything to get rid of you, we’ve known that for a long time. And recently, I’d heard talk that a trade was being worked out, to get the Russian DHD. Some elements within their government want to restart their program.”

“What good would I have been?”

“You know addresses, locations, allies…, and if Maybourne told them about your link to the Ancients…”

“Oh for crying out loud. They sold me to the Russians? For information I don’t even remember.”

“There have been rumors for decades that the old Soviet Union ran all sorts of programs, brainwashing, hypnosis, telepathy, ESP, drugs… they’d do anything to get what you knew. And so would the NID.” Hammond looked down at the floor a moment. “You thought I did it?” he asked, very softly.

“Your name came up, in a conversation, in ah, well, someplace I’d rather not have been.”

He nodded. “Jack, I don’t know how I can prove it to you, that I wasn’t involved. I won’t deny that, for the sake of my country, I’ve done things I’d rather not own up to but I wouldn’t do something like that. I *do* have my limits.”

Could I trust him? Maybe in time I could, and would.

“So…”

“Jack, I can’t undo what was done to you, but I can resurrect you from the dead, so to speak. Let me start making some phone calls. I know some people…”

Could I trust him? Rely on him?

I wanted to.

Sometimes, you just have to go on your instinct, trust that what the past has shown you about a person is the real truth, despite the circumstances.

I had to trust George Hammond.

I needed my life back, needed to get back to my job, my team, doing what I do best, leading SG-1.

I looked him in the eye, this balding, portly, stubborn man. Dressed in civvies, he doesn’t look like the tough taskmaster he is.

He stared me straight in the eye, unblinking, and I did the same, and decided that for once, I’d have to take a man on trust, and trust alone.

So I did.

--------------------------

THE END

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