I Killed Carter

AUTHOR: Celeste

EMAIL: ceri_ct@yahoo.co.uk

STATUS: Completed

SPOILERS: Hathor, Urgo, Foothold, Point of View

CONTENT LEVEL: 18+

WARNINGS: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Reference to NCS, Language, Crossover (JAG)
PAIRINGS: None

ARCHIVE: Jackfic

SEQUEL: None

SUMMARY: Jack O'Neill has murdered Sam Carter and is determined to pay for his crime, but when he tries to do so, the unexpected result takes Jack to the brink and beyond as the US swings into action against him, with explosive consequences. This 450 page novel is a crossover with JAG, but Stargate is the main story.
DISCLAIMER: Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. All events involving real locations are wholly fictitious.

AUTHORS NOTES:

The first scene in this story was a piece I wrote to improve my writing. It just grew from there to answer feedback on how Jack had got into this mess and what had happened to Sam Carter. I fear my writing quickly reverted back to its usual style, but I have left the first scene unchanged.

I have not attempted to marry up the timelines for SG and JAG. SG timelines apply.

I have attempted to understand the US law regarding death penalty for military personnel but might have artistically interpreted it to fit the plot.

The story is set prior to the opening of the new Leavenworth USDB. However, I have borrowed details from both prisons.

I have accumulated information on the execution process from different states and times.

Many, many thanks to Soles for her medical expertise, Kat and Chris for their flying expertise including a flight simulation on some final scenes by Kat <wow!>, Donna for her psychologist expertise, grooni for some dental work, Charli for a legal question and a host of others for answering my questions!! It’s so appreciated!

Special thanks to my betas, some on and off, all with valuable advice to give!! So thank you: Lynette, Donna, Anny, Helen and Karen, all without whom I could not have done this fic, at least not as well! <G> Their additions and advice has been invaluable and often, challenging!

If there has been anyone I’ve missed, then please forgive me!

And a thank you to all the Jackfic readers of the WIP whose feedback and encouragement helped develop this story and who gave me the incentive to finish it!

Once again, all mistakes are mine and I hope it does not spoil your enjoyment. And really, finally, thanks for reading it!!

And thanks to Arnise for helping me out on the archiving and for her patience with me!

FEEDBACK: Totally craved.

FILE SIZE: 1.09 MB

I KILLED CARTER

By

Celeste

PROLOGUE

“I killed Carter.”

There was no one to hear him, so Jack spoke the words loudly. It satisfied a need in him to hear the words out loud. To savor the flood of emotion that would sweep him when he admitted the abhorrent ugly truth. For all the good it did him. He could have been standing on a beach watching an approaching wave full of promise, towering with an untapped strength. Filling him with excitement as he tensed, ready to dart away as soon as the froth touched the toe of his favorite sneakers. Footwear put on despite the knowledge that they should not be submitted to the damaging tender mercies of the ocean but worn anyway because they were comfortable... And it was a game that sparked a craving for that adrenaline rush, however lighthearted the cause. Only to feel the crushing disappointment when that breaking wave petered out before reaching said shoes and to realize that the fault was his. That he had been so sufficiently cowardly that even the sea taunted his efforts.

Here too, on the shore of his imagination, he felt no crashing sense of guilt. The pit of desolation in which he could have wallowed failed to materialize. There was no sorrow. No grief. No remorse. He felt nothing. He was a cold lump of ice on which even the narrowest pick made no mark. He could market this state of being. Forget bulletproof glass or an iris made of trinium to protect the unsuspecting masses of Earth from the evil dregs of an entire universe. There was an even harder substance on offer. Colonel Jack O’Neill. Woman beater. Rapist. Murderer.

“I... Killed... Carter.”

Nothing. Zilch. Nadda. He stood up, disappointed. His butt at least was relieved to be no longer perched on the metal edge of his cot. Must have been sitting there for a good hour, he mused, as he felt the flesh slowly fill out after being compressed for so long. He wondered where he would go today. If he was careful, he could eke out this line of thought out for ten minutes... maybe. There was the slop bucket in the corner. He hadn’t visited his luxury bathroom facilities for two hours. That was a distinct possibility. Then there was the cell door. Nah, too boring. He did that yesterday.

There was the opposite wall. He knew exactly how many bricks were in that wall. Five hundred and sixty-three and a half. He had spent delightful days puzzling over that half brick. Were the walls not plumbed true? Were some bricks shorter than others? Perhaps the brickie had spaced them out too much on that course but no, they all matched with the others below. The wall was painted an interesting shade of gray.

The interior decorators of his living accommodations had gone to town. Everything toned in. Light gray concrete floor toned gently with the metallic silvery gray of his bucket. Then the metal tubular legs of his cot were a delicate shade of black, almost charcoal. A white pillow contrasted beautifully with the gray scratchy wool blanket. It didn’t sound like much but the management of this facility ensured that the mattress was comfortable and he had detected no lumps. The room temperature was kept at an ambient level and it remained constant, night and day.

The crowning glory of his surroundings was his desk with matching chair, both a dark shade of that iniquitous gray. On it sat his pencils and notepads. He had requested these items to keep a diary but he did not need to open them to know that there was nothing inside. Well, that was a lie. One notebook was full of three little words. Words he had written out obsessively in a style that varied from tiny neat handwriting, filling up every scrap of space on the page, to furiously scrawled large letters sometimes gouging holes in the paper from the force expounded on the pencil point.

He had done everything he could think of. Or had he? He stared again at those gray brick walls. Then he stared at the innocuous pencil sat innocently against the spiral bound backing of his notepad. It would be insufficient for his need. This required something more personal. Aware that he had probably eked out five minutes worth of time out of this decision making process, he set forth on his journey. He started slow. Lift one foot. Move it forward a few inches. Place the heel down, roll forward onto ball of foot and lift other leg, ready to repeat the action. Just five crappy steps. He hadn’t even managed to use up two minutes with that.

“Damn.”

He stood beside his painted wooden chair, reaching out a hand to grip its top bar, pulling it back slowly, easing his body down onto the hard surface of its seat. His hand stretched out and the pad moved across the desk towards him. He would use the filled one. There was no point wasting good notebooks. Once his fingers began to work, he relaxed, enjoying the sensation of feeling metal against his fingertips, reminding him of days gone by when he would use these long sensitive tools to strip down a gun. Dismantling with practiced ease the tiniest of mechanisms, ensuring that he knew where he placed each and every piece, maintaining a well rehearsed order so that if the call to battle came he would be able to rebuild his weapon in seconds.

He felt his jaw tense, setting off the muscle in his cheek, which was a key indicator that his feelings were not peaceful gentle ones. To be reduced to this. Deploying his hard-learned skills on the removal of a spiral coiled metal wire. Spending precious energy on ensuring that he did not tear a single square perforation in the line that spanned the top of each word filled page. His eyes glazed over the details of those words. He knew them by heart. They were written in blood on his soul. He did not have to see them reproduced in carbon, for that creation had proved futile. A waste of time. There was only one ink that would be good enough. And he owned the inkwell.

He could visualize the result already. He felt his saliva glands burst into action and cringed that he could drool over the thought of red oxidized blood, applied by his own finger tip, covering those blank walls with his crime. Just three words. He needed to feel something about those three words. To remember. To know. Just anything rather than this empty existence of... of... He gave up. Now was not the time to think. It was time to act. To face the enormity of what he had done in a manner that echoed the culminating act of his life. Before he went to his maker and found himself unable to lay before God even a small burden of sorrow and repentance. Surely, he owed her memory that small consideration. He had granted it to all the others.

The thump of a fist against the metal door made him jump. The window gate slid open, with a clang and a prison guard stared in, eyes almost hidden under thick bushy eyebrows. O’Neill swallowed with the realization that he was too late to react and that his current activity on the desk had been spotted. Nervously, he stood up and backed up as shouts erupted behind the cell barrier protecting him from the intrusion of the rest of the world. Metal bolts slammed back, and there was the clicking noise he associated with the key being turned in the outside lock, invisible to him, being hidden behind the smooth surface on his side of the door. The guard looked in, checking his position and then the door slammed open. Three guards, armed with batons, poured in, pausing when Jack immediately put his hands on his head.

“What were you doing, O’Neill?” Corporal Welling demanded, nodding to the desk. Lieutenant Peters stepped up and retrieved the uncoiled spiral wire, and fingered the sheaths of paper strewn everywhere. Jack had no answer. He could feel that familiar twisting sensation form in the pit of his stomach. Peters looked up at his silence and frowned.

“Clear this lot, Corporal. Everything. Put this on report. Make sure O’Neill gets no more notebooks until he’s had a clear psyche eval.”

“Yes, Sir,” Welling answered.

“You’ve got a visitor, O’Neill. Your JAG lawyer.”

This was it. It would be official.

O’Neill felt sick.

Commander Harm Rabb looked up with concern at his slightly graying client as he walked in, noting the manacles around his wrists that were joined by a chain to his feet. He hated this aspect of prison life. He knew the prisoner had just been transferred from the old fortress style prison to this newly built US Disciplinary Barracks at Leavenworth and he doubted the reason would have been lost on the man newly stripped of the right to use his rank of Colonel. Despite the dark place he was in right now, O’Neill still managed to throw his lawyer a sympathetic look for the pristine white dress uniform that was his usual garb. Rabb was used to it. The Air Force preferred the more practical colors but Harm was a Navy officer and proud of it.

“O’Neill,” he greeted his client. The Air Force officer had to be his strangest and most secretive client yet. Despite his position as O’Neill’s defense attorney, he knew hardly anything about the man. His record was several files thick of heavy black lines. Even his medical record was at the highest security classification and JAG came nowhere close. His Admiral had received orders directly from the President that, unless they could show evidence linking O’Neill’s crime to his previous assignment at Cheyenne Mountain, O’Neill’s work at NORAD would remain top secret.

Unfortunately, his client had proven to be both loyal to his country and uncooperative as hell. Stubborn as a mule in season as his grandpa would have said. The only time he had made any headway at all was when he had revealed his pilot credentials. O’Neill had been briefly impressed before his normal despondency swayed his mood and he had retreated back into his shell.

The Colonel’s acute sense of guilt had proven Rabb’s biggest obstacle to defending his client. O’Neill believed he was guilty. He had lost count of the times he had stared at the orange jumpsuit garbed man and repressed the urge to quote Macbeth as a well manicured thumb constantly wore away at one particular spot of his client’s right palm.

Rabb knew why it was that hand. He had the photos in his brief-case right now showing that same palm tightly gripping the knife plunged deep into Major Samantha Carter’s side. The photo sat among others of the young officer who had lost her life well before her time. Her blood-streaked blonde hair framing a face that was almost unrecognizable from the beatings that had been inflicted upon it. Her head had lolled to one side, facing the camera with eyes slightly open but fixed. Unmoving. Chilling. The picture had caught O’Neill looking round. His eyes manic and wild, windows cast in a hard stone granite sculpture of calm acceptance.

It had infuriated Rabb that only he could see the glittering passion in those eyes that had leapt out from the glossy paper. The panel at O’Neill’s court martial seemed only to see a cold-blooded murderer, caught in the act. No one seemed to agree with his argument that the photo’s very existence was an implausibility that could not be explained. He tapped his fingers as O’Neill sat down, raised his head and faced him in the eye.

“I take it you’re here with news?” he prompted, taking Harm by surprise.

The Commander nodded.

“Yes. The convening authority has approved the death sentence imposed at your court martial,” he answered, not bothering to try and sugar-coat the news. His efforts would not be appreciated. His client took it calmly. In fact, it was disturbing to see the relief on his face.

“I guess sufficient aggravating factors existed, then.”

“I tried to use your service record as a mitigating factor but was laughed out of court,” Harm admitted.

O’Neill looked at him with a rare glint of amusement.

“Not the best of tactics,” he remarked.

“No.”

“So I’m officially on death row.”

“We can appeal.”

“No.” Now why did that not surprise him? He remembered vividly O’Neill’s fury that he was not allowed to submit a guilty plea at a court martial where the death penalty was being sought. “How long?”

Harm studied him. He knew what his client meant. He just didn’t want to believe it. His client’s eyes narrowed, and Rabb knew he would repeat the question if he did not answer soon.

“At least one year.” The furious glare shot his way spurred him into an explanation. “There are several appeal processes we have to go through. You sentence has to be reviewed by the Air Force Service Court of Criminal Appeals and then the U. S. Court of Appeals of the Armed Forces, prior to presidential review. This could take a few months and I’m assuming you are not going to allow me to appeal at these?” At O’Neill’s affirmation, he continued. “Assuming the President approves the death sentence, the statute of limitation for a Habeas Corpus Petitions is six months. Your sentence won’t be carried out before then.”

He paused. O’Neill had paled.

“I can’t wait one year,” he whispered.

Rabb leaned forward.

“What happened, Colonel?” he asked, using O’Neill’s former rank deliberately. “I don’t see a cold blooded murderer. I see a man grieving.”

The man before him seemed to withdraw into himself and Rabb glimpsed such a raw naked pain in the man’s eyes that he barely repressed his own gasp.

“I killed my second in command with my own hands, Commander,” he whispered, his face contorting into that of the damned. “She was a friend, a good friend. For what I did to her...” He paused, seeming to recollect himself. Remembering that he wasn’t alone. “Don’t make me wait a year, Rabb. Sort it. Or I’ll do it my way.”

O’Neill stood up, the action dismissive.

“Wait! You can’t say that and just go,” Harm protested but O’Neill was already at the door. The guard let him out. “I’ll see you soon!” he yelled, but his client was gone. He stared at his unopened briefcase. Shit! That went brilliantly. He frowned as he kicked the two chairs back under the table. Now that O’Neill was on death row, his visitation rights were severely limited. He would have to put in another formal request. What had really happened to that poor woman?

Chapter One

1999

OVER ONE YEAR PREVIOUSLY

(POINT OF VIEW)

It was a pure unadulterated rush, that explosion of excitement in her belly, and it had Martha’s heart racing as warmth flooded her cheeks. The sheer headiness of it all! There was that coiling feeling again, just like a snake wriggling inside trying to escape.

Cold metal rings around his wrists chained him to the upper corners of the metal bed frame, stretching his arms to the side but above his head. They would hurt when he moved, soon his skin would be chafed raw and the slightest movement would send aching spasms through muscles pinned for too long in one position. He lay on a thin mattress, little more than a pallet, and his feet were spread apart, maintained in position by a thin metal rigid bar between them, each end finished by a leather cuff that was buckled tightly around his ankles.

She had secured the bar to the end of the bed and she had no fear that he would escape. No, she had ensured that the handcuffs were tightly applied, pinching the skin, with no give in them at all. After all, she knew the Colonel’s abilities well.

Her tummy turned over. The Colonel. She held the legendary Jack O’Neill in her power. She could do anything she wanted to him. He was completely and utterly at her mercy and she would ensure that he knew it. By the time she finished with him, he would be begging her to stop. Promising her anything. She would make sure he understood the penalty for misbehaving. He was dressed now but, when he awoke, she would strip him. Slowly. Saliva burst into her mouth. Ah. He was stirring. A slight groan filled the cold, dark cell-like room in her basement. She moved forward, not wanting to miss a second of his awakening, the gradual arousal to full awareness.

There was complete silence. He did not move a muscle and yet she knew he must be awake. Instinctively, she knew he was listening. Waiting. Sensing he had been immobilized and not wanting to give away any advantage. Well, she could soon put a stop to that. Silently, she raised her hand holding a thin riding crop. It lashed his crotch and he let out an almighty yell as his eyes shot open, immediately catching her own. They widened satisfactorily with shock.

“Crap! Cooper! What the hell are you doing? Let me out of here! Jeez,” he finished in a whisper, his hoarse voice fading out as the agony she had just inflicted on him returned in a wave to take the breath out of him.

Power! It was an aphrodisiac. He was all hers and he would learn to treat her with respect. Dropping the crop, she reached down and grabbed the sides of his shirt ripping it apart to reveal his bare chest below. There was just a fine down of gray hair. He was staring at her wild-eyed, and his limbs were moving sporadically, testing his restraints, learning the extent of his vulnerability.

“Stop this now, Cooper!” he ordered.

Gently she stroked his face with a finger, enjoying the scintillating and unfamiliar feeling of being able to ignore him. Her hands moved to his belt, unbuckling it slowly. Beads of sweat appeared on his brow and she noted a drop of red blood oozing from his too tight cuffs. It took her a while to unthread his belt, but eventually she had tugged it free. Releasing him from his pants was easy and then she was straddling him and she had to do this quickly because there was the sound of footsteps approaching...

“Open up, Airman,”

Cooper snapped to attention.

“Yes, Sir,” she responded smartly, turning to the door, respectful to the Colonel, her heart slowing as she realized he could not possibly know what she had been thinking. Angrily wondering what he wanted with this alternate Carter, her face impassive and betraying none of her feelings, she knocked on the door, before opening it to step back and resume her position. The door closed behind him and she fixed her eyes on the gray curving concrete wall ahead of her, aware of the green pipes that ran along the corridor above her head, mentally imagining him hanging from a rope as she beat the crap out of him. What was he doing in there?

The airwoman fretted, annoyed that the door was windowless. Her heart jumped as she spotted Airman Sally Pearce approaching, carrying this Carter’s dinner on a tray, and curbed the urge to sneer over the preferential service she was being given. This Carter was a civilian to boot. Her professional mask of attentive indifference did not slip as Cooper opened the door with only the briefest of knocks. The glimpse inside was enough. The Colonel was sitting on the bed, next to Major Carter’s alternative self. They were looking away at something and Martha just knew they were sharing a moment. She could not miss the Colonel’s snap dismissal of Pearce, who quickly hurried to place the meal on the table before retreating with a quick grimace to Cooper on her way out. They shared the briefest of glances. Martha would later rate maintaining her rigid soldier mask at that moment as a performance worthy of an Oscar. Not a glimmer of the sheer rage she was feeling leaked out. Instead, she turned her head back to the wall.

O’Neill was now spread-eagled against the wall in front of her. She had him suspended one foot off the floor with his left cheek pressed hard against the concrete that curved inwards towards the ceiling. He was naked. If she wanted to, she could reach around and fondle him to hardness but that would be giving him too much pleasure. So, instead, she mentally took out her whip that she had secreted onto the base in her holdall a long time ago and which she kept in her cupboard. She paced up and down behind him. He clenched his fists.

For a moment, Cooper faltered as she tried to visualize the detail of the restraints pinning him there, pondering the problem as she monitored the shine of sweat on his temple, the look of total vulnerability and fear of her in his eyes. She could tell he wanted to whimper but was holding it in. She looked down the corridor and mentally slammed the security doors across the opening. She had the power. She could do anything she wanted. His team would be on the other side, helpless to rescue him. Carter would have rigged access to the surveillance camera and would be monitoring Cooper’s ill-treatment of her lover. She needed to hurt O’Neill bad. Make her pay. A hammer and nails had pinned him there. She could see the blood dripping from his nailed wrists, and from the huge pitons she had slammed through the back of his knees, shattering the caps of bone on the other side.

Her stomach coiled with delight. Now she had him sobbing. The legendary SG-1 hero. Crying like a baby. But she could do more. Much more. The Major was distraught on the other side of the solid barrier separating them. Teal’c would be attacking that metal barrier with an acetylene torch, a protective mask over his face. But he would be too late. The helpless, bleeding Colonel sensed her move behind him. Taking measured steps. Finding the exact spot to deliver this punishment to his muscular, smooth back. She’d heard that O’Neill was scarred over most of his body, but today she was presented with a clean smooth canvas to project her artistic talents upon.

The whip cracked against his back, leaving a red weal from his shoulder blade down to his waist. He grunted with the pain and closed his eyes but did not speak. She took her time, placing her feet carefully to ensure a nicely balanced position from which to attack. Her arm lifted, and she put all her effort into this one, watching it strike him vertically from his neck right down his spine.

“Oh, God,” he gasped, as his fists clenched involuntarily in tandem with a muscular spasm that swept through his entire body, wreaking more pain on a brain overwhelmed by tortured nerves. A rage swept through her as she fixed her mind on that bitch Carter. Drawing him in with her tears.

‘I’ll kill you,’ she thought, ‘but first, he will suffer.’

She laid lash upon welt against him, watching the criss-cross of vivid scarlet cuts build up in a pattern until his skin was little more than a fluffed-up patchwork. She laid that whip against the back of his thighs, ripped his calves, but left his butt free from the intensive damage. She couldn’t say why? She just didn’t want to spoil it. He had stopped sobbing and pleading some time ago now. As she ground to a halt, his head hung limp to one side, his whole body weight supported by the nails through his wrists. Teal’c was breaking through now and she wanted to see Carter’s face. She turned to face his rescue party and...

She snapped to attention as the door beside her opened and Colonel O’Neill stepped out. He did not even acknowledge her. He just strode away. She wanted to stare after him but could not give herself away. Cameras monitored every movement down that corridor and she wouldn’t give anyone the chance to suspect her of being anything other than the consummate professional.

She whipped him one last time for good measure. Then she buried him alive in a box. She could hear him screaming...

Relieved from duty for her lunch break, Airman Martha Cooper was too distracted by the little details of talking to others, as she got her lunch, to focus her thoughts on stomach clenching daydreams. Instead she found herself contemplating the moment her fixation on the Colonel had begun. The Goa’uld Hathor had taken over the base, using pheromones to subjugate the menfolk to her will. O’Neill had been just as susceptible until Captains Carter and Fraiser had come up with a plan to rescue him.

When Teal’c had laid him on that bench he had looked so vulnerable, his eyes open yet unseeing. The Jaffa had placed him in the sarcophagus retrieved from the Mayan temple in Mexico where the Goa’uld had been released by an unsuspecting archaeological expedition, all of whom Hathor had killed. O’Neill had leapt from that golden tomb, his shirt open and revealing a perfectly flat toned stomach, to help repel Hathor from the base. Then, General Hammond had placed commendations in Carter’s and Fraiser’s files.

She had received nothing for her efforts, just a brief thank you. O’Neill had barely noticed her, giving his attention solely to the female scientist on the team. Now she knew why! He was smitten with her. And by rights, if the alternate was any indicator to go by, Major Carter held feelings for him. How far did it go? She determined to find out. So far there had been nothing she could prove but every instinct in her body told her there was something going on between them. This other Carter proved it. She had a thing for the Colonel. You could see it. She had to find out.

She did find out. Later that day, it was all over the base. Kawalski had even admitted that he had to take care of his best friend’s wife. And she had been there, when he had kissed the alternate Sam in the mirror. The Major had turned away, but Cooper saw the devastation in her face. That had been the only good aspect to that disgusting kiss. Seeing it hurt Carter. Confirming her suspicions that there were feelings between them. Feelings that should not exist. He was her commanding officer. He deserved to be punished for this. She would make him pay. Make them both pay. She did not know how, but she was patient. In the meantime, she could prepare. Seeing O’Neill hurt his Major like that had been like nothing else. It went a small way to avenging her for his earlier tryst with the Doctor Carter. Watching him make out with his alternate wife made Martha feel so physically sick that she could almost empathize with her perceived rival. He had not even known it. And Cooper knew that if he did, he would be devastated.

SEVERAL WEEKS LATER

(FOOTHOLD)

Waking up to find herself suspended by cables high up in a storage facility on Level 23 had been the most frightening event in Martha Cooper’s life so far. She had been lowered to the ground, filled with the thoughts of the creature that had apparently been mimicking her. He had been trying to communicate a message to her and she knew instantly that he was still on the base. He had been zatted by Teal’c in the monitoring room on Level 16 and had just resumed duty there again in time. Later, Cooper would learn that the alien had rerun the most recent security recordings to discover Major Carter’s return through the access shaft leading to Level 16 and had been about to report this to its leader when the high frequency wave blasted the SGC.

The alien had fled to the nearby escape route and made its way to the surface, exiting to hide in the forest and wait. As it had done, so it had activated a feedback to Cooper’s face holder and downloaded his plight and the price he was prepared to offer for her help. Right now, Colonel Maybourne’s men were still sweeping the base and her duty was to inform them of the alien’s last location but, still disorientated and shocked, Cooper hesitated and could only quietly follow orders to report to the Infirmary.

No one else seemed to have been privy to the alien’s thoughts except her and the message he had planted in her mind made her pause to give him up. He had communicated his despair at not being able to leave with his leader, that he knew he would be found and that, in exchange for her help, he would help her achieve her greatest desire. She knew what that desire was and the thought of having such a powerful creature in her debt and forced to help her was scary but incredibly tempting. For now, she could do nothing to help him. The alien would be hiding out in the woods but it did have its mimic device and so would be able to mimic her. If it did not move, it would probably remain undetected. The lift shaft was an appalling breach of security and Cooper determined to report it to ensure that this omission was rectified and earn some brownie points, but only once she had smuggled the alien off base.

It had taken a day before she had been cleared to go home. Before she did, she went for a walk around the mountain and, finding a secluded spot she waited, lighting a cigarette to give a valid reason for her brief detour before going home. She heard the rustling of bushes. Looking round, she spotted her own face staring back at her. It was eerie and, for a moment, she had been speechless and terrified. It must have shown.

“I only want to live. My own kind have returned home or are dead,” the alien Cooper pleaded. Martha checked their position, worried that they might be spotted, but there was no one else in the vicinity. She glanced away, preferring not to see her own face looking back at her. Her heart was racing and she knew she would soon be past the point of no return. Part of her was screaming for having placed herself in such a vulnerable position, but the alien was making no aggressive moves and the note of desperation in her own voice was very real.

“I can deliver the Colonel to you. I know what you want. There is no point denying it.”

Airman Cooper gasped, swallowing. A warm flush crept up her neck. It was one thing to discern the alien’s intentions in her mind when she had been released from that harness thing, but to hear her most secret dreams voiced out loud was something else. Immediately following that thought was the image of O’Neill kissing the alternative Samantha Carter, betraying her. If she couldn’t have him, then she would ensure no one would.

“Can you get past the perimeter fence of the Mountain?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“I will be waiting just half a click down the road. Make sure no one is passing and then get into the trunk of the car. Stay there until I let you out.”

There was the sound of rustling, and then the alien had gone.

At the security point to the mountain base, Cooper had been convinced that the SF would see right through her demeanor of innocence. Tension literally crawled through her. Her throat was dry and her face felt too warm. The SF, through, had merely checked her identity and nodded her through. Her heart slowing, she pulled away, constantly checking her mirror for any traffic behind her.

The road was quiet, and, half a kilometer from the gate, safely out of sight, she pulled over. She only had to wait a couple of minutes before she saw herself running out of the undergrowth and towards the trunk of her car. It had to be the eeriest sight she had ever seen. Quickly, she pulled the lever to unlock it automatically. She saw the lid rise in her mirror and then it slammed shut as the car adjusted to the extra weight. Swiftly, she pulled away, heaving a sigh of relief as a Ford truck came into view behind her. She nearly died there and then as she recognized it as belonging to the Colonel. Carefully, she edged over to one side, allowing O’Neill to pass her. He nodded his thanks in passing and then sped up and was rapidly gone.

A smile crossed her face as her guts clenched pleasantly. She imagined his truck veering out of control onto the grass verge to wrap itself round a tree. A picture evolved in her mind. Together with her alien self, she would drag the semi- unconscious man into the woods where they would strip him and tie him to a tree. While the alien stood guard, she pulled his head down to taste his lips. He struggled but a few slaps put paid to that. When he was submitting satisfactorily to her kiss, she moved a hand to his hardening manhood, the other loosened her own belt. The feel of leather against her fingers immediately distracted her and she stepped back, enjoying the desperation in his eyes. She coiled one end around her fist and let loose, deliberately aiming for his stiff and most sensitive area. His eyes screwed tightly shut, his whole body tensing with shock and the agonizing sensation that filled him.

“Martha, please, no,” he whispered. “I’m sorry...”

“Not good enough, Jack. You kissed her.”

“It was a mistake,” he pleaded, his voice hoarse with anguish.

“Yes.”

A horn blasting made her jump and she focused her attention on the traffic lights that were now showing green. Her car jolted forward as she moved off, making a left turn. Damn. She had been getting to the best bit. Deciding she had better concentrate now that she was in Colorado Springs, she allowed her mind to idly dwell on the moment when she had struck him with his belt. As she always did, Cooper drove past the end of his road. It was five minutes out of her way but it gave her a thrill to know how close he was. Ten minutes later, she pulled into her drive.

She lived in her parents’ home. To be honest, she was really fulfilling a caretaker role for them while they spent their retirement traveling in Europe, visiting friends they had made during her father’s own career in the Air Force.

Her mother had extracted this promise from her Dad years ago. Martha could even remember her mother excitedly detailing the places she would visit once her father had retired. A promise in exchange for his being at the beck and call of a military career for forty years. He had made it to General, but Martha knew she would never reach the exalted position her Dad had.

It still rankled that his most overwhelming reaction when she had graduated out of military training as an Airman had been one of surprise. He had been happily surprised, but still his lack of faith in her had hurt. She bet O’Neill felt the same way about her. He had never shown the slightest bit of interest in her progress. He had barely noticed her involvement in freeing the base from the clutches of Hathor. No, Captain Carter had taken all the credit for that one. Still, as she pulled up into the large integral garage, she was glad that her family connections lent her the privacy of a large secluded house where harboring an alien from another planet would go unnoticed.

The garage door closed automatically behind her and the lights switched on. She was impressed by her own cool reaction to what had to be classified as the most dangerous act she had ever participated in. So, she was part of the most classified project on the planet. Trained to be able to react to foothold situations. Her duty to repel invaders. Yet, here she was inviting one into her own home. She felt a buzz that eclipsed even the highs she attained in her torture of her Colonel. This was real. And the alien promised her everything she wanted. She had felt the sincerity of his desperation in that link he had managed before her release from the harness. She held the upper hand here. She knew the SGC would be blasted with high frequency every time that Gate opened, so the alien would not be able to set foot on the base. His life on Earth would be dependent on her goodwill. Yes, she had been afraid in the woods, but he had done nothing to threaten her. If anything, he had been at pains to ensure she felt at ease. She could handle this. She needed to.

Her hand felt for the lever beneath her seat and pulled it. The trunk clicked, and slowly, she got out and waited. The lid rose and she was staring at herself again. The silence became heavy until the ‘alien her’ moved her hand up to her chest, slipping aside her shirt to pull off a device. There was a slight shimmer and then Martha was stepping back, terrified by the alien creature that was revealed. Suddenly, it was far taller, dominating her easily. Its face had a shiny metallic glint to it and it was the most intimidating sight she had ever seen. She stepped back until she had backed up against the wall. Her hand stretched out before her, fingers splayed.

“Don’t move,” she made to order, but the only sound that emerged from her throat was a nervous squeak. The alien replaced the small disc and reproduced the more reassuring image of herself.

“I intend you no harm,” it spoke. “You needed to see what I am.”

She swallowed, nodding.

“Should we go into the house?” she managed, feeling the ridiculous urge to play host, as if that would somehow negate the sheer incongruity of harboring a creature from hell in her home.

“That would be acceptable,” alien Cooper agreed, nodding.

Martha mimicked the action, and without taking her eyes off her own flesh and blood image, moved towards the connecting door to the house. The alien followed her into her pleasant-sized kitchen with its formica work tops and stainless steel cabinets. Needing the familiarity of her normal routine, Martha moved to the kettle and filled it automatically from the water filter she kept in the refrigerator. She switched it on. A thought occurred to her.

“Do you drink tea?” she asked.

The alien shook its head.

“Your water will be satisfactory.”

Martha nodded, and moved to take a glass down from the wall cupboard. She filled it and placed it on the breakfast bar between them.

“You have much anger towards O’Neill,” alien Cooper observed. “I meant my promise. In return for your protection, I will help you achieve your desires.”

“Why?” Martha whispered.

“Because when your thoughts merged with mine, I felt your emotions. And I liked them. We are not so dissimilar. You and I.”

Chapter Two

A FEW WEEKS LATER

(URGO)

The chuckle that erupted from Major Samantha Carter as she sped away from the mountain base in her 1961 Volvo was pure release after the events of the last few days. It felt strange to have a wide beaming grin on her face, and suddenly she felt alive again. Free. Free of the claustrophobic underground, windowless and air-conditioned base. Free of military uniforms, superior officers, guards, SG-1 and URGO!

At the thought of that overweight pixie who reminded her so much of her Uncle Irving, she chuckled again. Mary Steenburgen! Who’d have thought it? The look on the Colonel’s face had been priceless but they had all been so shocked by Urgo’s materialization into their lives that no one had thought to pick O’Neill up on it. She had to remember this for after their downtime. Although he had been in such a foul temper over it all, that maybe she wouldn’t. Wait and see how he was after a week’s fishing, she thought. It had been a few anxious hours waiting for Janet to clear them from any side-effects but those strange miniscule devices in their heads were gone and, with no indication of any more Urgo, Janet had finally released them.

Hammond had immediately granted them a week’s downtime and had seemed almost desperate to get them out of his hair. As if he had any! Sam laughed out loud again. Mary Steenburgen! Mind, she half thought it was the Colonel that Hammond wanted to be rid of. He had been like a bear with a sore head, Urgo having irritated him more than any of them, although Teal’c had run a close second. Apart from the curtailment on their activities and freedom, she had enjoyed the software’s creation. He had been fascinating and fun! At least, she had still had the chance of going to the lake with Janet and Cassandra at the weekend.

The moment she thought about it, she began to sing softly as she carefully looked both ways before traversing the crossroads. Then she stopped the familiar tune and groaned. She would never get that damn ‘Row, Row’ out of her head now. A smirk took over her face. Dang, the Colonel sang badly.

It took her about forty-five minutes to reach her house. She parked and then walked up the path to the single level house. It was a relief to get inside and, for a moment, she just savored the luxury of being in the safe haven of her own home. She sniffed the air and her nose wrinkled. It definitely smelt musty. She needed to open some windows. As she walked into the lounge to drop her bag she stiffened, suddenly perceiving a clicking noise and the sight of a man. She relaxed almost immediately as she recognized Colonel O’Neill, sitting at one of her three computers, tapping away on the keyboard. Her relief turned to puzzlement.

“Sir?” she asked, suddenly realizing that the last time she had seen him had been forty-five minutes ago, and he had been heading to the gym. She moved in closer as he looked round and smiled.

“Surprise!” he sang softly, waving his hand at the screen.

Smiling, her eyes narrowing, and with absolutely no idea about what he could be up to, or how he had beaten her here, she moved closer, peering over his shoulder. He sidled out of the way, placing a hand on the chair and swiveling it towards her so she could sit down.

“How did you get here so fast?” she began as her eyes scanned the sent email text. She frowned. It was addressed to Janet, explaining that she would not be able to join them that weekend, as she had decided to go visit her brother. For a moment she sat there frozen, wondering what possible motives her commanding officer could have for needing to find an excuse for her not being at home that week. A worrying thought crossed her mind and she chewed the inside of her mouth. Oh God! This could get awkward.

“Err, Sir,” she began, turning back to look up at him. His fist caught her jaw such a fierce blow, it knocked her clean off her seat and onto the polished wood floor. Pain soared through the bone and up the side of her head. Her eyes were watering and she had hit the funny bone of her left elbow. Nausea threatened, but a more urgent emotion overtook it. Fear. Whatever was wrong with her CO, he was not going to wait around until she had figured it out. Already he was moving towards her and quickly she scrabbled back, her throbbing arm reaching out blindly for the poker she knew was on the stone hearth of the fireplace. She could feel her fingers scraping against the harsh surface until the smooth brass rod was in her grasp.

“What are you doing?” she managed, her eyes clearing, gasping at his thunderous expression, his eyes fixed on her obvious attempt to gain protection for herself. Terror filled her. She was no match for the Colonel and she knew it.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” he jibed, as he neared her and she swung it towards his knees. His hand reached down and caught it just millimeters from impact. With a slight twist, he wrenched it from her and then her own makeshift weapon was descending on her head. There was a brief burst of pain and flashing stars before blackness descended.

A massive digger was tearing up the inside of Sam Carter’s head. The next sensation to make itself known as she gradually came to, was a compulsive need to throw up. Turning over to one side, she found her limbs abruptly and painfully pulled up short. The rattle of chains provided a small clue as to why. Closing her mind off to the sharp ache of metal against bone, Sam jutted her chin forward, trying to project the bile that erupted up her throat as far as possible. She ignored the little bit of information that single action had provided on her current status, solely focused on surviving this one moment of acute personal distress.

Instinct had stopped her from opening her eyes, the painful throbbing in her temples so overwhelming that she did not dare risk exposing them to any light that might be out there. With her visibility voluntarily curtailed and her movements restrained by means outside her control, her efforts were of limited success. Consequently, her vomit ended up dribbling down her side, just under her armpit, and the warm gooey sensation against bare skin told her the rest of the bad news. She was naked. Just the mere thought had goose bumps rising on her skin as she registered the coolness of the air against it. An escaping groan reminded her that the delicate tissues that lined her throat were burning, thanks to the passage of the former acidic contents of her stomach. It tasted disgusting. Given the barfing noises she had just indulged in, she forgave herself this additional announcement of her awakening.

She felt miserable, weak, and distinctly put out by her current predicament and could be forgiven a small moan. God, her head was pounding. She would kill for some Tylenol right now. She tasted chewy lumps under her tongue and in her teeth and grimaced, feeling a sudden compulsion to vomit again. Only just managing to contain the urge, she spat the small pieces of nastiness from her innards out. Only then did she slowly open bleary eyes, testing for the possible onslaught of light, vaguely aware that she could not make out any shapes through her eyelids. It was with relief that she found the place she was in to be in darkness. The black was not impenetrable, by any means. There was a very slight sliver of vertical light in the wall to her left and, as her vision focused a little better, she could just make out the solid shape of wooden boards against a window. Slowly, as her eyes began to adjust, shapes, and even colors, became clearer. Hating to look, and screwing her nose up at the god awful smell she had just created, Sam looked down at herself, moving her head with infinite care until her chin rested on her chest.

Peering down her nose, she could make out her body. Two mountains of flesh rose in front of her, sagging only slightly to the side. Between them, she could just see the ends of wisps of pubic hair beyond a very slight swell of her stomach. The effort of concentrating was exhausting and her head protested. Gently, she allowed her head to fall back to the soft pillow underneath it. Then she moaned softly in distress. She was totally naked and chained to a bed. She bit her lip, testing her restraints, twisting her head to look up at her right wrist. The metal cuff was standard military issue, from just a few years back. The SGC was moving slowly to plastic restraints, keeping in mind the budgetary constraints Kinsey liked to put them under. Plastic was just as effective, but the sight of the metal cuffs, applied to spread eagle her on a bed in her birthday suit, brought images to mind that she really did not want to contemplate. They were tight as well. She did not think she would be escaping from them anytime soon.

She stayed her tiny testing movements and listened carefully, stretching out her senses. Her heart leapt as she made out a muffled banging. It sounded like the typical domestic sounds of a kitchen. This was confirmed by the sudden whoosh of water from a tap hitting a metal bowl. So someone was out there. Keeping her movements small, she looked about her.

She seemed to be in some sort of guest room, on a simple wooden bed equipped with solid posts at each end, a nice blue quilt cover, its main problem being that she was on top and not underneath it, matching curtains and a simple pine chest of drawers. A photograph sat on top, and Sam repressed a sob as the full memory of what had just happened to her flooded back. The picture was of Colonel O’Neill’s dead son, Charlie and his mother, Sara, now divorced from her CO. She recognized the short blonde locks from the time they had met at the hospital with the crystalline entity. Panic surged through her and she pulled at her chains, ignoring the ache in her jaw and the increased rapid banging of a hammer in her head. She realized simple handcuffs had also been used to restrain her ankles. An unaccustomed curse escaped her.

“Shit!”

Taking a few deep, calming breaths she forced herself to assess her surroundings better. She knew she wasn’t at the Colonel’s house. The wooden slatted walls, the simple furniture, the complete silence, apart form the birdsong outside, were easy clues. He had taken her to his cabin and it was daylight. That meant she had been out of it all night. She caught a whiff of the bile drying against her skin.

“Oh, God!”

Think! She had to think. Why would he have done this? He had totally lost it. Whatever happened now, his career was over. Her throat closed in on itself. Assuming someone found out. That she was found. Rescued from a man she knew so well but recognized not at all. She corrected herself. Thought she had known. Oh, Lord. How long had he been feeling the urge to do this to her? Nausea rose again and knowing her predicament better she swallowed it down, closing her eyes and taking in long shallow breaths until the sensation passed.

Urgo! Perhaps that was it? He’d had a device in his head. Software screwing around with his mind. Not long after the Ancients download either. She began to feel a little better as her logical mind began to find plausible explanations as to why he couldn’t be held responsible for his actions. Alien influence. It had to be. Colonel O’Neill had never, ever, given her any reason to doubt his character. He hadn’t even taken advantage of her sexual assault on him when she had been infected by the Broca virus. She would talk to him. Figure it out. She shivered and looked down at nipples taut in the cool air. She groaned. Mortified at the very idea of him walking in on her like this. She squeezed her eyes tight shut as warm tears suddenly filled them. He must have undressed her, laid her out and chained her like this! He would have been able to study her and touch her as she lay helpless. The warmth of pure shame flooded her.

She jumped at the sound of the doorknob turning, wincing as her head protested the action. Despite her embarrassing predicament, her eyes were transfixed to the Colonel as he entered to stand there, looking down on her, his eyes clinically roaming up and down her body. Her throat went dry, and any thought of forming a constructive sentence flew out of the window as all ability to speak fled. Her heart was beating so rapidly she thought he must surely be able to hear it. He leered and she bit her lip, turning her eyes to study the wood-slatted ceiling, refusing to face him as he neared her. He crouched beside her and placed his forearms on the side of the quilt, his hands joined together, before sniffing at her armpit. She winced and looked away.

“Made a bit of a mess, have we?” he sneered.

Anger flooded her.

“Release me!” she demanded turning to face him.

He stood up and towered above her. His hand lifted and a resounding slap stung her cheek. She gasped, eyes watering again, feeling the imprint against her skin, the digger in her head renewing its efforts one thousand fold. Then she yelped as fingers gripped her left nipple and twisted, painfully.

“You need to learn respect, Major,” O’Neill warned.

Sam swallowed, biting her lip as his cruel grip did not lessen.

“Please,” she finally begged, as it became overpowering.

The steel fingers let go. The throbbing he had set forth did not.

“Colonel,” she tried, her voice urgent. “Urgo! You’re suffering some side-effect from having that device in your head. If you just let me go...”

She never finished her sentence as his fist struck her lip. The blow was agonizing and sparked another shaft of pain right through her skull. She tasted metallic blood from her split upper lip and froze, staring up at his twisted face in horror.

“We are going to have such fun, Carter,” he told her. “You know that?”

She would not have been able to move, even if she had been free. His eyes glittered down on her and she felt a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature of the room. When his fist lifted again, she flinched. This time, he punched her stomach and she gargled as she instinctively tried to coil in on herself, the breath ripped from her body, pain tearing at her hands and feet as metal dug in tightly. With sudden clear insight, Carter knew that this time logic was going to do her no good at all. Whatever was up with her CO, she was at the receiving end and it was going to be very painful. The military training she had received to date had never quite covered this scenario and, as another blow descended against her ribs, she began to feel a loss of control she had never experienced before. It was a feeling to rival any physical pain he could throw at her. A kernel of resentment began to build deep inside her.

Huddled below the low stone wall in the Albanian village, O’Neill could feel his heart beating wildly. The night air was chill and he was grateful for his warm black gloves, fingertips missing to allow him to handle his weapon unhindered. Explosions of light accompanied by blasts shook the ground, so he could feel the tremors through the soles of his military-issue boots. Too close. He had to move. His black ops team was close behind him in the woods, ready to provide cover for a tactical retreat. They weren’t supposed to be there. Discovery would expose the US government to some very awkward questions. They’d found out what they needed to know. It was time to go.

The moon emerged from hiding, partially eclipsed by dark clouds, so the large drops that smacked against his bullet proof vest took him by surprise. Despite the rapid ricocheting of weapons fire between the Serbs and the underground National Movement lighting the black night sky punctuated by warning shouts and the odd heart-piercing scream of fear, each tiny splash sounded to him like a rock hitting the middle of a still pond. About to make a run for it, a slight noise caught his attention and he froze. Counting to three for no good reason, other than that it gave him something to focus on, he reached the magic number and then stretched up to dart a searching glance over the top course of mountain-quarried rock. The source of the noise that had raised his hackles was immediately transparent as the hard metal butt of a rifle in the center of his forehead knocked him senseless. The force of its impact sent him toppling backwards and a second wave of pain lanced through his head as the ground slammed the back of his skull with a heart-stopping thud. It met the first in a roaring crescendo of agony and the world blurred disturbingly.

His struggle to regain his senses was interrupted by a large weight on his chest. Instinct took over as he whipped his rifle in the vague direction of the shadow looming over him. Nausea swept through him as metal clashed, the reverberations travelling through his body. Tendrils of blackness reached out for him but he continued to fight on blindly, pushing up against a weapon of equal force. He needed to change the odds. All he could see was the vague blur of light-colored hair highlighted by the moon emerging from behind a cloud. He could feel his opponent losing ground, and with iron will, he shifted position and suddenly he was on top, ignoring the nausea billowing through him as his head protested the change in gravity. His left hand let go of his rifle and now held his knife. His movement was swift and sure. Hesitation was the hallmark of dead men. He had no choice. The enemy was moving closer and this woman was stopping his retreat. Woman? The terrible realization that the suddenly unmoving body beneath him was too softly curved to be a Serbian soldier came too late as warm blood soaked his glove.

“Oh, God, no...”

“Colonel, you’ve got to move. Now, Sir!”

The sound of his Sergeant’s whisper broke through the fog clouding his senses. Wanting to retch, but knowing he had no time for the luxury of misplaced guilt, Jack forced himself up from the body. He could hear blood gurgling in her throat. His surroundings were moving and then an arm gripped his. He made to swing round and shoot when Gunney spoke again.

“Easy, Colonel, I’ve got you.”

The shouts were getting louder. Crap! If she wasn’t dead already, she soon would be. Just another milestone to pave his way to hell. Darkness enveloped him.

The familiar sensation of his stomach curling over and over on itself swamped Jack as he slowly came round. Much less familiar was the soft cushion of a body beneath his. He shifted position and a nasty sinking feeling swept through him. He froze, hardly daring to move, and definitely unwilling to open his eyes to find out whom he had just clearly spent the night with. The groan that sounded in his ears coincided with the movement in his throat. His mouth felt furry. A headache was pounding at his temples. Shit! He had got paralytic. Hell! How many beers had he downed last night? Who could be here with him? And at his cabin? He moved slightly and two more facts struck him. The woman beneath him wasn’t moving. At all! And his hand was trapped between them, fingers lightly gripping a handle and covered in something sticky. Buried, deep inside...

Light dazzled him as his eyes flew open, forcing him to squint but not stopping him from pulling away as hysteria bubbled up from deep within him. He could hear pitiful pleas to God tumbling from his mouth but he already knew they were futile. The blonde blur before him was like an echo from the past. As his pupils adjusted to the light, the image came into focus, bisected by the blood-streaked metal blade he held before him. Open blue eyes stared at him sightlessly. Lifeless.

“Carter?”

Her name stuck in his throat. Unable to pass the solid mass blocking its passage, a hard lump of self-hatred and deep loathing, as memories of another woman with his knife stabbed deep into her guts stretched out their ghostly tendrils. Sucking him down into a swirling torrent of madness. A whirring noise caught his attention and he turned in time to catch a blazing flash of light. He frowned, desperately trying to regain some control, to sort out the confusion in his mind, failing miserably to make sense of any of it.

Carter demanded his attention. She was his 2IC and his friend. Now she was naked. Black and blue with ugly contusions across her face and body and a gaping hole in her side, where his hand had just been. Now she was dead. The thought had him throwing himself away from her, knowing he could not soil her lifeless form any further. He threw up until all he had to produce was the foul stench of air mixed with gulping sobs, but still his stomach muscles convulsed painfully. Slowly, the spasms past and just the odd hiccup was left to testify to his distress. He was on his hands and knees over the carpet before the fireplace. A moan escaped him as he stared at the knife still gripped in his fingers. He hadn’t let it go, almost as if it was a last link to the warm, intelligent and courageous woman he had grown to care for. Now it was ugly and he dropped it like a red-hot poker. It fell to lie across the red hand that now stained the beige wool fibers. His handprint coated in Carter’s blood.

“Why?” he whispered, looking at it. Unable to look at her. There was no answer. “WHY?” he screamed, lifting his head to the ceiling. “Why? WHY? WHY?”

The silence was deafening. Trembling, he stood up, looking wildly around him for a phone. He needed to alert someone. To tell Hammond. But what would he say? Explanations tumbled out of the dark recesses of his mind. He had been drinking; a desperate attempt to obliterate the memories that had been haunting him since their disastrous last mission. Slave to an urge to exorcise that demon Urgo from his mind. His fishing trip to his refuge had slowly deteriorated into an excuse for a drunken binge. It hadn’t worked well enough. He had flash-backed to that disastrous mission in Kosovo, the killer instinct that psychiatric evaluations liked to describe as a natural instinct for survival had finally intruded where it could never be excused. Not could he allow it to be. Not at this price. Uncaring of the havoc he was creating, his efforts to find his cell phone became increasingly frantic as questions he could not answer swamped him. Why had she come here? To the cabin? He hadn’t invited her. Had he? Frustration exploded.

“Shit! Where’s the f....”

His words cut off as he spotted a gray metal object. He grabbed it from under a cushion on the floor and then stared at the unfamiliar keypad. It was Carter’s cell. Had she tried to ring for help? Had he torn it from her and thrown it away?

“Carter?” he began, turning towards her before he could catch himself. Her name disdainfully hung in the air. He swallowed. The scene was like something out of Hitchcock. He had never seen her naked before. Sure, he’d caught glimpses of bare flesh in the locker room, and in camp, but never naked, like this. She had a beautiful body. His heart tripped as he used the past tense. A pile of neatly folded clothing on the sofa caught his eye and an unwelcome scene began to build in his eye. He looked around the room. In the corner was an overnight bag. Not his. Her leather jacket hung on the peg. Strewn across the floor, from the carpet to the door, were the contents of her black leather shoulder bag that was itself lying under the window. He looked down at his unzipped pants, and the flaccid member peeping out. He closed his eyes. The stinking evidence was all over him. It couldn’t be denied.

His brief semblance of control slipped away and left him cold. It was happening all over again. He wasn’t good enough to be in the military. Irreverent, ill disciplined, careless. Fighting on regardless, as each life he took chipped away at his soul, until he had nothing good left in him to stop the demons he had buried from escaping. Nothing to stop him from destroying anything in his life that was good. Like Charlie. And Sara. And now...

His thumb hit redial. He wasn’t good enough to live. His very existence was an abhorrent anomaly.

91...

So she had been trying to get help. And he had stopped her. He typed in the remaining digit and waited.

“Please state the nature of the emergency?”

The operator’s voice came from a distance and, slowly, O’Neill lifted it to his ear, the mouthpiece resting against his cheek.

“I killed Carter,” he whispered to her.

“Caller? I’m sorry. Please can you repeat that?”

“Sure.” A sense of acceptance stole through him. This felt right. “I killed Carter.”

Chapter Three

2000

PRESENT DAY

“Ah, so what will happen?” Typically, it was Daniel who broke the tense silence. His curiosity was insatiable. Even though he had to know that understanding the medical process for legally taking the life of a human being would not help Jack O’Neill, he still had to find out. He still needed to know. As if intellectually understanding what was to be done to his friend would somehow help him deal with it. Perhaps it would.

Janet swallowed, but there was suddenly no fluid in her throat to ease the action and a choke began to take control. She reached for her glass and sipped the iced water slowly, conscious of three pairs of eyes on her, their owners waiting patiently but wanting, no, needing to know. She felt herself step back in time to those lectures and debates at medical training school. It was obligatory for any military doctor to be aware of the US Military Code of Justice and how it might pertain to their ability to carry out their medical duties.

The ethical discussions had been lengthy, inspiring emotionally charged arguments. There had been cadets who abhorred the crimes that could lead to the death sentence being sought and upheld but who found themselves in a quagmire of indecision and confusion when brought up face to face with the Hippocratic oath. There had been others who were adamantly opposed, and who ruthlessly used the medical process involved to force anyone remotely supporting capital punishment to justify themselves in the face of the inhumanity and inconsistencies of it. There was plenty of medical history and antecedents to quote to demonstrate the difficulties inherent in terminating a body’s sole business of living. There was no humane way to kill anyone, and many a student had been in tears at the thought of being forced to carry out such a duty under the auspices of an order.

Fortunately for the medical profession, the law recognizes the irresolvable dilemma. The one lesson that everyone learned from this debate, was that no medical professional could be forced or ordered to carry out the procedures involved in terminating life. But it is also here that the luck runs out for the convicted felon strapped to their death bed.

Volunteer executioners are appointed by the prison warden and, typically, possess insufficient medical qualifications to either legally use thiopental, a controlled substance requiring a special license, or to administer it properly. Trained to use the equipment? Yes. To correctly identify the chemicals required, to prepare and to administer them in the right order? Yes. But to calculate the right doses of three very differently acting drugs, taking into account body weight, blood pressure, general fitness? No.

Not only that. If those directly facilitating the supposed humane killing of another human have limited medical understanding of the chemical process, or the symptoms displayed, then you begin to understand that the chances of dying a painless death from the lethal injection are less than the throw of a dice. Should she tell them that an estimated forty percent of death row inmates subjected to lethal injections go wrong? Or that the longest recorded death took forty-five minutes? The heavy silence demanded an answer.

“Three drugs are used. You may have heard of sodium thiopental by its trade name, sodium pentothal. This drug renders the prisoner unconscious within sixty seconds. Succinylcholine is then administered very quickly to cause paralysis, preventing any movement or respiration. The third drug is potassium chloride. It affects the muscles and ultimately prevents the heart beating. If everything goes according to plan, the individual can be pronounced dead within four minutes.”

There was silence. Fraiser felt her hands tremble. To her surprise, it was Teal’c who called her out.

“This appears to be an unusually short description for such a complicated procedure. Are you withholding information in an effort to protect us, Doctor Fraiser?”

Janet froze.

“I... I,” she stammered, acutely aware that her heart was thumping far too loudly. Her guilt had to be written all over her face.

Daniel leaned forward. “Janet, you said if everything goes according to plan? What could go wrong? What will Jack feel?”

She could not prevent the frown that creased her face and she threw a mute appeal to General Hammond. She could see the sympathy in his eyes but then he shook his head. He needed to know too.

“Please, Doctor. Answer the question.”

Drawing in a deep breath, the doctor composed herself and then nodded. When she next spoke, her voice was firm and professional. It had to be or she would have disintegrated into a shaking leaf as she described what was going to happen to her friend. To their friend. And by God, he had better be innocent, because losing Sam had been hard enough. She didn’t know how she would cope if she allowed herself to believe that Colonel O’Neill had done that to her. And her faith in him had already been stretched thinner than a gossamer thread as the evidence against him had mounted up. Whether it continued to hold, she would only know when she stood before Jack’s grave. Although she was not sure she would be able to take Cassie with her.

“Well, first there have been documented cases where the patient regains consciousness before death. Given they have already been paralyzed and look asleep, it is entirely possible that they actually experience the sensations of asphyxiation without anyone being aware that they are in horrific pain. You see, potassium chloride is basically a salt that induces a burning sensation as it passes through the body. It effectively locks the muscles it reaches into a severe cramp before stopping the heart.”

She hesitated. The General looked pained and Daniel was mentally withdrawing into himself. Only Teal’c appeared unaffected. But she continued. She wouldn’t cheat them now.

“There have been known cases where the chloride has leaked and entered the muscular tissue at the site of entry, causing significant pain. Timing is also critical. Thiopental reacts with succinylcholine to precipitate a flaky solid that clogs up the needle in the IV. Only one IV is used. This means that the pentinol can wear off before the patient has been fully paralyzed. The paralysis is intended to not only prevent respiration but also to prevent movement. If the IV is dislodged, the timing is out and the process needs to begin again. Other problems can be simple: like not finding a vein; or an improperly inserted IV; perhaps a problem with the tubes blocking a clear flow of the drugs. Too heavy doses could cause an extreme reaction.” She paused, lifting three fingers up. “When you take into account that there are three different acidic drugs being introduced into the body...” She paused, finding this hard going. But Daniel was staring at her, horrified, hanging on to her every word and she wasn’t cruel enough to force him to ask. “Well, suffice to say, the resulting chemical reactions have been insufficiently researched. The executioners are not medical doctors. They are volunteers who have undergone basic training, and, being military, will have had no experience given that there has not been an execution in the armed forces since 1961, and that was by hanging.” Closing her eyes, Janet voiced the inescapable conclusion. “To put it simply, there is no one in the military that will have carried out a lethal injection before and there is a lot that could go wrong. And has done.”

Rabb’s voice droned on. O’Neill heard each and every word. He just couldn’t connect them. Tuning out, he flexed the chain connecting his wrists. His hands were hidden beneath the table. It was a solid gray piece of furniture that sat perfectly at home in the matching windowless interview room. Jack shook his head. Commander Harmon Rabb just didn’t seem to get the message. What was wrong with the man? He’d pleaded guilty. The mountain of evidence was overwhelming. Carter was dead and buried! He’d accepted his sentence.

He needed to be punished!

So why was this jumped-up navy lawyer so determined to wade through every gut churning detail yet again? He shifted restlessly, chains rattling beneath the table. The tall dark-haired younger man paused, perhaps sensing his impatience. Jack glared at him and his JAG appointed attorney sighed.

“Look, O’Neill...” he began.

“Commander,” he interrupted softly. Rabb leaned back uncertain as O’Neill slowly twisted his head from side to side, the ultimate parental warning to the resistant child. “I’m warning you. Don’t do this.”

But Rabb had stopped being receptive to his instructions some time ago now. To his immense irritation, the bigwig at JAG had denied his requests for a new attorney. Unless, or course, Jack was dissatisfied with his attorney’s defense and wished to appeal? Outflanked, he’d backed down, deciding to hunker down with Rabb to watch his six for a little longer. Knowing that as the clock ticked relentlessly forward, Rabb would run out of delaying tactics. So, instead of playing the errant child confronted with the error of his ways, his lawyer merely revealed perfect white teeth within an infuriatingly condescending smile. Jack felt his exhausted fuse shorten.

“No!”

A photo slapped down on the table before him. Rolling his eyes away from the repugnant sight of his naked guilt, Jack studied the ceiling, gathering his muscles together. Assessing the distance between them. The height of the table. “This makes no sense,” Rabb declared with the intensity of a zealot. “This,” he declared, tapping the glossy print accusingly with a well-manicured finger, “shouldn’t be here!”

The sudden widening of his eyes and the squeaky scrape of his chair against the floor revealed that O’Neill’s lawyer had to have an in-built sixth sense. But Jack had already launched himself across the table and Rabb was too late as the former Colonel’s full body weight took the half-risen naval officer mid-stern to scuttle him to the floor.

“O’Neill!” His name screamed loud in his ears as he followed his target down. “Don’t do this!” Rabb protested. “Aw, hell!”

It felt like sweet heaven to Jack as birdsong erupted inside his head, Rabb’s blood warm on his forehead. The door smashed open and angry hands roughly pulled him off his lawyer as Rabb whipped out a white handkerchief to mop up his streaming nose before throwing O’Neill an angry glare.

“Meeting terminated!” Jack yelled triumphantly at the stricken officer as several bulky members of the 705th Military Police Battalion hauled his ass out of the gray-walled interview room and down the corridor.

Now would have been a good moment to call it a day, but it had been a long time since Jack had felt the buzz of adrenaline racing through his veins. That, and a perverse need to turn his rebellion into nothing short of a full-scale security alert that would make them think twice before disturbing his peace again, transformed his instinctual struggles into a fight to the death. Feet chained together still had the potential to make a great impact.

His breakout lasted little longer than a few seconds before he had been slammed to the floor. Iron fingers pressed his cheek painfully into the gritty hard stone surface as more hands got him firmly back under control. His face was released and his body rose horizontally into the air until he was no more than a maggot wriggling on a hook destined for Death Row.

They didn’t have far to go. Pale yellow and white walls raced past the green and brown patchwork-clothed bodies of the two guards flanking his head. Lifting his head to see where he was going only left him feeling carsick, and giving in to the inevitable, Jack dropped his eyes to the gray polished concrete floor that teasingly danced towards him before tiptoeing away again. Swallowing hard, he closed his eyes tightly shut and his hearing instantly took over. The clamor of security alarms combined with the bells still ringing since the moment his skull had connected with the bridge of Rabb’s nose. The resulting cacophony was augmented by the clanging of the automated doors granting entry to the highest maximum-security accommodation area in the Castle. Peachy! Now he had a headache.

His arrival was greeted by whooping catcalls from the other six prisoners that shared the long wait to death with him. He ignored them, as he always did. He worked hard at pretending they didn’t exist. It had become piss-easy to disassociate the evidence of their existence from the illusion of his personal reality. But even if he refused to hear his fellow inmates, he was unable to resist monitoring their progress. He opened his eyes and mentally measured the distance as they passed several locked doors, wondering which cell would have been his if he hadn’t demolished the stationary he’d been permitted before his aborted attempt to graffiti the walls.

That had proved to be a big mistake for now he was on suicide watch, a dubious honor rewarding him with the best room in the house, with all its penchant for mastering total boredom. Proving that he’d been right all along. That all the psychological babble was utter bullshit. After all! What could be worse for a suicidal man than putting him in an alien, sensory deprived environment? If he hadn’t been suicidal before, well he was now. It was enough to turn anyone slowly and irrevocably insane! Fortunately, he’d already achieved that exalted status when he’d killed Carter. But in a last cruel twist to finish him off, he was forced to endure daily chats with a rota of well-meaning counselors. MacKenzie clones, the lot of them. Except for one. She was a breath of fresh air. Only problem was she worked part-time. He’d seen her twice, but the memory of her last cold bucket of common sense brought him face to face with his weariness and he gave up his futile struggles with the guards carrying him.

He’d achieved his goal, and hopefully Rabb would accept defeat and stop trying to exceed his duty. Sensing his submission, his guards quieted their angry admonitions that he hadn’t been listening to and as his cell door slid aside, they carried him through and put him back on his feet. He stood there, swaying slightly, feeling sheepish.

“I’m fine,” he announced. They all looked at one another and then back at him. He counted eight of them and smiled knowingly.

“Whad’ya go and do that for?” Sergeant Durney asked him despairingly, shaking his head, clearly accepting that his prisoner’s little tantrum was apparently over.

Jack lifted his cuffed hands slowly towards him, the metal hard against his bruised skin. He couldn’t move them far because another chain connecting to the belt around his waist pulled them up short. The restraints were removed under the watchful gaze of several pairs of eyes ready to jump on any hint of resistance. Durney also took it upon himself to release the cuffs from his ankles. A brave man. But Jack had no beef with the soldiers before him and he stood ramrod still. Hardly breathing. Not even to hiss from the pain he’d caused himself during his violent struggle against iron resistance. Once again, he was the model prisoner.

“Strip.”

He did so, handing over his bright jumpsuit without a word, standing naked until Durney handed him his permitted clothing. There was no point protesting. He’d lost his right to wear a T-shirt and boxers when in his cell and was now restricted to this pathetic excuse for a smock. It was quilted, of all things, with Velcro fastenings and it made him hanker for one of Janet’s infirmary gowns. This thing he was dressing himself in was humiliating and pointless. Life had got as dull and boring as it could possibly get.

The place was perfect.

As his cell rapidly emptied, Jack slowly surveyed his kingdom. A six-by-eight-ten foot cubicle with one blue quilted mat on a raised concrete platform. A world designed to thwart slashed wrists and neck hanging, but with the unique ability to despair. He missed the gray. Here it was creamy white. The color starkly inappropriate. No metal toilet like the others had. Just a hole with a steel grate, complete with camera in the top far corner to record his every movement, bowel or otherwise. The little lens was just out of his reach. He padded over to the mat in his bare feet, wondering if his little escapade today would set him back in the eyes of the prison psychiatrist who wielded the decision on him moving back to a normal cell like a napoleonic power monger. Except that was an undeserved insult to a doctor he knew.

The urge to bang his head against the wall was overwhelming, but he knew that would only send him into a cell with padded walls. A vision of a tearful Daniel sprang to mind and he shook his head to dispel it before slipping effortlessly into the automatic regime he had developed to leave this hell. Dropping to the floor he began his daily exercises, a thousand push ups just the starter.

It stopped him thinking.

Brooding.

Remembering.

Airman Martha Cooper was ecstatic.

What a day! She could have kissed General Hammond! It had been her shift to stand duty in the briefing room while Doctor Fraiser explained in such wonderful detail the pain Jack was going to feel as he died. Craapp!! She giggled as she unbuttoned her shirt. For an awful moment, with butterflies wreaking havoc inside her, she had thought Teal’c was going to spot the stain on her crotch as the wet lubrication building inside her escaped, causing her knickers to cling uncomfortably to her. She had remained motionless and his eyes had passed over her. Noting her presence but dismissing its significance, never realizing that in doing so he had sentenced his warrior brother to death. The memory of that was almost a petite mort all of its own.

Gently she ran a finger down his smoothly shaven cheek. Chocolate-brown fearful eyes found hers.

“What are you going to do?” he whispered hoarsely.

His wrist struggled against the leather strap binding him down to the hard metal death chair resembling her garden recliner minus its cushions.

“Shhh...” she comforted, turning his face towards her. Her other hand found the top button of his shirt, and slowly she unfastened it, her long sharp nails entwining with the light hairs on his chest. No longer was his body a smooth canvas. Now she knew every scar intimately. Had memorized each and every one before permanently consigning his body, section by section, to cellulose, so that when she sat in bed, late at night, she could surround herself with him. He arched towards her as she kissed the almost invisible scar that marked the passage of a bullet at the base of his ribs. At his moan, she dug her nails in deeply and raked them down his side, standing back to watch him gasp with shock, his fingers splayed and fully extended.

“Aghh!”

His head twisted from side to side, and she caught his lips with hers, biting hard into his lower lip and licking up his blood. He tasted fresh and minty, for she had disliked the stale taste of beer on his breath when she had kissed him at his cabin. She had punished Carter hard for that.

Stepping into the shower, Martha turned on the hot water, letting it fall in rivulets over her naked body. She was the only one there and she ran her hands over her breasts, closing her eyes, just soaking in the steam and reveling in the bliss of Jack’s tortured agony. Watching his face contort in terror as she skipped the pentothal and moved straight to the second drug. Her mind mangled its name but she knew what it did. It paralyzed him. Left him helpless, unable to even draw breath. She gasped at the panic in his eyes as suffocation commenced. When the chloride entered his system, she crooned the lyrics to Nine Inch Nails while her fingers traced the burning chemical’s passage through his veins, imagining it bypassing his heart and moving down his body.

“I will make you hurt,” she sang as they neared together the moment when the paralysis wore off and he would take in a desperate gasp for air and scream!

Chapter Four

“You have a heavy caseload, Commander,” Admiral Chegwidden pointed out, his fingers forming a steeple as he studied the wan man seated before his desk. Rabb had spent the last week in Kansas, followed by Minnesota and then Colorado. Revisiting each and every possible witness. The t’s were crossed and the i’s dotted. “Perhaps you’d care to explain why you seem to have distributed a heavy portion of your cases to my entire staff.”

“Ah...” Rabb grimaced, looking distinctly uncomfortable. Chegwidden studied the slight yellow tinge to the bridge of his nose and gestured towards it. Must have hurt like hell!

“O’Neill?” he hazarded an educated guess, deliberately neglecting to admit that an apologetic Colonel Collins, the commandant of Fort Leavenworth, had contacted him several days ago.

“Well,” Harm Rabb prevaricated, before giving in under his commanding officer’s razor sharp gaze. It mollified the Judge Advocate General a little to know he hadn’t entirely lost his touch. “Yes. But, O’Neill’s attack just proves that I’m right!”

The Rear Admiral produced the classic double take. When he spoke, his voice held an edge of steel.

“And how do you come to that conclusion, exactly?”

Harm Rabb leaned forward and Chegwidden suddenly discerned that the bit between his top lawyer’s teeth was not going to be removed so easily. His initial instinct to snap Rabb out of his obsession suddenly lapsed to second place behind his faith in his officer’s intuition. He didn’t press for the answer to his question, getting in first as he sensed the start of a long explanation headed his way. “You’ve exhausted all the appellate options for Article 118, Commander. In fact, O’Neill’s had more chances through the military system than any civilian ever would and he’s opted to refuse them all!”

“Admiral. I’m sure Jack O’Neill didn’t do this. I can’t explain how, and I admit I have no evidence to back me up. But if I’m right... Damn it. He’s facing death, sir! Please! I just need a little more time.”

The Admiral sighed. He’d had a Senator Kinsey on his case all week demanding to know since when had JAG assumed they had the right to spin out the legal process at taxpayer’s expense when the convicted felon himself wanted an end to his agony. He had made some calls and discovered that the Senator, as Chair of the Appropriations Committee, was privy to the nature of O’Neill’s former assignment at Cheyenne Mountain and that he clearly had the ear of Chegwidden’s own Commander-in-Chief. And yet, the Admiral sensed other agendas here. Never before had he felt so hamstringed by the demands of National Security and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like it one little bit. What in hell’s name had O’Neill been involved in?

“You have five days, Commander. The Air Force Secretary refuses to petition the President for any further stays of execution. O’Neill’s had his thirty days’ notice. The death warrant is signed and you have no further grounds to apply for a stay of execution. Have you?” he checked. Rabb shook his head. “But you cannot use my staff on this.” As the naval officer made to object, Chegwidden raised a warning hand. “But, I believe I know someone who will be very interested in giving you all the help you need.”

“Commander Rabb?”

Harm shook hands with Major General Hammond, wondering just how the old coot had pulled this one.

“Thank you, General. Although I wish I’d gotten security clearance earlier.”

“I understand that, son. But it took some persuasion, believe me. However, as I pointed out to the President, this planet owes Jack O’Neill, and if understanding what we do down here helps prove his innocence then you are very welcome to use its facilities. The people who work down here are second to none.”

Down here? Rabb swallowed as he watched the numbers ticked by. Hadn’t he already descended eleven levels before meeting Hammond? He’d been so taken aback by such a senior officer meeting him that he had barely noticed that he’d been ushered into a second elevator after signing in at yet another checkpoint.

“Will I be meeting O’Neill’s former team?”

A dark shadow flitted across Hammond’s face but it had dissipated by the time he responded to the question.

“Doctor Jackson is already here and he will be personally briefing you on the role of the SGC. Teal’c will be arriving back from his... err... away mission shortly. Doctor Janet Fraiser will also be joining you. She’s my CMO, highly capable and more than able to verify all the forensic reports you have. More than that, she was very close to Major Carter.”

Harm nodded. He had met them all and he felt his spirits rising. With the help Hammond was offering, perhaps his client stood a chance. They emerged on Level 27 and the General showed him to a conference room with a large table where the two doctors were already seated and awaiting them. Doctor Fraiser jumped to her feet as the two senior officers entered, but Hammond quickly waved her back down. Harm was about to greet Jackson when klaxons suddenly sounded. A strange trembling had him clutching at the nearest seat as Jackson activated a large bombproof screen covering what appeared to be a window stretching down the entire room. But it was the enormous spinning device with triangular lights firing a red glow that immediately demanded his attention. His large briefcase sort of just reached the floor under its own steam as his mouth dropped open. When a huge wave of energy burst out, he jumped back.

“We call it a Stargate,” Doctor Jackson explained, looking somewhat amused. The Stargate had formed an upright pool of water. It just hung there. Harm pointed at it and turned to Daniel, his eyebrows rising sky high. “Just watch,” the civilian suggested.

He did and was stunned to see Teal’c dressed in flowing brown robes with a strange staff in his hand walk through from nowhere. He paused, his eyes immediately lifting towards his observers. He inclined his nod in a regal bow and the gold tattoo on his forehead looked suddenly very much part of a costume he didn't quite understand. Rabb noticed that the armed SFs below relaxed when the amazing circle of light winked out.

“Wow!”

“Welcome to the truth, Commander Rabb,” Hammond told him. “Doctor Jackson will give you the standard briefing, after which, I hope you will be better prepared to commence your investigation.”

Jack paced noiselessly back and forth in the tiny secluded space; the skill of stealth once learned, never forgotten. Fighting the constant illusion of walls closing in on him, creamy white and screaming for relief; a splash of color.

Blood red. Or a ruby claret.

It was ironic. The thought that his life would soon be over was the only thing keeping him going. He took in a shuddering breath. Wanting to banish the intrusive images. But his mind had become a law unto itself, no longer interested in his sanity, compulsively obsessed with feeding his neuroses, almost passionately so.

Blonde hair streaked with red. Pale chalky skin, battered and bruised. It seemed to him obscenely cruel that he had not granted her the benefit of his years of training in the art of the quick coup de grâce. Not until after inflicting damage reminiscent of a prolonged interrogation, where only the enemy and the secrets he held stood between your team’s survival or certain death. And it left him helpless with self-loathing and disgust.

When he rose to the challenge of the SGC, he thought he had put that persona behind him. He thought he had buried his secrets so deep that no one would ever discover them or unearth his shame. Acts committed in the name of his country!

He groaned but resisted the urge to rest his head against the pristine clean brick at the end of his nose. Always conscious of the watching eyes. Unable to face the prospect of rubber walls. Even for the dead. Turning, he resumed his trek.

Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, it was easy to see he’d made too many excuses. He had been younger then. More easily swayed by the needs of his country to commit acts destined to haunt him. He had not yet discovered the fine appreciation for life’s fragility. Perhaps it was just as well, for if he had, the job would never have got done.

He stopped dead center in his allotted space and placed the flat palm of his right hand on his chest until he could feel the strong beat of his heart. Its thump filled the cell.

Yeah. He couldn’t say he wouldn’t do it all over again.

But now, he might hesitate.

Now, he probably would not survive to bury the tale.

For now, he did not trust himself. And that was never what he had wanted.

He had wanted to protect. Instead, he destroyed.

He had wanted to defend. Now, he raped and murdered the innocent.

He had wanted to fight with honor. He scrubbed his eyes. Instead, he had introduced Carter to the stench of betrayal. The souls he had condemned had finally risen from their early graves, and when they had done, they had extracted their full measure of revenge.

“O’Neill.”

His heart jumped. The unexpected voice catching him off guard. He spun round and relaxed. It was Sergeant Durney.

He had noticed that his guards changed with less regularity now than they once had. It was almost as if the imminent arrival of his execution had revealed a hitherto unsuspected protective streak in the prison staff. They weren’t going to subject him in his last few days to strangers needing to assert their authority over him. The relationship between the prisoner and his keepers had been established and there was no desire to upset the delicate balance: He behaved. They ensured his basic needs were met.

“The Commandant’s approved your return to a standard SHU,” Durney informed him, offering him a clean white T-shirt and navy boxer shorts. O’Neill stared at them, his mouth dropping open slightly before reaching out a trembling hand. He accepted the garments reverently, his thumb caressing the cotton material. A lump formed in his throat. No quilting. These clothes represented a measure of trust. Years slipped away and in his hands he held a precious dirty tin can of murky water.

Another reward for good behavior. For conforming to the norm. For surviving a whole night without screaming. His guard had been grateful for a sleep undisturbed by his prisoner’s tortured flashbacks and ingrained fear of the cold dark when cockroaches and rats emerged to feast on his open sores. Jack shuddered. He had worked hard to earn that water of life. Crawling in circles from dusk to dawn in a dirty soiled space that had been half the size granted him by the USDB, just so he would not incur his keepers’ wrath for one lousy night. It had been worth it.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Durney grunted something unintelligible.

It occurred to Jack that he would have a real toilet. A bed and stationary. He could even read the USDB Manual for the Guidance of Inmates. It would be churlish not to have even glanced at it in all the time he’d served here. He would write a letter to Jacob. An apology. It would mean nothing. Not against what he had taken from Carter’s father but it was all he had to offer.

When he had changed, Durney took the smock in return and produced an orange jumpsuit. He dressed quickly, appreciating its warmth. The sergeant put on his chains, more guards discreetly entering the cell to forestall any trouble. His stomach lurched as it always did as the cuffs locked into place, the metal cold against his skin. Reminding him of places and times he preferred to forget. He stood still and silent as his escort completed the awkward but well-practiced process of securing him. He shuffled forward when ordered but could not resist casting a last glance back at his suicide cell.

Only a few more days.

He would be good.

Cooper was seething.

Fortunately, she had Jack to take the brunt of her displeasure. Casually, walking around the table, she gently tapped the modern version of a medieval crossbow, fully loaded with iron bolt, against her shoulder. She felt his eyes following her.

Suspicious.

Terrified. As he should be.

Reaching his booted feet, she turned to gaze on him. He looked shell-shocked, a little like he had done after Carter had rescued him from Hathor’s sarcophagus, his green BDU shirt loose revealing well-toned stomach muscles.

Her contact answered her call quickly.

“It’s me,” she whispered, glancing around the empty briefing room, ensuring she was still out of sight of the roving security camera.

“This had better be good,” he rebuked her tersely and instantly her jaw clenched in resentment. She hated him. Slowly, Martha unraveled the laces to one black leather boot and removed it. Her Colonel twisted away from her but his bonds held him fast. Her insides coiled in satisfaction. He would not escape her ministrations. Her attention returned to the man on the other end of the phone. Shit, but she hated his superior whiney tones. Didn’t he get it?

“His attorney’s here!” she informed him harshly. “Here! At the SGC!” She cut off any further words, hearing for herself the rising panic in her voice. There was no reply. Not even an acknowledgement of the importance of what she was telling him. The sound of silence in her ear was insulting. Martha narrowed her eyes.

Jack was still struggling against his bonds, so she pulled off his sock and rested the sharp tip of the iron bolt against his bared heel. If she angled it just so, it would shatter the tarsal bones of the foot before shooting straight up the tibia. Ahh... She smiled. Now he stilled. She could not even detect his breathing. Tilting her head to one side, she pushed the razor point into the taut rough skin until a drop of blood welled and his foot twitched in protest. She could actually feel his body’s tension pushing against the weapon in her hands.

The voice was a surprise. The words doubly so.

“Don’t call me again.”

When the line went dead, her