Title: Bargaining Chip
Authors: J. M. McClure, Scribe and Gatejunkie
Author Page: Gatejunkie
Season: Season 1
Rating: 18 years or over
Summary: an enemy from Jack's past wants information and Daniel might just be the means to get it.
Category: Gen, angst, hurt/comfort, drama.
Warnings: torture of a main character; violence; attempted rape.
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.

Finally an evening when he had absolutely nothing to do.

Head down, rattling his keys to find the alarm cutoff as he headed straight to his car in the nearly deserted parking lot. Three of the overhead lights had blown bulbs, making the night a haphazard of neon and ebony sky. It was late, very late, and now he was sprung. God help anyone who tried to stand between him and the comforts of home.

No meetings and SG-1 on stand down for R & R. Let the universe of troubled creatures take care of itself just for two days. Jack O'Neill had his evening plotted out down to the last cold beer. He would strip to his shorts, order in a pizza, and break the seal on the first brew he'd had in so long he'd forgotten man does not live on coffee alone. Hockey game on the set, barefoot and lazing back in his favorite chair.

Just like a normal person.

He punched the button that bleated out a miniature horn on the car alarm system, and crossing the parking lot in a long legged stride, he aimed for his Jeep, parked under one of the several functioning lights. Seven slots down another 'gater was wrestling with an armload of books and files which would have been a challenge for Teal'c to carry. The hunched-over figure swore softly as another stack of papers hit the asphalt.

No way, Jack snarled to himself. No way am I going to be dragged into another archeological wonder and ninety minutes of elocution on why it is vital to our program. Let Daniel Jackson manage by himself this time. If the resident geek thought rest and relaxation lived in dusty manuscripts and enigmatic symbols then so be it. He could get himself and his walking library home without the colonel's intervention.

Another toppled book, another swear word.

Hell, I didn't think Danny even knew those words. Okay, okay, what can it hurt?

Jack veered away from his parked escape and headed over to give Daniel a hand at least as far as dumping the books into his car, the vehicle which naturally was parked in the darkest part of the lot. Not one but two dead lights. What was it about Daniel? Did he just attract trouble like a suit would draw lint? He looked like he should be nose deep in books in a university library and cutting classes. Another sigh. Daniel would never cut classes. And he wasn't in a college library somewhere on the east coast. He was a genius who had single-handedly ferreted out the secrets of the Stargate.

Shaking his head as he closed the distance between them, Jack chided himself silently. He's a grown up, Jack. He doesn't need a baby-sitter. Another part of his brain chimed in, Yeah, right!

More papers fluttered to the ground. "Hang on, Daniel. I'm coming."

Daniel glanced up. A smile cut his face.

Oh, no, Jack continued his silent monologue, I'm not taking you home to raise. Hell, I'd never be able to housebreak you. Beer and hockey. That's what I'm doing tonight. You go home, Danny and blow the dust off parchment if you want to. I'm turning into a couch potato.

Four strides away, Daniel swatted at his neck. A second later he looked up at Jack, an unspoken question in wide eyes. Then, the books all fell, papers tripping over themselves as the wind created miniature eddies with the precious documents.

"Ja--?" Daniel was down before the word could be finished. He simply sank to the ground, close enough for O'Neill to see the confusion and distress in his eyes.

In one fluid motion, Jack's gun leapt into his hand. He dropped to one knee and checked for a pulse. It was there. Thready but there. Daniel did not stir at the touch.

We're concealed by darkness at least. The thought skittered through O'Neill's brain, countered instantly with What're you gonna do if they're using infrared, idiot? Of course they're using infrared; how else did they hit Jackson so easily?

While his left hand skimmed over Daniel's neck, his right did a sweep of the surrounding darkness. There it was, a tiny dart imbedded in Daniel's flesh. Okay, knockout drug. Please let it be a knockout drug and not something truly nasty.

He plucked the tiny needle out and tossed it aside. If it was poison, at least it wouldn't be pumping any more into Daniel's bloodstream. Jack's ears attuned to any out of place sound reported the tinkle of metal bouncing off asphalt as the dart landed and rolled away.

With no other sign of attack, Jack grabbed his teammate under one arm. Walking backward, he pulled the dead weight across the lot. Only two seconds away from the shelter offered by another parked car, he heard a mini-hiss. The last thing he felt was a wave of dizziness and the softened landing provided by Daniel's unresponsive body.

***

Nightmare?

Daniel tried to shrug away the headache drumming through his head like an unwelcome alarm clock with no snooze button. The pain didn't budge. For a moment, he wondered if he'd been at Jack's house and downed more than one beer. Naw, his friend usually didn't let him go much further than a single brew. Daniel had no tolerance for alcohol, a cheap date according to the world of Jack O'Neill.

He tried to move, but his arms wouldn't respond to his brain's instructions. It was dark, pitch black dark, and a distant memory of a childhood fear of dragons under the bed and closet doors that weren't quite closed niggled at his mind.

It finally occurred to him he was lying on his side, hands tied and numb behind his back. Not good.

His stomach recoiled through a wave of spontaneous fear, and for a second, he thought he was going to be very nastily sick. The acid receded though, and he nudged aside a blanket of lethargy as he tried at least getting into a sitting position. He was halfway there when the room flooded with light. He dropped back to the cold floor with a muffled gasp.

The light hurt, blurring his vision and sparking tears in the corners of his eyes.

Boots.

He'd been traipsing down Air Force corridors long enough now to recognize the rhythmic thud of military footgear. Half propped on one elbow, his hands twisted painfully behind his back, he tried to manage a quick count of fatigue-covered legs. Piercing light after crippling darkness made it a nearly impossible task.

How many quickly became a moot point anyway as he was roughly hauled to his feet. Okay, at least two were holding him there, upright and wobbly. Dizziness washed through his head, followed by nausea as he nearly gagged at the overpowering stench of musk. He didn't have time to ponder on how miserable he felt before a hand slashed into his murky vision and grabbed a handful of his long, sandy hair, jerking his head back. Without his glasses…damn, how many pairs did that make this year…he got a slightly skewed version of another face inches away from his own.

"Hello, Daniel."

He caught a whiff of tobacco, a hint of something alcoholic. The foreshortened face shuffled a little better into his line of sight. Sunglasses. Inside? They were inside, weren't they? A patch of pockmarking on one cheek. Black hair with heavy strokes of gray spread throughout. Thin lips, a cigarette dangling from one side of his mouth. The sunglasses threw Daniel off. He always thought a person wasn't really identifiable unless he could see the eyes. Windows to the soul was a cliché, but like most clichés, it held true. With this man, there was no window.

His philosophizing was short circuited when the man gave another yank on the handful of hair and repeated, "I said hello, Daniel."

Geez, why do all of these military types have to play power games? If for no other reason than to avoid another pull on his hair, Daniel offered, "Hi."

The man cocked his head, chewed on the cigarette butt then said, "Hi, what?"

With his arms pinned in place and his hands behind him, Daniel couldn't shrug but neither could he resist, "I have no idea. You haven't bothered to introduce yourself."

Bad idea.

Jack was always warning Daniel about his mouth.

Something hard slammed into his lower back. Pain speared through his entire body and buckled him. The men holding him let him drop to his knees but no further. He hung between them, gasping and wheezing for breath that wouldn't come. They gave him a three count before dragging him back to his feet.

The face was back, haloed in a red haze of pain, so close his breath raked hot across Daniel's face. "Hi, what?"

Daniel couldn't think. He knew there must be a correct answer, and right now he really wanted to come up with it, but his brain had shut down in trying to deal with the onslaught of outraged nerve endings.

"Hi, what?"

Daniel was sure of one thing. The man wasn't going to give him a chance beyond this one. Military mindset, he reminded himself, trying to push rational thought past the pain. "S-s-sir," he breathed out.

A moment of silence and Daniel was very afraid he had come up with the wrong response again. Then, "Very good." The face moved away.

Another man stepped up, this one in fatigues. He had the kind of features which would vanish in a crowd, leaving only a vague memory of 'someone' there. He turned toward the man in sunglasses, obviously waiting for direction. Daniel was quite sure he wasn't going to like those instructions.

Memory leaked in slowly and without considering the consequences of asking his own questions, Daniel demanded, "Where's Jack?"

He wasn't answered.

Still, the man stood before him, waiting, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, restless.

Daniel ignored him, knowing even as he did he was going to regret it very soon. Fear for O'Neill overrode self-preservation. "What have you done to him?" he tried again, getting a little air into insulted lungs, sounding a bit more exacting.

Sunglasses peered blindly at him. "Perhaps you should be more concerned about what we are going to do to you, Daniel."

Fear edged in a little tighter. "What do you want?"

"From you? Nothing. Nothing at all." He smiled, and the cigarette clenched between his lips cocked at a rakish angle. "Think about that, Dr. Jackson. I don't want anything from you. There's nothing you can give me. Nothing at all." He reached out and touched Daniel's cheek then ran a slender finger down the angle of his face, letting it trail off the chin and drop away. "Think about it. You can't stop any of this."

With a silent nod, he turned his back and walked away.

Oh damn, was all Daniel had the time to think before the first blow smashed into his unprotected abdomen.

***

Redlands had always been a college town. Despite its political activists and staunch right wingers, it remained stubbornly somewhere in the dead center of middle American mindset. The neighborhoods ran to wide streets, long lawns, and the laid back friendliness of backyard barbecues in summer alternating with cocktail chitchat in winter. It was the perfect place to lose yourself in if you wanted a life full of Martha Stewart interiors and Miracle Grow exteriors. Only a few knew the secret facility camouflaged by the hills above town was actually a place where biological dreams could come true, and those few worked there. Most thought it was a plastic container firm which sold biohazard containers to the big companies in big cities. Middle suburbia at its best. The perfect place to hide in plain sight.

***

Like a hangover without the fun of the night before. Jack O'Neill wiped a dry tongue over parched lips. He just knew the headache would be there waiting to ambush him at the first ill-considered movement.

He slid his fingers up the back of his neck, a tactile recon of headache city. His index finger butted into the tiny metal dart, and memory flooded back. Instinct took over, and he rolled to his feet, crouching in a defensive stance.

There was no one to challenge.

Only darkness and silence.

He was in a cage with metal bars and concrete walls.

He took mental measurements, evaluated the amenities in his temporary lodgings. A pot in one corner was probably the bathroom. A bucket of water stood in another corner. A thin mattress wadded up against one gray wall served as the bed. No mint on the pillow. No pillow for that matter.

Okay, it didn't take long to check out the accommodations. He turned his attention to the world beyond the floor-to-ceiling bars. A good sized room, about twice the size of the cell. The only furnishings were a long, scarred, pitted table against the wall directly across from the cell door and two ladder-backed wooden chairs, one on each end. A thin shaft of light wedged in through a narrow window in the outer door.

No sign of Daniel.

If luck was with him, Daniel had been darted and left behind, simply eliminated as a witness to O'Neill's kidnapping. But with Daniel... well, with Daniel there usually wasn't any such thing as luck.

Jack continued to scan the room. Not even a metal cup to clang against the bars.

What kind of chicken-shit outfit is this, anyway?

The door opened with a squall of rusty hinges, and the head chicken walked in.

Not good, Jack decided with just the faintest shiver of reaction twitching up his spine. He'd been in this man's hands once before, and it was not an exercise he wished to experience again. Relatively safe behind the bars, he tried for snide. "Miguel, so nice to see you again. I thought you died in Guatemala, but here you are." Jack made a sweeping gesture with his right hand. "What a shame our information was wrong."

"O'Neill, always a pleasure."

Jack wrapped one hand around one of the metal bars, anchoring himself in place, determined to deny Santos the pleasure of any physical response. His mouth engaged a little prematurely, but then that was a family trait. "The pleasure's all yours, Miguel." First name only. Santos hated that, and Jack O'Neill was happy to indulge whatever little digs he could get in before Santos started his 'interrogation.'

If he took the time to be honest, Jack would have to admit, at least to himself, he was scared. Scared shitless. He'd been at the mercy of Miguel Santos once before and had barely survived it. He was momentarily thankful Daniel had not been brought in with him. Santos could inflict the unspeakable on the young scientist, and Daniel was in no way prepared to withstand torture. Not to mention the humiliation and degradation that went hand in hand with it, especially at the whim of a master like Santos. Ice water coursed through the mercenary's veins. If Santos were ever autopsied, Jack fully expected it to be a scientific wonder when the medical world found out he had no heart. Wouldn't Danny be enthralled by that one?

Santos stood there, five or six feet away from the cell, obviously taking no chances of venturing within arms' reach. He hadn't changed too much in the years since they had last done the torture tango, a little more gray peppered through ebony hair, more lines around the cruel eyes, the thin lipped mouth going even narrower. The sun and the unforgiving life of a mercenary leathered his skin. He was wearing camouflage fatigues, high top spit polished boots, carrying a braided riding crop in his right hand, absently flicking it against his leg.

He noticed Jack's nearly imperceptible glance at the whip. He smiled, perfect teeth a slash of white contrast to deeply tanned skin.

Another swat of the crop, this time clipping against the boot top with a crack. "An affectation, perhaps," Santos said conversationally. "But don't you think it makes me look a bit like Patton. A hero of mine."

When Jack didn't grace that with an answer, Santos stepped two paces back and settled down to a seat on one of the wooden chairs.

"You always were a hardass, O'Neill." Santos spoke almost pleasantly, ebony eyes never leaving the face of the man he had imprisoned. "Okay, we will... cut to the chase so to speak." He leaned more heavily back against the chair, the crop still doing a tap-tap-tap against his boot. "You will be very relieved to know I have no intention of subjecting you to... well, the usual amenities." The grin flashed again, feral, ugly. "In fact, I have no intention of letting my men so much as touch you."

Jack never lost eye contact even as his gut clenched at unwanted memory. "That's very generous of you."

"Not really."

An unnamable reaction sliced through O'Neill. This was hardly the status quo. He kept up the cocky persona even as he realized he was playing the game, going through the motions, dancing to Santos' tune. "So, what exactly do you hope to achieve by providing me with temporary housing? I don't want to appear ungrateful, but I really prefer my own house."

"Actually, I thought we'd wait awhile before I outlined our needs for you, Colonel. Maybe give you some time to think about whether or not you are amenable to helping our just cause."

"Do the terms 'cold day' and 'hell' ring any bells for you?"

"Play nice, O'Neill, and things will go much easier for all concerned."

Jack took half a step closer, his face a mere inch from the bars separating him from Santos. "I can't say I'm too interested in making your life easier, Miguel. In fact, you can just piss off. You didn't get anything out of me in Guatemala, and you won't get anything now. Why don't you save us both some time and aggravation and just open this door and let me go home? No hard feelings."

"Oh, I imagine there will be plenty of hard feelings." Santos glanced back at the door he had entered and called out, "Bring him in."

And Jack knew at that instant exactly what game they were going to play.

***

"General Hammond!"

George Hammond almost flipped his coffee cup across the desk. As it was, his hand jerked so badly he was rewarded for his inattention by a mini tidal wave of stale coffee washing over his hand and the starched white sleeve cuff of his uniform.

Mopping at coffee, Hammond said, "Captain Carter, I sincerely hope you have a good…"

The young captain stood framed in his open doorway, a shattered pair of glasses dangling from one hand. Her face was blanched white, her eyes huge and cobalt blue.

Behind her like a huge mismatched shadow of muscled ebony stood another member of SG-1. When it looked like Carter had suddenly gone mute, Teal'c spoke from over her shoulder.

"Daniel Jackson and Colonel O'Neill are not to be found, General Hammond. Only this." He nodded his massive head at the broken glasses.

Carter found her voice. "Well, not entirely, sir. Their vehicles are in the parking lot, neither of them locked. And there are books and papers all over the ground."

"Dr. Jackson's?" the general asked though he already had his answer in the agony imprinted in her young face and the single raised eyebrow of the Jaffa behind her.

"Yes, sir. It's all of the background research and exponential information he organized from our recent visit to PX2-339. He was going to see if he could gather enough data to extrapolate…"

"Yes, Captain," the general interrupted her gently, knowing she was trying to beat her fear down with scientific jargon and wanting to spare her the effort. "I assume someone has tried to raise them at home?" Twin nods from the two in the doorway. "On cellular?" Another matched set of nods. "Checked out the on site crash rooms?"

He didn't wait for the choreography of assent, instead punched the intercom button on his phone. "Security," he barked at the machine. "I want an all system APB put out on Colonel O'Neill and Dr. Jackson. I want to be notified the moment they are located."

***

An anonymous set of khakis stumbled through the door, right hand clutching the jamb as he struggled to drag something into the room. O'Neill needed to see no more than the brown stain across his knuckles. He'd seen too much blood on too many people he cared about. Crimson had stained his heart too many times. He had time for only the thought: not this one, not Daniel.

The man adjusted his burden then hauled a semi-conscious Daniel Jackson into the room, his face looking somehow blank with the glasses gone, blood streaking down the side of his head, the right eye already on its way to black and blue. A second younger man followed, one arm wrapped around the scientist's limp body, supporting him against the pull of gravity threatening to take them all to the floor. O'Neill blinked at the sight, his military mind already searching through files to place where he had seen the young thug before while the rest of his attention was captured by the distressing sight of his friend.

As if by prearranged signal, they dumped Daniel onto his knees in front of Santos, the younger goon grabbing a fistful of unruly hair and forcing the prisoner's head up to meet Santos' expressionless face.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Jack felt his right hand start to reach out. He barely aborted the gesture in time for it to go unnoticed. Like any other predator, Santos fed on weakness. He obviously already knew Daniel was one of O'Neill's soft spots or he wouldn't have taken the scientist. Allowing himself enough leeway to wrap his hand around one of the bars, Jack let years of experience transform his face into a neutral mask.

Santos didn't seem to notice any reaction from the caged man; instead, he rose to his feet and let his gaze shift over the bruised and bloodied face of his young pawn. A smile, the merest twitch of his lips, touched his face, and he reached out with one hand. The smile broadened as Daniel instinctively flinched and closed his eyes, his body tensing against the expected blow. It never came. Instead Santos traced his forefinger down the line of Daniel's cheekbone then to his chin, smearing blood over the ashen features.

Daniel's breathing had taken on a harsh rasp as he tried to drag in air through a mouthful of blood.

"You know how it goes, Jack," Santos said casually, his eyes never leaving Daniel's face. "It starts out slow. A little bruising, a little blood. And you're going to like this one, Jack. It isn't going to cost you a moment of pain."

Blood was drooling out of the side of Daniel's mouth when Santos brought his attention back to the kneeling man. He tapped the riding crop against his boot, an insistent rhythm of anticipation.

"How are you going to feel, Daniel, if friend Jack let's you take his share of the pain?"

Jack saw Daniel draw in as much breath as his position and pain allowed, knew what he was going to do scant seconds before it happened, had only long enough to say, "Don't, Daniel..." before Jackson spat the mouthful of blood he hadn't been able to swallow at Santos.

Even before the crimson gore hit his uniform, Santos slashed the riding crop across Daniel's face with enough force to break the hold of his captors and slam Jackson onto his side on the floor. Santos wasn't done yet, though.

Daniel never had the chance to try to right himself before the crop came down a second time, this time on his shoulder, shredding the material of his shirt, leaving behind a stripe of red. Unable to defend himself in any way with his hands cuffed behind him, Daniel could do no more than try to twist away from the whip's path. The effort turned him partly onto his back. The whip whistled again, this time leaving the mark of its passing in a long, bloody line across the heaving chest.

There was nothing Jack could do but watch helplessly as Santos laid on three more lashes, tearing paths through both shirt and skin. Only when Daniel sobbed out a, "Pl-pl-please..." did the whipping stop.

Santos was breathing even more harshly than his victim was as he made a show of examining the bloody leather of the crop. He ran thumb and forefinger down the length of the leather then flicked them free of blood and pinned Jack O'Neill with his ebony gaze.

"How long do you think he's going to last, O'Neill? I know we never quite managed to break you ten years ago, but somehow I don't think it's going to be so much of a challenge with your young friend here."

"When are you gonna get around to telling me what you want, Santos? It's hard to play the game if I don't know the rules." There was a faint touch of something in his own voice that caught Jack off guard, a vulnerability Santos was not about to miss.

Distraction. There had to be something to keep Santos' attention pegged on O'Neill and off the defenseless man at his feet. Memory kicked in. Mental files woke. "I didn't know you were a big fan of nepotism, Santos."

A smile twisted Santos' mouth as if the expression was one which had somehow gotten lost. He nodded toward the younger man who was poking experimentally at the curled up body with his metal tipped boot. "How nice, O'Neill. See, Tony, I told you we were working with a pro here. He doesn't forget his friends... or his enemies."

Tony looked up. Oh, yeah, O'Neill recognized Santos' idiot nephew all right, a definite product of inbreeding.

Bored suddenly with baiting his prisoner, Santos glanced at Daniel, who lay curled onto his side, knees drawn up in a vain attempt to fight the pain, blood seeping through the black tee shirt, dripping down his face, staining his hair into a false, unnatural shade of auburn. Santos nudged Daniel with a booted foot, eliciting no more than a weak moan.

As if wearied with bloodstained anthropologists or archeologists or whatever the hell the kid was, he nodded to the men standing ready for his orders.

Without a word, one of them squatted down, slipped a key into the handcuff lock, and opened them. He slipped the rust-tinted metal into his pocket.

"Put him in with Colonel O'Neill," Santos ordered, still watching Jack for any sign of reaction. "I'm sure they have a lot to talk about."

He didn't wait for the order to be carried out as he took one more swat at his boot with the crop and left.

***

The house was unremarkable. Its two-story ranch design had been popular in the '60's when spacious back yards and even bigger bedrooms ruled the suburban landscape. The dwellings on either side were the same model with the only differences being the color of their trim and stucco. Made with family living in mind, the house had nothing special to recommend it except its occupants. From their exteriors, the people who dwelled there were really no more remarkable than their neighbors, almost as if the whole tract had been cut from the same cloth. It was hard to tell where one family began and another ended.

***

"General Hammond!" Sam Carter burst into the office unannounced for the second time in as many hours, the same name spilling off her lips with urgency.

"Captain?" A rebuke died on the general's lips as he realized who had disturbed his peace. The young captain was going through agonies enough without being reprimanded for petty protocol.

"We found this on our second sweep of the car park." Carter placed a small metallic object on the general's desk pad. "Dr. Fraiser is double-checking, but she's fairly confident it was used to administer a fast-acting anesthetic."

Hammond picked up the small dart, taking care to not to catch his skin on the sharp point. The uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach hardened into cold dread.

Carter took a breath. "It also has Daniel's blood on it, sir."

Hammond looked up at her pale face and ran his fingers over his bald head. Daniel Jackson. Ever since the young man had come through the 'gate smelling strongly of goat and making outrageous demands, he had caused the general to lose sleep. He was a brilliant man whose value to the SGC was probably immeasurable and yet who seemed to walk into trouble the moment he stepped out of bed. Not that workaholic Jackson spent much time in bed. He was usually to be found in one of the SGC labs or scurrying through the corridors. Or, one of his favorite pastimes, or so it seemed to Hammond, wandering unannounced into the general's office to regale him with some long-winded and totally incomprehensible tale about his latest find and its importance to the future of mankind. Problem was more often than not, once Hammond had sifted through the over-excited babble, he found Jackson was right.

The scientist should have irritated the hell out of him. The plain fact was, Hammond found he'd come to honestly like Daniel Jackson, an attachment which surprised him even now. It was hard not to with all that hope for humanity filling him. Who could have guessed from their inauspicious beginning the almost paternal fondness he'd developed for the boy?

Except, Daniel was no boy. He was an adult with the faith and trust of a child. That was part of what made him so special. No one seemed immune to those blue eyes as they pleaded for you to do the right thing. Not Hammond. Not his teammates and especially not Jack O'Neill. No one could ignore it except the evil souls who found Daniel an impediment to their personal agendas or as a means to attain them. Hammond frowned, wondering which type had him now and how were they using that against O'Neill.

Hammond turned the dart over in his fingers as though inspecting it thoroughly would somehow help him release its secret. It made no sense. Jackson had managed to tick off just about every Goa'uld he had come into contact with, but they were all safely on the other side of the Stargate. Who on Earth, the unwitting pun struck Hammond, but he finished the thought anyway, would want to abduct Daniel?

He didn't realize he had spoken out loud until Carter answered him. "I don't know, sir. I mean Daniel didn't exactly make a lot of friends in academia, but I can't imagine any of his old professors taking pot shots at him with a knockout dart. However..."

"However, Jack O'Neill has made plenty of enemies," Hammond finished the sentence for her.

"Yes, sir." Carter's blue eyes flickered with emotional pain. Her loyalty to her teammates was absolute, a fact which caused Hammond to keep a close eye on the team's off-duty time. A romantic entanglement within SG-1 was a nightmare he could live without. His thoughts quickly snapped back to O'Neill.

"Well, it would seem whoever snatched the colonel and Dr. Jackson right out from under our noses did it without witnesses. Which means a professional. Jackson may be an easy target, but taking O'Neill down..."

"Unless they already had Daniel, sir." Carter's eyes widened in horror at the implication. If O'Neill was having a run-in with a ghost from his past, his options were going to be severely hampered if he had to protect Daniel at the same time. Carter had a lot of respect for Daniel Jackson's bravery and courage, but when push came to shove, the guy was a civilian, and a civilian who believed you could always talk your way out of a situation at that.

Hammond carefully handed the dart back to Carter, her words sending a chill down his spine. "Get back to the doctor, and see if she's identified the drug. It might give us a lead." As Carter did a smart about turn, Hammond slid open the drawer of his filing cabinet and pulled out a thick manila file neatly labeled Jonathan O'Neill. Settling back into his chair, he buried himself in his officer's history, hoping somewhere in the pages of precise reports there would be a clue to this nightmare.

***

Even if there had been the smallest chance a surprise rush might take out either of the guards as they dumped a semi-conscious Daniel just inside the cell door, Jack tamped down the urge to try. The less emotional the response he gave them, the greater the chance Daniel wouldn't seem quite so perfect as a target. A tiny part of his mind sent a post-it note: Duh! That's exactly WHY they chose Daniel. He's the perfect pawn to sacrifice in whatever scheme Santos is running now. It was no accident they chose the young anthropologist slash archaeologist slash linguist; hell, how many PhD's did the little geek have? It was hard to think of Daniel in terms of eccentric genius now that he had become the slightly clumsy, too impulsive kid brother who kept outrunning his leash and cheerfully dragging the entire team into trouble with him.

Jack didn't even look at him until the gate clanged shut and the exit door closed. He had to haul in a deep breath before he could force his feet to make the long trip across the short distance separating them. His legs wobbled, and he sank to his knees next to Daniel before they could give out on him completely. Daniel lay curled in almost a fetal position, his entire body gripped by tremors of shock and pain. Jack reached out tentatively for him, trying to find a spot which hadn't been bruised or lashed. He settled for a shoulder.

The reactive flinch he was expecting came followed by a plaintive, "Jack?"

"Yes." The response seemed totally inadequate, but it was all O'Neill could do to force the word from his mouth. He looked away from the shivering body, choking down the emotion threatening him, and spotted the shabby mattress. He removed his hand from Daniel's shoulder, intent on retrieving the mattress.

A hand snaked out and grabbed his arm. "Jack, don't leave me!"

Emotion like a knife in his gut. Where the hell did the kid think he was going to go? "It's okay, Daniel. Just gonna make you more comfortable." Comfortable! The word screamed in mockery at him. Daniel had just been beaten and whipped thanks to him. And he was talking about making him comfortable.

Jack made his trembling legs move. Snagging the mattress, he unrolled it next to Daniel. It looked damp and filthy, but at least it was better than the cold floor. Daniel was nearly a dead weight as Jack manhandled him onto the mattress, tricking O'Neill into thinking the man had finally let go of consciousness which left him totally unprepared when Daniel unwound from his curl and wrapped his arms around him. Startled, Jack almost pushed him away. He countered the impulse and carefully wound his arms around the trembling body, easing back onto his heels and pulling Daniel snug against his shoulder.

"Why?" Daniel breathed the question against Jack's body.

That was just like Daniel. Asking questions. Never, ever running out of questions. Especially the ones which had no answers.

Jack tried to dredge up some sort of reassurance but had to settle for, "I don't know. Not really. There's... a history. He wants something, and he knows I won't give it to him."

Daniel pulled back just enough to get a murky, foreshortened picture of Jack's face, the image blurred without his glasses. He tried to push away even more, tried to support his own weight without leaning on his teammate; the tiny flare of energy washed away on a tide of exhaustion and pain. Jack used the effort to force Daniel back onto the mattress. When the younger man tried to counter the movement, Jack pinned him with one hand and used the other to shrug out of his jacket. Awkward with only one hand available to him, he got the jacket off and gently tucked it around Daniel's shivering form.

Stubborn to the last, Daniel attempted to force his body upright again. The effort was short-circuited when a harsh cough spasmed through him, snatching away his air, arching his back. He sobbed through the racking cough, wide blue eyes beseeching Jack for help he couldn't give.

It finally released him, and he melted down to the mattress, pale and gasping for air which wouldn't come. He met Jack's eyes, the 'why' lingering unspoken, hanging between them. "Tell me. Tell me how you know him."

"It's a long story." Jack tried to hide his reluctance. A long, ugly story was more the truth.

"Not going... anywhere." A hint of a smile flitted over Daniel's face as he caught O'Neill's startled look. Sometimes Jack forgot he wasn't a kid. Forgot that he'd been at his side fighting Ra. That he'd seen more trouble and experienced more action than your average thirty-four-year-old academic.

Jack pulled the bucket of water over and dipped his bandanna in it before starting to work on washing some of the blood off Daniel's face, concerned mostly about the line of gore marking the passage of Santos' whip.

Somehow the image of Dr. Daniel Jackson didn't mesh with battle scars imprinted into this impossibly young face. Daniel carried his innocence right out there on his face, emotions riding across his features, painting his expressions with a heavy hand. He was going to be helpless in Santos' hands, and there wasn't one damn thing Jack could do about it. Santos didn't make mistakes. He didn't allow escapes. Except maybe the escape found in an agonizing death when he was done entertaining himself.

When he spoke, Jack's voice was low, emotionless. "It was a mission ten years ago. Bad mission. Everything that could went wrong. I ended up in a cell not unlike this one--a guest of Senor Santos."

The memory hit Jack's mind with the force of a tidal wave. Four hours. That had been Santos' M.O. in Guatemala those many years ago. Apply the torture then allow a respite of four hours, and then start part two after the body had enough time to try to shake off the indignities which had been inflicted on it. Just enough of a healing pause to gentle down the abraded nerve endings. Just enough that the awakening of those same nerve endings would cause the most pain. Torture. Rest. Torture. Rest. An unending seesaw which broke men, shattered their minds, drove them to crippling humiliation. Unremitting pain had its own fail-safe mechanism built in. The body simply absorbed all it could tolerate before shutting down as if there was a reservoir of pain that would 'fit', and once the boundaries were breached, it would no longer accept any more. Cheating the reservoir had been Santos' method then, and Jack was sure it would be the same now.

That left four hours before Daniel was dragged out of the cell for another little session with the master sadist.

Four hours that would only make the new pain harsher, more terrible, and there was nothing he could do about it.

His hands operated on autopilot, clearing blood, exposing shredded skin while memories and imagination assaulted him, 'could be's more terrible than reality.

Daniel stirred beneath his hands, wincing at the touch of cloth to torn skin, trying feebly to push away the intruding hands.

"Be still, Daniel."

"Got... got... gotta... know."

"Shhh, Danny, lie still. Don't try to talk."

Even as he said it, he knew it was hopeless. Daniel Jackson not talking was a physical anomaly. He would probably still be arguing when they all were weeping silently around his graveside.

"Why?" Another ragged breath. "Why now?"

Jack shook his head. "I don't know. Really, I don't. He hasn't said." Jack drew in a deep breath. "He likes to play games. That's why..." The silence stretched until Jack finally said the one thing he couldn't hide from Daniel. "That's why he took you."

Daniel closed his eyes, absorbing the statement, understanding his role in this sick play as it crept slowly through the pain. His hand closed around Jack's arm again. "Could've been worse," he whispered. "Could've been Sara."

Damn it, Daniel. Don't you ever think of yourself first? What are you, some kind of Mother Teresa wannabe? Unable to speak, O'Neill returned his energy to washing Daniel's face, the water in the bucket now a stomach churning dirty pink.

"Jack?"

"What?"

"You got out…right? Back then?"

"Yeah. I got out." O'Neill shoved the memory of three months in a military hospital back into the dark corner of his mind where it belonged.

Blue eyes held his. Total trust in them. A heavy sigh of relief which turned into another cough. A gasp for breath.

"'S'okay, then Jack, 's'okay." Daniel melted into the offered haven of Jack's arms and lay his head on the colonel's chest, drawing comfort from the steady beat of his heart.

Oh God, Danny, it'll never be okay again. You don't understand. You won't ever understand, and I can't save you from your own innocence no matter how hard I try.

The words lodged in his throat, one breath shy of being spoken aloud. He couldn't say them, couldn't let Daniel give up hope. He simply rocked back on his heels, Daniel safe for the moment within the circle of his arms.

***

"You get your butts out here or the taxi leaves without you!"

The standing threat had been levied for nearly seventeen years with the same, predictable result--high pitched laughter from two teenage girls who were otherwise occupied with wrestling book bags, purses, and whatever other paraphernalia went with being fifteen and seventeen years old. All the necessary trappings for up-to-date young ladies on the go.

Every morning it was the same. Robert Sigmon, scientist, philanthropist, father, ferried his daughters to school, barely missing the tardy bell on his way to his high-level security job at the euphemistically dubbed 'plant'.

If either Heather or Amber knew what their father did behind those sterile walls after he passed the retinal screen barricade, they dismissed it as just what Daddy did when he wasn't with the family.

Daddy. He smiled, a little sad, a little bittersweet. Even as sophisticated teenagers, his girls still called him Daddy. Enjoy it, Robert…damn, he hated his name. All too soon it was going to change, and they would be too grown up to use the term of endearment. He'd become 'father' or 'dad' or whatever was the current acceptable term. Right now, he would just enjoy being Daddy.

Hell, even the frantic launch from the house every school morning would soon end when Heather finally had enough saved in three months to buy her dream car--a 1985 Chevy Cavalier, cherry red. Money culled from her after school job at the local Mickey D's would put her behind the wheel of the used car. It wasn't as though her father couldn't afford to put wheels beneath his older daughter. It simply was a life lesson, one which Rob Sigmon had carried over from his own childhood. A legacy of earning your way through life he intended to pass down to his children.

"Hon, don't forget to pick up the wine!" Lisa Sigmon's voice wafted its way out from the kitchen. "We have the Sandersons coming over tonight for dinner, and you know how Zack likes his wine."

"Got it," her husband tossed back as he trailed his two daughters out the door.

It'll be kind of nice, he thought, absently fingering through his pocket to be sure his keys were still there--no absent minded professor jokes this morning--the girls will be gone, Heather to her job, Amber spending the night with one of her friends. And the pleasure of good company and a too-fattening meal topped off with a bottle of good wine.

He was definitely looking forward to tonight.

***

Hammond studied the list he'd compiled. Six names. Six killers, all with reasons to want O'Neill dead. It was time to pull in a favor. Flicking through his address book, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Graham? It's George. George Hammond."

"George, how're you doing? Been a while."

"I'm fine. And yourself?" Hammond listened patiently to the quick history before continuing. "Listen, I need a favor. I need you to check out some people for me. Tell me if they're active and in the country." Another pause, a brief comment and then the list.

The voice at the other end repeated back the names. "No problem, George. I'll get back to you in a day or two."

"No!" Hammond's reply was sharper than he intended. "I need you to do it now. We've got a bit of an incident here."

"Incident?"

Hammond sighed but decided to come clean. He'd trusted Graham with his life on at least two occasions. He could certainly trust him now, and if he knew the situation he would be that much more motivated. "Two of my men have been snatched. Colonel O'Neill and a civilian scientist."

"Jack O'Neill?"

"You know him?"

"Oh yeah. Jack and I go way back. Plays a mean game of hockey. Gee..." There was a pause. "And you think one of these guys has him?" The voice had a tinge of anxiety to it now. "George, these guys are professional mercenaries. If they've snatched O'Neill, chances are he's already..."

"I need the info, Graham." Hammond cut off the sentence before the other could voice the one fear he didn't want to admit to. "Fast as you can do it."

"I'll be right back at ya. Give me an hour. Maybe two."

***

As the far door opened, Daniel instinctively pulled himself into an even smaller ball in the corner of the cell where he had huddled through the few hours of seesawing sleep and wakefulness. Jack sensed the restive movement but didn't risk looking over at the tightly curled body.

The image of Daniel cocooned inside O'Neill's fatigue jacket was indelibly burned into his mind--the ashen face was deathly white beneath the bruises and whip mark, the life in his eyes now dulled by constant pain and overwhelming fear. O'Neill was afraid he was losing him already, emotionally if not yet physically. There was a whisper of fabric against fabric. O'Neill pictured the movement in his mind. Daniel had pulled the jacket closer around his battered frame, clutching it to his chest as though it was a lifeline. Jack let out a barely audible breath. It was his lifeline. The only thing in this nightmare the young scientist could still hold onto. The only thing which could afford him any comfort.

Unlike its owner. There was no solace to be gleaned for Jack O'Neill. Not until this sickening game had run its course and they were either free or dead.

Santos.

Jack's gaze fell on their tormentor as the man entered the room. Soon, Jack promised himself. Soon he was going to take the man apart inch by inch, paying him back for everything he'd inflicted on... O'Neill clamped down on the thought. Not now. He couldn't handle thinking about Daniel now. Couldn't think about what was to come. Somehow he had to distance himself.

"Good morning, gentlemen." Santos' cheerfulness ground the hatred deeper into O'Neill's soul. "I realize it's dark in here and hard to tell what time of day it is, but I assure you it is morning."

Behind Santos, O'Neill caught a glimpse of a black box on a small rolling table being dragged into the room by two of the heartless idiots who gave their questionable loyalty to Santos. In fact, now that the light was a fraction of a bit better, Jack recognized one of them by the smell of dirty musk cologne. It had been years since he'd run afoul of the muscular behemoth who went by the single name of Grant. The asshole made up for his lack of intelligence by brutality. Grant was the last man O'Neill wanted putting his hands on his sometimes distressingly naïve teammate.

Silently Santos tried to direct Jack's attention to the unmarked metal box by a shift of his own gaze.

Don't look. Don't play the game. Instead he forced himself to play the other game. The one he was good at: the smart mouthed cocky colonel game.

"We're just fine," he said, stunned the words didn't stick in his throat. "Although an extra mattress wouldn't be a bad idea. And, Miguel, you really should talk to your cook. You know I like my eggs sunny side up."

Santos rewarded O'Neill's strained wit with a cool smile then pointedly looked past the colonel at the hunched figure in the cell corner. "And you, Dr. Jackson? Appreciating your cellmate's humor?"

Prying his uncooperative body into a sitting position, Daniel looked up at Santos, not knowing what he was supposed to say or do. Funny, he was a student of human culture. He was supposed to understand people in all their vagaries. But nothing he had studied had prepared him to deal with this: the very darkest side of humanity.

Realizing he wasn't going to get a rise out of Jackson this way, Santos returned his attention to Jack. "You know I like you, O'Neill. Always did find your attempts at bravado to be.... entertaining."

Satisfied he finally had the colonel's attention, Santos strolled back to the center of the room and leisurely circled the table holding the black box. "But you know me, Jack," he continued, "I find other forms of entertainment far more enjoyable." He was back at the cell, crouching down towards Daniel's corner. "What do you say, Danny boy? Ready for act two of our little comedy?"

Daniel's eyes held Santos' for a long moment before he spoke, his voice low and controlled. "My name is Daniel."

Santos studied the bruised face carefully before standing. This kid was full of surprises. In response, he merely nodded his head to summon the waiting goons. "Bring Daniel out. It's time to play."

***

If there was a part of his job Rob Sigmon hated, it was the constant begging, bribing, and borrowing--the three 'b's as it was affectionately termed--to funnel in enough funding to keep the project afloat.

That Sigmon's team was within a hair's breadth of concocting an effective cure for some of the world's most virulent diseases always seemed to come in as a poor second to the political machinations of the funding process.

It had gone from the ridiculous to the sublime.

Here they were, practically assuring the human race could potentially double its life span, and the lab boys were having to bring in their own coffee and creamer because there was no longer enough money to support a petty cash slush fund.

It tickled Rob's sometimes acerbic slant on the world. Sorry, boys, but we can't come up with a cure for cancer or stroke because the money ran out, and we can't afford coffee, much less the equipment or supplies we need.

His eye pressed to the lens of an electron microscope, Rob strained to recognize the latest strain of the very unstable concoction he was currently supposed to be studying.

The view wavered, dimmed, blurred.

He pulled away, wriggled his nose so his glasses dropped lower and scrubbed a hand across bloodshot eyes. He was tired. He was irritated. He needed a caffeine fix, and the only thing available was some generic instant. Rob wasn't a snob by any means, but one thing he held as non-negotiable. His coffee was fresh ground Colombian.

Doesn't seem like too much of a character flaw, he mused with a half smile.

With a sigh, he fingered the glasses back up to the bridge of his nose and buried his head in research again because, after all, coffee or no coffee, budget cuts aside, this project just might prove to be the most important step mankind had ever taken in finding a cure for cancer.

***

All it had taken was a gun pointed at Daniel's right knee.

Jack knew good and well Santos wasn't going to kill Daniel at this point, not until he was no longer useful as a pawn tailor-made to force Jack to cooperate whenever Santos deemed it the right time to tell him whatever the hell he wanted cooperation for. For his part, Santos wasn't going to insult O'Neill's intelligence by threatening an early--and easy--death for his hostage.

For that reason, the gun was aimed to cripple but not to kill.

And there was not a shred of doubt in either man's mind the maiming would take place if Jack took one step to prevent Daniel's removal from the cell.

Jack had no choice but to move aside and let Grant and his mean-looking counterpart haul the younger man out. A single, fear-painted glance at Jack was all the concession Daniel allowed himself. It was enough, though, to rip another tear through O'Neill's soul.

Trying desperately to ignore the jolts of pain spearing through him at each panicked effort to shake off the two men who were forcing him toward the wooden table in the center of the room, Daniel tried to get his breathing under control. The sight of his fear wouldn't help Jack stay strong so Daniel tried to bury it inside him.

The lash-shredded tee shirt was the first victim. Grant tore it off the struggling body, taking skin and crusted blood with it. Together the two men lifted Daniel and slammed him onto the tabletop.

"Why are you doing this?" Daniel demanded as he was pinned down while Grant retrieved lengths of rope and strapped his arms and legs, spread-eagling him securely to the freezing surface. He squirmed under their grip, ignoring the pain snaking up his back and shoulders, trying to get a good look at Santos. "Why?" he repeated, angry with himself for even lodging that much of a complaint. Knowing questioning them only served to underline his terror but too afraid to fight the desperate impulse, Daniel took refuge in bold words. "Jack won't tell you anything. You won't break him by killing me!"

Santos responded by pushing the black box on its rolling shelf closer to the table.

Helpless curiosity sparked by dread forced Daniel to demand, "What the hell is that anyway?"

Santos ignored the question, picking up instead on Daniel's previous comment. "I have no intention of killing you, Daniel, not deliberately anyway. There are some things much worse than dying. Ask your friend, the colonel, here. Isn't that right, Jack?"

Daniel swallowed down a lump of fear as one of the goons picked up a roll of insulating tape and a coil of wire. A very unpleasant thought began to swim through the murky surface of his mind.

The predator in Santos recognized the flicker of understanding, and he pounced on it even before Daniel was aware of it himself. He took the wire from his henchman and moved to Daniel's side. Almost tenderly he began to spiral it around Daniel's outstretched forearm. "Are you getting the picture now, Jack? 'Cause I think Danny boy here has just realized."

Horrified understanding assaulted Daniel's mind. Instinctively, he tried to jerk his arm away, but the restraints and Santos' icy grip held him fast. He closed his eyes and forced himself to take a long breath as the fear threatened to overwhelm him. With terrible clarity, he could feel the cool metal twisting around his skin, tracking higher and higher up his arm

Dear God, he's going to electrocute me!

Memories of Ra and Klorel leapt into his head: Goa'uld ribbon devices imprisoning him in a glow of agony. A desperate sob whispered out of him. With the release of the panicked breath, he turned his head just enough to see Jack. The colonel's face was wiped clean of any kind of emotion or response, but the knuckles of his hands where they were fisted around the cell bars were pure white. A half-begun plea for mercy died on Daniel's lips as he tried to swallow the choking terror back for his friend's sake.

Well aware of the by-play of fear telegraphed and strength given, Santos taped the wire to Daniel's arm with elaborate care and tossed the reel to Grant. In comparison to Santos' version of wiring up the scientist, Grant was rough and fast. Moving to Daniel's lower body, he quickly shucked off boots and socks, tossing them carelessly against the far wall. With one violent tug, he ripped Daniel's left pant leg to the knee. Ever the connoisseur of the more sadistic sides of the 'business' Grant let his hand trail up from Daniel's tethered ankle to the knee, his touch feather light against the skin. The gesture, accompanied by a purely feral smile, sent shivers of revulsion through Daniel. More wire spiraled around his calf, its cold metallic bite harsh against bare skin.

Thug number two shoved the black box closer. As Daniel watched in morbid fascination, the two men connected the wires to two terminals on the box. Suddenly and irrevocably, he couldn't breathe. A wash of dizziness sent the room into a wild lurch. He clenched his fists and shivered against cold sweat trickling between his shoulder blades. On a moment of horror, he suddenly realized he was going to be sick. Turning his head as best as he could in the restraints, he vomited. His stomach, empty thanks to Santos' lack of hospitality, heaved painfully as waves of nausea flooded through him, his naked chest convulsing in a futile attempt to draw air into starving lungs.

"Daniel, Daniel," Santos mocked. "I'd come to expect more of you."

Embarrassment and shame threw a scarlet stain across Daniel's otherwise colorless face as he gasped for breath. He fought to keep his head turned away from O'Neill, never recognizing how much satisfaction this tiny, symbolic denial gave Santos. The mercenary had quickly realized Jackson drew much of his strength from the colonel. If he could drive a wedge between them, it would hasten the man's breakdown and in turn push O'Neill closer to the edge. If Jackson, himself, mortared the wedge into place so much the better.

"Tell me what you want you sick son of a bitch."

Feigning surprise, Santos made an elaborate gesture of turning to stare blankly at Jack as if the snarled demand came totally unexpectedly.

He stepped closer to the cell, still out of reach but near enough to taunt. "All in good time, Jack," he said. "I'm just giving you some time and incentive." He glanced back at the table, saw Grant brush sweat-matted hair away from Daniel's face, watched Daniel try unsuccessfully to pull away from the unwelcome intimacy, then met O'Neill's eyes. It was all there. The reason Miguel Santos would prevail and Jonathan O'Neill would lose this particular battle of wills.

Santos didn't give a damn about anyone or anything except the highest bidder.

O'Neill? It radiated out of his eyes. Too many years in too many wars had taken a toll on the colonel of course. But it had never quite managed to extinguish his spark of humanity.

That difference would cost him this war.

***

Lisa Sigmon wasn't beautiful. In fact, as a young woman, she had never been more than slightly attractive.

It had haunted her when she was younger, but with the passage of time, it had lost its edge. An older sister who was both popular and beautiful had left Lisa shy and private. She poured all her adolescent tragedy into the pages of her diaries, purging herself without even realizing she was doing it.

Now Melinda, her sister, was a bitter, gaunt woman, the victim of two disastrous marriages, and a lifetime of unearned attention which left her unprepared for any other way. Drugs and alcohol had drained her personality. Her hair had grayed, her face had eroded into a highway of wrinkles which stole beauty away. Lisa was too kind to indulge in an "I told you so" attitude, but every once in a while, even though she chided herself for a self-perceived lack of compassion, she was really glad she wasn't Melinda.

Her plainness in youth had given way to a refined, quiet handsomeness in maturity which served her well in her role as the wife of a highly skilled scientific genius who was firmly on the cutting edge of his field. Lisa fit in at cocktail parties. She was intelligent and gregarious; she blended in at PTA meetings. She was a good mother, an excellent and gracious hostess, and above and beyond all those wifely virtues, she truly loved her husband.

Married over twenty years now, she and Rob had long ago settled into a comfortable acceptance of each other. They had disagreements, but they passed quickly. The old, 'you'll finish my sentences for me' ease and familiarity of a long-term relationship had long ago become a truism for them.

Her two daughters had bypassed their mother's genes and commandeered a fresh set from their Aunt Melinda. Heather and Amber, Rob often teased Lisa about picking yuppie names, were beautiful. And it wasn't as though she only looked at them through a mother's eyes either. They were beautiful; Lisa and Rob were both unapologetically proud of them. In fact, in their little corner of suburban America, the Sigmons were the ideal family--freshly cut lawns in front of a well kept, tastefully appointed house, two cars in the garage, one dog and one cat and the occasional goldfish until the inevitable burial at sea in the downstairs toilet. The only off note was they had two children rather than the acceptable two point five.

***

Santos was virtually purring as he savored the young archeologist's distress.

"He makes a good toy, O'Neill. I think Mr. Grant approves."

Santos glanced over at Grant who stood at the head of the table the index finger of one huge hand tracing an invisible line down Daniel's neck to his shoulder, thoroughly enjoying the reactive shudder rippling through the young man's entire body at the unwelcome intimacy.

Jack shut off the thought. Right now he couldn't deal with even considering Grant's eclectic appetites. He waited out Santos.

"I can see why he's gotten past those barriers you put up after your son died, Jack. But, tell me…what appeals to you most? No, no, let me guess. His innocence. The fact he isn't a hard-nosed cynic like you. Ironic, isn't it? You'll be responsible for robbing him of that." Santos' already ebony eyes darkened still another shade. "I assure you, O'Neill, when we're done here, there won't be the faintest hint of innocence left in your young friend."

Without waiting for a response he knew wasn't coming, Santos nodded his head at Grant who ceased his unwanted touch and flicked a switch on the innocuous looking black box. An ominous humming rumbled through the room.

Jack, unable to watch, unable to turn away, saw Daniel twitch as though he'd been hit by static electricity. He could almost see low voltage tingle along the pale skin. Daniel struggled harder for air.

Santos brought his gaze back to the caged man. "Don't make me do this, Jack."

"How the hell can I stop you?" O'Neill protested, hating the faint tinge of fear in his own voice, knowing Santos would drink it in like a narcotic. "I don't even know what you want."

"Yes," Santos agreed with a smile. "Adds to the suspense, don't you think?"

A half-swallowed whimper from Daniel almost made Jack look away, but he kept his eyes locked on Santos by a sheer effort of will. "When do you think you might get around to telling me?"

Santos seemed to consider it then with a shrug said, "When I'm ready. In the meantime, you could stop this with a single word. All you have to do is beg, Jack. And Danny, here, gets up off this table and back in there with you."

"Go to hell."

A nod of Santos' head, and Jack heard Daniel draw in a sharp breath as the power increased.

"You are doing this to him. You do realize that don't you?" Santos spoke over the harsh breathing as Daniel tried to fight his way through the pain.

"I'm not doing a damn thing. That won't wash, Santos. You know it, and Daniel knows it."

"You're denying responsibility, Jack?" Santos did a good imitation of disbelief. "Sorry but I think you are responsible. You have the control here. One word from you and your puppy goes free." Now Santos moved to the box and took Grant's position beside it. Long, slender fingers rested over the dial. He looked directly at O'Neill and turned the power a degree higher. Daniel groaned, twisting within his bonds, unable to find relief as the current surged painfully through his corded muscles.

"Nothing to say, O'Neill?" Santos kept up the taunt. "You do realize your silence means you are giving me permission to do this."

Another twist of the dial. Daniel's back arched away from the table, his arms and legs locking into rigid lines as agony coursed through his defenseless body. His head was slammed back against the surface of the table, a strangled cry spilling out of him, a mere shadow of the scream which wouldn't come.

O'Neill forced himself to breathe. "I am not giving you permission for anything."

"Silence equals consent," Santos retorted. He twisted the dial another click. Daniel's body contorted in pain, the ropes cutting into his wrists and ankles as raw energy tore mercilessly through him.

Abruptly, he went limp.

A moment of unbearable, unrelieved silence then Santos twisted the dial all the way back, cutting off the pulsating hum of the machine.

Sparing only a cursory glance for the unconscious man, Santos offered Jack a morsel. "Think back, O'Neill. Try Eastern Europe. Try ten years ago. If you really think hard about it, you'll be able to figure out what I want from you. Perhaps a hint? Try science…"

He waited for an answer, but Jack's eyes were riveted on the unconscious body stretched across the table. Daniel's hair hung lank and sweat-matted to his ashen face, tears still sliding down his face. His chest and ribs barely rose and fell with shallow breaths. Santos looked at Grant. "Bring him around."

An acrid odor bit the air as Grant broke a net-covered tube and shoved it under Daniel's nose. It took nearly a full minute before Daniel reacted. Then, his eyes opened and a long, low moan was pulled from deep within him.

"Welcome back, Daniel," Santos cooed. He smoothed sweat-soaked hair away from the ashen forehead. O'Neill would almost swear there was a genuine tenderness in the gesture and expression on the sick bastard's face. That terrible, diseased bond which inevitably developed between torturer and victim. He'd seen it more times than he cared to remember.

But when Santos again shifted his eyes to O'Neill, there was only cruelty to be read in their inky depths.

"Perhaps we should make a wager, O'Neill? How many times do you think your puppy can fetch this particular stick?" He took the single step to the machine, turned the dial and filled the room once again with the deadly mechanical hum and the tortured moan ripping from Daniel's throat.

Somehow O'Neill remained on his feet, defying his knees to buckle. The grotesque scene was rewound and replayed just for his own private viewing a second, then a third time. Each time, it took longer to revive Daniel for the next round. The fourth time seemed longer, more unendurable, Jack's pain as real and as vivid as Daniel's.

Santos hesitated, then pulled his hand away from the switch, and pressed it to Daniel's diaphragm. A moment's uncertainty broke through the expressionless mask he inflicted on the world. Grant broke another tube of ammonia and held it to the lax face. No response. He shrugged at Santos.

Oh, Jesus. It had been a long time since Jack O'Neill had prayed, really prayed. Oh, Jesus, his mind repeated, the effort carrying all the weight of a litany.

Santos snatched a second ampoule and crunched it between his fingers, pressing it to Daniel's face with no effect. He leaned down, pinching the scientist's nose as he blew air into his mouth. Jackson's chest rose and fell with the false breath. Another puff. Rise and fall. On the third try, Daniel gasped and arched up on the table, dragging breath desperately into starved lungs.

When he dared to try to open his eyes, Daniel found only the blur of Santos' face inches from his own. A thought fled into his mind, battering at his senses, holding him hostage to it - this man could stop the pain. "P-please," he breathed. The rest of it came as a whisper. "No... m-m-more."

Santos straightened. He wore his victory in his face. "He says he's had enough, Jack. What do you think?"

Even in the close confines of the small room, Santos had to strain to hear the answer. "I'll see you in hell you sadistic son of a bitch if I have to drag you there myself."

"Wrong answer."

And it started all over again.

***

"Captain Carter."

Sam interpreted Teal'c saying her name as an invitation to enter his candlelit bunkroom. She met his calm gaze, noting the tension around his jaw which spoke volumes about his worry for their missing teammates. "There's no word yet on where they are," Sam told him, knowing he'd want to hear even though he hadn't asked. "Janet said the drug on the dart was just a maximum tranquilizer. Daniel and the colonel shouldn't have been harmed by it unless…"

"Daniel Jackson was allergic." Teal'c didn't blink, but his dark eyes softened with distress. So many things upset their friend's sensitive system.

"I'm not going to borrow trouble." Sam shook her head as if to dislodge the worry. "Janet thought it probably wouldn't hurt him."

"Then, it did not."

A tiny smile warmed Sam's features at the assurance. Teal'c's belief in the abilities of his teammates, the general, and the good doctor was unshakable, and she really needed a show of faith right now with hers fading. Her heart twisted at the thought. Daniel usually believed enough for them all.

"They will return to us. O'Neill can endure much, and Daniel Jackson does not yield."

Sam sighed. "I know, Teal'c. I know." She took a breath as if steadying her courage before blurting, "But how many times do they have to go through this kind of stuff before they break?"

"As much as fate requires. We will prevail."

The solidarity of his use of the word 'we' lifted Sam's spirits. She met his steadfast gaze, feeling his assurance calm her fears. Together or apart, SG-1 was a team. Somehow, some way, they'd find their missing friends and come through this whole.

***

This time it was harder for Jack to stand back in the corner of the small cell as Daniel was dragged closer to the barred door. Then, he decided to hell with stoicism.

There really wasn't any point to it. Santos knew good and well what he was doing and just how it was affecting O'Neill. Face it, Jack, he knew all along. That's why he took Daniel in the first place. The resident geek was in a lot of ways the weak link in SG-1.

When Grant and his cohort literally threw Daniel into the cell, Jack was there to catch him before he could hit the floor. He registered the smirk on Grant's face, the thin line of the man's lips, the cruel twist to his features--Grant was having a great time.

Daniel jerked in a mini-convulsion the minute Jack lowered him to the mattress. He bucked in Jack's arms as if the electrical charge was still coursing through him. A wheezing groan slipped out of him, and frothy saliva drooled from his parted lips. O'Neill's eyes caught sight of the vivid burn mark spiraling up Daniel's arm, and he swore softly to himself, knowing there was nothing he could do about that one or its twin which no doubt curled like an angry snake around the young man's leg.

When it seemed as though the spasms were calming, Jack turned his attention to cleaning Daniel up as best he could. He had no idea why he thought it was important they try to stay clean, just that it was the only comfort he could offer Daniel at the moment. Finally he wrapped his damp bandanna around the burn, hoping the relative coolness would bring at least some relief.

There was literally nothing else he could do for his friend. Not that it mattered right now. Jack was fairly sure Daniel had lapsed into unconsciousness, the jerking movement of his body just a nightmare echo of what he had been subjected to.

Suddenly, Jack felt old. Centuries old. Jaded. Daniel, in fact, wasn't that much younger than he was. Chronological age extended only so far, though, and then all bets were off. It didn't matter how old Daniel got; he would never be as old as Jack was.

There was an unbridgeable gap between them which would never be spanned. At least he hoped it wouldn't. Daniel was everything the SGC fought for, and Daniel might lose his innocence if they couldn't get out of here soon. Might lose his sense of wonder at the vast worlds around them. Daniel would dissect, analyze, compute... whatever the hell he did with his 'rocks.' But, through it all, he cherished each scrap of knowledge, each new find.

Enter a new race--what did Daniel do? He sashayed right up to them with his hand held out in friendship and a brilliant smile. Sometimes the alien returned the smile and accepted the handshake. Sometimes he tried to bite that hand off. But there Daniel was, ready to offer it again as soon as Janet Fraiser repaired his cuts and bruises and the occasional zat gun wound. Hell, the kid could probably find something salvageable in Santos.

As his hands fell idle, Jack ran over his options. It was still a depressingly short list. He had used the first four hour respite to check out the walls and test the bars. They were only going to get out of here if outside help knocked on the door. And Jack was certain there had been no clues left to what had really happened, certainly none that even hinted at where they were being held.

That left it up to O'Neill to get them out of here.

It was almost funny. Talk about impotent. He couldn't even draw Santos' attention away from Daniel long enough for hidden anger to force a rash move. Something, anything to get Santos to let him out of the cell. Just one moment. That's all he needed. He'd have to take down the three of them, but he'd been up against worse odds.

He had to get out of the cage just long enough to get his hands on the sadistic mercenary and repay him for all he'd done. Both now and in the past.

Ten years ago. Santos' words snapped back into his mind. What the hell had he been doing ten years ago? Eastern Europe. There had been so many missions. Iran. Bulgaria. Albania. Romania. Wherever there was a problem. Someone who needed to get out or who needed to disappear. Jack swallowed at the memories. He'd been at the sharp edge of some pretty unsavory business at times, but he'd always believed he was on the right side. Always trusted behind his often curt orders there was a good reason. A moral reason.

Ten years ago. He would have been thirty-two…not much younger than Daniel. Still sharp, still cocky. Eastern Europe? O'Neill settled himself beside his unconscious teammate and began to work mission by mission through his past. Names barely remembered. Faces blurring over the years. There was that dictator he had taken out with a single gunshot. Was that it? Was this revenge? No, Santos wanted something or somebody. More likely somebody. Which meant he would be able to sell whoever it was.

Who was paying Santos for this mission? That would give him a key. Santos never did anything purely for enjoyment; there was always a payoff. Someone, somewhere was paying him to do this. Which meant someone O'Neill had dealt with in the past was now a valuable commodity. Valued enough to balance against the life of an innocent American scientist snatched from a military establishment. Scientist!

Jack ran his fingers through his hair, desperately trying to remember the face. The name. Was that ten years ago? Was he who Santos was after?

"Jack." The sound of Daniel's voice, little more than a whisper dragged O'Neill back to the reality of the present. "Jack. Can't..."

O'Neill took Daniel's hand in his own and gently squeezed the fingers. He knew he should say something, but the words wouldn't come. A low moan accompanied the tremor running through his friend's body. "No... no.. m-more."

"It's all right, Danny." O'Neill forced the empty words through his lips. "It's over now. You're back with me."

"No... m-more." Daniel's eyes flickered open. He gazed up at O'Neill with unveiled terror, clearly not recognizing the colonel. "No, p-p-please. Make it stop."

"Daniel. It's me. It's Jack." Anguish burned into Jack as cleanly as the mark on Daniel's forearm.

The young scientist squeezed his eyes shut as if to blank out the whole world. When he opened them again, there was a hint of lucidity. "Jack?"

"I'm right here, Daniel."

The young man was beginning to shiver more now, his body reacting to trauma and shock. "Don't..." The words were cut off by another tremor. "Jack... please... don't let them take me again. Can't..."

"Oh God, Danny. Do you think I'd let them if I could stop it?" The sheer anguish in Jack's voice seemed to break through Daniel's nightmare. The young man blinked as though suddenly becoming aware of where he was, of who he was with.

"Jack?"

Blue eyes captured O'Neill, but the older man couldn't bear to hold the gaze.

"Jack?"

Dammit, Daniel. You always were a stubborn fool. Should've let me blow myself up on Abydos. Never should have trusted me... O'Neill blew out a hard jet of air. "I know what Santos wants."

Silence. Daniel merely waited. Waited for O'Neill to cast his death sentence.

"Ten years ago I got a scientist out of Eastern Europe. A brilliant chemist who was being forced to work on chemical weapons by his government. He wanted to defect... wanted to work in medicine saving lives not taking them."

"Scientist?"

O'Neill could only imagine what was going through Daniel's mind. He ploughed on. "So I went in and got him out. Him, his wife, and his two young children."

There, he'd said it. He'd laid out the case in pure logic. The life of a young brilliant linguist on one side. The life of a brilliant chemist on the other. A brilliant chemist who was also a husband and a father. The stranger whose identity O'Neill would protect because when the cards were on the table, he held all the aces, and Daniel was left with nothing other than a wife who was already lost to him.

"I see." Daniel spoke the words so quietly O'Neill could barely hear them. A long breath escaped the young man's body before, "I'd make the same choice, Jack."

Jack couldn't find words which would help. There was nothing he could say. He and Daniel both knew it. So, instead of useless reassurance, he simply reached over and snagged his coat, settled it over Daniel's shoulders, and tightened his hold on the shivering body.

He waited. When the trembling made way for desperate tears, he started rocking, the age-old comfort being all he could offer. Daniel cried for what seemed like a very long time then slipped into exhausted slumber. When he was breathing with the rhythm of sleep, Jack gave into his own emotions and let an unobserved tear track down from his eye.

***

As usual, dinner was a success, but then Lisa knew it would be. Betty and Ralph Sanderson weren't legitimate guests in their home after all. Years of friendship had stripped away the veneer of forced hospitality and a night with company was morphed into a night with family.

When the Sigmons had moved to this lazy suburb nearly ten years ago, Betty had been on the porch with homemade bread and a casserole supper. Ralph had volunteered his strapping young son to move furniture while he and Rob 'supervised' from the vantage point of lawn chairs in the driveway and a couple of beers. Exchanges just came naturally among them. Betty baby-sat so Lisa and Rob could steal a night out at someplace other than a fast food drive through. Rob repaired appliances when they blew up in the Sanderson household. Ralph showed off his new riding lawn mower then proceeded to demonstrate it often on the Sigmon lawn.

Food eaten, dishes cleared and left in the sink, drinks dispensed and downed, they all lounged in the family room, absorbing the heat from the flames nested in the marble fireplace.

It was just as it was supposed to be.

But then, what was wrong?

Lisa couldn't shake a little nagging premonition.

Something was wrong.

She didn't know what it was. She wasn't even sure what seemed... out of place... alien... but it was there, had been there ever since Rob had come home a few minutes late from work. There was something weighing on his mind he wasn't willing to reveal. That was it. Secrets. They never kept secrets from each other, and now Lisa was quite certain her husband was harboring some terrible secret he didn't want to share with her.

***

Breakfast was served without ceremony. At least Jack assumed it was breakfast. With no hint from the lone window in the door, it was hard to tell what time of day it was. He cut another glare at his watch. It loyally assured him it was 10:40 p.m., the time of their abduction and steadfastly refused to move at all, its face shattered, casing jutting out against his wrist. Damn, his Swiss Army Watch bit the dust. Duct tape would never fix this problem.

A jug of coffee, two cracked and badly stained mugs, a bowl of something O'Neill prayed was oatmeal and another covered bowl. He lifted the lid cautiously and grimaced. Four raw eggs stared up at him. He peered suspiciously at the lukewarm oatmeal, wondering if it was edible or whether it had been doctored on its way to the cell.

Survival instinct won out over caution, and he reluctantly scooped up a spoonful. Ah, yes, it was oatmeal; he'd recognize that library paste taste anywhere. The coffee actually smelled good. O'Neill grimaced again, knowing this was just another part of the game. Give them something pleasant, a sweet reminder of better times, another twist of the knife.

He filled a mug with the warm liquid, picked up the congealed oatmeal, and took the two steps separating him from Daniel. Carefully, he eased the young scientist into a sitting position.

"Breakfast, Danny." He forced his voice to sound cheerful, trying to give some sense of normalcy to the horror in which they were trapped.

"Not hungry," Daniel whispered, his eyes closed.

"You've got to eat, Daniel. First rule of survival. Whenever food presents itself, you eat."

Daniel's eyes flickered open, and he gazed at O'Neill. Pools of dark blue rippled with pain and misery, dilated almost enough to hide the color. "I don't think... starving to death... is something I need to worry about."

"Daniel." The misery in O'Neill's voice was audible now. "Please?"

A flicker of a smile crossed Daniel's face, and he gave into the faintly hysterical response, "What're you going to do, Jack? Court-martial me?"

O'Neill rocked back on his heels at the reminder that Daniel was a civilian. He looked down at the unappetizing mess in the bowl and set it to one side. What was he trying to achieve? Rules of survival? What did Daniel know of that? Why should he have to know? O'Neill's shoulders slumped. The young man should be safe and sound in a cozy university office, worrying about where his next grant was going to come from, not propped up in some hellhole fearing he might not survive the next round of torture. Perhaps, hoping he wouldn't survive...

Jack's hand strayed to Daniel's cheek, the touch uncharacteristically affectionate. Brown eyes met blue. "I'm sorry. So sorry." O'Neill's words were a ragged rasp.

Severely hampered by the loss of his glasses, Daniel's liquid eyes sought Jack's face in the gloom. "I know," he offered, finding no words to take the pain from his friend.

O'Neill turned away, suddenly choked. When he spoke again, his voice was normal. Back to the rules. Back to surviving the game. "There's coffee."

The flicker of a smile again, this time genuine. "That's good. Remind me to leave a tip."

O'Neill's lips curled as he carefully lifted the mug to Daniel's cracked lips. Stay with me, Daniel, his heart cried. Stay with me.

"Okay," Daniel sighed as he closed his eyes.

How does he do that? A weary smile of affection warmed Jack's eyes as his friend seemed to read his mind. Daniel would hold on as long as he could against the pain and torture…if only because Jack needed him to. Jack hated himself for that, but whatever it took to keep Daniel alive, he intended to use it.

***

The phone rang, cutting off Hammond's stroll through the dog-eared files of his mind. So far, he'd come up empty.

He started to stab at the speaker button then stayed his hand. If it was the call he'd been waiting for, he hardly wanted it broadcast in his office on an unsecured line. His hand detoured and caught up the receiver. He cracked the mouthpiece against his jaw and bit off a reactive curse. It had been a long time since his hand had been so spastic or his fingers shaking like an old man's. This damn program was aging him way too fast with too many nights wondering if he was sending one of the teams--his teams--into violent death on an uncharted planet. Sometimes, they were not even able to retrieve the bodies. Too many empty caskets.

Now, two of his boys were out there, stranded, alone. God only knew where and only the thin tread of Black Ops Intel was working to solve the puzzle.

He hauled in a breath and spoke into the mouthpiece. "Hammond."

"George, I have to give this to you fast so don't miss anything."

"Agreed."

"The data we compiled comparing O'Neill's assignments to recent surfacing of involved personnel indicates Miguel Santos would be the abductor. The only crossed line we've been able to draw suggests a botched mission in Guatemala.

"Santos went after a friendly military leader; O'Neill went after Santos. The assassination was prevented. The upshot is Santos reaped major displeasure from his employers; O'Neill was promoted to major. The kicker is Santos has recently surfaced in this general area, and our word is he wants to 'undo' the blot on his record by taking out O'Neill. Don't know who is bankrolling him though. Santos never works without a payoff. Anyway, I'm faxing recent surveillance on Santos to your personal machine. If you need further intelligence, call in another marker. I've had ten men on this for the past hour. I can't do any more."

"Thank you," Hammond replied, knowing the words were inadequate.

"Oh and George? When you get O'Neill back, remind him he owes me fifty bucks!"

"I'll do that." Hammond put the phone down. When you get O'Neill back. The phrase replayed in his mind, and he suddenly realized he hadn't really believed that to be possible. As his personal fax began to hum quietly, he took a deep breath and scolded himself. When he got O'Neill back, he was going to give his senior officer a severe dressing down about base security.

***

The door opened, jerking Jack out of his reverie. No, not already. Surely four hours hasn't passed yet. He glanced over at Daniel who was sprawled face down on the filthy mattress with O'Neill's jacket over his shoulders. The young man had either lapsed into unconsciousness or was so deeply asleep he hadn't heard the return of his tormentor. O'Neill decided to make the most of the respite and remained where he was, sitting on the floor with his back against the far wall. He ignored Santos and his bullyboys as they manhandled the wooden table towards the bars of the cage.

"So, Jack. How's it going?"

Jack simply fixed his gaze on the dark-haired man, his eyes blazing hatred.

"Oh, Jack. Are you getting mad at me?" Santos smoothed back his hair. "Figured out our little mystery yet?" Santos studied Jack's face, admiring the fact the soldier had once more got his expressionless mask in place. That is…everywhere except the eyes. Oh yes. Your eyes betray you, O'Neill. Every time you look at Jackson, you sell another part of yourself to the devil. Time now for another downpayment.

"I've brought something to show you, Jack."

"Go to hell!"

"Jack! Is that anyway to treat an old friend? Come and look at what I've got."

Nothing. Not a muscle moved. It was a small victory, but it was one Jack was going to enjoy. A brief moment of being back in control. A very brief moment. Santos took a step closer to the cage, the small caliber gun in his hand aimed at Jackson's inert form. "You know, I'm an expert marksman, O'Neill. I could take a finger or a toe or maybe..."

O'Neill stood up and moved slowly to the front of the cage.

Santos gave the table another shove towards the bars so Jack could get a good view. Resting on the smooth wooden surface was a small roll of deep blue velvet - the sort of thing a jeweler would use to wrap a woman's necklace in. Next to it was a metal box about the size of a child's pencil case.

Santos ran his fingers lightly along the cool surface of the box. "Time to play a little game, Jack."

"Don't go much for games," Jack responded. Behind him he heard a low moan. No, Daniel! Why do you have to wake up now?

Santos smiled coolly, aware of the effort it cost O'Neill not to turn and look at the anthropologist. He continued on in the same, mocking tone. "Oh but you'll like this one. I've developed the rules especially for you. It's an amusement of choice."

A dark memory pierced through O'Neill, causing his eyes to widen just a fraction and his head to tilt a degree or two higher. Another dark cell. A voice screaming in his ear. Choose. Choose. Choose.

The reaction wasn't lost on Santos. "I see you remember," he sneered. "Well this time, Jack the rules are different. Much more satisfying I think you'll find. This time you do the choosing, but your puppy dog gets to play." Santos tapped his crop against his boot. "It's just like one of your all-American game shows. Except, of course, in our version, the winner is Daniel Jackson every time."

"Jack?" The mention of his name had obviously caught Daniel's attention. Unable to stand it any more, Jack turned his head. The pale man was struggling to sit up - the effort clearly draining what little strength he had left.

"Stay where you are, Daniel." His voice was deliberately harsh, the only way he knew to protect his companion from whatever was coming. Protect him? Sure, O'Neill, he mocked himself. Like you've succeeded in doing so up to now? The sarcasm ran through his brain like a knife through butter. He turned back to Santos.

"You're sick," Jack snarled, his voice low.

"Sick?" Santos appeared to give the idea consideration then he leaned closer to O'Neill. "I'll tell you what's sick, Jack. Sick is the person who lets a friend go through hell for something he doesn't even understand."

He straightened, the casual smile back in place in an instant. "Let me explain your options to you, Jack. I can't expect you to make an informed choice without details, can I?" He flipped open the box, revealing a set of miniature surgical instruments. "Aren't they just perfect?" he cooed. "I had them specially made for me. Solid silver with titanium blades. Guaranteed never to blunt."

He picked up a tiny scalpel. "You should really see this in action. Slices like a dream. A sliver of skin here. A little nick there. You'd be surprised how much blood a person can lose and still stay conscious." He handed the scalpel to Grant who held it to the light. The goon's eyes moved from the blade to Daniel's face, a lazy smile creeping across his features. Wordlessly, he handed the instrument back to Santos while his gaze roved down the shivering body with a look which made O'Neill want to retch.

Santos however merely replaced the instrument in its case and moved on. He unrolled the velvet curl with a flourish. Inside was a set of six silver needles, each about three inches in length.

A deadly cold finger ran down O'Neill's spine.

"Acupuncture needles, Jack. Again, specially made for me - no expense spared. Used with skill, they can bring incredible relief from pain. With equal skill…the opposite." He looked O'Neill in the eye. "Now choose!"

"No!" Jack's voice rang out before he could stop.

Santos laughed, registering the first victory in the deadly game of cat and mouse. He risked leaning closer and lowered his voice. "Choose or I'll use option three!"

"Option three?" O'Neill hated himself for asking, but the words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Santos nodded towards Grant. "One word from me, O'Neill, and he'll put your young friend and that mattress to a use even I prefer not to dwell upon."

O'Neill stared at his evil adversary in disbelief, feeling the hate rise in him and mix with the overwhelming sense of helplessness. Suddenly, he was aware of Daniel's presence by his side. Somehow, the scientist had found the strength to not only make it to his feet but to cross the few feet to the bars. Breathing heavily, he held on to the cold metal, the quiver in his legs suggesting at any time his knees might buckle under him. He stared in mute fascination at the instruments on the table. Daniel. Daniel, O'Neill cried mentally. When will you learn not to give in to that insatiable curiosity?

"Your choice, O'Neill! You are five seconds away from watching Mr. Grant enjoy Daniel's company."

The colonel turned to look at Daniel. Blue eyes, still innocent, looked back at him, confusion at the scene stamped all over his face. Jack spoke. "The needles."

Daniel gazed at him, the trust still there, never wavering. "Jack? What's going on?" The soft voice showed he still didn't understand what he had just been condemned to, and the sound speared through Jack's soul like an innocent child's cry.

Daniel stumbled away from the door of the cell as Grant stepped forward and turned the key in the lock. He retreated back two steps before his legs gave way, and he tumbled to the floor with a yelp of pain.

Instinctively, O'Neill reached toward him.

"Back off!" Grant snarled simultaneously with the sound of the safety on Santos' gun being released. Once again, O'Neill stood by helplessly as Daniel was dragged from the cell.

"No!" For an instant, Daniel dredged deep and found some spark of resistance. He pulled his left arm free and elbowed Grant in the solar plexus. Although on target, the action lacked the power to really hit home. Grant's eyes widened for the briefest of moments, and then an ugly red stain flushed across his face. The retribution was swift. His right hand swung, backhanding Daniel so hard the young man was literally thrown from the cell. He slammed into the far wall and slid, dazed to the floor. For a big man, Grant was fast. In what seemed like a single step, he crossed the room and yanked Daniel to his feet by his hair, his hand swinging back for a second blow."

"No!"

The cry came in stereo: one voice commanding from the room, the other a protest from the cell. For a moment Santos and O'Neill locked gazes. Then, Santos snapped his attention back to his helper. "Your time will come! Tie him up."

The clenched fist slowly unwound. Grant rewarded his captive with a sour look. "Later!" he promised in a dark whisper as he released him. Daniel slid slowly back to the floor. His respite was brief. Grant was back in seconds with a length of rope. Snatching up Daniel's arms, he tied the young man's wrists tightly together, enjoying the pain dragging across the ashen features as he gave the chord an extra twist. Turning away, he retrieved a second, longer length of rope.

O'Neill caught his breath as he saw where Grant's gaze turned. Protruding from the ceiling and disguised by the shadows of the small room was a heavy-duty hook. Oh shit. O'Neill watched as Grant expertly looped the rope over the hook.

Still dazed, Daniel didn't offer any resistance as he was pulled to his feet. Now Santos' other henchmen held him vertical while Grant secured one end of the rope to Daniel's bonds. Suddenly, Daniel looked up. He caught a brief glimpse of the sadistic smile on Grant's face before the rope tightened. Oh God! Daniel let out a long moan as fresh pain scored along his abused muscles. Another tug pulled his arms taut above his head and lifted him so his toes just touched the floor, close enough to tantalize but far enough to prevent him taking any real weight off his arms. Grant secured the rope and moved as though to walk past Daniel. At the last moment his elbow caught the young man sharply in the stomach. Daniel heaved, choking for breath, tears streaming down his face.

"Shall we begin?" Santos said coolly.

Begin? Begin? Frustration crashed over O'Neill. He had to do something. Bluff! yelled his mind. Give Santos something. Get him to ease off just a fraction. "Your scientist," O'Neill blurted out. "He's part of the witness protection program. I don't know his new name. That's the whole point of the program. I just delivered him. What happened afterwards had nothing to do with me." Jack was suddenly aware of pain in his hands. Looking down, he realized he had clenched his fists so tight his fingernails had drawn blood. He forced himself to take a deep breath, ignoring the shock still managing to register on Daniel's strained face.

Santos faced O'Neill. "Nice try, Jack. Shame I don't believe you since you only relocated one scientist that I know of. By the way, remember this was your choice. No one else. Just you."

Choice! The word was like a slap. God, Danny, what have I done? O'Neill watched in a daze as Santos carefully selected a needle from the velvet pouch. His choice! Nausea rose in his throat at the thought. Damn it! The glittering skewers looked so innocuous against the blue velvet, but this was Santos, a man who relished inflicting agony and who had spent years learning his art.

Santos turned towards Daniel, noting the sweat which ran freely down the young man's face and chest. Good. Fear heightens the pain.

O'Neill's eyes turned to the scientist too. He swallowed as he watched Daniel struggling with his bonds. He knew what that felt like--to be stretched out, the weight of your own body concentrated on wrists and arms. The strain it placed on heart and lungs, making it difficult to draw breath.

Like the predator he was Santos circled Jackson, enjoying the fact a pair of terrified blue eyes followed his every move, enjoying the way he tried to twist round as his tormentor moved out of his range of view. He circled again, stopping behind him but leaning close enough so Daniel could feel his breath - hot and acidic on the back of his neck.

"I had a Chinese mistress once," he whispered to his victim. "You won't believe what she taught me." His eyes held Jack's, knowing the colonel was straining to hear his words. "The pleasure she could give a man in bed." He paused to give O'Neill a feral smile. "Have you ever been with a woman, Daniel?"

Sha're! Her face came unbidden to Daniel's mind.

"Or does your innocence stretch all the way to virginity?"

Jack sensed Grant's moronic grin rather than saw it. His jaw clamped tight - biting down on an unwise comment. Santos was enjoying the sound of his voice now.

"You know what, Daniel? The thing about women is they are even more devious than we are. Where a man might use fists or whips to inflict pain, they have much more subtle methods. Methods my beloved mistress was only too happy to show me."

Santos moved back towards Jack's prison and held the needle to the light. Two pairs of eyes trained on the glint of silver. "Of course, you already know most of this, Jack. They teach you pressure points in black ops, don't they? Show you where on the body the nerve points rise to the surface. Teach you how to disable a man with a single blow."

Unbidden, the points leapt into Jack's mind. Top of the forearm. Inside the thigh. Others, less accessible but equally effective.

"Have you ever experienced it?" Santos laughed. "I forgot…of course you have. I believe I demonstrated them to you myself."

Jack pushed the memory of a dark cell and ropes around his own wrists from his mind as fast as it arose. Still, Santos' voice baited him.

"Well imagine this, O'Neill. The pain inflicted when one of those points is struck - only enhanced." He smiled and slowly added, "Prolonged. And most perfect of all, there is no respite. This little game tricks the brain so there are no convenient blackouts to give the body time to recuperate. Just layer upon layer of pain."

He turned to Daniel, gratified to see the panic in the wide blue eyes. Daniel's gaze flicked from the needle to Jack and back again. Santos circled once more. Leaning his head on Daniel's shoulder, he whispered in his ear. "I hope you scream well, Jackson. I hate to be disappointed."

Daniel's eyes locked with Jack's, and he took in a raspy breath, choking down the pain of his tormented arms. "Go to hell!" What was it Jack had once told him? Distance yourself from the pain. Fix on a point and rise above it. Remove yourself from it. He focused on Jack, his friend, his strength. A jumble of thoughts crowded his mind as he felt Santos' fingers on his arm. It's only a needle, he told himself, trying to imitate the mask Jack had in place. Santos twisted his arm painfully against the rope, making the muscle of his forearm stand out even more clearly. It's only a needle...

A spear of pure agony! It shot up his entire arm and into the muscles of his neck, startling him from the precarious touch he had on the floor. Daniel clamped his teeth together, cutting off the cry already beginning to escape. No! He wouldn't give Santos the satisfaction. Oh God! He gasped for breath, tried to turn away from the pain. His eyes wrenched from Jack, moved upwards to the tiny little needle sticking out of his forearm. No! It isn't possible. It can't hurt this much.

Santos gazed down at him, his eyes ice cold. "No scream, Daniel? I warned you not to disappoint me." His fingers moved to the needle, pressing it a quarter of an inch deeper.

A second wave of more intense fire raced up Daniel's arm and neck. "Jack!" This time, the name escaped his lips. He clamped down again, trying to pull away from the pain, but he couldn't. There was no focus to it. Just pure agony as every nerve screamed in protest. His eyes squeezed tight, and a tear trickled slowly down his cheek.

Santos glanced at O'Neill. "An identity and an address, Jack. That's all I want from you."

"No!" Daniel ground out the negative, the sound barely audible. Somehow, he managed to open his eyes, lift his head enough to focus on the blurred image he knew was O'Neill. "Don't."

The second word was more mouthed than spoken. O'Neill sensed the agony was beginning to recede, understanding what Santos had meant about tricking the brain. The natural response was to flood the body with endorphins or to shut down. Somehow, this bypassed that process.

Jack knew, too, Santos would simply apply more. Intensifying it, pushing the younger man closer and closer to madness. Suddenly, he understood and realized he'd made the wrong choice. Unlike the voltage, there was no relief from this agony. Just a slow build up that would eventually destroy Daniel. Not physically. The muscles would recover. There wasn't even any blood. But the pain, that would destroy him. It would burn into his memory and wake him in the middle of the night--every night for the rest of his life. And eventually, it would tip him over into the abyss. Daniel pulled in a ragged breath. The appeal in his eyes broke O'Neill's heart. For a moment brown eyes locked with blue--pain leaching the color out of both.

"Don't!" Daniel repeated the word, slightly more assured, not realizing he was gambling not with his body but with his sanity.

Santos grabbed Daniel's chin, wrenching the young man's head round to face his own. "Such bravery!" he mocked. "And here I was thinking you were nothing but O'Neill's academic puppy dog." He glanced at Jack. "Seems your influence has rubbed off on the good doctor here. You always did have a penchant for nobility."

Santos returned his attention to the young anthropologist. Nonchalantly he pulled a knife from the sheath strapped to his belt. Placing the point against the fabric of Daniel's pants, he tore a gaping hole from hip to knee. Without another word he moved casually back to the velvet pouch and selected a second needle. "Remember how it felt, Jack? First the arm--pure fire from wrist to shoulder. So much agony you think there can't be anything more painful. And then the thigh--when you discover there is."

This time as the needle hit its mark, Daniel leaned back against his restraints, opened his mouth, and screamed--a gut-wrenching cry which drove into Jack like a fist in his stomach.

"A name, O'Neill!" Santos' hand rested on Daniel's thigh.

"I can't." Jack's voice sounded half-strangled as he battled with his conscience. "Danny. Oh God, Danny. I can't."

As Daniel ran out of breath, the scream was silenced. A brief second of respite before the wheeze of lungs desperate for air, a soul desperate for release. O'Neill's name once more wrenched from an agonized frame. "Jack!"

It was a cry for mercy O'Neill couldn't answer.

Santos picked up a third needle. He circled Daniel once, watching pitilessly as his prey writhed.

"You know where this one goes, O'Neill."

He ran a finger across Daniel's collarbone, resting his finger in the hollow at the base of his neck. "They say the sensation resembles choking to death. Of course, the lack of air can result in brain damage. It all depends on just where the needle hits. What do you think, O'Neill? Seems to me he's having trouble enough breathing already, but..."

Santos nodded to Grant. "Hold him still."

Two bear-like arms grabbed the contorted body. The needle moved towards Daniel's throat then slid into quivering flesh. A horrifying bubbling sound burst out of the archaeologist. His eyes shot open as his mouth gaped. Lungs sucked desperately, but the brain was already convinced it was being starved. A harsh rasping noise filled the space as if Daniel was drowning on dry land.

"Stop it!" O'Neill staggered back from the scene, unconsciously putting his hands over his ears. "Damn you. Stop!" He was trembling, the hours of controlled emotion flaring out of him in a wild spiral. He could withstand torture and not break. He'd proved it over and over. What he couldn't stand was to watch helplessly as someone he cared about was subjected to the same thing he'd survived years ago.

Triumph surged through Santos. For the first time since he had had O'Neill in his clutches, he stepped right up to the bars of the cage. "A name, O'Neill." A noise from Daniel--barely recognizable as human. "Such a simple thing…just a name."

O'Neill's hands pressed tighter over his ears, shutting out everything except his own tortured conscience. "No."

It was whispered so quietly, Santos wasn't sure he heard it. But then his face twisted with anger. He snatched up a fourth needle and nodded curtly to Grant who once again bear-hugged the tortured body.

The sudden silence caught O'Neill's attention. Dragged out of his own personal agony, he watched Santos approach Daniel.

"There's a nerve we haven't touched yet, Jack." Santos' voice was icy with barely controlled anger. His hand went to Daniel's face, grabbing the young man's chin roughly. "The optical nerves are incredibly sensitive, you know. And..." he didn't even look at O'Neill. "Damage is usually permanent."

Santos' other hand raised, the deadly point of the needle moving toward Daniel's right eye.

Images flashed before Jack. Daniel, over-excited by some new find. Daniel's sense of wonder as the Stargate first burst into life. Daniel, brow furrowed, pencil tapping, trying to figure out the secret of an alien orb. Daniel, looking at him, wide blue eyes full of life and intelligence--and too damn much trust.

O'Neill fell to his knees. "Rob Sigmon. His name is Rob Sigmon."

***

Tension was a physical presence in the locker room. It sparked off the walls, ricocheting against the metal lockers, spiking fear and impatience past a thin veneer of professional stoicism.

Captain Samantha Carter watched her hands developing a fine, barely noticeable tremor as she stuffed equipment she hoped she would not have to use into a bag.

"General Hammond did say there would be a third person going with us." Teal'c finally broke the weighted silence. "I assume that is why we are having to wait here."

Carter started to bite out an answer but held the retort at the edge of her tongue, swallowing the anger and frustration back. Teal'c was on her side, and even through the ever present lack of expression that was the big man's trademark was still there looming over her, she could see the concern in her teammate, her friend. She reached up and gently touched his arm, her fingers wrapping around the massive, corded muscle beneath the material of his only civilian clothing.

He looked down at her and nodded. Another bout of silence.

Sam couldn't tolerate it any more. Might as well break the spell of worry by talking. Too bad Daniel wasn't here. He could fill a well of silence all by himself. The stray thought hurt. The whole reason they were outfitting themselves in Earth clothes and military weaponry was for that very reason. Daniel wasn't here. Neither was O'Neill. And she was a little startled to find out their absence left a void in her spirit like a black hole in space.

Jack O'Neill was the best C.O. she had ever served under. He was military enough to impose command and human enough to understand there were simply times when protocol carried less weight than humanity. Also, there was the fact she genuinely liked him. There was just enough rebel in him so it was never boring serving with him. She trusted him with her life, and she trusted him with her friendship.

Then there was Daniel--their goodness meter. The young scientist was the team's slightly daffy kid brother. The one who wandered through life only half conscious of the world around him even as he touched, poked, read, and studied that world. Daniel lost himself in the joy of discovery, a five-year-old turned loose in a backyard full of toys. Gentle, empathetic, brilliant, and not possessing a shred of self-preservation. Daniel would die for those he loved, she knew, and she was afraid one day he might do just so on some alien battlefield.

They were family.

One last glimpse at Teal'c's face and she had to camouflage a reactive smile. The bad guys had no idea who they were playing with. Nobody messed with Teal'c's family. Nobody.

With another impatient glance at her watch, Sam finished stuffing her armory into a backpack then dropped to a slumped seat on the wooden bench. Let's get this on the road. Or as O'Neill says, we're burning daylight. She hoped the third member of their covert op team would get here before her anxiety level spiked off the chart.

Even as the thought flickered through her head, she heard booted footsteps approaching them.

Major General George Hammond took the corner of the equipment lockers and swung into view.

Only once had Sam seen the general in civvies: at Daniel's impromptu wake at Jack's house. She wasn't expecting him to show up here looking like he'd just finished eighteen holes on the local golf course.

"General…"

Hammond cut off her question. "Are we ready to go, people?"

"We, sir?" Sam couldn't resist the query.

"We, Captain."

Hammond hadn't been stuck behind a desk for all of the thirty years he had served in the military. Sam couldn't bite down the smile touching her face. "Yes, sir," she said with a salute.

Her superior noted wryly, "Perhaps we should confine the salutes while on this mission, Captain."

Sam let her smile slip back. "Yes, sir."

***

Santos spun round, the triumph on his face spearing Jack. No longer seeing the colonel as a threat, he strode right to the bars of the cage, savoring the sight of the broken man. "Excellent, O'Neill. Excellent. Now where do I find him?"

Jack took in a long, shuddering breath. It was over. He'd betrayed Sigmon. Betrayed the man's family. Everything he'd fought for. Everything he'd believed in. Santos had torn it from him, spat on it, and ground it under foot. He couldn't even make himself believe his betrayal had saved Daniel. If they were lucky, Santos would now take them somewhere remote and put a bullet in their heads. If they weren't...

"The address." Santos' voice was as smooth and sickly as caramel. He knew the routine. Knew there was nothing holding O'Neill back now. That everything he wanted was in his grasp. "Let's start with the town."

"Santos!" The voice behind him was sharp. The mercenary turned to see Grant standing in front of Jackson. The young man's head hung limply on his chest, his lips blue, the eyes open, lifeless.

"No!" The word was growled as Santos saw his bargaining chip slip through his fingers. He glanced once at Jack and saw the storm of conflicting emotions race across the soldier's face. "Cut him down!"

The whisper of a sharp blade sliced through the air, and Jackson folded to the floor. Suddenly tormentor became life saver. Santos pulled the needles from the lifeless body, scattering them like deadly icicles across the floor of the gloomy room. Then, with chilling expertise, he set about snatching back the life that had cheated him of his prize.

Chest compressions. One, two, three, four, five. Santos tipped Daniel's head back, checked his airways, breathed into him. More chest compressions. "Damn you, Jackson," he cursed.

Still on his knees, O'Neill watched the drama unfold before him. This time his emotionless expression was real. On the verge of total betrayal, Daniel had rescued him but at what price? Unaware of doing so, O'Neill began to breathe in rhythm with Santos. One, two, three, four, five. His mind was unable to process thought other than the fact Daniel was gone. Daniel had saved Sigmon. Daniel was free.

"How long?" Santos glanced up at Grant as he moved from breaths to compressions.

"What?"

"How long has he been out?"

A blank look. Grant shrugged. "How the hell should I know? Minutes. Five, Six. What difference does it make?"

Santos' attention returned to the lifeless scientist. "One, two, three, four, five. You're not getting out of it this easily, Jackson. One, two. Business isn't finished yet. Three, four. I always... Five. Win!"

A strangled sound burst from Daniel. His chest rose, stopped, and rose again. Slowly, Santos got to his feet, his hands shaking with unaccustomed exhaustion. His eyes met O'Neill's, and then he simply turned away and walked towards the door.

"Santos?" The voice was Grant's. "What should we do with him?"

The mercenary neither paused nor turned. "Put him back with O'Neill."

Grant gave his departing boss a sour look before moving to Daniel. The young man, his hands still bound tightly in front of him, began to roll slowly on to his right side as full consciousness returned. As Grant spoke, the danger of the situation suddenly penetrated O'Neill's traumatized brain.

"What do you say, Tony? You and I could have a little fun with our resident scientist while your uncle is cooling off."

"Fun?" For a moment the younger goon didn't understand.

Grant leaned down and effortlessly pulled Daniel to his feet. "Yes. Whatever takes your fancy." He pushed the unresisting scientist in the back, causing Daniel to stumble towards the table.

"What are you doing?"

"What do you think I'm doing?" Grant's moronic smile widened as he recognized Daniel had regained enough brain power to realize what was happening. As his captive half-turned to avoid where his journey was taking him, Grant caught hold of his tethered hands. "Just how I like it," he drawled. "Bound and helpless." His eyes traveled from the still handsome face downward with deliberate slowness.

"Grant, stop it!" Fear of his uncle suddenly made a hero out of Tony. "You'll kill him."

Grant pushed Daniel to one side with a snarl, oblivious to the fact the action sent the young man sprawling to the floor. He turned angrily towards his companion. "Who put you in charge?"

Tony backed away. "Think, Grant. Think! You'll kill him. You know you will! And then Santos will kill you!"

Yes think, O'Neill was desperately praying in his cage as he watched Daniel attempt to find his feet. Suddenly, Daniel seemed to reach out for something, a low hiss of pain passing his lips as he did so. O'Neill blinked, not sure what he had just witnessed.

For a long moment, Grant stared Tony down. Then, without another word, he snatched up Daniel and manhandled him roughly to the door of the cage. "Open the door!" he snarled, trying to reclaim some sort of control of the situation. As Tony hurried to obey, Grant shoved Daniel face forward to the bars and leaned heavily against him, letting him feel the eagerness in his body. "This is just a rain check," he whispered vehemently. Without further ado, he tossed the scientist back into his prison.

Jack's mind registered the lingering scent of musk on Daniel's skin as if Grant had somehow marked him before his young friend crashed into him. He quickly gave the needed, steadying support.

"Hands," Daniel hissed painfully as soon as he was alone with Jack.

O'Neill didn't hesitate, moving to Daniel's side and struggling with the rope.

"God, no!" Daniel pulled his arms free of O'Neill and held them out again, emphasizing they were palm-up. "Hands!"

This time Jack caught a glimpse of something shining between Daniel's fingers. He let out a long low whistle. Embedded at least two inches into Daniel's left palm was one of Santos' needles. "You pushed that into your own hand?"

"Get it out!" Daniel was almost hysterical.

Jack pinched the small protruding point between his thumb and forefinger and pulled it hard and fast. Daniel let out a strangled cry before sinking to his knees, the fear which had given him strength for the past few minutes abruptly gone. "I hope to hell you know how to pick a lock, Jack."

For the first time in way too many hours, O'Neill smiled. "Danny, I could kiss you."

Jackson somehow dredged up a smile before collapsing, totally exhausted and drained, onto the mattress. "Do you think you could untie me first?"

O'Neill made short work of the ropes, trying to hide his concern at the ragged flesh around Daniel's wrists. His companion lay motionless on the mattress, his eyes squeezed tight, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Gently, O'Neill pushed the young man's damp hair back from his forehead, relieved to see the deathly blue tinge of his skin was slowly returning to a more normal pallor. The touch of his hand was rewarded by Daniel's eyes flickering open.

O'Neill forced a smile over the concern, but when he spoke, his voice barely managed to get the words out over the lump in his throat. "Daniel, if there's anything I can do?"

"Thirsty."

O'Neill moved instantly, snatching up a cracked mug which remained from breakfast. He glanced at the bucket which still contained the gory remainder of an earlier hour and realized there was nothing to drink except the dregs of cold coffee. Trying to still his shaking hands, he poured what was left of the thick liquid and hurried back to Daniel's side. He eased the young man into a sitting position, taking his weight on his own chest.

Daniel tried to reach for the cup, but his abused arm muscles refused to do his bidding. "Gonna.. spill..."

"It's okay," Jack whispered, lifting the container to Daniel's lips.

The young man breathed in the strong aroma of sour coffee, wrinkled his nose in an expression Jack couldn't decipher as being either disgust or pleasure, and took a large gulp.

"More?" Daniel breathed the word of appeal as he drained the final mouthful, apparently unconcerned about the sludge-like texture.

"That's all there is." O'Neill cursed inwardly at his inability to meet even this most basic of needs. He set the cup down and folded his arms around the quivering body, not knowing if the tremors were caused by cold, fear or simply a reaction to the pain and abuse. Concern about decorum had long since vanished between the two men, and Daniel merely sighed in relief at the sense of security O'Neill's touch gave him as he leaned heavily against the older man.

Silence fell between them, no more words needing to be said, no more emotions needing to be laid bare. They were simply two friends, trapped in a nightmare from which both now suspected at least one of them would not escape. Comfort, no matter how meager, was to be taken wherever it could be grasped. And if it was in the touch of one human against another, then it would suffice.

***

"Dinner was wonderful, hon," Rob Sigmon praised as they stood alone on the front porch. Their company had gone, and the house behind them lay empty until their eldest came home.

Lisa leaned against his chest as his arms wrapped around her, savoring the warmth of his lean body. They stood like that for a long moment and watched the lightning dance with the shadows on the horizon. A distant growl of thunder rumbled the land beneath their feet. She shivered.

"Cold?"

"Not now," Lisa sighed as his arms held tighter. "How was work?"

"Same old, same old."

"Nothing wrong?" She couldn't help probing. Even safe in his embrace, the crackle of trouble crawled beneath her skin. A sizzling pop split the heavens before thunder boomed.

"Wow, that was close!"

"Want to go inside?" she asked, feeling silly about the unexplained dread inside her.

"In a moment." He pillowed his cheek against her hair and nuzzled.

She welcomed the touch, turning to meet his lips with hers. Passion flared between them as bright and fierce as the approaching storm. His arms crushed her to him as the kiss intensified. Almost gasping for breath, Lisa pulled back a little when it ended, slightly dazed. Instantly, she missed the security of his hug. Shadows drew close again.

"Love you."

"Grow old with me?" she asked, letting the sense of home and his love envelop her heart and silence her worries.

He smiled at the old game. "Sure," he whispered. "The best is yet to be."

***

As the door to the room creaked open once again, O'Neill hastily shoved the needle into his pocket. Damn. No way Santos has been gone for more than an hour or two. Either that or coaxing the silver metal into a shape he could use to pick the lock had taken him far longer than he realized. If he was right though and Santo