"Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string."

Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)

The Iron String

Chapter 1

Yukon Territories

Nowhere else combines the conveniences of the modern age with the freedom and adventure of living on the edge of a vast, unspoiled wilderness in quite the same way as Canada. The climate was harsh, often not getting above freezing even in August. But August was long past and soon they'd all be celebrating Christmas and New Year's.

The snow was deep and thick, piled up around the sides of the log cabin, wood pile and shed. It made walking, staying warm and life in general difficult. On the other hand, the world looked like a wonderland with the sun glinting off the ice crystals making it appear that diamonds had been scattered over the landscape and in the trees.

A five-year old Dodge Ram extended cab pick-up squatted within the heated two-car garage, the warmth keeping the engine block from freezing. The first winter Joseph Martin had lived in his current location, he'd left the engine running twenty-four seven while he designed and built the special heating unit for the garage. The other half of the building housed a trailer and a snowmobile which he used for tracking the indigenous wildlife.

Joseph never locked his doors-living so far from everything made it unnecessary. Feet propped up on a softly cushioned ottoman, he nearly jumped out of his skin when someone banged on the door. Not knocked, like with a fist. This person hit the wood with the flat of the palm in such a way that Joseph knew that his or her strength had reached its limits. That they just couldn't make it another step. Just in case it was a ruse, he snatched up the shotgun beside his chair, approaching the door with caution. He reached over and yanked the door open, immediately aim at where he assumed the chest would be. "Oh, my God!"

The man lying in a heap on top of the welcome mat had been badly burned on the right side of his face, along his right arm and part of the right leg. The left wrist had been broken and was supported by a makeshift sling. He was wearing gloves so hopefully he hadn't lost any fingers to frostbite.

Though they were of a size, Joseph was incredibly strong. He rolled the man onto his back, catching him under the arms and dragging him inside and over to the heater that looked like an old fashioned potbelly stove. His clothes were torn and burned in places, and now that the heat was melting the ice, they became wet causing him to shiver. The first order of business was to get him out of them.

He dragged three blankets from the bedroom, dropping them beside the man. His guest might've been considered handsome at one time, but the burns had taken that from him. Plastic surgery could give it back, but he had to keep him alive long enough for the hundred and fifty-seven mile trip into town. From there he'd been flown to Fairbanks or Anchorage then on to a specialist in Canada or one of the upper U.S. states, Seattle most likely.

Using a pair of super sharp scissors, Joseph cut the clothing from his guest's body and covered him with the blankets while he removed the boots and socks revealing that there was no sign of frostbite here either. Though unusual, it wasn't unheard of, and Joseph counted the man lucky. Hell, he was lucky to have survived whatever had happened to him.

His visitor must have been injured in the explosion he'd heard the day before. At first Joseph thought it was a controlled avalanche in hopes to keep a bigger one from happening. Apparently, he was wrong. Maybe this guy was the pilot or passenger in a plane that crashed. The sheriff's office hadn't contacted him on the HAM radio and speculation was useless until he regained consciousness, so Joseph tucked the blankets around the man and went to heat up some of the leftover stew from dinner the night before, and wait for his guest to wake up.

Alamogordo, New Mexico

Fifteen Months Later

"That's healed very nicely, Mr. Smith. There shouldn't be any lasting numbness." Dr. Bennett pulled off his latex gloves and rolled them into a ball as his patient sat up. "You won't need more surgery."

The patient stripped off the hospital gown covering the upper half of his body. The lower end of the barely noticeable scar on his right side slipped under the edge of his jeans. He put on his shirt, buttoning the front and tucking it in while the doctor continued to speak. What he said made no difference to Smith. This would be the last time they'd meet under any circumstances.

"…finish the current round of antibiotics and you're done. In record time, I might add. Most people who come to me need several surgeries to complete the grafting and reconstructions, and experience some sort of negative side effect. You, however, have shown no signs of complications. No setbacks of any kind." Bennett pulled the wireless keyboard close and began typing.

"I've always healed quickly, and I appreciate you allowing me to see you this late. I don't want the board of directors to think I can't handle the work."

"Don't mind at all, Mr. Smith. My wife passed on a few years ago and we never had children. It's just me and the dog."

As he attached the cuffs, Smith kept his eyes on the monitor, reading along as Bennett typed. His company was small yet steadily growing. He expected they would increase their profits by thirty-two percent in the next quarter with similar increases going forward. Soon they would be a household name. At least that's what he told the doctor.

When finished dressing, he yanked a single glove from the box on the counter and pulled it on. From his pocket he took a sealed container that held a small amount of blue ointment. He swirled his index finger in the substance to liberally coat the end, recapped the container and dropped it back in his pocket as he quietly approached Bennett. It hadn't taken long to gain the doctor's trust so he thought nothing of the fact that Smith was now standing directly behind him. "I'm sorry to hear that. Does someone look after your dog when you're gone?"

"My housekeeper. I'll be taking some time off soon then we'll go somewhere that's dog friendly. Take long walks or do nothing at all. His name's Yogi. Not that he's smarter than the average bear. It just seemed to fit. By the way, thank you for donating the upgraded computer and monitoring systems to the medical complex. It's made us ninety-eight percent paper-free. And the program that renders the tablets inert when they're taken off the hospital property has cut equipment losses-s-s…"

The last word hissed from Bennett's mouth when Smith swiped the ointment over his neck. The doctor was dead within seconds the fast-acting poison. "Sorry, doctor. Even with patient confidentiality, I can't take the risk that this will get out. My identity has to remain secret. No one can know that I'm alive or what I look like."

Smith let the body fall to one side, replacing Bennett in front of the computer. He inserted a thumb drive into the port, typed a few commands and within seconds, every file for one David Smith was destroyed, but it didn't stop there. Using a type of code he'd created just for this purpose, he sent the virus out to the Internet to hunt down and remove all mention of this particular David Smith. The moment a computer was turned on, it would attack. Soon, there would no longer be any record of the surgery, blood work, MRI's or any other tests or procedures that had been performed on a man matching his description.

It helped that he looked nothing like he had before the event that changed his life forever. He hadn't been killed outright, and that alone was a miracle. That he hadn't died of exposure or his injuries was the second miracle. However, finding Dr. Bennett wasn't. Smith had specifically sought him out when he moved to Alamogordo because he'd wanted the best and most discrete to restore the burned and scarred areas of his body. The photo he had given the doctor bore almost no resemblance to his real face, the one he'd been born with. While he had to dye his hair and use contacts to change his eye color, the rest was easy and much more permanent.

Pocketing the thumb drive, Smith picked the doctor up, carried him into his office and placed him behind the desk where he'd be found when the staff arrived in the morning. An autopsy would show cause of death as a stroke.

Retrieving his jacket from the examining room, Smith shrugged into it on as he entered the stairwell. On his way into the building for his appointment, he'd taken care of the cameras. He got into his car, opened the glove compartment and took out a tablet. With just a few commands, he restored the video feeds in the medical building to normal functioning knowing that security had seen nothing amiss.

Driving through the streets of Alamogordo, Smith, whose real name had been taken from him and replaced with another several years ago, went over the plan in his head again. He followed as many random threads as he could to determine the most efficient conduit to achieve his goal: the disgrace, dishonor, and eventual death of those who had ruined his life.

Less than thirty minutes later, he parked and climbed to his apartment on the third floor. The windows faced east so he could see the sunrise over the mountains in the morning. It was dark now, but the view meant nothing to him as he sipped a cold beer and ate cold pizza while plotting his revenge. Tomorrow he'd be gone, leaving behind everything that reminded him of his time here. All but the clothes on his back, the computer…and his new face.

Most nights, he stayed up to work on his research, but tonight he would sleep and be gone before the sun rose. The manager wouldn't care that he left without notice. The rent was paid up until the first. There was plenty of time for the place to be made ready for a new tenant.

Nashville, Tennessee

Eighteen Months Later

After Manila, Aaron and Marta spent the next two years on the run, never staying more than a few weeks in any one place. Not long after their daring escape from LARX-3, they professed their love for each other, and while he would always care for Marta, those feelings had dimmed once they were home. Without the constant threat of danger to bind them together, they found their relationship had little else, aside from sex, to keep it going.

Wanting something as different as possible from his previous profession, he'd trained to become a contractor. To make something from nothing but a pile of lumber and tile, turning it into a bathroom, kitchen or playroom, soothed him. Rebuilding a home that had been allowed to flounder in years of neglect and making it livable again reminded him of what had been done for him. Like the homes he worked on, he had been rebuilt, remade into who he'd been under Byer's command, and would never go back.

The feel of the wood as it took shape under his hands satisfied him in a way he needed at this time in his life. Hammering nails, cutting and fitting marble, tile or Formica. Wiring an entire house then flipping a switch and seeing everything light up. The smiles on the faces of clients when he took their ideas and brought them to life filled him with pride in his accomplishments.

And using a nail gun beat the hell out of the real thing any day. He still kept them around though. Just in case.

Long before entering Outcome, even before enlisting in the Army, he remembered getting physically ill watching a nature program where a lioness chased down and killed an injured gazelle. Then came Outcome, and suddenly he was the killer. Not like a lioness who only did what she had to, what instinct told her to do. He did it under orders. At least the lioness had the stones to meet her prey head on. His job was to take out the target without being seen or getting caught, leaving no evidence behind. The ones he killed never even saw it coming. Alive one moment. Dead the next. No in between. One…then zero.

As for Marta… She worked for one of the top pharmaceutical companies in the world and spent much of her free time with the cream of society as well as the movers and shakers in politics. Policy makers, the rich, famous, and sometimes even the infamous.

Aaron would come home smelling of sweat, sawdust and dirt wanting nothing more than to take a long hot shower, eat dinner and get into bed with the woman he loved. But instead of the quiet evenings he envisioned, more often than not he would come home to find a note from Marta telling him not to wait up. Others, there would be a voicemail message on his cell telling him she had to work late.

She told him repeatedly that it didn't matter what he did for a living, and she even believed it herself. At least in the beginning. But not once in the time they'd lived together after returning to the U.S. had he been invited to attend one of the black tie affairs at which her company insisted she appear. Places where one went not to have fun, but to see and be seen with and by the elite of the community. The people from whom the company would solicit vast sums to keep their research state-of-the-art. That last night he asked why. She just shook her head and walked away, muttering that she was too tired to talk.

That hadn't been the first time or their first fight. Over the months, their disagreements had increased in frequency, duration and intensity. More often than not with him being the one to apologize even when he hadn't been in the wrong, and usually on the advice of his former boss. The man had been married for more than forty years and Aaron figured he knew something about relationships between men and women for it to have lasted that long.

The enhancements allowed him to see and hear things that were invisible to others, but he had ignored the evidence that told him this was not the way it should be between two people who loved each other. His eyes had finally seen what his mind had been trying to tell him. That night, embarrassment and guilt were in Marta's eyes and her bearing. He realized it had been there for some time.

He had planned an elegant dinner at her favorite restaurant that night, Lavendou Café du Monde. Had even rented a suit. Seeing his reflection all decked out in the store, he had to admit he cleaned up pretty good. Dinner and dancing, followed by a romantic stroll along the concourse, stopping to rest at the fountain, where he planned to propose.

Instead of celebrating their engagement, they had a huge fight that ended when she threw him out with little more than his toothbrush and the clothes in his "go" bag. He called her a few days later and to his surprise, she'd answered causing him to hope they'd soon be back together. But it wasn't to be. After asking for his current address, she begged off, and the next time he called, the number was disconnected. A week later, he came home to find boxes stacked on the stairs in front of his garage apartment. The return address was a post office box in California making him wonder if she'd moved.

It would be easy enough to get her address and phone number, but if she didn't want to see him, what would be the point? And making a scene at her job in front of the people she worked with would only fuel the anger and resentment they had toward each other.

So Aaron moved to Nashville and hired on with a renovating firm. Within six months, he'd saved enough money to make an offer to buy the company from his employer. The man, in his late sixties and ready to retire, had jumped at the chance, even going so far as to co-sign a loan for the balance.

Having just left a meeting with a new client, Aaron was flush with success at winning a project large enough to require the hiring of additional employees. Scrolling his contacts, he dialed Tony as he returned to his truck. "It's Aaron…yeah, we got it. Told you we'd…."

As he climbed into his truck, he turned the key just in time to hear the tail end of the news. He reached out to turn off the radio, stopping to listen when the subject seized his attention. "Hey, Tony. I'll call you back."

Scanning the stations until he found another news program, he listened raptly to the anchor recount the number of deaths attributed to a new designer drug that was making the rounds in some of the smaller big cities. From the perspective of one who'd gone up against the Mexican drug cartels and had come out of the game with his ass still intact, it angered him that a new player was now moving into the void he'd created. And the list of side effects rang some really loud bells. They were very familiar to one who'd gone through them.

It was a terrible thing, this new drug. He also knew that one person, man or woman, could make a difference, though he had no wish to be involved in that life again. The creator of the drug, called Trance for the euphoric effect it had on its users until the side effects kicked in, had to be someone he knew or someone who'd been involved in the program. Of the doctors who had survived the massacre, none came to mind who would misuse their knowledge in such a despicable manner. Especially not Marta.

The former Outcome agent called his office manager, a petite, fiery red-head named Frankie, to let her know he would be out of town for a while with no way to be contacted, maybe as much as a month. She was to have Tony take charge, go through the resumes in their files and hire five new guys, get the background checks and drug testing completed so they'd be ready to go when the new project got underway in six weeks.

If something happened that he couldn't be back by then, Tony was more than capable of seeing to it that the work got done on time, within budget and met or exceeded the building code standards. Aaron didn't anticipate that happening, but it was best to be prepared.

Going out to the garage, he activated the door opener, ducking under before it had rolled to the top. He pulled the truck inside, locked it and all the doors and returned to the living room.

Opening the hidden trap under the bedroom rug, he descended into the basement, his secret lair, as it were. Electronic equipment filled tables and shelves alongside tech manuals that had been discarded once Aaron had read and committed them to memory. Sitting down at the main terminal, he began his research into Trance. So far, only a few cities had been hit. But there was something about the witness reports that bothered him.

Most users experienced minor flu-like symptoms, got well and reported feeling better than they had in years. Stronger, more aware of everything. Others experiences a blah feeling followed by euphoria-the reason it had been nicknamed Trance-and increased sensitivity to light and sound. Still others, thankfully just a few, had become so ill they died, usually due to a subdural hematoma. The autopsies showed that these individuals had inherent weakness in one or more blood vessels in the brain. If they hadn't died from taking Trance, they'd have had a stroke at some point in their lives. There were also a few who reported the euphoric sensation, but it had no lasting effects.

When he stopped to rub his eyes, Aaron discovered that he'd been sitting at the computer researching and compiling data for almost a full day without stopping. He got to his feet, working the kinks out of his body and stretching muscles not used to staying hunched over a computer for long periods. His bladder twinged and he went upstairs to use the first floor bathroom before he got something to eat. The 'fridge was nearly empty so he picked up his landline and called the Italian restaurant up the street. The owner answered, switching from English to Italian when he realized it was Aaron. The place wasn't open, but Mario always made an exception for Aaron since the day he thwarted an attempted robbery.

Twenty minutes later, there was a knock at the back door. Aaron accepted a bag surrounded by the aroma of tomatoes, garlic, basil, oregano…he sniffed the air…and nutmeg. That meant Veal Scaloppine with Asparagus Cream and Tagliatelle Bongole. He put the veal in the refrigerator and carried the rest of his booty down to the basement to continue his research.

Several Days Later

After sleeping all night and a good part of the day, Aaron quickly filled a duffle bag with the things he couldn't do without then shoved his computer into the backpack. Going out the back way, he walked to the nearest used car lot, paid cash for a beater vehicle. It had just been traded in that morning, but aside from a full tank of gas, he declined to have the vehicle examined by the mechanics. He tossed his bags in the trunk and peeled out of the lot.

Using the high-end SmartPhone he'd upgraded himself, he accessed one of the all-in-one travel sites and booked the next flight to Colorado Springs, stopping on the way to buy a map of the United States. Back in the car, he pulled into traffic, flipping on his blinker when reached the highway that would take him to the airport. Pulling into a long-term parking facility, he locked up and passed the keys over to the attendant. He swiped his card and passed a finger over the tablet presented for his signature then jogged to catch the shuttle to the terminal.

The shape of his cell phone pressed against his thigh where he'd shoved it into the front pocket of his pants. The urge to call the woman he'd once loved came close to overwhelming him, but he wouldn't. Didn't dare, even to warn her to be careful. If the person or persons responsible for the "mysterious deaths" around the country didn't already know about her, calling would draw attention. And if they discovered her existence, she could be used against him. He was done with that life. Never again would he allow another to control every aspect of his existence the way Outcome had. Just as soon as he stopped whoever was poisoning the people of America.

Accepting a drink but refusing food, Aaron used a Sharpie to mark on the laminated map the cities, number of deaths and comas, along with the dates. It didn't take long to see a pattern begin to emerge. He could do this alone, just not easily. There was someone he could turn to for help, Jason Bourne, but Jason was out of the country. The man he had in mind would come to his aid, no questions asked. He sent a text, not knowing if this man would even be in a position to help. The phone vibrated in his hand.

Long time, no text. What's up?

The message lightened his mood somewhat. Then-Air Force Captain John Sheppard, Aaron, and Sergeant Javier Esposito, a sniper with Special Forces, had joined together on a mission in Afghanistan several years ago when he was still Outcome Five. The op had gone sideways in a big way long before Byer arrived to take control. With Sheppard's and Esposito's help, Aaron put a hastily concocted plan B into action. It hadn't gone off as well as the first should've, but the job got done.

Since Fayzabad, this was only the third time the two men had been in contact. The first had been a few months after escaping from the asset in Manila. Marta had come down with appendicitis and, with her unable to work and Aaron's job prospects slim, they'd needed money to live and travel.

His phone rang within minutes of sending the text. The voice on the other end had been business-like in his announcement that two hundred-fifty thousand dollars would be waiting at the Bank of Palermo in Italy under the name David Rossi. At least Aaron thought the person on the phone was male, but he couldn't be a hundred percent certain. He only knew it hadn't been Sheppard. And no mentioned had ever been made regarding paying the money back.

The next contact was when the couple had returned to the U.S. after nearly two years on the run. That time it had been in the form of a job offer from someone named Kevin King who worked for Sheppard Industries. The thought of working in an office didn't appeal so he'd turned down the generous proposal along with the offer to lend him money to get started in whatever business venture he had planned.

Aside from the men who worked for him, Sheppard was the closest he had to a friend. And Jason Bourne, of course. The fact that they were the last of their kind had drawn the two ex-government agents together as friends in a time when they both needed someone who understood what it was like to act purely on instinct in tense situations.

Storm's coming. A big one. Wouldn't want you to step in something nasty, but I could use some help. Holding the phone in one hand, Aaron waited for a response, letting out a breath he didn't realize he was holding when it came.

Don't mind the rain. I'll wear boots.

Aaron used his thumb to type the answer. Make 'em hip waders.

You're just a ray of sunshine, aren't you? Red Wings vs Stars.

He didn't answer the code because none was expected. Shutting off the phone, he boarded the plane, took his seat and buckled in. Soon, they were in the air.

When they arrived at the airport, Aaron shoved his hands deep in his pockets, awaiting his turn to board the hotel shuttle behind the group already in line. The weather was chilly and damp with nearly everyone in the same pose, shoulders hunched against the wind, hoods of their jackets or hats pulled low in the front as the huge van pulled away from the curb.

~~O~~

The infirmary was quiet now, but an hour ago, that hadn't been the case. Sergeant Waller had reported to the physician on duty exhibiting symptoms of a flu-like illness along with sensitivity to light and sound. Within a few minutes of his arrival, he passed out and fell into a coma. Dr. Lam rushed the tests and went over them in detail with her staff. The only anomaly they found was in the presence of increased neurotransmitter and oxygen production in the brain scans. There was also amplified brain activity as though he were processing an excess of internal and external stimuli.

Mitchell led the team that searched the young Marine's quarters. Striding into the infirmary an hour later, he handed a small plastic bag to Lam. "Found these in Waller's room. I questioned his squad and his friends, but so far no one seems to know where he got 'em. He just came back from leave. Might've gotten them at home."

Lam handed the bag to one of the medical techs. The man hustled from the room to have them analyzed. "I'll let you know what we find."

"In the meantime, I'm gonna give them time to think it over, let the pot simmer a bit then question 'em again."

Resting her elbow on the desk and dropping her head into her palm, Lam waved at the monitor on the wall showing Waller's test results. "Just don't do anything to them that I can't fix."

Coming around the desk, he crouched next to her chair, his right hand urging her close enough to kiss. "Wouldn't think of it, darlin'."

"Cam! What if someone sees us?"

He grinned when she pushed him away. "So what? I'm allowed to have a girl."

"You're also in charge until Mom and Dad get back from their second honeymoon. Now go. Be in charge. I'll call if there's a change in his condition."

"Guess this means we're not havin' dinner in town tonight." With a sigh, he stood up to his full six feet plus-with boots. "How 'bout I bring us a couple of sandwiches from the Mess Hall?"

Lam gave him a weary yet affectionate smile. "And coffee, please. Lots of it."

"Will do. I'll even throw in a couple of Grandma's macaroons." Lam followed Mitchell out to the ward to check on Waller and the other patients. Mitchell waved to the leader of SG-4 still recuperating from surgery. Colonel Hooper flipped him off in reply.

~~O~~

Colonel John Sheppard hitched his duffle bag higher on his shoulder, swept his eyes around the room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything then left for the 'gate room. He was headed for Earth and vacation with his family. Though he tried to stay positive about the event, he couldn't help being just a little apprehensive about spending time with his family, and about being away from Atlantis for over a month. Not that he thought Woolsey'd find out they could get along without him. Just that he wasn't used to relaxing and taking life easy. At first he thought it would be a welcome change from the constant threat of the Wraith. But that wasn't it.

When Atlantis returned to Pegasus, Todd had been dropped off on a planet with a Stargate so he wouldn't know their ultimate location. The choice had been made not to return to New Athos under the assumption that it had been found by the Wraith factions roaming Pegasus and still trying to find their way to Earth. Taking over Atlantis would give them all the intel they needed to do that. Assuming, of course, that the faction destroyed over Earth hadn't shared what they knew with the others. It didn't seem likely. Atlantis had stayed on Earth for eighteen months and there had been not even a whisper of the Wraith.

Choosing to set it all aside for now, he joined the thirty or so civilians and military rotating back to Earth for leave, vacation or reassignment. Turning to look up at the Ops station, she saw Chuck at the railing waiting for the word, so he gave it. "Dial Earth, Chuck."

TBC