Win-Win
Takes place after Shades of Grey. In prison while preparing for his court martial on treason charges, Makepeace sets in motion a last-ditch effort to gain freedom for himself.
Thanks to Su for her comments and to heathereliz for her beta; they both made this story better.
Robert Makepeace, prisoner, former commander of SG-3 and most recently SG-1, leaned forward over the table that separated him from his JAG attorney. "Do this and these bullshit charges will go away for sure. They have nothing else on me. I could walk away from this! And you get to play SEAL again. It's a win-win."
The attorney considered the familiar face along with the request. He and Bob went back a long way, all the way back to Annapolis. Though he'd chosen the Navy and Bob the Marine Corps, they stayed in close contact—at least as close as their respective jobs allowed. They'd do anything for each other, so there was no doubt that he'd do what Bob asked.
And Bob was right. There was only one eyewitness to testify that he had "stolen" something off-world. That witness could easily be discredited. He could've planted the item on Bob when he strapped Bob's wrists together, as if he were a common criminal. He had motive to set Bob up: A Marine, rather than that AF major, had taken over his team. Anyone who understood military politics and rivalries would understand that.
There was a catch, though. A few of the others accused in the "looting" of alien technology were busy turning on their fellow believers to avoid a possible death sentence or life without parole. Even discrediting the eyewitness wouldn't be enough when considered along with the others' testimony. Too many people singing the same song.
The eyewitness would have to go. He was definitely more credible than the others. With him out of the picture, the others would be much harder to believe and Bob would have a very good shot at freedom.
The tall, heavily muscled man took a deep breath and blew it out through pursed lips, almost a whistle. He owed Bob for his own freedom, having given him a false alibi for several serious felony charges during their Academy days. "This intel is good, right?"
"Abso-fuckin'-lutely, Matt."
"I'm in then." His lips curled into a hungry, feral grin. He thought about some of the information—nothing on paper, just words that no one else would hear—Bob had just told him earlier and a preliminary plan began to form. "Give me a couple days to work out the details. Once I'm ready, I'll activate your mole."
"Remember what I told you about him. The motherfuckin' traitor is black ops, a freakin' ghost. Smart. Very dangerous. Doesn't get cocky. He's got that sixth sense, too. In spades. His is the only team with all of the original members after almost three years." Even he'd lost team members to death. Hell, none of O'Neill's team even has the decency to stay dead, Makepeace thought as jealous anger bubbled up from his gut. "Do not underestimate him or you'll wind up underground. Or that fat bastard O-8. That extra weight's only slowed him down a little and he's sharp."
"Why take him out?"
"Because he agreed to work with 'people' who aren't willing to help us protect ourselves when the bad guys arrive to kill anybody they can't enslave or turn into zombies. They're the traitors, not me."
Matt tapped his fingers together a few times, then said, "I'll get you outta here, Bob. Don't you fret, leatherneck. And make sure your bags are packed." First thing he'd do would be to ask his superior officer for a few days' leave. Faking a re-injury to his bum knee during a run would give him the needed excuse. And alibi, should it ever come to that.
######
Matt Chambers was pleased to discover that Bob's intel on Jack O'Neill and George Hammond was thorough and objective. Just like Mr. Paranoia to consider the higher-ups in his assigned duties enemies rather than friendlies. And he does know his enemies.
A little skulking around, both at a distance and as close as he dared, at O'Neill and Hammond's homes gave him a wealth of options. Not very security-minded, are you, Colonel? Especially considering all your enemies.
Adding the schedule of meetings into the mix, he finalized the plan. A simple plan, but sure to be effective.
######
Lisel Gruber, a computer scientist and civilian contractor at the SGC and one of Robert Makepeace's lovers, was brushing her long, chestnut hair when the phone rang. She didn't recognize the number on Caller ID. She let it ring four times before deciding to finally answer it. "Hello."
"Lisel? This is Randy, Nancy's friend. She said you'd like to meet me. How about a drink tonight, about 7, at Osgood's?"
Her suddenly pounding heart moved out of her chest and into her throat. This caller was speaking the code words Robert had told her she'd hear soon. Forcing herself to swallow past the imagined lump crowding her vocal cords, she replied evenly, "That would be great, Randy, but I can't tonight. I have to work the evening shift. Will tomorrow work for you?"
"Absolutely. Same time, same place." They said their good-byes and hung up.
Lisel began to shake as she came down from the adrenaline rush. Any trouble she could get into for this should she be discovered would be worth it. Though he'd never said anything directly to her about it, she knew Master didn't care much for Jack O'Neill. She always knew when that sneaky, cheating flyboy had bested her lover in some contest of strength or skills in the gym or on the training field. His caning and whipping of her after his unjust defeats would almost have her use the safe word, and he would thrust into her so hard she'd have trouble walking or sitting for a couple of days. But he'd be free soon with her help. And back to dominating her.
Oh, yes, she couldn't be happier to play her part in bringing Jack O'Neill down.
######
The private dining room at the back of Falstaff's Restaurant & Bar provided a welcome change of scenery for several SG team leaders and Teal'c, all of whom were heavily involved in training candidates and current personnel. The disruptions on base could be very problematic at times. After an appeal to General Hammond by his second in command and the lead of this group, O'Neill got to chair a meeting off-base once a month. The room would be swept for bugs and a signal jammer would be set up to maintain security, which wasn't an issue for the new owner of the eatery—a former officer in the Stargate program who had to take a medical discharge.
Tonight had been productive, despite the pitchers of Falstaff's excellent microbrew, which also boosted morale. They were wrapping up when someone knocked on the door.
A quick glance around the room told O'Neill that anything remotely incriminating or classified was out of sight. He nodded to Teal'c, who was closest to the door. He unlocked it and allowed the owner entry. He limped directly to O'Neill.
"Yeah, Alex, what is it?"
"Got a message from the base, Jack. Hammond wants you to stop by his place before you go home."
Jack frowned. It was almost 2200, which was not that late for the general, but he did have the grandkids for a week while their parents were vacationing. "Thanks. Did he say why?"
"Nope, not him who called. It was someone from the base who called to relay the message. Guess he forgot this number and of course, your cells aren't working in here. Anyway, I asked her and she didn't have a clue."
O'Neill nodded. "Thanks, Alex. And isn't it about time you got your tired ass home?"
The restaurateur smirked. "My ass is just fine, old man. You should be worrying about yours." He gave Jack a two-finger salute. "See you next month, if not sooner."
"You betcha!"
"Oh, and more one thing. It's really good to know you didn't go over to the dark side, even if you did have everybody convinced."
They shook hands, with Jack grinning and adding his left hand to Alex's shoulder. As the man left, Jack beckoned Teal'c to come over. "Hey, big guy, do you mind closing things up here for me? Hammond's asked me to stop by his place and I don't want it to be too late."
"I do not mind, O'Neill. I will see to it that everything is in order and will place the products of this evening's labor in their proper places at the base."
"Thanks, T. You're a good man, especially for doing something thankless like this."
"It is no bother, O'Neill." The Jaffa canted his head to one side as he closely regarded his friend's expression. To anyone who didn't know him well, the colonel's face seemed to be parked in neutral. To Teal'c, who knew him as well as he knew himself, there was mystified concern. "Do you consider it unusual for GeneralHammond to call for you to come to his home at this hour?"
"Yeah, it's a little weird." He paused a few moments. "Keep your cellphone on, wouldja, Teal'c?"
He knew to trust O'Neill's "intuition," this human's uncanny ability to sense trouble. He bowed his head to indicate his agreement. "Should I accompany you?"
"No, no. All this . . . stuff needs to get back to base A-SAP, even though it's coded. Can't risk it getting into the hands of someone like Daniel." He smirked and Teal'c matched it.
"Indeed. Sleep well, my friend. I shall see you at the base in time for our morning run."
######
Even though Jack had cut off the booze at 2030 and had made sure everyone, including himself, had eaten well, he found he had a slight buzz on. He thought he'd call his CO to see if this was something that could be handled over the phone. But knowing Hammond turned off his cellphone at home and that the landline ringing would wake up Tessa and Kayla, he decided to do as the general had asked.
The amount of alcohol he still had in his system wasn't enough to impair his driving, but he wasn't willing to chance anything. This meant he focused all his energy and attention on getting him and his huge truck to George Hammond's home completely intact. Only at the stoplights and stop signs on the journey there did his niggling worries rise to the forefront of his awareness.
Something wasn't right. What was so important that Hammond had to see him tonight, especially at this late hour? Jack knew the general would be coming in late in the morning. Maybe that was it. Something very classified that he would have to take care of first thing in the morning.
Nope, that wasn't it.
Maybe it was something personal. Maybe something had happened to his daughter and he wanted the girls' "Uncle Jack" to be there for them. Jack knew that George knew that he'd never turn down the opportunity to be with his unofficial nieces.
Nope, that wasn't it either.
What the hell was it?
Well, I'll find out soon enough, he thought as he pulled into the driveway and parked behind Hammond's car. He could see the lights were on in the kitchen nook and the den. The general was still up.
Chambers had the perfect vantage point on a rise at the edge of the woods on Hammond's property. He could see the entire driveway and the back door of the general's house. Bob had told him that was likely the door O'Neill would use. He could even see into the cab of the target's truck.
Hot damn! Nice ride. Who'd you steal that one from, huh, flyboy? . . . Whatcha waitin' for, huh? Get out of the goddamned truck!
O'Neill turned off the engine. The inside lights stayed on, waiting for him to leave, but something stopped him.
He reached under the front seat and pulled out his personal handgun, a Glock 30. He stared at it a few moments while deciding whether to place it at the small of his back. Shaking away the probably unfounded sense of impending doom he was experiencing, he replaced the pistol under the seat. He took a few deep breaths and exited the truck.
Chambers grinned widely when he saw O'Neill return the weapon to its hiding place.
Shit, Bob, and I thought you were paranoid! Good thing his radar just turned off. Now out of the truck . . .
He savored the rise of adrenaline as his senses sharpened. It had been too long since he'd been in the field. And shooting pistols and rifles at inanimate targets just wasn't the same, didn't carry the thrill of a live one, a soon-to-be dead one. As the live one sauntered to the back door as predicted, Matt found himself wishing this could be more than a shoot-and-run. From what he knew of O'Neill, hunting him would be a real kick.
Atta-boy, O'Neill. Get Georgie to the door so I can get Bob a get-out-of-jail card.
He repositioned himself soundlessly and settled the stock of the sniper rifle into his shoulder. He watched Target One through the scope.
A few yards from the back door, Jack stopped. If he didn't know better, he would swear there were eyes on him.
But maybe he did know better, as the wispy hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention. Slowly and thoroughly, he scanned the entire area around the sides and back of the house. He was almost at the end of his survey when he turned his eyes back to the small rise at the woods' edge. He squinted, helping the adrenaline that was now pumping through him sharpen his vision.
Once Matt realized what O'Neill was doing, he silently flipped the scope's cover down. He held his breath. He held his entire body in check.
Then the eyes passed his position. He breathed again in small, quiet huffs, the only movement he would allow himself.
Then the eyes returned directly to his position.
Shit! No breaths again.
The eyes lingered there, looking right at him.
Fuckin' freak!
His adrenaline level soared. Keeping still was becoming increasingly difficult. Wanting, needing to fight that bastard that betrayed his twin of different parents. He'd have to settle for . . .
Head shot. Then I'm gonna piss all over your brain pan.
Jack couldn't decide if something was there or if it were merely shadow. He watched for one minute, then another, unconsciously sniffing the air for unnatural smells such as shampoo or aftershave, searching for sounds that didn't belong to the night. When nothing changed, he decided it was shadow. Maybe.
He put his left foot forward hesitantly, hovering inches above the ground, not quite sure if he should actually go forward or do an about-face to go back for his pistol.
He went forward and instantly wondered if he'd kick himself in the ass for not having it on him. The only consolation he allowed himself was that he already had a weapon that could protect—and kill—with ease: himself. Brain and body.
Jack's walk to the door tripped the motion sensor, bringing the outside lights on. Automatically, he narrowed his eyes and moved his head in such a way as to preserve as much night vision as possible. He held up his right hand to knock but paused for a three-count. He rapped on the window with his knuckles. His breath hitched in his chest as he waited for Hammond to come to the door.
Damned if he didn't feel as if at least one set of crosshairs were on his back.
At this range, Matt used a scope with crosshairs. Good thing, too, or O'Neill would've spotted the laser sight immediately, given that the flyboy seemed to have eyes in the back of his head.
Oh, yeah, I gotcha now. You and Georgie goin' down in flames together. Now get off your fat ass, George, and answer the damn door so I can get laid sometime tonight.
Deep into a Vince Flynn novel, George Hammond started slightly at the knock on the door. Who the hell can that be at this hour? He saved his place with one of the inner flaps of the book cover and levered himself clumsily from the recliner. After setting the book down, he readjusted his robe so it wouldn't reveal too much of his SpongeBob pajamas, a gift from his granddaughters that he wore only when they stayed overnight.
He was almost at the door before he recognized the visitor. A surprised and questioning look covered his face as he turned the deadbolt.
As soon as Jack saw Hammond's expression, he knew his vague suspicions were all too correct. He was turning the handle the instant the lock disengaged.
He shoved the door open, nearly bowling over his CO while simultaneously turning to look at the grassy knoll behind him. "Get –"
Chambers cursed silently once he saw O'Neill's shoulders begin to twist around. Even as he squeezed the trigger, he knew the shot he'd set up would probably not take them out. Maybe one, if he was lucky.
A not-unexpected fire sluiced across his upper chest, cutting off the last word of his order and through his shirt and skin. It continued on through his upper right arm and ricocheted off the bone and out of him.
The jarring, excruciating pain of bone being hit by a high caliber bullet almost blacked him out. Only his virtually genetic need to protect Hammond and the girls and a thunderstorm of fight hormones prevented that. That need didn't prevent him from falling into the kitchen nook.
The second bullet ripped past him on the way to the floor. He heard no explosion, saw no telltale red spot. He thought he heard the bullet break a floor tile and penetrate an interior wall. Crap! The girls' room!
To his surprise, he didn't fall into Hammond; he fell on him. The general was already down.
Fuck me! he wailed to himself when he saw his friend's head wound. He permitted himself a microsecond to examine it. Deep graze, but just a graze. Lots of blood. Expected. Missed his temple.
After the second shot, Chambers paused for a moment to check out the scene with binoculars rather than the scope. After all, he did have them trapped.
George was bleeding from what was probably a head wound. Couldn't tell if Jack had even been hit at all.
Time to make sure he was hit but not dead. Then he could move it and do the kill up close and personal. Like Bob deserved. How great it would be to tell Bob all about it, and that conversation would be protected under attorney-client privilege.
Quickly he repositioned himself. Carefully he aimed and pulled the trigger a third time.
Jack tried not to scream out loud when what he thought was the third shot passed through his left calf muscle to finally embed itself in the stove or beyond.
Wildly pissed at the shooter and only less so at himself for not listening to his gut and for having a little too much booze onboard, he slammed the back door shut with his right foot. His injuries shrieked at him for making them feel worse.
The door, solid on the bottom half, somewhat decreased their visibility to their assassin. Rolling off George, O'Neill twisted until he was on his belly. He wiggled his way until his entire body was at the top of his CO's bloody head. He came to a hunched sitting position, with legs splayed and Hammond between them.
"Ah, General, I really screwed the pooch on this one," he whispered as he grabbed the equivalent of the scruff of the neck of Hammond's robe and pajama top with his right hand. Using his uninjured left arm and right leg, he began scooting backwards, dragging George with him.
Hot damn, but he's a tough, determined piece of shit, Matt thought in amazed amusement as he watched O'Neill try to drag that lump of shit to safety.
Ain't nowhere safe tonight for either of you, flyboy. You can slide but you cannot hide.
Jack moved faster than he thought he was capable of, even with his good friend adrenaline assisting him. He was breathing hard, and he was getting lightheaded. Now's not the time to freakin' hyperventilate, O'Neill. At least he hoped it was due to hyperventilating and not blood loss. Fortunately, pain was not much of an issue. Yet.
Soon most of his body and all of Hammond's head and most of his torso were behind the breakfast bar. That's when he heard the shuffling behind him. Aw, major crap.
"Grampa? Unca Jack?" asked the sleepy, whiny little girl voice.
Tessa. Good. Though Kayla was older, Tessa had her head on straighter and would keep it together. Probably.
Jack continued to slide the two of them along the floor. "Tessa, baby, you and Kayla okay?" he managed to grunt out.
She merely nodded as she took in all the blood and the paleness of her beloved grandfather's skin.
"Good. Now back up so you aren't in the kitchen, okay?"
She nodded again. She did as her Uncle Jack instructed, narrowly avoiding tripping on the area rug in the foyer.
"Good," he repeated. "Now -" He stopped so he could take a much needed deep breath. Before he could continue, he felt Hammond jerk slightly. Next he saw a dark stain start blooming on his left pajama leg. "Jesus!" he uttered through clenched teeth. He increased what he now considered a snail's pace.
Moments later, he stopped, badly in need of breath and rest. He sucked in several lungfuls of air only; there would be no rest yet.
"Honey, get Kayla and go into the basement. Use the phone down there and dial 911. Tell 'em someone's hurting your grandpa and do whatever they tell ya, okay, baby? Tell 'em to call the mountain, too. Then stay there until a police officer comes to get you, okay?" He hoped he sounded calm for her sake.
He turned his head enough to look at her. Beautiful dark hazel eyes wide and almost black from fear. "Go on now."
She nodded tightly and turned away to run back to get her sister.
The fifth bullet would have hit her if she had stayed two more seconds. But it didn't miss Jack.
Once he saw he'd missed hitting Hammond's femoral artery, he reset his sight on the breakfast bar and estimated where O'Neill would be. If he got him with a head shot, so be it. If not, well, it was always cool to see what bullets did to cheap wood. And he'd still have the chance to finish him off in person.
Sniping could really take the fun out of killing sometimes.
Shitshitshit! O'Neill screamed silently as the bullet carved a shallow path along his cheek and nipped his nose before slamming into the wall where Tessa had been two seconds ago. Bits of shrapnel made of wood and china showered both airmen.
This asshole was no longer going for the kill shot, Jack finally admitted. He'd changed his game and was now just torturing them. Killing them for sure, but much slower than he'd obviously intended when he started the assault. Whittling away their blood supply and ramping up their pain until they were too weak to fight and he could deliver the final double tap to their heads at his leisure.
God, he hated psychopaths. And something was uncomfortably familiar about this one. The way he came on strong to end it quickly but changed to make it . . . sort of sadistic.
Fortunately, the game plan change gave him a slim opportunity to beat this fucker.
And he had to do it before Hammond bled to death. Before Kayla and Tessa's lives would end far too early.
No way was he going to let that happen.
He took several deep breaths and released the death grip he had on Hammond's bedclothes. He knew George kept a handgun somewhere in the house, but it would take too long to get to it, even if he knew its location.
Ah, the kitchen, the second most dangerous place in the house. Until tonight, he thought ruefully. He spit away the blood that had trickled into his mouth as he looked up to search for weapons because he couldn't finish this on his own.
There it was—the knife block.
The last bullet did a number on the breakfast bar. He could see O'Neill's head—still intact. Good.
Then he saw O'Neill's head tilt up. Out of curiosity, he followed his target's line of vision.
The knife block?
Oh, yeah. Now we're talkin'.
He slipped the safety on the rifle and set it inside the padded duffle bag. He withdrew his suppressed Smith & Wesson from the same bag, checked the rounds, flipped off the safety, and very carefully returned it to its resting place.
He stood, worked the stiffness out of his muscles quickly, and withdrew his survival knife from its scabbard. He picked up the gun and as soon as it was settled firmly in his hand, set a cautious pace for the Air Force general's home to complete the executions that would save his best friend and by extension, himself.
Jack had to move like a starving cheetah chasing its next meal because there was no doubt that the assassin was on his way to finish the job.
First order of business was to slow down Hammond's bleeding. Even though it didn't act like an arterial bleed, the amount of blood the general was losing was significant enough. Jack quickly untied the robe's belt and worked it free, ignoring the searing pain across his chest and in his arm this action caused. He scrambled on his knees until he was positioned at a relatively safe spot to tie the sash to Hammond's leg. Delicately, he palpated with the tips of his long, nimble fingers all around the bleeding area until he found the entry wound. Next, he slid the belt beneath the injured leg and as tightly as he could, tied a simple knot that lay directly over the wound. He made another knot to reinforce the first one.
Jack wasted no time in taking on the second order of business—obtaining a few knives. Changing position to a crouch, he took several more deep breaths to ease the fiery pain in his calf. Sending a quick prayer that he wouldn't slip on the blood-slicked tile to any god that might actually be paying attention, he bolted upright, swept the knife block into his chest, and ungracefully fell back to the floor on his butt.
George had all the usual choices as well as a few extra ones, having Jack O'Neill as a friend who was generous with his catches of the day. He was pleased to find that the kitchen knives were fairly well-balanced, though not enough for throwing with the accuracy he demanded from the knives he kept for that purpose. And that he had to have tonight—deadly accuracy.
Jack stood but kept himself bent at the waist. He tucked the blade of the boning knife into his left boot, then took the filet knife in his left hand, the long utility blade in his right.
Final order of business was to take this fight for survival outside, to take it to the assassin. His only goal was to keep this fucker from doing any further damage of any type to General Hammond, Kayla, and Tessa. He would keep this psychopath away from this part of his extended family, even if it meant he had to forfeit his own life.
Small price to pay for their continued lives. He just hoped it would be enough.
George Hammond had been experiencing very short bursts of awareness since something had set one side of his nearly bald head on fire. One thing he remembered was Jack's voice telling someone to call 911. That Grandpa had been hurt. It didn't take much thought to realize they were under attack and in deep excrement.
The next thing he was aware of was a vise being tightened around the blazing ache in his left leg. He faded again, but not completely. He sensed someone leaving—limping?—from the room, seemingly headed for the front door.
Since he was still alive, it had to be Jack who'd left.
He had to get up, help Jack protect Tessa and Kayla. That is, if they were still around to be protected.
Perish the thought, George. Jack spoke to one of 'em. But how long ago?
There was no way he'd have time to get the key to his gun safe, retrieve the weapon, load it, and search for their assailant. By then, it would be all over. Meaning he, Jack, and his granddaughters would be history.
That was not going to happen.
He forced his sight to clear while he sat up. The pain in his head soared to new, excruciating heights, totally overshadowing the monstrous pain in his leg. Damn. What the hell is that around my leg.
He pushed the pain away. Options, look for options, he thought as his survival training and adrenaline kicked in. Took a few deep breaths.
And there was his option—Jack's car keys. And then some; there seemed to be at least two, probably three more identical sets.
Somehow, they'd fallen out of Jack's pocket. Now they were probably the key to their continued existence. He scooted and stretched and tapped his hand all around until one set proved real.
With Herculean effort, he got to his feet by hanging on to counter tops, grinding his teeth against the small leather strap on the key ring as a way to cope with the horrible agony in his head and leg. He slipped and slid through the blood thickly coating the floor all the way through the foyer, managing not tripping on the bunched up rug, and up to the four open front doors.
Good God, Jack, how bad are you hit?
Chambers used two rounds to take out the outside lights. A few moments later he was plastered against the house, just to one side of the windows of the kitchen nook. He took several quick peeks into the room.
"Damn it!" he muttered bitterly once he figured out no one was there.
Once out the front door, Jack realized he could grab his gun now, shoot the a-hole, and be done with it. Until he remembered that opening the truck door would mean the lights inside the vehicle would illuminate, leaving him a perfect target silhouette. He might have been able to pull it off if he thought he could move fast enough to avoid getting shot. Again. But not with the blood loss and the alcohol.
Knives it had to be. Up close and personal. Not his favorite way to take out the enemy, but it had its place. As if his own blood and the general's all over him weren't enough, there'd be a third person's added. Hope for the best.
One knife to the kidney, the other to the neck should do it. He crept and breathed as quietly as he could.
He could see clearly the assassin's body, despite it being dressed in black or midnight blue, he couldn't tell which nor did he care, plastered against the house, stealing a few swift looks into the kitchen. Not enough time to hurt your night vision, you clever pond scum.
Less than 10 feet away from the intruder, Jack's left leg gave out. He pitched forward and dropped the knives, afraid he'd stab or slice himself when he hit ground, and barely missed the edge of the concrete patio. His sharp, surprised intake of air did nothing to mask the resounding thud of him hitting dirt.
Chambers, despite his bulk, gracefully whirled around and snarled gleefully when he saw Target One on his belly. "Oh, this is gonna end way too soon, Jack. I'd love to hunt you down like the traitorous animal you are but I've got places to go and women to screw. Neither one of which you'll ever do again."
Who the hell are you? Jack thought as he quickly rolled onto his back. He couldn't believe his relative good luck that whoever he was, he was one undisciplined killer. He panted in renewed awareness of pain; the effects of the stress hormones were simply unable to help out this time. He snatched a couple of breaths and worked on using the pain to keep him sharp. Looking up, he saw a dark face looking down at him. One part of his brain was trying to decide if the face was artificially or naturally dark while another part was setting up the next thing he'd do while another realized who the fucker was—at least on an associated level, what branch of the military he was in.
Into his field of vision came a long-barreled handgun, aimed right between his eyes. The hit man was standing so close. No way could he miss. No time like the present to move. And no time like the present to use the a-hole's weaknesses against him. "Bet you'll miss, you piece of SEAL shit," he taunted the man.
Seeing the anger pop into the dark eyes above him, Jack knew the advantage was his for the moment. His hands shot out, grabbed the would-be killer's ankles and pulled as hard as he could. He released his hands as soon as he was confident he'd achieved his goal.
Chambers hit the patio hard. Somehow he avoided hitting his head and losing the gun or the knife. "Shit!" he shouted as the pain rattled his spine. He was rapidly developing a profound loathing for Target One.
Meanwhile, Jack wasted no time in trying to get to his feet. He was almost sitting upright when his head violently met a gun butt. Barely hanging on to consciousness, he reached up and was surprised to find an arm. He grasped it with both hands hard to enough to evoke a painful rasp from its owner. Moments later, that owner was flying over Jack's swimming head. Woozy, Jack listed to his left. That hand found one of the dropped knives.
Chambers grunted hard as his back once more crashed to the ground. "You son of a bitch!" Chambers screamed at him. He lashed out with the knife and grinned savagely when he felt it pierce flesh and stop when it hit bone.
Hammond closed his eyes and went strictly by touch because it was easier than trying to deal with vision that constantly shifted between triple and quadruple. He fumbled with the keys until he identified one that felt like a car door key. He had trouble fitting the key in until he heard an unknown voice not too far away call someone—undoubtedly Jack, he thought with a little smirk—an SOB. Suddenly, the key found its way into its hole.
Still keeping his eyes closed, he felt under the front seat. He grinned triumphantly when he found the Glock.
Hang on, Jack. Don't take 'im out before I get a shot at 'im.
The shriek from deep within O'Neill, precipitated by the survival knife plunging into his leg close to the bullet wound never made it out. He didn't want his attacker to think it hurt him at all. He needed that advantage.
Picking up one of the knives he'd dropped only a few long moments ago, he forced himself back to a sitting position and at the same time, stretched his arm out straight and swung it low and fiercely.
Chambers yelped in surprised, angered pain as the blade cut across the top of his head. If he hadn't been wearing the black knit cap, it would have cut all the way down to his skull. "You're a fucking dead man, Jack," he sputtered through tightly drawn lips.
Now Jack was positive who this man was. He would use the same tactics that allowed him to beat the Marine time and time again. Not if you keep using your energy making idle threats like your buddy instead of anticipating and breathing, Jack thought. "I'm rubber, you're glue, Ensign Parker," he squeezed out as he brought his arm and knife back the way it'd come. Even if the attacker didn't get the reference to the bumbling junior officer on McHale's Navy, maybe it would be enough to distract him while he tried to figure it out.
The swipe completely missed Chambers, who rolled away from the approaching blade at the same time he reached back for his in Jack's calf and wiggled it out, eliciting a short cry from Jack. He brought his pistol up to bear on his victim again.
O'Neill, ticked that his trash-talk did nothing, saw the movement and leaned into the momentum he already had going just as Chambers pulled the trigger.
Hammond rounded the side of the house as the gun discharged. He saw someone fall to one side, leaving a trail of after-images like a time-exposed photograph. He staggered to where he thought he could get the best shot off on either person. The tough part was going to be just exactly where to aim. If he could even do that, given the lightheadedness that seemed to grow exponentially every second.
Jack felt the cordite spray his face, but no bullet perforated him. His right ear rang in blistering agony, though. It threw him off balance a little more. He went with it rather than fight it and managed to topple the assassin. He twisted into an attack position. "You really can't hit the side of a barn."
Chambers' gun fell to the ground the instant Jack's knife pierced the offending hand. As quickly as he'd stabbed his opponent, he yanked the blade out and immediately went for a mid-chest kill.
The blade penetrated half an inch before Chambers, quicker to recover than Jack, who was fractionally slowed by continued blood loss, a swimming head, and diminishing fight hormones, sank his knife in Jack's right upper arm. Simultaneously, he gripped Jack's left wrist with his wounded hand and tried unsuccessfully to put the knife out against Jack's iron hold. Instead, he merely succeeded in helping to slice his own chest.
Chambers squealed with both pain and rage. "Fuck you and your mama, Roger Ramjet," he swore between gritted teeth.
Once more taking advantage of his attacker's mistakes in letting the personal get in the way of the successful completion of his mission, Jack said evenly, "Never say anything bad about an Irishman's mother, dickweed," and commenced slashing his knife back and forth, up and down, in ever-increasing, lightning-fast arcs. Most of them lacerated skin and muscle.
Through the knife, he could feel the hit man lose more focus until out of nowhere, the man grabbed his left forearm and twisted at the same time he dug his fingers as best he could between the bones until Jack's fingers went numb and he could no longer hold onto the utility knife.
Jack needed to be on top to stop this, to slit the man's throat, as he was too tired and dizzy to stab anywhere that would end this quickly with any certainty. With a ferocity a close second only to a mother protecting her offspring, he drove his knee into Chambers' ribcage.
Hammond slowly, painfully, got into a shooting stance. He raised the weapon but didn't fire, didn't even aim, because he couldn't tell who to shoot out of the six to eight people he saw on the ground in what he presumed was hand-to-hand combat. Again, he closed his eyes, too dizzy and nauseated and frustrated to do anything else. So he listened.
O'Neill gave his injured right arm no choice but to reach out for the attacker's collar. The scream coming from within seemed to help his hand gather up the fabric and keep it clutched there until he was atop the hard-breathing man. "Fuck!" he shouted as he drew the survival knife from his right arm.
Hammond cocked his head slightly at the epithet and immediately regretted it. Damn! A quick breath calmed the waves crashing in his head an iota. Was that Jack? Focus, George!
Not wasting a microsecond, Jack brought the knife to his opponent's throat and began to slide it across the skin already coated with blood from his head wound. The gasp told him he'd struck gold.
But there was little power and no real control in his attempt to kill their assassin—his fingers hadn't recovered enough.
Chambers growled like a junkyard dog. Finally realizing he'd done exactly what Bob had warned him not to do, he was determined not to underestimate this traitor any longer. He reached up with his left hand and wrapped it around O'Neill's upper right arm. He squeezed with every bit of strength he had. His right hand, still functional only because of the hormones pumping through him and because of his increasing hatred of this flyboy, went for his knife.
Jack could only grunt from the pain as it threatened to overwhelm him. He fell to one side, now fighting the darkness closing in on him rather than his attacker. He barely felt the survival knife, which he recognized as something Navy SEALs used thereby confirming his earlier assessment, get wrenched from his grasp.
Chambers gloated as he took top position again. O'Neill was unarmed now so he had time to beat the living crap out of the man. And he began the assault with his left fist.
O'Neill, his eyes back to being sharp and steely with concentration, read his assailant easily enough to block some of the punches and all attempts at stabbing or slashing him. He even got in a few well-placed, punishing hits himself. "Is this all you got?" he squeaked out between jabs.
George grew increasingly worried. Nothing he heard was helping. A scream and a curse word. A high-pitched gasp, followed by a growl. More grunts, some moans, some thuds. He could barely stand as it was—he knew he had only seconds left before he'd fall—so walking over to the two men just wasn't going to happen.
Finally, George had enough. "Jack, say something!" he shouted as loudly as he could. He mentally stretched his hearing.
General! Knowing his CO, his friend, was alive and doing good enough to be there for him and the girls, gave him his second—or was it his third or fourth?—wind. He yelled out a strong "Here!" and immediately followed it with a strangled "Guh!"
Hammond knew where Jack was. He opened his eyes, almost swooning like a southern belle with an attack of the vapors, sighted on the bodies above the bodies on the ground, and prayed the bullet would hit the right one, not one of the ghosts his brain kept conjuring up.
Teal'c had been less than five miles from Cheyenne Mountain when his sense of unease exploded. He had executed a perfect U-turn in the middle of a quiet road before flooring the accelerator of the olive drab sedan he had signed out from the base.
He took the turn onto the street where General Hammond lived on two wheels. In the distance, he heard sirens. As he turned into the driveway, he was certain the sirens were getting closer.
If the Tau'ri police were chasing him, then he would happily earn his first speeding ticket for their assistance in what he believed was a much more important matter.
Teal'c was stepping out of the vehicle when he heard the firing of a Glock 30. The type he knew his brother O'Neill carried.
"Guh!" Consciousness flickered in and out as pain ruptured in Jack's left upper shoulder. A beat later, he heard a muffled roar and felt bits of something unidentifiable rain on his bloodied face, then he flickered out.
Matt Chambers had seized the chance to exploit the minute drop in the queer's* concentration on him and had unhesitatingly plunged his knife in the man's shoulder. Before he could savor the moment, he released his hold on the knife and collapsed to his left, partially covering O'Neill.
In short order, he determined his right arm and hand no longer worked. He'd been shot, the bullet entering him from behind and obviously lodging somewhere near the nerves that fed his arm. "You fat-ass motherfucker!" he screamed.
Then he remembered where he'd dropped his S&W. He pushed off O'Neill, who exhaled loudly but otherwise didn't respond, and rolled over to where the weapon lay in the grass.
His left hand lovingly wrapped itself around the gun. He lurched to his knees, swiping the blood that trailed down his face with his forearm. Shaking from blood loss, rage, and pain, he took several deep breaths to steady his aim at Target Two staggering backwards and waving his arms like a pinwheel in high wind. Another breath, and he fired.
Hammond fell to the ground, hitting his right shoulder hard against the packed dirt. A loud crack filled the air. Darkness invaded him rapidly.
After pushing Hammond out of the line of fire, Teal'c stood where the SGC commander had been, and silently took the bullet meant for him. It pierced his side and exited, continuing on to shatter the driver's side window of the general's car.
"NNNNOOOOOO!" Chambers screamed. He waved the gun around, rather than set up for another shot.
"Cease this, and O'Neill might let you live."
"What? O'Neill couldn't fight a feather and win, so fuck you!" He aimed the gun for a chest shot.
"That may be true, but he can fight you. He will kill you," the Jaffa said with quiet confidence.
Before he could pull the trigger, Chambers' eyes opened wide in surprise and watched the huge man he'd just shot move toward him in slow motion.
O'Neill had regained consciousness and had bellied his way along the lawn until he was behind the assassin. He, using both blood-coated hands, now hung on the boning knife he'd thrust to the hilt into Chambers' back. Still gripping the knife tightly, he pulled himself to his knees.
Chambers gasped and coughed, spraying blood from his punctured lung. The gun began to sag toward the ground but remained pointed at Teal'c. He willed his finger to squeeze the trigger. Ever so slowly, it began to respond.
Jack pulled out the knife. He could sense the attacker hadn't given up. He turned the knife sideways and with gargantuan effort, embedded it between the third and fourth vertebrae of Chambers' neck.
The unsuccessful assassin crumpled instantly, dead before he stopped in a heap with Jack still clutching the boning knife.
"Nobody disses my CO," Jack uttered angrily.
Teal'c reached his friend a beat later. "O'Neill," he said as he gently worked on prying Jack's fingers from around the handle. "You are victorious in this battle. I believe it is safe to release your Vulcan death grip."
The Jaffa's joke brought a brief smile to Jack's lips. But to more important things than the continuing development of T's sense of humor. "You? Hammond?" he whispered worriedly as the adrenaline's effects dissipated rapidly.
A quirky grin lit up Teal'c's face. "Junior has begun healing my wound. I will see to GeneralHammond. For now, I wish to move you from this position to one more comfortable and appropriate to support your brain and heart. I will take care not to disturb the weapon lodged in your shoulder."
"No, check George," he said softly but leaving no question that it was a command. "And girls . . . basement." Then the brutal pain and exhaustion hit him like an avalanche of bricks. "Oy." He didn't hear Teal'c's response over the wail of sirens and his descent into unconsciousness.
######
The Level I Trauma Center medical, nursing, and supporting personnel jumped into action over the two unconscious, seriously injured men. Both were in surgery within 30 minutes of arrival.
A clerk called the number of one Major Janet Fraiser, M.D., whose business card she'd found in O'Neill's wallet. Since the man was Air Force and was hurt, it seemed most appropriate to call her. She hadn't even finished telling her the whole story when the officer said she'd be right there.
The clerk sighed. She knew from experience this place would be crawling with military types in no time. Especially since one of the injured was a general. It was going to be a long night.
######
Jack O'Neill had climbed to awareness a number of times before and after surgery, but never for very long and never being able to mumble more than a few sounds incomprehensible to everyone, including him. They were doing a bang-up job in keeping him knocked out.
Eventually, the clouds cleared and he awoke to the sounds of General Vidrine's assertive baritone and lots of beeping, some of which seemed to keep time with the drum corps playing a major concert in his head.
". . . course, Dr. Jackson. As soon as they're stable. Dr. Fraiser has advised the team here to keep the colonel under heavy sedation while he's on the critical list. Now that his condition has been upgraded, he should be surfacing any time."
"Any idea yet on who tried to kill them, sir?" Jack was pleased to hear Carter. And the reasonably good job she was doing in keeping her worry about him and the general under control. He was pretty sure Vidrine wouldn't be able to detect the small tremble in her voice.
"Yes. His dog tags indicate he was Matthew Abel Chambers, Lieutenant Commander, JAG. Former –"
"SEAL," O'Neill muttered over a dry tongue and drier lips. He began to tense; the need to know how everyone was easily overrode any drug's effects.
"Sir!"
"Jack! You're awake!"
"Yeah. Water?"
Daniel Jackson sprinkled a few ice chips onto Jack's tongue.
"As I was just telling your team, Colonel O'Neill," Vidrine said, "your attacker was a former Navy SEAL. Did you know him?" The general knew as well as anyone how small the special teams of each armed service were; regardless of branch, everyone knew everyone else, even if was by reputation only.
What Vidrine was saying barely registered for Jack; he had other priorities. "Tess? Kay? T? And general, General?"
Vidrine smiled indulgently. From what George had told him about O'Neill a few months ago, he wasn't surprised at all with the order of the colonel's queries into the health of his significant others, or that their welfare came before anything else. "General Hammond's granddaughters are shaken up but fine. Their parents arrived back in town about an hour ago. General Hammond is alive, thanks to you and your absent teammate, who is in the infirmary back on base, no doubt nearing return to active duty. We couldn't exactly let him stay here."
Excellent. Jack relaxed into the haze of the drugs again.
"Hammond's lost a lot of blood from the gunshot wounds. Moderate concussion. And he has a broken collarbone. The doctors expect to take him off the critical list before the end of the day." He paused until the last of the tension vanished from O'Neill's body. "As I asked earlier, Colonel, did you know your attacker?"
"No, sir. Knew his knife, mode of attack. Been out of it for a while. Enough to lose discipline." He waved his hand weakly in a come-on gesture while he looked at the concerned but happy face of his civilian teammate and friend. Daniel fed him a few more chips.
Carter looked smug at O'Neill's pronouncement while Vidrine looked taken aback. He had the good graces to laugh at himself. "Of course you knew, Colonel. I shouldn't have expected anything less from the commander of SG-1. You really did a number on him. Going for the death of a thousand cuts?"
Jack took the question to be rhetorical so didn't reply. "Chambers connected to Makepeace."
All three visitors looked at him in wonder. "How did you know Chambers was Makepeace's advocate, sir?" asked Carter.
This was news to him. The connection he was referring to was how much they thought alike, fought alike. Two peas in a pod. Same wavelength. Like he and Teal'c. Though he and T shared a completely different wavelength than Makepeace and his dead buddy. "Who else'd want me'n'Hammond dead?" But we won, didn't we, George?
With that, and the knowledge that Teal'c, George, and the girls were safe, he let go of the pain, the worry, the exhaustion, and fell asleep.
######
Robert Makepeace glowered at his new JAG counsel seated across from him.
"You need to tell me everything about you and Commander Chambers, Makepeace," she repeated after a stretch of silence. "If he did this on his own, you've got a chance at a more lenient sentence. If he didn't, if you had anything remotely to do with these attempted assassinations, well, you're a lot closer to being a dead man walking."
Makepeace didn't care about his future, not at this moment. All he cared about the lack of future George Hammond and Jack O'Neill had—preferably by another plan he would set in motion. Living long enough to see it come to fruition would be enough of a future for him.
And he had lots of friends in powerful places with dirty little secrets he knew all about. Maybe one of them in particular—the one who suggested the first plan through circuitous channels to hide his complicity—could buy him the time he needed to see the end of Hammond and O'Neill.
######
Lisel Gruber was hurriedly packing the last of her belongings when her cellphone rang. Her heart jumped into her throat when the Caller ID indicated "private caller." She flipped the phone open and said tentatively, "Hello?"
"Lisel."
She knew who it was. He was the only one who used a voice distorter. "Yes, Master Rock?"
"I am very disappointed at the outcome of the operation. Someone must pay for its failure. It will be you. Change your plans. Meet me at the bravo site."
"Yes, Master." Following protocol, Lisel turned her phone off. She began to tingle at the anticipation of punishment by the man even better at it than Master Bob. She'd never seen his face, never heard his unaltered voice, but felt a pull to him like no other who controlled and dominated her. She would never use a safe word with him—not that he even allowed one.
She couldn't get there fast enough.
######
Senator Robert Kinsey dropped the disposable cellphone to the carpet, then ground it viciously with the heel of his custom-made Italian loafers. Hammond and O'Neill—especially that uncontrollable, disobedient, disrespectful colonel—simply had to go. They had gotten so close this time.
He depressed the call button on his office intercom. "Josie, call my wife and tell her one of my constituents has an important issue that I need to go home for immediately. Tell her I'll call her as soon as I can." He released the switch, not wanting to be bothered with her reply.
It's not all bad, he thought as he placed the larger pieces of the broken phone in a small paper bag. The janitor's vacuum cleaner would pick up the rest tonight. At least I get a little fun time with Lisel. He snickered. Maybe one day I'll have the same fun with O'Neill.
The End
*Navy slang for any Air Force personnel