Jack started to come to slowly, his head throbbing and ears ringing. What the hell happened? The last thing he remembered...he and Mac had just completed a mission in Brazil. Yeah...yeah, Brazil...and he was trying to convince Mac to stay for Carnaval. He wasn't going for it, the spoil sport. Woulda just been a little detour; nothing to get bent out of shape about. Sure, Matty might have had a fit, but it's Carnaval!

Wait, no, focus, Jack. If that was the last thing he remembered, what happened? They...they made it to their exfil. They got into the helicopter. Now where were they?

Slowly, he forced his eyes open, and when he did, his stomach dropped. He was nowhere he recognized. And worse, he was restrained. Handcuffs secured his wrists to each arm of the chair, while duct tape secured his ankles to each of the front legs. The room he was in was made of concrete and metal. Worst of all, he was alone; no Mac.

Okay, this is not looking good, he thought to himself, carefully lifting his head off his chest. Quickly, the former Delta began to take stock of himself. He could feel numerous bruises on his body—there wasn't a muscle in his body that wasn't sore. No broken bones, though, he was pretty sure, so that was good. Before he could even think of anything else, as he shifted uncomfortably in his hard metal seat, the door across from him opened wide. A man in boots, jeans, and a t-shirt walked in, smiling at him. He was about fifty-five, had dark, graying hair and dark brown eyes, and looked to be just a little bit taller than Jack.

"Jack Dalton," the man looked at him like a cat might look at a mouse. "It's been a long time."

"I'm sorry, have we met?" Jack raised an eyebrow at him. He did look vaguely familiar, but Jack couldn't place it.

"Oh, you're gonna hurt my feelings," the man chuckled. "You see, back in the day, you and all your little Delta buddies ruined my life. Destroyed my family. Killed my little brother, my cousins, my friends."

After studying the man for another moment, it clicked. Jack gave a smile and a small laugh, hiding how his stomach clenched. "Selam Asmara," he said finally, his mind still reeling over the fact that he couldn't see Mac, despite continuing to look around as subtly as he could. "I almost didn't recognize you without the beard and the accent and the handcuffs and the black eye courtesy of yours truly; when did you get out of that deep, dark hole we stashed you in?"

Jack grunted and flinched when Asmara backhanded him across the face.

"You should be a bit more respectful, Jack," Asmara warned. "After all, one of your friends from the helicopter is already dead; I'm sure you would hate it if the other one perished as well."

Jack felt his stomach drop. Even though he didn't look Asmara in the eye, he knew there was no hiding how the color drained from his face. There had been two people in the helicopter with him: the pilot, and Mac. Which one was already dead? He almost didn't want to know the answer. It would be bad enough if the pilot were dead, but Mac? Jack would never be able to forgive himself for letting that happen. Asmara chuckled, clearly amused at his silence.

"Don't look so upset, Jack," he grinned down at his captive as Jack's fists clenched tightly. The Phoenix agent's heart was pounding against his ribs, clearly revolting against his desire to stay calm. "After all, it's only fair. You killed a lot of my friends that day; why shouldn't I get to return the favor?"

At this, Jack couldn't keep his composure. He lunged at his captor as best he could, his wrists yanking violently at his restraints as he glared up at Asmara with hatred in his eyes, his blood only continuing to boil when the man laughed.

"Not so good when you get a taste of your own medicine, is it?" his captor sneered.

"Who survived?" Jack asked after a moment, his voice trembling with both rage and fear. "And what did you do with him?"

"All in due time, Jack," Asmara's sneer became a full smile before he walked over and grabbed one of the two other chairs in the room, this one having no arms on it. "First, I think we should have a chat."

Jack shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to calm himself down. If Mac was still alive—and he had to be—then he was no use to him panicked. He needed to take a breath and analyze the situation, start looking for a way out for the both of them. As Asmara pulled the chair closer, Jack closed his eyes and took a slow deep breath, opening his eyes again when he heard his captor sit down across from him.

"There's something I think you can help me with," the man started, but Jack cut him off.

"Sorry; no can do, amigo," he shook his head. "I have a very strict policy against helping terrorists, traitors, and/or Redskins fans, and at least two of those apply to you, so you're out of luck with me."

Asmara laughed, actually seeming amused. But contrary to his expression, he delivered a powerful punch to Jack's stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. As Jack gasped to get air again, his captor resumed his seat.

"I need you to tell me where you sent my wife," the man told him, anger in his eyes. Jack looked up at him and smirked. That look alone was enough to push his captor over the edge. Asmara punched him brutally across the face. Jack groaned, pinching his eyes shut and spitting blood onto the floor, his already-pounding skull now practically screaming in pain.

"Oh, I would love nothing more than to kill you, Dalton," Asmara snarled. "But unfortunately for both of us, you have not outlived your usefulness."

"Well, darn," Jack grumbled, shaking his head to clear it.

"But if you're going to continue to be difficult," his captor continued with barely-contained rage in his words. "I'm going to have to get more creative."

Jack watched as he picked up a radio off his belt, saying something in a language the Phoenix agent didn't understand. But while he didn't understand the words used, he understood what was happening, and his heart again unwillingly picked up speed. His eyes shifted to the metal door on the opposite wall, hearing noises coming from outside it. This was it. He was about to find out which one of his companions survived to see the outside of that helicopter. Asmara watched him carefully, smiling to himself, as the door opened wide. Two men, each wearing a black t-shirt, cargo pants, and boots, walked into the room, dragging someone between them. When Jack saw that messy mop of blond hair, he fought to hide how much relief he felt. It was Mac. He was still alive. He could breathe again.

The former Delta watched as the two men shoved Mac into the only empty chair left in the room. It was identical to Jack's, with metal armrests. He stared at his friend, trying to catch his eye as the two guards went about restraining him, first zip-tying his wrists to the arms of the chair and then duct taping over the ties for good measure, finally taping his ankles to the legs of the chair. Mac, meanwhile, wasn't looking so good. His eyes seemed a million miles away, and there was a deep cut in his forehead. It didn't look to be bleeding anymore, but the side of his face was stained red. His breaths were short and shallow, seeming full of pain.

"I'll let you two get reacquainted for a few," Asmara announced as his guards finished taping Mac's shoulders to the chair's back. The three of them left the room, leaving the two prisoners alone as Mac continued to struggle to get his bearings.

"Jack," the younger man gasped as soon as he heard the door close. He pinched his eyes shut as he forced himself to lift his head, prying his eyelids apart as much as he dared. "That you?"

"Hey, kid," Jack let out a trembling sigh and forced a smile. "Long time, no see."