An hour later, John had surrounded himself with some of the most frightening men Grant had ever been near. The squad of Marines appeared as if out of nowhere – which, he realized, they probably had. His own remarkable arrival was already almost forgotten amid the string of amazing events unfolding around him. A curly-haired, young black man joined them from the more mundane transportation of a black, government car and greeted John like an old friend, but Grant had never heard of the IOA that he claimed to represent.

For his part, Grant just shut up and stuck close to John. He was careful not to interfere or ask too many questions, but he was strict about keeping John in view. His belief that John was the key to rescuing Nancy grew deeper with each passing moment, and his ambiguity over what he should think about that grew with it. McKay, it appeared, had been assigned to him as nursemaid when he wasn't consulting on the search and Grant found the man usually within a few paces of him as time wore on.

John organized the whole affair from his casual perch on top of a picnic table in the courtyard of the San Rafael police station they'd taken over. Curious desk cops watched through windows and found excuses to loiter just outside the precinct door. Several from the station had been deployed into the streets to cruise for anything that might be suspicious – a rouge FBI helicopter perched on top of a building, for example.

Grant also noticed that while the FBI and DEA were involved, John's inner circle consisted of only his own people. The Agent in Charge was hardly doing more than relaying John's orders to the precinct. When the Marine strike force moved away from John's table in a cluster after having received some kind of instructions, Grant had a sudden thought. He turned to speak to McKay, but hesitated as he caught the man frowning deeply, studying something across the courtyard. Grant looked too and didn't see anything but John on the table, Ronon at his side, both of them talking to the IOA man.

"Will they use the transporter device to rescue Nancy?"

"Huh? Oh, depends on the situation. If she's alone and they can pinpoint her specifically – which is actually very difficult to do – then yes. Probably they'll go in, in force, instead."

"They?"

"The Marines and Sheppard…" McKay's voice trailed off, and this time, Grant's glance back at the table caught John's cough. It just wasn't right for something so simple to look like it hurt that much, and John wiped the hand he'd used to cover his mouth on his pants before he continued his conversation. Ronon turned his head and looked at McKay.

"Excuse me." McKay stepped away to speak into his radio headset and Grant kept his eyes nervously on John. His friends were worried about him, but he was the one who could save Nancy. Anxiety and curiosity pulled him closer to the group at the table and John waved him closer.

"We've narrowed the possible locations down to twelve buildings within range of the cell that Nancy's call came through," John told him.

"Ok," Grant didn't know what to add, but he was rather grateful John was taking the time to update him.

"All have rented office space and a roof that could land a helicopter briefly. DEA is going through the names on the leases, looking for Cartel links. We're going through all the security camera tapes in the area to look for the chopper, and the beat cops are asking around too."

"Do we go knock on the door of these twelve buildings?"

"No." John's answer was quick and Grant's thought of sounding useful died abruptly. "No, if we scare these guys before we're ready to take the whole building they'd have time to hurt her before we got there."

"Oh."

"I've got my people scanning those twelve buildings for whatever they can find out from a distance. Once we find them, we'll soak the place with scanner time. They won't get another chance to go underground once we…"

John's voice trailed off and a funny expression crossed his face.

"Sheppard?" Ronon rumbled. Grant was glad he wasn't the only one who was confused.

"Not underground. Under water!" John exclaimed with a look of triumph. "McKay! Fitzger!"

The Agent in charge and John's friend jogged over at the bellow, then waited tensely for John to suppress another cough he'd earned for the effort.

"McKay, the submarine – these guys are using a sub to bring dope up from Mexico, right?"

"You pulled it out of the water," McKay confirmed.

"They gotta bring the stuff to land somewhere. Are any of our twelve buildings on the coast, or a dock, or beach or…"

"Or somewhere the cartel might have close to the bay? I'm on it." He started poking furiously at the small device he kept with him at all times. Fitzger snapped his fingers with a thought.

"There are lots of docks in our target area on the San Rafael creek. It spills into the bay just north of the San Rafael bridge, but you'd never navigate a submarine through there, even a small one. Too murky, shallow and, I'm guessing, too crowded."

John just nodded, waiting for McKay.

"No. Sorry Sheppard. None of the targets we've narrowed down are within five or even six blocks of water."

"Damn," John cursed softly. "Agent Fitzger, send some people to this creek. Have them ask around. See if anyone local knows of the sub or saw a helicopter that flew in an hour ago."

"Got it," Fitzger had a calm professional manner, but John held him back with a glare. Grant had been getting the distinct impression that the FBI were low on John's list of people he trusted.

"Tell your people to tread lightly, agent. Keep them out of sight. Plainclothes only. We must not spook these guys and they're guaranteed to be looking out their windows."

"Got it," Fitzger said again, this time sounding grim. He headed quickly across the courtyard to his cluster of peers.

"I'll get the Deadalus to scan the creek, too," McKay added and wandered away, yet again talking into his headset. Whatever and wherever this Deadalus was, it was a vast resource for John's people.

"So what do we do?" Grant asked, caught up in a sudden surge of enthusiasm. He could feel the expectation in the air. All of John's resources were in play. He wanted to do something and help it all along.

"We wait," John answered dully.

"Good. Then you can let me check you out, lad, while you're waiting."

A brand new voice, utterly distinct in its pleasing cadence and cheerful tone, called out from behind Grant. John's expression seemed to vacillate between annoyance and pleasure before he settled on a nasty glare at Ronon. Ronon only glared back.

"I still hate you," John snarled then turned to the new arrival who was pushing his way close. "Hi, doc. Don't you have an infirmary to run or something?"

The man was wearing civilian clothing like the rest of them, but had a heavy black bag in his hand and another slung over his shoulder on a wide strap. John shook his hand and Grant recognized the gesture as deferential. Whoever this man was, he had some influence over John, despite their obvious familiarity.

"It's Jennifer's infirmary. I'm the field specialist now, remember?"

"Your specialty involves inoculating the wee babies, Carson."

"Not many of the wee babies in San Francisco need my help, thank the gods for that, so patching you up seemed like a fun way to spend my morning. Rodney told me you're hurting more than you're letting on, lad."

The doctor was setting down his gear and unzipping his bags even as he bantered. John glared at McKay who got suddenly very interested in something on his screen.

"I hate him too."

"He's worried about you." The doctor gave John a slow once over as he situated a stethoscope around his neck. "I'm worried too. Let's check out that cough. Have you noticed any blood?"

"I'm a little busy, here, doc."

"That'll be a yes. Rodney thought so. Take as deep a breath as you can, but don't push it. You don't need to hurt yourself for this."

Grant thought he should give the Colonel some privacy as his doctor friend gently persuaded him to accept a rudimentary checkup, but he couldn't force himself away. Part of his fascination was concern – John did truly look like he needed some help – but part of it was pure, lizard-brain curiosity. Grant was checking out the competition, seeing what kind of man Nancy had chosen once. If he'd been hoping for John to be arrogant, selfish and stupid, he was finding himself disappointed on that score…so far.

He stepped closer as the doctor finished and spoke in a low voice. This man was the one who would save Nancy, Grant had an interest in his ability to do so.

"John, that rib has got to be dealt with. You're already displaying evidence of internal bleeding. You push it, the lung will collapse, and that will nae do you nor your lovely Nancy any good."

Grant felt a flush of heat. She's MY Nancy, he wanted to bellow and he opened his mouth to protest when John beat him to it.

"Your intel is out of date, doc. This is Nancy's husband, Grant Harrison. Harrison, tell the doc to lay off so I can finish my job and leave you the hell alone."

"Uh…" was all Grant managed before the doctor rolled his eyes with exaggerated embarrassment.

"Och, well I've put my foot in it, haven't I. I'm Carson Beckett. I'm sure you're mighty concerned right now. We all are of course. But don't you worry, lad. Colonel Sheppard's got the whole city turned out. If anyone can find her, he can."

"Carson," John's voice was suddenly low with warning and the doctor reddened and began babbling nervously.

"By city, I mean San Francisco. Wouldn't mean anything else. Of course you know I meant that city... Has he got clearance?"

"I appreciate everything your people are doing for Nancy," Grant said when it became clear the doctor was flustered beyond making any sense.

"It's my job to do everything I can for you, John," Beckett turned back to his patient at last. Grant wondered how such an oddly distractible man could have ever become a doctor. "You're losing blood internally, and that rib isn't going to stabilize itself."

"Just patch me up. We've only got a little time to do this right." The doctor started to protest once more and John's hand shot out to land firmly on Beckett's shoulder. "I'm not leaving, Carson."

To his credit, Carson held John's intimidating glare longer than Grant would have given the jittery man credit for, but a kind of truce must have been reached. Carson nodded, began rummaging in his bag again.

"Then I'll dress your arm and start an IV for as long as you can sit here. We can at least top off a bit of what's leaking into your lungs."

"Thanks."

"Take off your shirt. I've brought you a clean one with short sleeves."

This time, Grant did walk away to let the man change and get his bloody arm mopped up. He knew he'd hate to have strangers watching him. John was so unconcerned about the whole thing, he'd almost decided that the doctor must be prone to dramatics and that John was used to taking dire warnings with a grain of salt. At least he thought that until an idle glance back at the picnic table stunned him into rude staring.

John was pulling the fresh black t-shirt over his head; the blue dress shirt lay in a soggy crumpled pile next to him. He was moving very carefully, timidly lifting his arms into the sleeves. Grant could understand why. John's entire torso was a greenish, mottled mess. The left half of his ribcage was almost black with streaks of deep bruising.

"Holy cow," someone said softly next to him and Grant realized that McKay had followed him as he wandered and was also staring at John.

"How is that man still conscious?" Grant wanted to know. He couldn't imagine the kind of beating it would have taken to inflict that much damage.

"High threshold for pain," McKay muttered, but his tone was sarcastic.

With a sudden, violent wave of despair, Grant began to feel weak. He sat heavily onto the edge of a stone garden wall and buried his face in his hands. The people that had taken Nancy had done that to John. It was a brutality that even he recognized as calculating and cruel for cruelty's sake. The thought of Nancy – of her being tortured in that way, in ways even worse…

"Don't give up on her yet." Grant lifted his head to find McKay watching him as worriedly as he'd been watching John. "Don't give up. We're working really hard."

"I know. I just don't know if it will be enough."

"You don't know Sheppard," McKay said firmly, "it will be enough."

"Of course I don't know him. He's my wife's ex for crying out loud! Why the hell should I have any interest in knowing him?" He found himself shouting the words, overwhelmed and irrationally annoyed that everyone he'd met in the last hour kept telling him how great John was, even while he was desperately hoping it was true.

"Were you surprised they were out together?"

McKay's frank curiosity startled Grant out of the brief flare of jealousy. "No," he sighed. "She called me after the meeting two days ago. She told me she was taking him to dinner. I told her to go. She carries a lot of...regret from that relationship, and I thought it might be a good chance for her to find some closure. I rather hoped he'd remind her of what an arrogant, insensitive bastard he really was," he admitted with equal frankness.

"I'm reminded of that daily," McKay deadpanned and Grant chuckled.

"He seems…likable." In a formidable sort of way, Grant added to himself privately.

"He does have that nice thing going for him. And the whole good looks, hero complex can get really annoying. But you don't have to worry about Sheppard."

"I'm not worried," Grant snapped, a little too quickly, and then to cover his slip, "Why? Is he with someone?"

"No, but he does have a remarkable ability to put the past behind him. I've never met anyone who can just…get on with it like he does." McKay sounded half exasperated by the trait he seemed to find admirable about his friend. "Me, I prefer to wallow." He looked over at John in worry again before he was called away by Fitzger.

Grant sat on the wall unable to suppress a sense of cold loss sinking into his gut that chilled him from the inside out. Since he'd gotten the call from the FBI at 2:00 in the morning the night Nancy had been kidnapped, every hour that they didn't find a body or receive a gloating call from the cartel was good news. Now, too much time was passing, too quickly.

The other agents and police who were involved in the case kept looking at their watches. When he caught them starting to look his way with sympathetic glances, he began to shake with fury. He felt the minutes slipping through his fingers, leaving behind burning scars as they fell out of reach.

"Sheppard! We've got it!"

Grant leaped to his feet and shoved his way into the gathering crowd around John where the mood thickened into nearly unbearable tension. He elbowed aside an agent to get close to John and didn't even twitch at the glare he received. John was shifting a bag of saline that rested on his shoulder and leaned to look at the device McKay was shoving at him.

"You were right. They're on the water. FBI interviewed a couple of shopkeepers on the San Rafael creek who heard a helicopter buzz the area at 6:00 this morning, just as we gained control of the compound. Barrantes got her out before we put our Marines on the ground."

"Where? What kind of building?" Sheppard gave a quick nod and the squad of heavily geared Marines jogged over to join the group. The locals moved aside nervously to let them in.

"It's a five story apartment complex. DEA says the owner of the building comes up with red flags based on the newest intel coming out of the Napa compound. But even better – Deadalus aerial survey shows that there is a private, covered boat dock that belongs to the complex, and it's completely empty. Pretty strange to have 30 premium apartments on the water and not let anyone park their boats there."

Sheppard was nodding and Grant felt his insides twist. It was a good lead. It sounded right to him. They were so close…

"Residential, huh? How many people in the building?"

"At the moment, Deadalus is getting about 75 people. Most are still home for the weekend. They're doing detailed scans as we speak to map exactly where everyone is. Here it comes," McKay interrupted, yanking away the device John was studying to watch whatever new data was appearing. There was absolute silence in the courtyard.

"There." John touched a finger to the display, presumably pointing at some diagram or map of the building. Grant could only imagine the technology they were utilizing at that moment.

"You think so?" McKay didn't look so convinced but Agent Fitzger's voice called out before he had a chance to rebut, one hand still holding an open phone.

"Top floor is penthouse office space. Reverse lookup lists suite 504 as the Tijuana Travel Agency."

John jammed his finger onto the screen and thumped it soundly. "There," he said firmly and handed it to one of the Marines to look at. "Agent Fitzger, coordinate the local PD for a quick blockade around the whole area. Call the Coast Guard, don't let any boats in or out either. Me and my team will go in in…7 minutes to secure the hostage. We'll sit on the top floor until you catch us up and secure the rest of the building."

"Ok, but how - ?"

"Don't ask Agent. We'll be there first. I'll give you a 7 minute head start."

Fitzger grinned with the anticipation that was beginning to saturate the space and jerked an arm at his team, dispersing orders even before they were through the precinct doors. The Marine handed John the device back and pointed.

"We put two here, one here, one here. You and Ronon pick your spot, sir."

"I go there. Put Ronon there," John answered with two more pokes. Ronon looked closely at John before he nodded his agreement. "Rodney, you take Harrison and ride over with Agent Fitzger. We'll have her by then or we won't. Either way, I know he'll want to be there."

"Damn right I do," Harrison said, loudly enough to earn a slight twitch of a grin from John.

"Four minutes, people."

The courtyard broke up into noisy chattering groups. Grant was hustled towards the precinct by McKay, but he kept stalling, trying to keep his eye on John. He had an irrational need to make sure John was going to go through with it. John yanked the IV needles out of his own arm, and rapidly strapped on a bulletproof vest and side arm holster. One of the marines handed him two hand guns. John loaded a bullet into the chamber of each, holstered one and shoved the other into the vest against his chest.

McKay finally grabbed Grant's arm and physically began to pull him towards the FBI cars and he caught a last look of John as he was jogging towards the neighboring alley with Ronon and the Marines. John's expression was determined and calm. He ran as if he had never heard about internal bleeding and broken ribs. He flicked Grant a single, unreadable look and then he was gone, around the corner and out of sight where Grant knew that miraculous transportation beam would sweep him up and take him into the enemy's lair.

"Let's go," Grant snapped at McKay, striding ahead and pulling him along now, instead. He'd never felt so scared, no so hopeful about anything in his life. John would have her or he wouldn't. He'd made it sound so simple. For Grant, it was so much more. His life would be over or it wouldn't. Everything he cared about would be there, or it wouldn't.

And every moment of his entire future depended on a man who loved his wife as much as he did. If Grant Harrison had learned anything about John Sheppard in the past hour, it was that. Despite McKay's assertion about his having moved on, Grant had seen it in the man's eyes. Perhaps it was a look he alone could recognize.

"Let's go," Grant whispered to himself again.