Two people entered a small room lit up with a lightbulb hooked on the ceiling. The room wasn't comfortable at all. As a prisoner was hidden in that room, its decoration hadn't been a matter of concern.
The prisoner was a man, tied to a wooden chair. A hood was covering his head. The only thing we could tell about the man was he belonged to the US Air Force, thanks to the uniform he was wearing: a light blue shirt with a silver badge on the upper left, and dark blue trousers.
One of the offenders removed the hood, discovering the hostage: lieutenant Philip Rossberg. He got disoriented because of the lightbulb glow for one minute before his eyes could adjust to the new environment.
He looked good despite the circumstances. He couldn't see his guards' face because they were hidding it by a hood. Only the eyes and the lips were visible. Philip understood he was facing a man and a woman, based on their physical appearance. The man firmly removed the adhesive tap from Rossberg's mouth. The lieutenant didn't appreciate that moment.
The offender interrogated, with a threatening tone, the Air Force member:
"I won't ask you again. What do you know about the item?"
"Like I said yesterday and the day before, I know nothing." Rossberg firmly replied.
"We don't believe you, lieutenant. We know you did research, so stop fooling us."
"You spied on me, so you do know I didn't find anything. That's why I was ordered to stop digging."
Rossberg did tell the truth. Unfortunately for him, his answers weren't acceptable for the two criminals. Rossberg could feel it and the situation frightened him. His guards would certainly use other options to make him give information he didn't have. He was not afraid to admit he was petrified.
"Despite the orders, you kept on digging on your free time, didn't you, lieutenant?"
The man did tell the truth as well. Rossberg responded:
"Look how it ended. What did I gain? More questions and you."
The unknown man glimpsed his partner for assistance. The woman had remained silent so far, using the beginning of the interrogation to put a laptop on the table in a corner of the room. The woman had chosen to let Rossberg only see the back of the screen. She took a few seconds to think, then, she queried:
"Who's doctor Daniel Jackson?"
Beeping noise suddenly originated from the laptop. The woman checked out the screen and what she saw didn't satisfy her. She informed her accomplice:
"We need to leave now."
"What do we do about him?" the man asked, glancing at Rossberg.
"We can't take him."
The man nodded. The woman typed on the keyboard. When she was finished, she declared to the lieutenant:
"It's time we part ways, lieutenant. I'm sorry, we can't leave any trace behind us."
She left the room with the laptop, followed by her partner.
Philip Rossberg tried to break the cords that were maintaining him on the chair. He failed despite his strong motivation. As a matter of fact, his physical condition didn't help him very much. Thin, bodybuilding and close-combat had never been his cup of tea. He would rather define himself an intellectual guy. This was the reason why he had been assigned to the department in charge of providing the AFOSI with expertise on art and antiquities. This was his cup of tea. Some people were meant for battlefields, some were meant for administrative and support duties. Rossberg belonged to the second category and was satisfied with that.
He couldn't explain how the hell he got involved in this mess. Yesterday, he was working behind a desk, today, he was fighting to stay alive. The female offender didn't clearly tell he was going to die, but her last sentence clearly meant it. As Philip couldn't get away from the cords, he chose to jump with the chair. It turned out to be a bad idea. He fell with the chair on the floor, on his left side. His last option was to yell "Help!" while he kept on trying to get rid of the chair.
Minutes later, someone smashed the door. The AFOSI intervention group popped up, with agent Bankston behind. She was just wearing a bulletproof vest and holding a gun whereas the rest of the group was geared up like soldiers. She shouted the lieutenant's name in sign of relief when she saw him. Then, she knelt next to him and reported over the radio she found the lieutenant. The young man accelerated the happy gathering:
"Hurry up! Take these away from me! There's certainly a bomb!"
"What?!" Bankston said, confused, before getting back to business. "Ok, does anyone have a knife?!" she asked to the intervention group.
A member of the group took over. Bankston warned over her radio "Everybody out! There may be a bomb! I repeat, everybody out! There may be a bomb!"
Philip's intuition was correct. A blast destroyed the house where he had been held hostage. Hopefully, Bankston and Rossberg got out of the house at the right time. If they stayed a few more seconds in that house, they would have been wiped out by the explosion. It just moved the lieutenant, the agent, and their colleagues in the air when they were a few meters away from the front porch. They all fell on the ground, more or less unconscious.
Philip woke up. He noticed Bankston lying on her chest, on his left. She was still unconscious. Rossberg called her. She didn't react. The young man shook her. She didn't react. Philip started to panic and shook her more intensely and called her.
If she didn't make it out alive, he would never forgive himself.
He would never be forgiven.
Bankston finally opened her eyes. The officer felt so relieved.
"Are you ok, Philip?" Bankston asked, disoriented.
"I'm fine. And you?"
"My head's hurting, but I'm ok... That was intense." Bankston commented with a deep sigh.
"They told me they couldn't leave any trace behind, so I guessed there was a bomb."
"Well done, Philip."
The two stood up. An agent working for another organization walked in their direction. He was wearing a bullet proof vest with no acronym displayed on it. Bankston noticed Philip's perplexity, and explained:
"He's a SOD agent who came into the game."
"SOD?"
"Something related to top classified operations... First, a kidnapping, then, an agency I've never heard of until a few days ago... Rossberg, in what kind of trouble did you get into?"
"Have no idea..." Philip sighed, facing Bankston's bewilderment.
The SOD agent didn't waste time in protocol and talked directly to Rossberg:
"Lieutenant Philip Rossberg I suppose?"
"Indeed. Who am I speaking to?"
"Agent Wlodarczyk, SOD. Please, come with me, our car's waiting for us."
Banskton didn't appreciate Wlodarczyk's commanding voice and hastiness.
"Can it wait a little bit, agent Wlodarczyk? We need to check if lieutenant Rossberg is fine. Besides, where are you taking him and why exactly?"
"I'm not authorized to give you this information." Wlodarczyk curtly replied. "Don't worry, we'll take care of him."
"This sentence is exactly what's making me worry."
The young woman's eyes were fighting against the man's. Neither Bankston nor Wlodarczyk seemed ready to give up. Rossberg found a compromise:
"Agent Bankston, it's ok. I'll call you when I arrive... where I'm supposed to arrive... Won't I, agent Wlodarczyk?"
The man nodded. Bankston glared at him, as a warning. If she shouldn't receive any news from Rossberg, the SOD would be in trouble.