Perversely, Ian preferred to jog at the small school near Jack and Sam's house – the jogging track where he'd almost been killed. It was a nice track, and he supposed that in some subconscious fashion, he knew that Jack was close at hand if something ever came up and he needed him. Of course, most days, Ian couldn't jog there, for the simple reason that it was a school, and the schools were pretty much off limits to people who weren't teachers or students until after school was out for the day.

At 8:30 AM, school was just beginning, and Ian headed the convertible for the other track he used. This one was larger, but a bit out of the way – which wasn't normally a problem since Ian liked to drive. It wasn't as smooth or as well kept as the other one, though, and he'd only found it by accident one day while he'd been out cruising for no other reason than to drive. But it was a public track, meaning that he could use it any time, and every now and then there would be other people there as well, running here instead of at the park – which had a sidewalk all around it that was pretty good for jogging, too. If you liked having people annoy you with greetings every time you ran past them.

It didn't take Ian long to begin to suspect he was being followed. There wasn't a lot of traffic in the quiet neighborhoods that he drove through to get to the other track, and there was a flash of a large black suburban in his rearview mirror almost every time he turned onto a different street. Noting the plate number the third time he saw it – assuming then that it was just a coincidence – Ian didn't change his route or anything, although he did hit a busier road a few blocks up that gave him a chance to look back once more and see if the rig was still behind him. Several cars away, it was still there, and when Ian turned onto the quieter road that led to the track, he saw it turn a couple of moments later, and scowled. Same plate number.

Someone was definitely following him. Someone not all that bright – why not tail him in a bright yellow Volkswagen bus with a green neon sign on the top? It wouldn't have stuck out any more than the suburban did. He wondered who it was – military guys, maybe – just out checking what he was doing? Maybe they were doing a routine check on him? Seeing if he hung out with Commies on his day off? Of course there was always the chance that it was something more sinister – and given the shit he'd been through the last several months, Ian was definitely one to assume the worst.

He pulled the car into a parking spot by the track, and opened his glove box. By the time the black rig had pulled in as well – making no effort to hide, now, since there was no place for them to hide – Ian was already out on the track, running slow and easy to stretch his muscles out, and stopping on the far end of the track to stretch his arms and legs a little more once he found the muscles that were tighter than the others.

"There he is."

"I see him, I'm not blind."

"You're in a foul mood this morning…"

"Maybe because I spent the night watching you two sleep?"

"Can it, both of you." The leader of this excursion, John Smith, was about as ordinary a man as you would ever find. Brown hair that was just starting to recede, brown eyes and a medium build that was just starting to run to fat around the middle, he was wearing a dark suit – that wasn't too rumpled, even with the night spent in the suburban – and a dark trench coat to ward off the morning chill. But he was definitely in charge, and when he spoke up, the other two quieted. "Let's go talk to him."

He led the way through the gate that led onto the track, and the other two fell in behind him, both of them similarly dressed, and just as glad to have a chance to stretch muscles that were stiff from the night's inactivity.

OOOOOOO

They weren't military. None of them. Ian could tell just by the way they were walking towards him. You put three Marines side by side and tell them to walk – even retired Marines – and they'd fall into step immediately. It was an automatic thing. Add to that the fact that none of them had the upright bearing that only comes from being put at attention for long periods of time for absolutely no reason, and Ian was even more certain of it. They looked like a caricature of spies, if anything. CIA, maybe? Or a group of guys pretending to be something they weren't. Whatever they were, they weren't hiding from him, and when he saw they were coming right for him, Ian stopped his stretching and waited for them to approach, his hands in the pocket of the front of his sweatshirt to keep warm.

When they came within speaking distance, they stopped. The one in the middle spoke up first, which didn't surprise Ian, since he had led the way across the field, soaking his expensive leather shoes in the process.

"Ian Brooks?"

He scowled.

"Who wants to know?"

The leader of the group scowled as well. He didn't like the kid's attitude already, and he'd only said four words to him. However, he had his orders.

"My name is John Smith. I'm-"

"Yeah, right." Ian snorted. "And I'm Bob Jones."

Smith's scowl deepened. It wasn't the first time he'd taken crap about his name, but it didn't make it any easier to take coming from a punk kid. Even worse, one of the men behind him couldn't hide his own amused snort, which earned him a withering glare.

"I've been sent to bring you to my superior, Mr. Brooks," Smith said, continuing as if nothing had been said. "He'd like to talk to you."

"Something wrong with his legs that he couldn't walk across the field, too?" Ian asked sarcastically.

"He's not here. We'll take you to him."

"Talk about what?"

"He'll tell you that."

"Why don't you? That'll save him the trouble."

Ian had no intention of going anywhere with these guys. He didn't know who they were – he was pretty sure this one wasn't John Smith, for one thing – but he knew who they weren't. They weren't anyone he knew.

"He'd like to see you for himself."

"Then take a picture of me and take it back to him."

"He's a friend of your father's."

"Big deal."

Ian knew they were lying, then. His father didn't have many more friends than he did – but they were all military men and women, Ian knew. These guys weren't military, and weren't sent by someone in an official military capacity. There was no way.

"We know about SG-1."

Ian didn't even flinch. Lots of people knew about SG-1. Of course, that was narrowing things down, though, because the only people besides the military who knew about the SGC were the politicians. And these guys could definitely be associated with politicians.

"Congratulations."

"Look kid," one of the others said, interrupting Smith before he could even open his mouth again. "We want you to come with us. So get your ass-"

"Go fuck yourself," Ian said, interrupting. "I'm not interested in whatever you're selling. You can tell your boss that, too."

Smith glared, both at Bennett, the man who had spoken out of turn, and at Ian, who was definitely proving to be more trouble than he'd expected.

"Mr. Brooks. We-"

"Do I need to say it slower?" Ian asked, his dark eyes flashing dangerously. "I. Am. Not. Going. With. You. So shove your request up your ass where it can join your head, and go find someone else to pester."

Smith's face grew red, although Ian couldn't tell if it was from anger or something else. And he didn't care.

"I was hoping we wouldn't have to do this the hard way, Mr. Brooks," Smith said, moving his trench coat slightly to the side and showing the butt of a gun in a holster. "Now… you're going to come with us and speak to my boss, or bad things are going to happen."

Ian pulled his hand out of the pocket of his sweatshirt – and all three men took a step back. The Glock gleamed dully in the morning sun and the hand that held it was steady. His dark eyes cold, Ian pointed the weapon directly at Smith, level with his chest.

"Go fuck yourself. And take your peanut gallery with you."