A/N: I thank you all for the reviews, and will try to respond to them when I can.

Ch. 3

Welcome Back

Alarms blared like mechanical trumpets as soon as the first chevron lit up. Marines poured into the gate room to surround the perimeter, and Elizabeth walked fast but controlled into the control room. The event horizon rushed to life with the liquid fist held back by the flash of the prismatic shield.

" Receiving Teyla's IDC," the gate tech announced.

" Lower the shield," Elizabeth replied. The shield blinked off, and five seconds later Teyla emerged, stepping out as though walking through any other door. She didn't pause to take into consideration the armed marines with P-90s pointed at the gate. She moved at a half run up the stairs and straight into the control room, pulling a folded slip of gray parchment from her vest and stretching out her arm to hand it to Elizabeth.

" Something has happened to Colonel Sheppard," She stated, breathless but patient.

Elizabeth looked from Teyla to the note, then quickly unfolded it in shaking hands. She read it, and the more she read, the wider her eyes went, and her jaw gradually slacked open.

" What the hell!" She snarled, and caught the quick looks of discomfort from the techs around her. She didn't care if her reaction had been uncharacteristic. She was too pissed and frightened to care.

Elizabeth lowered the letter and tapped the radio at her ear. " Colonel Caldwell, we have a situation, I need you in the briefing room." Running on the same 'no time' momentum, she turned to the tech behind her. " I need the rest of Sheppard's team up here now. Tell them we have an emergency."

The tech nodded and relayed Elizabeth's message with the tone of someone asking for a price check on so-and-so isle. Elizabeth turned on her heels, heading for the briefing room, with Teyla keeping stiff pace beside her.

" I am sorry, Dr. Weir. I should have been more aware..."

Elizabeth held up her hand to stop her. " Don't start blaming yourself, Teyla. You'd been on a recreational outing, not a mission. You weren't supposed to be aware."

Teyla nodded, but didn't appear convinced.

ssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss

" What the hell!" Rodney's attempt at sounding angry always made his voice come out verging on a shriek. He lowered the gray parchment to give Elizabeth a pale, shocked, indignant look. " Is this a joke? Because, seriously, it's kind of hard to see it as otherwise." He passed the paper without realizing it to Ronon.

Elizabeth had her hands folded on top of the table, casual in bodily appearance except for those hands trying to squeeze each other out of existence, but succeeding only in blocking the blood flow. " Rodney, since when has anything that has happened in the Pegasus Galaxy been a joke? Although I will admit that this has to be the most... unorthodox situation we've come across to date."

" More like cliché," Rodney replied. " Who the hell do these people think they are demanding P-90s for the return of Sheppard?"

" Very stupid people," Ronon rumbled, handing the note back to Colonel Caldwell.

Caldwell folded the note to slide it to Elizabeth. " Do you think the Iothian government is behind this?"

Rodney snorted at the suggestion and rolled his eyes, seemed about to say something, then had second thoughts, snapping his jaw shut and looking suddenly thoughtful. " You know, I actually wouldn't hold it past them."

Elizabeth unfolded the note to look it back over. It was a cliché. Weapons for Sheppard. They were to come to Ioth in three day's time to trade a crate of 'rapid projectiles' for 'your tall, dark-haired fighter'. The trade was to be made at the Ring Station inside Item Inspection, and there was to be no getting the government involved.

It sounded simple enough. Elizabeth assumed the kidnappers probably had some clever means to slip their contraband from the station. As long as Sheppard was returned, it didn't really matter. Except there was that one little setback Elizabeth was forced to remember – it didn't matter the galaxy, the policy of not dealing with terrorists still stood strong. One might not consider alien kidnappers terrorists, but no matter the world, once they got their foot in the door there was a good chance they would pull another stunt like this to demand even more from the Atlanteans. Elizabeth didn't need to look at Caldwell to see his resolve. She could practically feel it pushing against her like a bulldozer.

Caldwell went ahead and pushed further. " We can't give into their demands, Dr. Weir. You know this."

Elizabeth internally winced. She did, and it hurt more than she thought humanly possible.

Rodney slammed his palm onto the table with a resounding slap. " Why the hell not! Because of more military policy crap? They've got Sheppard, and you know just as well as I do that if roles were reversed, he'd be doing everything he could to get us back."

" I didn't say we give up on Sheppard," Caldwell shot back, which surprised Elizabeth. Of all people to give up on Sheppard – petty though it might have been – she had always expected Caldwell to be the first. " I just said we can't give into their demands. Giving a crate full of rapid fire weapons to a group of apparently petty thugs will send that world spiraling into a much deeper chaos than what it's already mired in. We need to get Sheppard back but not at the risk of endangering another society, no matter how heading to hell in a hand-basket that world is."

" Give 'em faulty weapons," Ronon nonchalantly suggested.

" That's still giving them weapons," Caldwell said. " Weapons they could duplicate."

Rodney snapped his fingers. " Not if all the parts weren't present. Give them P-90 shells instead. Hell, give them P-90 shaped water-guns. They want to make the trade in a public place so it's not like they're going to test fire them right there and then."

Elizabeth perked at this and her heart beat fast. " Actually, that's not a bad idea. Let's do it."

SGA

Taking the P-90s apart and putting them back together minus a few essential parts had been easy. Waiting for three days to go was not. The rest of this matter, Lorne suspected, was going to end up being more trouble than it was supposed to. It all felt too easy, but whether it was or not depended on these kidnappers, so he couldn't be certain.

Lorne took the front end of the crate, and another marine the back. On either side walked Teyla and Ronon, Teyla since she had some negotiating skills being a leader, and Ronon because it was always a good idea to have a little extra muscle and fire power handy. It was to be just the four of them, in and out as quickly as possible. They stood before the gate of the alpha sight, safely distanced from the exploding vortex. When the event horizon congealed, Lorne gave the shout to move out, casting a momentary glance over his shoulder at the tense, worried, and fidgeting Dr. Weir. She gave him a nod that was her silent 'come back safe'. Lorne nodded back - 'we'll bring him home' - then faced forward and marched into the even horizon.

They tore through the wormhole and stepped out the other side. Once remolecularized on the other side, the guard at the DHD immediately stepped over to them.

" All arriving parties will not pass through the gates without an authorized pass."

To which Teyla replied with a polite smile, " We will not be requiring entrance to the city. We are here on a trading run."

The only positive to all this was that they didn't have to lie. The guard glanced at the crate, then the small party. He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. " Over there for item inspection. Someone should be with you in a bit, but it's the midday mealtime so it may be a while."

Teyla nodded. " Those we are trading with will be dealing with inspection. We are merely dropping off."

With a go-ahead nod from the guard, the small group headed to the right hand wing of the surrounding complex. The inspection unit of the building was offset by the fact that it had no windows, and the door was made of a thick, heavy metal. It took both Ronon and Teyla to shove the door open, and they stepped into a large, dimly lit room cluttered with crates and boxes varying from wood to something plastic-like to metal. They set their own burden in the middle of the floor, and turned to face the door.

McKay had been the one to calculate the time difference between Atlantis and Ioth from recollection, and had his calculations proved true ( which they probably did, knowing the little brainiac), the trade would be taking place within five minutes.

Eight minutes went by, and neither kidnapper nor even an inspector showed up. But should an inspector show up instead, they already had an excuse prepared for the need to suddenly depart. Nothing made an enemy faster than bringing weapons to a bunch of low-lifes after having denied a needy government of the same weapons.

That is if the government wasn't already involved. Lorne was either way on the issue. To him, Ioth was a world where anything went.

Eight minutes turned into ten, and the marine next to Lorne – Lt. Stewart – began shifting restlessly. Ronon was fingering the trigger of his weapon despite having nothing to shoot. Lorne had to wonder if the wait was purposeful, or if something had gone wrong.

When the seconds ticked toward the time becoming eleven minutes, the door shrieked open, and three men stepped inside, two of which were carrying a wooden crate between them. The two men set the crate down, and the third man stepped up to the Atlanteans. The man was short, probably in his thirties, but with slightly thinning and stringy brown hair swept to the side across his scalp, a round face, and the inability to hide the fact that he was nervous. The other two men appeared somewhat younger; one tall with dark close-cut hair, and the other with shoulder length dirty blond hair even more stringy than the short man's. Neither one of these men betrayed any signs of unease, or any emotion for that matter say for minor suspicion.

" Did you bring them?" the short man asked, his voice high and wavering. Lorne and Stewart stepped to the side and popped off the top of the crate, flashing the row of defunct P-90s within.

" You bring our man?" Lorne asked.

Shorty's eyebrows shot down as he tried to pull of a look of intimidating anger. He'd had better luck trying to hide the fact that he was nervous, and reminded Lorne of a pouting little kid trying to stare down dad.

" The situation has changed."

And this was why the military didn't like to negotiate with terrorists. Whether Al Quida or just a bunch of snotty, gorilla wanna-be punks, they were all so damn demanding.

Shorty shifted, swallowed, and pointed at the P-90s. " You have more powerful weapons than this. We want to see what you have. Bring what you can in another three day's time. If not, then we will have no choice but to dispose of your friend."

Ronon's lip curled in a feral snarl and he stepped forward. Shorty stepped back, his throat bobbing in a convulsive gulp.

" Hurt any of us and your friend will get twice as punished. Three day's time."

The two men handling the wooden crate were already loading it with the P-90s, and working fast. When finished, they placed the top back on and fit it into place with a few soft taps of their fist. They took the handles of the crate and headed out, with Shorty following by backing up to keep an eye on the 'Lanteans.

" Three days, same place. After that, if we like what you bring, you can have your friend back." Then he darted out the door.

The 'Lanteans stood there, too dumbstruck to speak or even twitch, say for Ronon who began shaking with rage. He lifted his weapon and took one step forward in the blatant intent to pursue. Lorne snapped from his stupefied daze fast to snag the runner's sleeve and stop him.

" Whoa, whoa, whoa! Hold up. We can't just go running them down. We can't enter the city, remember?"

" Then what do we do?" Teyla asked with a voice teetering toward frantic. " We cannot trust Colonel Sheppard with these people. They have lied to us and will surely lie again..."

Lorne passed his hand over his mouth. " I don't doubt that. We need to get back to the alpha site, apprise them of our situation and go from there. Chances are, we're going to need to do something different before these guys realize we've double crossed them." Lorne noticed something on the smooth metal floor of the chamber, and stepped forward to bend and pick it up.

It was a black wrist band.

SGA

Caul walked fast through the streets, twisting his body to slip through the masses, not caring whether Gyr and Felz kept up. They knew where to go so it wasn't like they needed to follow him. He passed his hand over his sweaty face, then wiped his brow on his sleeve when that didn't cut it.

And it wasn't even hot outside. The days had been growing cooler with the onset of autumn, making the air crisp and even the smallest breeze biting. But the air around him now was permeated with the heat of so many bodies, and stifling to breathe with a plethora of smells from baking foods to sweat to decay. Caul took shortcuts through the debris cluttered alleys with pools of standing water that when splashed through released their own individual foul odors. Caul did not slow even when he reached his destination – the faded red middle building of a four complex structure. He took the wooden stairs to the topmost floor and barged into the sparsely furnished front room, at the moment devoid of any other person, and stopped before the closed door at the other end.

The loft had four rooms, the main one Caul stood in now, another to the right containing five sleeping mats covered by rumpled blankets, the third through the door Caul stood before, and another, smaller room beyond that.

Caul did another swipe at his face and entered. The room beyond was larger, longer, but completely empty save for a few crates stacked in the corner. Across from Caul was the next door, closed. Caul approached and pressed his ear to it. No muffled voices were heard, so he pressed down on the handle and inched the door open a crack.

He stared at the tall, slender man bound to the chair with his hands tied behind, his feet tied to the legs, and a blindfold over his eyes. His head was bent forward far enough for his chin to touch his chest.

Caul slipped into the small room. In the corner was the man's things – his weapons, the jacket, and vest he had worn. Caul looked away from the items and back at the man. Caul's fingers twitched. The man was harmless. Even if Mical had forgotten to drug him, he was too securely trussed up in that chair to act out any violence.

Caul needed to make sure.

With a quaking hand, Caul reached out to the man's neck and pressed his fingers to the pulse point. There was a pulse, slow, lethargic, but existent. Caul sighed with relief. Mical hadn't overdone it again. Then Caul tensed, and put both hands on either side of the man's head, lifting it.

Mical hadn't needed to overdose. He'd gone the brutal route. Caul could see the beginnings of a bruise peeking out from beneath the blindfold. Caul's breath caught. He gently lowered the man's head back to resting on his chest, then stepped away.

Caul was well aware that he was fooling himself thinking the drug as a reason not to give way to violence. If anything, the violence was safer. Mical tended to get impatient when it came to their bargaining chips regaining consciousness and Caul wasn't around to administer the proper doses of the Aldi serum. Mical either over did it, killing the person, or under did it so fell back into knocking the person unconscious rather than trying again.

Caul placed his hand over his mouth, an unconscious action when he was agitated. He hated this – all the planning, kidnapping, making demands, then fleeing when it all went down hill. It was all Mical's fault. Caul had always been afraid of his cousin, and for that reason could never say no to him. Beginning back as far as Caul could remember. And then, in the end, all of Caul's planning that Mical relied so heavily upon fell to the pits because of Mical's little amoral streak. Mical liked to bruise up their captives; said people would take them more seriously if they showed a hard edge.

The kidnappings were always Mical's idea, the rest was the work of Caul's own mind. He'd been the one to make connections in the governmental house, learning of potential diplomats and officials to be taken for ransom, and thus discovering the existence of a group of people known as the 'Lanteans with weapons someone had witnessed tearing holes through sheets of metal. He'd been the one painstakingly traveling from world to world with Gyr and Felz, asking about these people, discovering the places they traded, and where they went the most, all under the guise of wanting to trade with the 'Lanteans. He'd come across teams of these 'Lanteans, but never the ones he wanted until he came to that planet and spotted the tall, dark haired man. Caul had had everything he needed – the poison, and paper and ink for the note – the rest fell into his hands.

It had all been Caul's doing, Caul's work. It always was. Success was practically a given the first time around. Then Mical would get greedy, demand more, and everything would fall apart. Sometimes the demands refused to be met, other times Mical went too far, severely wounding their hostage, or killing them the moment they were brought in. Then they would run to some other obscure part of the capital, taking what they managed to procure with them, and leaving their hostage behind to rot, whatever their state.

Each time it twisted Caul's stomach into knots. He couldn't fathom Mical's indifference, how he kept from letting the deaths eat him alive, and that frightened Caul even more.

Caul heard the groan of the front door, and whirled around to see Gyr and Felz stepping into their bare supply room to set down the crate of 'Lantean weapons.

Caul watched them, trembling. It was different this time. These people, these 'Lanteans, were said to be powerful, dangerous. Caul's contacts had talked about them as though they were the Ancestor's themselves. The big, dark skinned man of the group had looked quite ready to break Caul's neck at the lack of their man's presence. Hadn't Caul's contact mentioned something about the tall, dark-haired man being the one giving orders to the other armed people of that group? That's why Caul had singled the members of that group out, because somewhere within that group were leaders and people of importance, people like this man, a soldier, and an apparent leader. If this man's people were hostile over not seeing their friend, what would they do should their friend die?

Caul shuddered. They were pushing it, really really pushing it, and all for a bunch of weapons to sell at the black market. Although they'd taken hostages for less. Caul had to admit, this was the biggest demand they'd ever made, with a people they never knew existed until weeks ago. It thrilled Caul while at the same time terrified him, making him want to run, while at the same time – at times - unable to even move.

You're a part of something, Caul. Mical's words. Caul hadn't believed a single one, but hadn't had the spine to argue. The consequences weren't worth it.

Caul headed back into the main room and grabbed the water flask and one of the tin cups from the crate by the door. He poured water into the cup on returning to the small room. Folding in a partial crouch, he patted the man's face with the back of his hand.

" Hey, you with me, friend? I need you to wake up. Just for a moment."

The head twitched, and the man emitted a low moan from deep in his throat. Caul lifted the metal cup to the man's lip and tilted. " Come on, friend, drink up." A little water dribbled out to stain the man's dark shirt before the man's throat moved to swallow.

The door did its custom protesting groan on being opened then closed. Caul rose and stepped back to see the tall but stocky Araz heading to the storage room, followed by Mical. Mical was the same height as the tall man, and just as lean, with hair the color of sand cut so close to his scalp it looked shaved. He didn't remove his heavy brown coat, and he and Araz went straight to the wooden crate of newly acquired weapons. The crate squeaked when Araz removed the lid. Mical crouched and sifted through the weapons, counting them at a glance.

" You did good, Caul," Mical called. Caul watched him rise then enter the small room. He didn't even look at Caul as he headed straight for the tall man. He grabbed the man by his dark hair and pulled his head up, to the side, then around. Caul winced feeling a sympathetic twinge in his own neck.

" You deliver the message?"

Caul cleared his throat. " Uh... yes, yes I did."

" And the wrist cloth?"

" Yes."

Mical continued to manipulate the tall man's head, studying him as though he were regarding some other worldly trinket just to idle away the time. Finally, he released the man's head to let it drop back to his chest. " I felt resistance. You may need to give him another dose."

Caul gaped. " B-but... um... Maybe we should let him wake up a little... So he can eat?" Caul huffed out a brief, nervous, pathetic laugh. " He hasn't really eaten anything for three days..."

Mical, still staring at his hostage, grinned. " Good." Then he smacked the tall man upside his skull. " Hunger'll keep him uncoordinated." He turned to Caul, calm and casual, like a man with the entire world in the palm of his hand. " Don't go soft on me." He pointed at the man. " He's a solider, like an enforcer. He's trained to fight. You give even a breadth of leeway, and he'll cut your throat before you can blink. Don't forget that."

Mical headed from the room, giving Caul a gentle pat on the shoulder along the way. " Keep an eye on him Caul, or it's your blood that'll be staining the floor."

Caul couldn't say whether Mical was talking about the man, or if that had been a threat.

SGA

A/N: Mind you, this is only the start of the unpleasantness. More unpleasantness to come.