A/N: I cannot apologize enough for the delay in publishing this. I feel as though we've been in crisis mode at my house for so long, I've forgotten what "normal" feels like. My 3-year old daughter has had repeated kidney infections (fevers of 105+) since January. Today, we found out she will need major surgery in July. Last week, her twin brother was finally labeled as autistic by his school district and is now receiving services to help him with his severe speech problems. And, as icing on the cake, my car finally kicked the bucket right in the middle of all this chaos. This almost makes my sinus infection/pneumonia/broken rib/pleurisy from last fall look tame.

Call it stress taking its irrational toll on me, but I think I've finally snapped. I replaced my fairly sensible car with a much "sportier" model. I colored my hair. And tonight, I've ditched homework and a mountain of papers to write fanfiction.

Anyway, this one is close to being wrapped. Hope you enjoy the end of this story and this trilogy. More work to come soon on Torment of Tantalus, too – I promise.

Thanks again for sticking with me.

Chapter 23

Shuffling slowly from the conference room into his office, Jack cradled a coffee cup in one hand and the back of his neck in the other. Tension had been accumulating in his body like poison for the last six weeks, and he felt he might explode if something didn't surface in their investigation of the missing cylinder soon.

Shutting the door to his office behind him with a bit more force than necessary, Jack reflected on the dismal monotony which had taken over the SGC in the past month and a half. He'd been so certain that the case would be cracked wide open with the discovery of duplicate Airmen Phillips and Lieutenants Jorgenson. Much to everyone's dismay, that had not happened. Doctor Brightman had performed DNA analysis of the two men who were currently stationed at the base and confirmed that they were, indeed, the real SGC officers. Unfortunately, absolutely no trace of the imposters could be found, bringing the investigation to a complete halt.

The only bright spot in the whole ordeal was that Sha're appeared to be in good health. She had no lingering effects from her brief lapse into unconsciousness and was deliriously happy to be reunited with Daniel. The archaeologist had practically moved into the VIP room where Sha're lived, causing wild speculation on base about the couple's future. In keeping with a grand SGC tradition, a pool was now underway to guess the date when Daniel and Sha're would marry. Or remarry, as the case may be.

Smiling faintly, Jack took one step toward his desk before stopping abruptly.

Someone was already sitting in his chair.

There was something vaguely familiar about the nondescript man lounging casually behind his desk. His dark, raven-sharp eyes glinted with sinister intelligence behind his wire-rimmed glasses, immediately setting off alarm bells in Jack's head.

Racking his brain for information on where he'd seen the man before, Jack eyed him coolly. "Can I help you?" he asked, sounding deceptively mild.

The stranger behind his desk smiled. "You don't remember me, do you, General?" There was just a bit of smugness in his tone.

Jack shrugged. "Never claimed to be good with faces," he replied blandly. Without changing his stance, he began to take mental inventory of his office. With some degree of dismay, he quickly realized that his sidearm was in the drawer of his desk, and that no other weapons were easily accessible.

As if reading his thoughts, the dark-eyed man casually brought one hand out from beneath the mahogany desk, placing a 9-milimeter pistol on its smooth surface. Though neither man's face changed outwardly, the power-shift in the room was nearly audible. "I think you might want to let Sergeant Harriman know you'd rather not be disturbed right now." The man's dark eyes never left Jack's rugged features.

Feeling the familiar mix of dread and adrenaline that always accompanied a dire situation, Jack stepped to his desk and pressed the intercom button with a steady hand. Anyone unaware of the gun being pointed at him would never have guessed the danger by his deliberate, unconcerned actions. "Walter?" he said casually into the microphone.

"Yes sir?" The sergeant's crisp, professional voice replied immediately.

"Hold my calls and don't let anyone bother me for a while. I've got some paperwork I need to catch up on." The excuse was admittedly lame – Jack O'Neill never argued with someone who wanted to interrupt his paperwork duties. But, given the short notice, it was the best he could come up with.

This time, there was a pause before Walter replied. Jack could almost see the puzzled look which was probably etched on his sergeant's face at that moment. Still, Walter was never one to question an order. "Yes, sir." His reply may have been momentarily delayed, but Jack never doubted the answer he'd receive.

Taking his hand from the intercom, Jack turned his attention to the oddly familiar man behind his desk. "So," he said calmly, "what do you want?"

The man slowly rose, grasping the pistol with a cool, relaxed attitude that would set most people trembling. Both of them, however, knew that it would take more than a handgun to intimidate Jack O'Neill. Gesturing toward the high-backed leather chair, the man clearly indicated he wanted Jack to sit. "I just want to talk, General."

Deciding to play along for now, Jack followed the man's non-verbal directive and ambled behind his desk. Taking a seat, he looked directly at the menacing stranger. "All right, let's talk." Leaning back in his seat, he seemed to think a moment. "I don't know, but I think it might be the Penguins' year for the Stanley Cup. Although the Avalanche look pretty good, too."

A glint of annoyance shone in the other man's eyes for a moment before it was smothered. "You always were too blasé for your own good," he said darkly. "I never understood why they'd promote someone so sloppy and unprofessional to head this base."

If the comments were meant to anger Jack, they failed miserably. He simply shrugged. "Must be my charming personality."

The man smirked. "My guess is that they thought you'd be easy to control. Generally, unintelligent people are easily manipulated."

Jack waved his hand impatiently. "Yeah, yeah. I get it. You think I'm a lousy general, dumb as a box of rocks, and probably a few dozen other things that you haven't gotten around to saying yet. But you still haven't told me why you're here." He tilted his head. "Because if you only showed up to insult me, you really didn't need the gun."

The man seemed to grow more irritated by Jack's self-assured attitude. "As a matter of fact, part of the reason I'm here is to tell you what I think of your management style – or lack thereof. But that's not why I brought the gun." His eyes darkened. "The gun is here because you're going to do exactly what I tell you, or your wife is going to find your cold, lifeless body slumped over your desk when she next comes to see you."

Squashing the arrow of alarm which shot through him, Jack carefully kept his features neutral. "And what exactly are you going to have me doing at gunpoint?"

The man smiled grimly. "You're going to give me your access codes for the base security system. Then, you're going to set the self-destruct and evacuate the base." His face had taken on a flushed, fanatical look. "By this time tomorrow, the SGC won't exist."

Jack met the man's eyes directly. "Might as well shoot me now," he said grimly. "Because that's just not gonna happen."

The stranger didn't look concerned. "I thought you might feel that way," he replied with a smile. "Which is why I also rigged your wife's lab with plastic explosives. If you haven't given me those codes in the next five minutes, you're not the only one who's going to end up dead."

An icy knot began forming in the pit of Jack's stomach. This was his worst fear come true. Not the end of the world, not the destruction of civilization, but the notion that someone could use his love for Sam as a way to endanger national security. With the discipline born of countless hours of training – and many more hours of real-world experience – Jack never let his gaze falter. "Then we'll both be dead," he said flatly. "My wife is as much a soldier as I am. If I sacrificed this base to save her, I'd never be able to look her in the eyes again. She'd find such an action treasonous and unforgivable."

With some satisfaction, Jack noticed the slightest cast of doubt creep over the man's features. Apparently, his bluff was working. "You'd kill your own wife for the sake of the SGC?" the stranger asked, clearly disbelieving.

Jack eyed him impassively. "I'm not the one killing her," he replied. "You are."

The man seemed somewhat thrown by his quarry's attitude. "And they say I'm a cold son-of-a-bitch."

Shrugging, Jack was about to respond, when the intercom on his desk beeped loudly.

"Sorry to bother you, sir." Walter's voice sounded somewhat sheepish. "But Colonel O'Neill is here to see you. I wasn't sure if your order extended to her."

Jack looked at the man standing beside him. "I can send her away," he said with a shrug, "but she'll know something is wrong."

Apparently, the other man agreed. Looking around quickly, he seemed to be searching for a place to hide. Suddenly, his eyes locked on Jack's wide mahogany desk. "Stand up," he ordered. Without wasting a moment, the man slid under the desk as soon as Jack was standing. His gun still aimed at Jack's head, the stranger hissed his next instructions darkly. "Let her in, but get rid of her quickly." His beady eyes narrowed. "One wrong move or word, and I'll make sure neither of you lives to see your children again."

Taking a calm, steady breath, Jack acknowledged the intruder's directive only by leaning forward and hitting the button on his com. "Send her in, Walter."

Before he had a chance to form any sort of plan, the door to his office opened and his beautiful wife breezed in. "Hey," she said, smiling brilliantly.

A reflexive smile formed on his own features. "Hey, yourself," he replied, taking in every detail of her lovely face.

Obviously unaware that anything was wrong, Sam spoke with the sweet, happy tone she took around her husband when no one else was around. "I just finished up my report on our last away mission, and I think I'm going to go home and spend some time with the twins. Any chance you might come along?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Jack could see the deadly glint of the 9-milimeter pistol aimed at him from beneath the desk. "As it turns out, I'm a little tied up tonight," he replied casually.

Sam's face reflected disappointment, but she seemed to understand. "Something urgent?"

Jack shrugged. "Nah. Just a ton of unfinished paperwork. You know how that goes."

Instantly, Sam's eyes sharpened. Had her husband just turned down a night with his children to do paperwork? Combing his features for some sign of humor, she was somewhat disturbed to find him completely serious. Opening her mouth, she was about to question his words, when he plowed over them unceremoniously.

"With everything else going on here these past few months, I don't want to give them any reason to bitch at me," he said with a dry smile.

Digesting his words, Sam still seemed a bit concerned, but clearly this wasn't the time or place to discuss her worries. "Okay," she replied reluctantly. "But don't stay too late."

Jack nodded. "I'll try not to."

Unwilling to let her husband's odd mood spoil her own cheer, Sam smiled warmly and turned to leave. As she stepped toward the door, Jack stopped her with what seemed like an afterthought.

"Hey, O'Neill," he called off-handedly, "give the babies a kiss for me, just in case I don't get home before bedtime."

Sam looked back over her shoulder and met her husband's gaze directly. "Sure," she said evenly. "See you later." Then, with a final, meaningful smile, Sam stepped out of Jack's office and closed the door softly.

She walked unhurriedly through the conference room and down the steps into the main corridor before she allowed herself to break into a dead run. At the first doorway, she wrenched open the heavy, steel door and grabbed a phone from the desk of a very startled-looking scientist seated behind it. Punching numbers violently, Sam's heart pounded in her chest until someone on the other line answered. Then, with dread welling in her chest, she uttered words which made her blood run cold.

"Security to General O'Neill's office. We have a hostage situation."

A/N: More soon. I promise.

By the way, did you know that there is some debate over whether one "racks" or "wracks" one's brain? And, in light of everything else going on in my life, I suppose it's a bit disturbing that I felt the need to research the topic in the first place!!