Chapter Fifteen
The bar was crowded, loud, and it was difficult to hear the announcement of the game over the other conversations taking place. This didn't seem to bother either Beckett or Sheppard, who were adding their own commentary to the Coyotes' hockey game on one screen, intermixed with a few curious remarks about the way the Phoenix Suns passed the basketball on another screen across the bar. God, Rodney hated sports bars.
The din in the room was adding to the headache that was building, and as much as Rodney really needed something stronger than the water he was sipping right now, he had serious doubts he'd be able to keep anything down with the nervous way his stomach kept twisting. The meeting tomorrow morning was a long ways off.
He should be happy, because come tomorrow this would all be over. No more lying, no more pretending, and no more putting up with Marrick's hostile stares. At least... he hoped so.
It was another matter entirely whether or not Lorne would believe the explanation behind the images Rodney had gotten of the Stargate. A sudden, crippling fear gripped him. What if they decided to wait and gather more evidence?
His hand shook as he lifted the glass of water to his lips, and a few droplets sloshed over the side before he could steady the glass with his other hand. There was no way Rodney could go back to that place on Monday and just smile and pretend that he was all right with everything they were hiding.
He sat the glass back on the table, trying to contain the shiver that ran through him. He was in deep... this was way too big for him to sit on it, even for hours. Not only did Vertrauen have a freaking alien in their basement (so they claimed), but they also had a device capable of interstellar travel. There was no telling what might follow one of those exploratory teams back from other planets.
"Hey," an elbow lightly jostled his on the table, and Rodney looked up to see Sheppard staring at him, "you all right?"
Carson was also watching him intently, and Rodney had to swallow heavily under the twin concerned gazes. Protocol for this situation dictated that Rodney wait for the meet, give Lorne the pictures and the information in the morning, and in the meantime carry on like nothing was wrong. He needed to act natural and not rouse anyone's suspicions.
"I, uh..." Rodney wiped a hand across his forehead, almost fascinated when it came away damp with moisture. It was way too cold in the room for him to be sweating.
"Rodney, are you not feeling well?" Carson's brow scrunched up in concern. "You're as pale as a ghost."
"I..." His gaze swiveled between the two sets of eyes staring at him with naked concern, and a tight band wrapped itself around his chest, making it difficult to breathe. "I'll be fine."
They didn't believe him, but that wasn't his concern. He wouldn't make it to the morning at this rate. He needed to just calm down, everything would be fine.
"Look, go on home if you're not up for this," Carson said patiently. "You don't seem to be enjoying it anyway."
The band loosened and Rodney was able to breathe. They weren't going to press it. He could just get his bearings and everything would be fine. Just fine. He scrubbed a hand across his eyes and froze.
"Rodney?" Sheppard's voice raised in concern. "What's wrong?"
It was like being caught in slow motion, as his fingers explored his nose and eyes, feeling for the glasses that weren't there. His breath caught in his throat, and this time he couldn't contain his panic. "Oh shit."
"Rodney?" This time it was Carson.
"Oh god," he breathed, suddenly bursting into action, shoving his hand into every pocket he could find, each time coming up empty. "Oh god, this can't be happening!"
"What's the matter?" There was no hiding the concern in Sheppard's eyes, or the way it was tracking each of his frantic movements carefully.
"I left my glasses at work!"
"Wait," Sheppard pinned him with a look, "I thought you said you couldn't drive without those."
"I lied!"
Sheppard recoiled from the angry tone as if physically struck. "Why would you lie about that?"
"It doesn't matter," Rodney snapped. "I have to get out of here!"
"Rodney, wait!"
He slid out of the booth, barely dodging the hand grabbing at his sleeve. "Don't touch me!"
He needed to gather his wits, try and figure out the best course of action. Unsure if he wanted to brave his apartment, Rodney made a strategic retreat toward the bathroom to regain his composure. This was so bad, so very, very bad. He should have been paying more attention, shouldn't have let himself get flustered by Marrick in his office. Should have made damn sure he had the stupid glasses. God...
He practically burst into the bathroom, earning a look from the only patron in there. Perhaps he was a little wild-eyed, because the other man quickly slipped out, leaving Rodney alone.
"Okay, okay," he chanted to himself, "maybe it's not so bad... maybe no one will have noticed."
It was a Friday, after all, there would be no one coming in over the weekend, and Rodney had left right at five. The only people who would have cause to go into his office were the cleaning crews, and they wouldn't think anything of a pair of glasses being left behind. He might not be screwed.
He could still wait and go to the scheduled meeting with Lorne. He'd apologize to Sheppard and Carson for his freak out and just pretend that everything was okay. He could return to his bugged apartment and wait out the night without having to alarm anyone.
But if someone else happened to pick up the glasses...
The door to the bathroom squeaked, announcing the presence of another person and he nearly leaped out of his skin.
"Rodney, are you in here?"
He spun, heart leaping to his throat, but it was just Carson. He let out a stuttered sigh of relief. "Don't do that!"
"Do what?"
"Sneak up on me!"
"You're as twitchy as a mouse hanging from the claws of a hawk, so I don't think it'll take much to startle you right now."
"Did you want something?" Rodney snapped.
"I'm making sure you're all right, you ungrateful git," Carson returned with equal vehemence. "That was quite a performance back there."
"Oh, I wasn't acting!"
"No, I think you're doing a stand up job of giving yourself a stroke all without having to pretend," Carson cut in. "What is going on with you?"
"You don't want to know."
"I don't ask for posterity's sake, Rodney."
"No, seriously, you don't want to know!" He waved a hand in the air frantically. "I mean, I don't want to know. I really, really don't want to know!"
"What in blazes are you on about?"
"I can't tell you!" Rodney cried. "Just trust me. You don't want to get involved with this."
"Involved with what?"
"I need to stop talking," he muttered to himself and reached for the door.
He needed to get to a pay phone and call Lorne before he gave everything away. There was a reason it was not standard practice to hire scientific geniuses to be super secret spies. There was way too much at stake, especially when something this big was discovered.
"Rodney, where are you going?"
"I've got to get out of here," he said simply and charged out of the door and back into the bar. The pay phones were just outside the front doors. He could make it to them, make his call, and then hide until Lorne could come find him. And possibly kill him for mucking things up at the last minute. That would be okay, because he would only be theoretically dead with Lorne, rather than actual dead with Vertrauen.
He made it all of two steps into the main bar area before the sight of several muscle-bound men shoving their way through the crowds stopped him cold. They were dressed from head-to-toe in black, and, he realized with a sickening lurch in his stomach, wearing windbreakers with the VerTech logo emblazoned on the sleeve.
"Oh shit," he breathed, backpedaling back into the bathroom, taking Carson with him as a casualty of being in the way. "Oh god."
"What now?"
"Oh god, oh god, oh god." Rodney had to grab the wall for support, because his legs were having a hard time keeping him upright at the moment. "They know... they know."
"Breathe, lad, breathe." Carson was at his shoulder, trying to support his weight. "It'll be okay."
"No, it won't!" he cried, pointing at the door. "They're here and they know!"
"Know what?"
"Oh god," he muttered again into the brick wall. "I can't believe this."
"I'm having a hard time myself," Carson said impatiently.
"I'm going to die," he muttered, unable to stop the words from overflowing now, "I'm seriously going to die."
"What?" Carson snapped. "What the hell are you yammering about?"
"I'm in trouble, Carson," Rodney's voice was small and quiet, "really big trouble."
The transition from the Scot's normal soft concern to alarm was instantaneous. "What's going on?"
"Oh, the usual," his voice was shaky, "conspiracy, aliens, corporate hit men. Nothing too over-the-top."
"I don't understand."
"There is a group of men out there," Rodney swallowed, "from VerTech."
"And that's bad?"
"Oh, that's very bad."
"Why is that?"
"Because..." Rodney popped his watch up to bear and pressed the mechanism that released the flash card inside. "I have pictures of their big secret, and I'm pretty sure that they really don't want the government finding out about it."
"Big secret?"
"Don't pretend!" Rodney barked. "We all know there was something screwy going on there!"
Carson's brow twitched, but he didn't respond to the accusation directly. "Why would you take pictures?"
"Because," he explained patiently as he removed the flash card, "that's my job."
"Come again?"
Rodney took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Carson, can I trust you?"
"Of course you can trust me, what kind of daft question is that?"
"Good, because I don't have any choice right now." Rodney shoved the flash card into the other man's hand. "Take this, and be sure they don't see you with me."
"I don't understand." Carson accepted the flash card hesitantly, staring at it in his open palm as if it might suddenly take life and leap free of its own accord. "What is this?"
"Photographic evidence of what Vertrauen is hiding in their basement. I need you to hold it for me while I try to slip out without being seen."
"Why can't you take it with you?"
"Because the Air Force has to see what's on that disk, no matter what." They'd never manage to get another plant in, and unfortunately the Stargate made things a lot bigger than just Rodney's survival. Those idiots were playing with fire every time they stepped through the Stargate. "If they catch me, it's better that I don't have that on me."
"I really don't like the sound of this."
"I don't like being in the middle of it."
"So you're pulling me in as well?"
He let his eyes shut, because no, he couldn't ask Carson to do that. Not even bothering to open his eyes, Rodney held his hand out for the disk. "You're right... sorry."
"What are you doing?"
"I'll be okay... I'll get out somehow."
"Just call the police."
Rodney snorted. "You don't understand the magnitude of the situation—if they don't already own someone on the force, they won't hesitate to kill anyone who gets in their way."
They had gone to great lengths to keep their very profitable secret under wraps, and Rodney highly doubted they weren't going to let a few men in uniforms get in the way.
"That's insane."
"Well, so is creating a stable wormhole, but apparently it's possible!"
"I have no idea what you're saying."
"Just give me the disk, Carson. I don't have time to argue about this."
"I thought you wanted me to hold onto it."
"I shouldn't have asked you to do that—this isn't something you should get involved with."
"No." Carson's hand tightened around the disk and he shoved it into his pocket. "You asked for my help. I'm not going to abandon you to the wolves."
"If they find that you have it—"
"They won't be looking for me. Will they?"
"No." Rodney looked away, worrying his lip between his teeth. "Just me... and the pictures."
"And if they catch you?" He caught Carson's gaze, and apparently didn't need to say anything because the Scot sucked in a quick breath. "Are you sure?"
"They've done it before, and I'm pretty sure I've pissed them off worse than the other guy."
He nodded, face clouding over in a barely restrained fear. "What do I do with this?"
"If I can give them the slip, I'll give you a call on your home phone—not your company cell—around nine p.m., and we can arrange a meet."
"And if you don't call?" Carson asked roughly.
Rodney looked away, studying the cracks and chinks in the brick wall of the bathroom. "Then you need to contact Major Lorne, and tell him what I've told you."
"And what?"
"He'll know what to do," Rodney muttered. "Do you have a pen?"
"Yes," Carson said flatly, producing one from his pocket. "You haven't really told me much."
"Trust me, the less you know, the better." Rodney took the proffered pen and swiftly moved over to the paper towel dispenser. He yanked one out savagely and scribbled the contact number he had been forced to memorize so many months ago. He held it out to Carson, unable to look directly into the frightened gaze directed at him. "I'm sorry."
"Get out of here," Carson said brusquely. "I'll give you a few minutes head start."
"Right," he nodded, reaching for the door and stopping. "Thank you."
"Just don't get yourself killed."
"I'll try," he offered Carson a shaky smile, and then he was out the door.
The good thing about a rowdy, noisy crowd was that Rodney could slip in between the groups of people as he made his way toward the exit. He nervously scanned the room, trying to pick out the locations of the different men. He wasn't sure how they had managed to find him, but that would have to wait until he could get to a more secure location.
He spotted one and ducked away quickly, barely dodging around another person and knocking over a round of drinks. He could do this, he could totally do this. Fingering his car keys in his pocket, he continued to wind his way toward the exit. Another quick glance up and he met Sheppard's sharp gaze, who was watching him intently. From the distance he could see the wheels turning in the other man's mind, and he was starting to rise from his seat. God damn it... it was bad enough that Carson had been dragged into this.
Rodney practically sprinted to the exit, hoping that he could make it to his car without anyone else spotting him. A thrill shot down his spine as he reached the doorway and, without another glance behind him, yanked the door open and rushed out into the parking lot.
He had done it; he was going to make it. He fished his keys out of his pocket, trying to appear casual as he began power walking to the far side where he had parked his car. New rule, when on stupid spy assignments, always park close to the entrance to ensure a quick getaway...
Correction: never take stupid spy assignments. Apparently they did not end well.
Hindsight was a glorious thing, Rodney realized the moment he walked straight into a barrel-chested individual decked out in black. In hindsight, Rodney decided as he looked up into the wicked face grinning down at him, he should have never listened to Lorne and Hammond in the first place and just taken a job at some Podunk community college.
There were no trained killers on the campus of community colleges.
Rodney backed up quickly, the large, hulking individual slowly matching his pace. He swallowed heavily as his back met with another muscular chest. Rodney's nerve failed him as a beefy hand gripped the back of his neck and another fisted into his shirt. As he struggled futilely in the strong grip, he realized that he didn't want to do this anymore, and he really wanted to wake up now because the wild hammering in his chest could only be from a nightmare.
"Stop squirming," the harsh voice growled into his ear, "or I'll have to make you stop."
"Or maybe you'll do the smart thing," another voice cut in, "and let him go."
John had the element of surprise on his side and as soon as the bulky man holding Rodney turned, John lashed out with a fist that caught the goon on the cheek. As the man's head snapped back from the blow, John followed it up with a sharp kick behind the knees, sending him and his captive sprawling on the pavement.
John had seen the four burly men follow Rodney from the bar, and had realized with a sick feeling that his instincts had been right all along. McKay was in trouble—John dodged the blow from the second guy, and from the close view he was able to clearly make out the VerTech logo emblazoned on the man's sleeve. Oh, there was trouble all right—it had just come from a different source than John expected.
One was down, this second guy wouldn't last for long, but the third and fourth were circling around from behind the van. Four-on-one were not odds John was willing to risk, especially if he had to keep an eye on Rodney. Pushing those thoughts away, John concentrated on escape. He jammed his elbow into the throat of his attacker, eliciting a strangled cry of pain. Not waiting to admire his handiwork and risk the others catching up, John hauled McKay up by the collar of his shirt and propelled him out into the back section of the lot where the scientist had parked his car.
"What the hell, McKay?" he snapped as he tugged his charge toward the bright blue Honda. "Seriously, what the hell?"
"I'm sorry," he babbled, "I can explain—"
"Escape first, explanations later."
He shoved Rodney toward the driver's side, glancing back to see the two men trying to pick themselves up. "Hurry it up."
"I'm trying, I'm trying just—oh crap."
"What?" John snapped his gaze back to see Rodney fingering the flat front tire. A quick glance to its three mates revealed that they all had been slashed. "Okay, that's bad."
"Really? Because I thought it was a sign of all the good things to come!"
These guys meant business—and they definitely didn't want Rodney to leave without a serious chat. John caught the flash of a gun, and he realized with a sudden clarity that whatever conversation they intended on having with the scientist would probably end with Rodney in a pine box.
And that would happen over John's dead body.
"Come on." He didn't wait for Rodney to follow, just grabbed him by the arm and yanked him further down the lot to where the Harley sat, gleaming under the streetlamps. "We'll take my bike."
"What? Oh no!" The arm twisted in John's grip, and he had to add another hand to the mix to physically haul the scientist the last few feet toward the bike. "There's no way you can get me on that death trap!"
The death trap part could have been true, because there was no time to don any riding equipment and John had left his only helmet back in the bar. It was going to be a rough ride, but it was better to not mention these things to an already panicking McKay.
"Fine." John climbed onto the bike and revved the engine. "Would you rather take a ride with them?"
Rodney looked over his shoulder to see the four men bearing down on their position, one raising his gun to bear. McKay gave a short yelp as he practically leapt onto John's back in his attempt to climb onto the motorcycle. "Just get us the hell out of here!"
"You better hold on," John warned as he kicked away the stand, "because this is going to get rough."
The pitiful whimper was almost drowned out by the roar as John hit the gas and the bike lurched away from its stationary position. Over the growl of the engine, John could hear the pop of gunfire around him. He grit his teeth together and wound his way through the crowded parking lot, dodging around cars and pedestrians alike as he raced toward the exit and to the street beyond.
He gunned the engine, flying through a yellow light moments before it turned red. A quick glance to his mirrors showed a dark colored sedan roaring after him, plowing through the intersection without any regard for the red light and oncoming traffic.
The damn thing was one of the newer Chryslers. It figured VerTech would equip their hit men with a luxury powerhouse vehicle. John would have no trouble outrunning a normal sedan, but that thing had a lot of power under its hood. This was not good.
"You really must have pissed them off," John shouted, but his words were lost in the wind.
He ducked around a car, feeling the arms tightening around his chest as the cycle slightly dipped with the movement. This wasn't going to work, John realized as he had to dodge around another vehicle and saw the sedan matching his brazen moves. There were too many vehicles and way too many intersections.
He saw the light ahead flick from green to yellow and put on an extra burst of speed, before banking into a left turn. There was a short shout of alarm from his passenger as they almost touched the ground during the turn, but they were soon vertical again. The death grip around John's chest did not relax.
If there was time, or no bitter chill wind whipping the words away, he might have tried to offer some sort of comfort. As it was, he needed almost every ounce of his concentration so they wouldn't wind up plastered on the road side. The Chrysler squealed around the corner, and John focused on the entrance ramp to I-19 ahead.
They roared up the ramp, and John pushed the engine to the max as the sedan tried to match his speed. The extra speed made the cold winter wind bite at his unprotected face and eyes, and his bare hands gripped the handlebars tighter as the chill burned his fingertips. He dodged around the slower moving vehicles on the freeway, but despite his best efforts he was unable to shake his pursuers.
Something on the ground spat up next to him and over the wind and the roar of traffic and his own engine, John could hear another angry roar of a gun going off.
His cursed "shit" was lost to the road noise, and John cut over three lanes as he spied an exit ahead. The bike faithfully responded to his jerky movements, and he managed to avoid getting crushed between two vehicles trying to merge lanes. Behind him, the Chrysler tried to match his movements with considerably less success.
Heedless to their suffering, he roared off the exit ramp, taking the next u-turn at the fastest speed possible. John didn't feel so guilty about the terrified scream that managed to echo in his ear before it was torn away by the speed and wind.
He tore past the next entrance ramp and he felt the grip around his rib cage tighten. There might have been some sort of question to what John was planning, but seeing as how conversation was pretty much out during the ride, he ignored it. The Chrysler roared around the turn, and John focused his attention back on what he was about to do.
Steeling his nerves, he continued to roar up to the exit ramp and jammed on the brakes in order to execute a tight turn. There was a terrified screech accompanied by Rodney trying to squeeze the life out of him.
"What are you—?" John managed to hear a snatch of the nervous babbling in his ear as they slowed in the turn. "Oh, no..."
"Let's see them match this," John announced as he revved the engine, and they raced up the exit ramp.
Rodney's girly scream was (almost) lost to the road.
John filtered that out, as well as the uncomfortable pressure of another body clinging tightly to him like a second skin, and focused on dodging around the incoming headlights. Horns blared and tires screeched, but he continued on. It was more stupid than daring, but maybe, just maybe...
...it wasn't going to work.
Another glance to his mirrors revealed that the Chrysler was still tailing them, but was having more difficulty navigating around the oncoming traffic. He cursed aloud, but was unable to slam his hands in frustration because he had to dodge around an eighteen wheeler bearing straight toward him.
He snarled into the wind, cursing the traffic and the men still doggedly pursing them. They weren't going to give up on their own—
—so John would have to help guide them to that decision.
He pushed the engine to the max, gaining an extra burst of speed, and wildly dodged through the oncoming cars and blaring horns like a man gone mad. Rodney's face buried into his back, and he could feel more than hear the muffled scream of terror. Gritting his teeth, he managed to get a little more distance in before he slammed on the brakes, sending them into a skidding halt.
The horns were still blaring, but John was temporarily out of the road as they had managed to stop on the shoulder and the skid had faced them in the correct direction. The trembling hands clutching at him stilled as Rodney pulled his head up. "Oh god, is it over?"
"No," John replied tersely. "Just hold on, and try to mirror my movements so you don't knock us off balance."
"What are you going to do?" he asked shakily.
"We're going to play a game of chicken."
"We're going to—what? Oh, no, no, no! You're insane! You're freaking insane! When the objects of differing masses meet with great force, it's the tiny motorcycle that gets squished into street pizza!"
"Hang on," John readjusted his grip on the handlebars and glared at the oncoming headlights. "Here they come."
"We need a better idea than suicide!"
"Negative, Ghost Rider, the pattern is full."
"You are not seriously quoting Top Gun at me right now!"
"Yeehaw," John smirked as he revved the engine, "Jester's dead!"
"No, no, Sheppard, this is not a good idea."
"Sorry, Goose, but it's time to buzz the tower."
Rodney's sputter of outraged protest was lost as John applied the gas and the bike shot forward. John didn't have time to appreciate that Rodney immediately complied with his instructions; he just focused on aiming the bike toward the hood of the oncoming sedan. Time seemed to slow; the rush of the wind in his ears settled into a soft stir, the angry blare of the car dodging around the battling vehicles became one long angry noise, and John had enough time to see the driver's eyes narrow before he slammed on the sedan's gas pedal.
Time resumed its normal pace, and John offered the driver a brief, satisfied smirk as he suddenly let off the gas. The sedan hurtled toward them, and mere milliseconds before they were to collide, dodged to the side. As Rodney was practically hugging John from behind, there was no resistance to the move. The bike dipped precariously close to the ground, almost close enough to graze at John's elbow. As the sedan plowed on by, John tilted back the other direction, barely managing to drag the bike upright.
One final glance to his mirror showed John what he had expected. The sedan had attempted to turn with the same radius, but the sudden move had sent them into a spin, and crashing into the barrier. With a grim smile, John gunned the engine and proceeded to get lost within the thronging traffic.
When they were safely out of the city limits, John decided that he was going to get some answers. He had definitely earned them.
The only light this far from the city limits was the brightly shining full moon overhead and the flickering bulbs from the rickety roadside station. They pulled to a stop next to the ancient-looking fuel pump. Despite the long drive and the comparatively calm ride, Rodney was still tightly wrapped around Sheppard.
"You can let go now," Sheppard said sourly. "We've come to a complete and full stop."
"We have?" Rodney cracked open an eye. "Why does it feel like we're still moving?"
"Because you're shaking."
"Oh," Rodney swallowed. "I'm not very good with motorcycles."
"I noticed."
"I think I'm going to be sick," he muttered and quickly scrambled off the leather seat with an uncontrolled lurch.
"Don't get it on the leather," Sheppard said dryly.
Rodney ignored him and stumbled away from the cover of the rickety steel overhang and concrete landing onto the packed sandy ground that lined the remote highway. He shivered as a desert wind picked up and wormed its way through his measly thin jacket. Rodney vaguely remembered the forecast saying it would dip into the forties, and as he watched his breath fog in the air, he decided it had been accurate for once.
His stomach continued to roil from the rollercoaster of a motorcycle ride he had been subjected to, and wrapped his arms around himself in an effort to try and contain both warmth and his queasiness. Sheppard had insisted on taking the long way out of town, probably to try and throw the scent off of their trail. A brief check to his cell phone for time confirmed that Rodney had missed the promised call time to Carson. If the twenty missed calls on the log were any indicator, the Scot wasn't taking that too well.
God, Carson... a new nauseous feeling settled in the pit of his stomach, and Rodney knew it had nothing to do with Sheppard's fun house ride. It was bad enough that Sheppard had felt the need to force his way into this, but Rodney had willingly involved Carson. Of course, seeing as how Rodney probably would have never made it out of the parking lot without outside help, maybe it hadn't been an all together bad decision.
At least Lorne would get his freaking evidence. That was what was important after all, right?
He felt a presence join him at his side and was still too shaken from the ride to meet Sheppard's gaze head on. Rodney cleared his throat, trying to will his body to stop shivering long enough so that he could appear calm and cool for this conversation. The rigid set to the other man's shoulders told Rodney that answers were expected.
"Feeling better now?"
"No," Rodney admitted quietly, but in the silence of the night the words were as loud as the engine on Sheppard's bike. "I can't believe you did that."
"Well, taking your car was out."
"No," Rodney shook his head adamantly, "you just... dove in there without thought. There was no reason for you to get involved in this."
"They were going to kill you." There was a hard edge to Sheppard's voice, and Rodney could see him unconsciously mirror the same stance as he crossed his arms and stared off into the sands beyond. "That's reason enough."
"I just don't understand," Rodney continued quietly, "you shouldn't—"
"I swear to god, Rodney, if the next word out of your mouth is 'care' I'm going to punch you."
He swallowed heavily, and looked off into another direction, admiring how the sands almost appeared blue in the moonlight. It took him a moment before he finally clarified. "You shouldn't, though."
He tensed as Sheppard swung his body in his direction, waiting for a blow that didn't actually come. There was real anger brewing in the hazel eyes and Rodney flinched as a finger jabbed him in the chest. "That's bullshit."
"You shouldn't care," Rodney said again, with more conviction, "because I've been lying to you from the moment we met!"
"Really?" The single word was imbued with so much sarcasm it almost wasn't fair. "Have you now?"
"Yes, I have!" He twisted so he didn't have to see the storm raging in his friend's eyes. "I don't make friends, I'm not a social person—"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Everything!" Rodney shouted. "Those things are based on emotional entanglements, and I'm a man who relies on logic!"
"So, what, you're a Vulcan now?"
"No, I," he spun away frustrated, "it was supposed to be a simple job. No complications as long as I kept my head low and didn't rouse any suspicions."
"And what would you be doing that would rouse suspicions?" Sheppard asked. "Something that might be a reason for Marrick sending a hit squad after you?"
"Maybe," he admitted quietly. At the stern look he clarified. "Okay, yes, definitely."
"What happened?"
"I made the mistake of listening to the Air Force."
"I thought you didn't talk to them anymore."
"Another lie," he said flatly, "when you consider the fact that I'm their plant in Vertrauen's organization."
That seemed to take Sheppard off-guard, and the angry stance faltered as he tried to process the information. "You're a what?"
"I'm a spy," he spat. "I was sent to go in and find out what the hell they've been hiding for the past few years. The Chief-of-Staff thought it might be something big—and he was right."
Sheppard just shook his head again, still having trouble assimilating the first revelation. "You're a... spy?"
"Why is that so hard to believe?"
"Because," Sheppard waved a hand obliquely, "you're you. You're not..."
"James Bond?" Rodney supplied.
"No offense, but no."
"None taken," Rodney muttered and directed his glare out to the sands. "James Bond wouldn't have left part of his high tech camera in enemy territory for the bad guy to find."
"Your glasses?" Sheppard asked, frowning as he tried to connect the dots.
"Yes," Rodney replied tersely.
"They looked like real glasses—not those dorky things on the internet."
"That was the point," Rodney scrubbed a hand across his face. "I was just supposed to get pictures of anything suspicious and no one would know any better. Just some simple information gathering—and if they weren't hiding anything there would be no real harm since a lot of their contracts are directly with the Air Force."
"Why would you even agree to do that?"
"Because I'm expendable," he admitted quietly. "There would be no one to miss me if something did happen."
"Bullshit," Sheppard spat. "No one is expendable."
"I'm serious."
"So am I! I've lost a hell of a lot because other people believed that. Now, what was the real reason?"
"Because I didn't have a choice!"
"You always have a choice," Sheppard insisted, echoing words told to him only a few months ago. "You could have not done it."
"No, you don't understand," Rodney shot back, "I was going to lose everything. My lab, my credibility within the scientific community, my entire life's work would be called into question, refuted—my life was over. This was my only chance to get it back."
"How the hell does espionage factor into your life in academia?"
"A few years back, the Air Force received a tip from an astrophysicist named Peterson," Rodney explained tersely. "He claimed that Vertrauen was hiding something big, but he wouldn't talk unless he got protection and immunity."
"Immunity from what?"
Rodney pursed his lips. "Doesn't matter, because Peterson was dredged up from the bottom of the reservoir a few days later—the police report attributed it to organized crime."
"And how does this relate to you?"
"Because I was very close to completing an important experiment—a larger, non-naqudah powered version of the X-302's PDE in fact—when it overloaded and nearly incinerated a small chunk of Area 51."
"And?"
"Four people died—and the investigation revealed that someone had tampered with the safety protocols. Protocols that General Aisley and I had a very public argument about the week before."
Sheppard's expression tightened. "I'm seeing where this is heading."
"And I was accused of sabotaging my own work just to prove myself right. You'll probably be shocked to know that I had a reputation of a man with an oversized ego who hated being wrong."
"You were set up."
"Yes," he ground out, "by someone within the Air Force, since only they and handful of scientists had access to that particular lab. General Hammond was the only one who seemed to believe me. Probably because he had begun to suspect that Vertrauen was bankrolling a few informants at Area 51, and..."
"And?"
"And Vertrauen recruiters had been trying to knock down my doors for years. I was the most likely candidate to get in undetected and figure out what was going on. Especially if it appeared like I had cut all ties with the military."
"Shit," Sheppard breathed. "Then you're not kidding me?"
"It would be a hell of a rotten joke." Rodney toed the sand at his feet, musing on the difference between its coarse quality and the grains back in Nevada at Area 51. "Lorne is going to kill me."
"Lorne? The detective?"
"He was just playing dress up that night. He's a Major in the Air Force... he's also my handler."
"Your handler?"
"My contact, you know, my protection."
"Well, he's done a pretty crappy job of that so far!"
"Hey," Rodney snapped, "lay off! Marrick has about every line of communication tapped. It's not easy for Lorne to keep track of what's going on."
"You're a civilian," Sheppard ground out, "it's his job to keep you safe."
"Oh, look who's getting all holier-than-thou," Rodney mocked. "I can take care of myself."
"Really?" Sheppard shot back. "Is that why I had to play X-Games on the freeway with those bastards?"
"You didn't have to do that!"
"Yes, I did!" Sheppard savagely kicked at the sand with one boot. "I couldn't let them—damn it. It was not an option!"
"You getting caught up in this mess wasn't on my list of options either."
"Someone has to have your back," Sheppard ground out, "and if your actual backup isn't going to do it, then I will."
The hard determination seemed to let the wind of defiance out of Rodney's sails, and he was left floundering to his point. "It's bad enough Carson's involved, I can't let you—"
"You brought Carson into this?" Sheppard roared, and this time Rodney was sure the pilot was going to deck him. "What the hell were you thinking?"
"I was thinking I was about to get killed and that those pictures were too important to get buried!"
"More important than your friend's safety?"
"I tried to take them back! Look, I don't want him to get hurt, but I was running out of options."
"I can't believe this... I thought I knew you."
And that hurt worse than Sheppard actually taking a swing at him. He closed his eyes, trying to fight down the rising nausea. "You can go. You might be able to slip their notice, lay low for a while."
"You think I'm just going to leave you?"
"Well why not?" he asked. "I tried to tell you before, you don't want to be my friend. I certainly wouldn't stick around if the roles were reversed."
"Yes, you would," there was a hard edge to Sheppard's voice. "You're my wingman, remember?"
"I don't understand..."
"It's too late to turn back now." The determined set of Sheppard's jaw told Rodney there was more than one meaning behind that statement.
"Yeah," he admitted softly, because it was true. "Way too late."
There was no doubt in his mind that Sheppard was now on Vertrauen's most wanted list as well. Meaning... they were in this together, whether Rodney liked it or not. There was no point in keeping any more secrets—especially since he didn't really want to. He turned away from the tense set of shoulders and studied the expansive desert beyond.
"So," he said quietly, "I got to see what was behind that door you were so fascinated by."
Sheppard sucked in a quick breath. "Really?"
"Oh yeah," Rodney said, "and you were right."
"I was?"
"It went 'Downstairs'."
"And?"
Rodney shook his head. "You're going to think I'm crazy."
"Try me."
It took a little longer than five minutes, talking in hushed tones as they made their way back to the station, but Rodney managed to boil it down to a very concise nutshell. Sheppard's amused disbelief over aliens and giant matter transporting rings faded into a grim determination as it became apparent that Rodney wasn't joking.
"We need to get you to your contact," he said gruffly as they entered the tiny corner store.
"It's a long drive from here to Davis-Monathan AFB."
"Well," Sheppard paid the cashier for the gas with several crisp bills, "I just filled up my gas tank, and I get forty-two miles a gallon on the highway. I think we'll make it."
"You're just bragging," Rodney muttered. "That's just not fair. I compromise any sort of an engine or power for good gas mileage, and here you get both on your fancy ride."
"Them's the breaks," Sheppard grinned.
"Whatever," Rodney grumbled as he pushed open the door and was met with another tendril of desert wind winding its way around him.
He ambled toward the waiting bike, ready to get on the road and end this nightmare. Unfortunately fate had other plans in the form of a darkened and seemingly abandoned beat-up Chrysler sedan sitting a ways away on the road. There was no way they could have found them so fast. Rodney had nothing they could track him by—
—except his lovely, GPS-enabled cell phone. Rodney swallowed dryly as his eyes tracked the darkened station. "Sheppard?"
"I see it," he growled. "Although I don't see them."
"Me neither, do you think they're—"
His question was cut off as a burning sensation raced up and down his spine. As if he were observing himself from a distance, he could see blue electricity tingling along his skin. He heard a startled shout of his name and a Sheppard's surprised cry of pain before the world went black completely.