Chapter Sixteen
Rodney was swimming through a haze of cotton and trying to grasp onto a single thought was akin to trying to hold onto a wet bar of soap. He felt weary, like he had been running cross-country nonstop for the past several hours, which was rather silly since Rodney did not exercise. Country...
Some of the haze cleared and Rodney pushed away the cotton as he was able to remember a vivid sprawling desert scene. He wasn't particularly a fan of the countryside, but for some reason it had been important. Very important—
Something hard banged against his forehead, dragging him further from the cottony fields of nothingness and back into the realm of consciousness. Something tugged at his hands when he tried to use them to bat away the intruding object, so he was forced to crack open his eyes. He was met with the vision of a blurry face hovering just in his field of view.
"Knock knock." The blurry figure rapped against his skull again, and Rodney's vision suddenly focused with startling clarity on Marrick's shark-toothed smile. "Nice of you to join us, Dr. McKay."
"Oh no," he groaned, listing to the side as whoever had been holding him upright let go. "I'm dreaming, please..."
"Afraid not," a groggy voice moaned next to him.
Rodney glanced to his left, nearly toppling over as his equilibrium swayed with the movement. Sheppard was looking about as good as Rodney felt, his gaze tightening as he tried to school the lingering grogginess from his face. His hair, somehow, managed to be even more askew than normal, sticking up at every angle as he stared ahead resolutely. His biceps bulged as he futilely tried to work at the bonds securing his hands behind his back.
Rodney tried working his, and realized he was similarly bound.
"You'll have to forgive the inhospitality," Marrick said dryly, "but we had to be sure Sheppard wasn't going to try and pull another daring rescue attempt."
"Bad habit," Sheppard shrugged, nearly tipping himself over in the process.
Rodney didn't roll his eyes, because he was sure that the motion might set off his own precarious equilibrium, and instead scanned the room. It wasn't exactly lush, but it was a lot nicer than Rodney's own office. For one it had carpet, and considering that he was in a forced kneel on the ground, his knees thanked the interior decorator for that decision.
Monitors lined two of the four walls, each flickering an image of a different part of the Vertrauen building. A large window occupied the far wall, letting moonlight spill in and illuminate the single laptop sitting on the large desk. One of the thugs from the bar had circled around to join Marrick at his side, but he wasn't sure where the other three were. Maybe licking their wounds if they had the same colorful assortment of bruises this guy was nursing. Despite himself, Rodney couldn't help but let a small smile slip through.
Sheppard seemed to catch his gaze, and he summoned a grim smirk for Rodney's benefit. Marrick narrowed his gaze at the silent byplay and, using his foot, gave Sheppard hard nudge in the shoulder that sent the pilot toppling over in an ungraceful heap.
"Hey," Rodney protested, "haven't you heard about not kicking a man when he's down?"
"Shut it, McKay!" Sheppard snapped out, his gruff tone a counterpoint to the brief moment of camaraderie they had just shared.
"Interesting," Marrick muttered and ambled over to the desk, spinning the laptop around to face the doorway rather than the window. "I really hate to waste time, though, Dr. McKay. It took far too long for you two to regain consciousness as it is."
"About that—"
"Ah, yes, we missed that part on our tour this morning." The words were friendly, but the tone was laced with a heavy amount of scorn. Marrick picked up another object on the desk, and held it up to the light, admiring it. "A zat'ni'katel."
"That's quite a mouthful," Sheppard muttered from his spot on the floor.
"True," Marrick said, casually walking the expanse of the office again, "it's much easier to say zat."
"What is it?" Rodney snapped impatiently.
Marrick held it out for inspection, and Rodney studied the strange metal shape. It almost resembled a snake readying to strike, and appeared to be cast in the same color that the Stargate had been.
"It's alien," he said suddenly.
"Very good, Doctor," Marrick adjusted the snake-like object in his grip. "An alien weapon in fact. Very small, but very powerful as you no doubt can tell."
"You shot us with that thing?" Sheppard sounded aghast that something that resembled a toy had taken his macho image down a notch.
"The first shot just renders you unconscious," Marrick explained as if he were talking to Rodney's first undergrad class, "and considering it's practically silent, it's very handy in subduing pesky scientists and their bodyguards."
"He's not my bodyguard," Rodney protested.
"Really? So he just pulled you out of danger out of the goodness of his heart? Please, Dr. McKay, I've read your file—petty, arrogant, bad with people?" Sheppard made an angry noise from the ground as he unsuccessfully tried to push himself up. Rodney's gaze tracked back to Marrick as he began pacing restlessly. "But as I said, I hate to waste time and this conversation is getting off track."
"I don't think it was ever on the track to begin with," Sheppard shot back.
Marrick flicked him a brief, annoyed glance before focusing back on Rodney. He reached into his pants pocket and withdrew another small item, balancing it in one hand while he still gripped the zat in the other.
"Very interesting prescription you have on your glasses, Dr. McKay," Marrick said lightly. "You really shouldn't leave them lying around for just anyone to find."
Rodney closed his eyes as a wave of disgust and self-pity washed over him.
"It took me a long time with the scanners downstairs to find why they were giving off an EM field." Marrick's hand gripped the glasses tightly, the metal frame bending inward at the pressure. "There aren't many people who have access to this type of technology. So I'm wondering, are you here with the NSA, CIA, or—" He pinned Rodney with a cold look. "The Air Force?"
"I don't know what you're—"
It was amazing how fast Marrick could move. Before Rodney could even finish his sentence he had crossed the distance in a few quick strides and sent Rodney sprawling with a backhanded slap to the face. He gazed up at the ceiling, momentarily stunned.
"You lay another hand on him and you'll need more than just these ropes to keep me back, Marrick," Sheppard snarled, conviction dripping from his icy tone.
"Big words, Sheppard," Marrick mocked as he grabbed a fistful of Rodney's jacket and hauled him back to a sitting position. "I've got my hand on him. What are you going to do?"
The spinning stopped, and Rodney could see Sheppard seething silently from his position. He tried to shake his head, a silent communication for the pilot to back off. The gesture was very much appreciated, but there was absolutely nothing he could do but get himself killed faster.
"That's what I thought," Marrick muttered and twisted the jacket in his fisted grip. "Now don't lie to me, Doctor, because my patience is running thin."
Rodney just glared at him, since there wasn't much he was able to do in his position.
"I want to know where the pictures are." Marrick brandished the glasses/camera. "You obviously had them with you, and it's fairly important I destroy those before your friends in the military get a look at them."
Summoning his inner-Sheppard, Rodney ignored his wildly pounding heart in favor of offering a grim, satisfied smirk. "Screw you."
Marrick's face twisted with barely restrained fury, and he stowed the glasses away in favor of hauling Rodney to his feet. "I don't have time for your bravado games. Where are the files, Dr. McKay?"
"And what will telling you accomplish?" Rodney narrowed his gaze. "I've got a funny feeling that I'm not going to be walking out of this room—unless it's in a pair of cement shoes."
He was given a long appraising look, before being tossed into the waiting arms of Marrick's stooge. The man's meaty fingers dug into his shoulders, effectively restraining him.
"Fair enough." Marrick used his free hand to find the zat once again, and raised it to bear on Sheppard.
"What are you doing?" Rodney asked frantically.
"You seem particularly attached to this washout here."
Sheppard lifted his upper lip into an intimation of a sneer.
"And he certainly seems concerned for your welfare. Tell me, does it run both ways?"
Rodney watched with widening eyes as a bolt of blue electricity left the zat with a soft zap. "No!"
The bolt arced across Sheppard's entire body, sending the pilot into what looked like a painful convulsion. The blue light continued to arc for a moment, before it finally dissipated. With barely even a groan, Sheppard puddled limply on the floor.
"Why the hell did you do that?" Rodney demanded.
"The first shot just stuns," Marrick reminded coldly. "The second kills on contact."
The raised gun didn't waver from its aim on the prone figure, and Rodney felt himself battling a rising sense of nausea. Sheppard wasn't supposed to be here, wasn't supposed to be involved—and he was about to get himself killed. Although not from curiosity like Rodney had feared but from his steadfast, infuriating sense of loyalty.
"It's interesting, but the third shot completely disintegrates the body. Had to learn that lesson the hard way," Marrick said conversationally. "It would be like he never even existed—not altogether different than his current life, don't you think?" Rodney stared at the slow rise and fall of Sheppard's chest, almost transfixed by the action. "Now tell me, Doctor... is your friend's life—his existence—a worthy enough accomplishment for giving up the mere location of a few pictures?"
The world that had seemed so small that morning narrowed down to a single moment, in which Marrick's finger inched towards the trigger, getting ready to pull it and deliver the fatal shot.
"Stop!" he snapped. "Just stop!"
"Will you tell me what I need to know?"
"Yes," Rodney babbled, "of course I will, just put that damn thing down!"
"Good," Marrick smiled, dropping the arm holding the zat.
Of course, the pictures were currently with Carson—possibly with Lorne and Hammond by now. Rodney's mind reeled, trying to think of a solution, anything to stall for more time. What he was waiting for, he really didn't know, but staving off death, holding off Sheppard's disintegration, seemed like a worthy enough cause. "I'll need to show you on the laptop."
"Why's that?"
"They're digitized and electronically uploaded to a private server via the cellular connection in my watch. That way if something happens to me, they still get their pictures."
It was a bold-faced lie, and Marrick eyed him suspiciously for a moment. Rodney met the gaze head on, reminding himself to breathe evenly and to only think of the elements within the periodic table. It must have worked, because Marrick gave a tight nod before Rodney felt the ropes around his wrist loosen.
He rubbed the chaffed skin as he was led over to the laptop. He needed to make this good, whatever it was. His eyes traced over the familiar worn lettering on the keys, and the simple Batman insignia set as the desktop's wallpaper. "This is my laptop."
"Of course it is," Marrick said simply, "I had Devlin grab it when he was bugging your apartment."
"Why would you take it?"
"I think you know why," Marrick gave him a hard look, "although we couldn't find anything other than an absurd number of pictures of blonde women."
"I like blondes," he defended weakly.
"Doctor," Marrick insisted, "the pictures. Now."
"Right." He grabbed the laptop, booting up an explorer window. A brief glance to Marrick showed that he was watching his every move very carefully. Without hesitation, Rodney began typing a long line of numbers in the address field. Better to hide his duplicity with the IP address, and it would give him more time to try and figure out the next step.
The personal storage server at the Area 51 FTP site popped up. Of course Rodney's original login information wouldn't work, seeing as how it appeared he had been fired for the benefit of this stupid ruse. However, he had been able to memorize Dr. Lee's login info one day when the man had let his fascination with Armageddon slip.
"There," he displayed the contents of the folder to Marrick as if he had done some monumental task, "no one's accessed them yet."
"Good," he shoved McKay aside as he called up the first picture file. "What the hell is this?"
Rodney looked at a picture that Lee had accidentally taken of his hand with his first camera phone. God, he remembered being shown every single one of those things. He had no idea why Lee would upload it to a server to keep. The man really needed to clean out his archives.
"I never claimed to be a good photographer," Rodney defended hotly. "You try playing point and click without a decent viewfinder."
Marrick muttered to himself, and continued to page through the photos. Rodney discreetly began to back away. As far as plans went, this one was about to run its course. Who knew what sort of pictures Lee kept on hand. Rodney needed to get over to Sheppard without attracting the attention of Marrick or his thug, who was currently studying the monitors. If he could get them out into the hallway beyond that door, they might have something resembling a chance.
"These aren't the right pictures," Marrick said coldly, and Rodney froze in his strategic retreat. "And this is... some sort of animation."
Another click of the mouse, and a gravelly, angry tone blasted from the tiny laptop. Crap. Leave it to Bill Lee to save his favorite flash videos to FTP storage.
"Burninating the countryside!" the computer growled. Leave it to Dr. Bill fricking Lee to save the frigging Trogdor song to thwart Rodney's cunning escape plan.
"What the—"
"Shit," Rodney muttered, and dove for where Sheppard lay on the ground. "We gotta go!"
John awoke to the sound of an angry guitar and shouting, which briefly made him wonder if he had woken up at one of the keggers he had been dragged to back in college. Rodney's frantic voice and the feeling of someone trying to loosen the knots around his wrist seemed to contradict that though.
"Sheppard, this is no time to lie around," Rodney rambled on. "I really need you to wake up, because I'm simply not strong enough to carry—"
The sentence ended with a lurch, and John snapped his eyes open in time to see the swimming image of Rodney being yanked back by his hair as Marrick jammed the snake-like gun into his neck. "That's it, McKay!"
John tried to move forward to intervene, but his muscles were still a quivering mess, and he could hardly summon enough strength to struggle upright. A soft, angry rage started to build in him as Marrick continued to manhandle his friend.
"I'm tired of this. No more compassion," Marrick seethed as he gave the hair caught in his hand another yank and aimed the zat straight at John. "Sheppard dies!"
Beyond the struggle, the laptop continued to sing about "burninating" peasants and the countryside. John had to have been dreaming, because it was far too surreal to be listening to "Trogdor" as someone pointed an alien gun at him. He still wasn't sure what was going on, but the surreal moment was broken as Rodney tried to grab at the zat, and Marrick yanked the short hairs again, eliciting a painful grunt.
Every fiber in John's body screamed for him to rush the bastard in front of him, but everything was still swaying, and that alien gun was far too close to McKay for Marrick to not turn it on the scientist. So he waited, watching as Marrick took aim again and pulled the trigger.
—and nothing happened.
"What the hell?" He muttered, and tried again. Still, there was no response. John let out the breath he didn't know he'd been holding as Marrick shook the unresponsive gun in his hand. "These things don't have bullets—they can't jam!"
"But they can run out power," Rodney gloated. "When's the last time you recharged it?"
Marrick sneered, and tossed the scientist away savagely. His head collided with the desk with a thump and a muted yelp. Another surge of anger boiled up in John as Rodney didn't immediately rise.
"Then we'll need to do this the old fashioned way. It looks like I'll have to start carrying weapons again so I have them on hand when I need them. Devlin, give me your knife."
"Boss, there's something you need to see—"
"Devlin, give me the knife."
"But sir—"
"But what?" he roared and turned to see the monitor that Devlin was studying. From the distance John couldn't make out more than a series of dark figures working their way through what looked like an arboretum. "Is that for the lobby?"
"It looks like they came in from the skylight."
John didn't know who the "they" were, but from the way Marrick's cool composure seemed to break and allow a glimmer of fear to seep through—John held hope that it might be someone on his and Rodney's side.
"We need to finish this, right now," Marrick snapped. "Devlin, give me the knife, gunfire would attract too much attention, and we need to dispose of Sheppard. He's outlived his usefulness."
"Whatever you say," the bulky man replied as he stalked across the room, drawing his blade with a wicked snick and handing it over to his boss.
"Now join the others in securing the area—they cannot make it downstairs. Is that clear?"
"Crystal, boss."
If Devlin was the same guy that John thought he was, then he definitely owed him for the balcony thing. Unfortunately it didn't appear like he was going to get any chance, as the goon was already slipping out the door.
"My usefulness?" John asked.
"I needed some sort of leverage with McKay," Marrick wrinkled his nose distastefully. "You seemed to be a decent option."
With how close that knife was, John didn't dare to flick a glance to see why Rodney was so quiet. Marrick quirked a brow in challenge as he passed the knife from one hand to the other. John narrowed his gaze, trying to work his still numbed fingers over the knots that Rodney had started to loosen. He wasn't going down without a hell of a fight. Marrick's grip tightened on the knife and John tensed his shoulders, preparing for the strike.
He barely fell back as Marrick tried for a straight slice to the jugular and rolled out of the way, the world seeming to roll with him as he still was woozy from the zat blast. John jerked himself to a stop moments before a boot stomped on the section of floor where his head had almost been.
This was insane, he couldn't put up a proper fight if he was stuck on the ground, wriggling like a worm on a hook. John used his hands to painfully push himself to a sitting position in order to crab crawl far enough away so he could regain his fighting stance.
However, Marrick was right on top of him and John had to kick his legs up to trap the downward strike that was intending to catch him on the floor. Ankles were not nearly as effective as fingers in maintaining a grip on someone's weapon, and it would only take a few seconds for Marrick to regain the upper hand. Gritting his teeth together, John twisted his entire body, effectively pulling the arm away and knocking Marrick off of his stride.
Unfortunately, his opponent not only had brute strength on his side, but a better position. A quick flip of the wrist and John could feel a burning fire race along his calf. He was unable to choke back on the agonized scream that escaped him—and was blinded by the pain long enough for his opponent to knock his feet away and try for another downward strike.
He expected another angry blossom of pain as the knife made its final blow, but it never came.
He blinked past the pain and burning to see that Rodney had halted the strike by grabbing Marrick's wrist with both of his hands. John let out a relieved breath and if he'd had the wherewithal he would have thanked McKay for the timely intervention. As it was, Rodney's body quaked with the effort it took to try and muscle the knife's path away from John.
A quick, sinister grin from Marrick made John's stomach flip and before he could do anything, Marrick twisted his wrist and jammed the knife straight into the scientist. The sickened gasp was quiet, shocked, and utterly un-McKay-like. John watched in horror as Rodney looked down to the knife handle sticking out of his shoulder.
"That hurt," he squeaked softly and fell back on his arms.
Blood pounded in John's ears as Marrick leaned over the downed scientist and reached for the knife. He grasped the handle and pulled the blade out with an angry twist, extracting an agonized cry with the action. The simmering anger boiled over in full as John stared at the blood dripping off of the knife and onto the carpet below.
He saw flames and the charred human remains from a chopper's wreckage. He saw the snow and ice slowly disappear as he left Antarctica and the military for good. He saw a still chest under his hand in the desert sands, never to rise again. He saw wide expanses of road stretching before him offering nothing but solitude. Beyond all of that he saw a pool of blood widening on the floor below Rodney's shaking form.
John saw red.
The world disappeared in a haze of blood and violence as he launched himself at Marrick, letting go of anything resembling rational thought and just letting the rage dictate his actions. He must have slipped through the knots around his wrist because he had control of his hands and he was using them to express himself on a very primal level. Every blow from his fist represented a name that had slipped out of his grasp.
Mitch. Dex. Holland.
Even if John had to pummel the bastard into oblivion, he wasn't going to let Marrick add Rodney's name to that list. He wasn't losing anything—anyone—else.
A violent blow to his temple snapped John out of his haze and he landed on his back with a sprawl as everything grayed out at the edges of his vision. Through the dots dancing in his field of view he could see Marrick towering over him, the bloody knife back in his grasp. He sneered at John, refocusing his gaze to the spot on the ground where Rodney lay, clutching his shoulder in agony, red seeping out between his fingers.
Still acting on pure instinct alone, John rolled over, placing himself in the line of fire. His injured leg quivered painfully with the weight being placed on it, and John couldn't stop from panting heavily. Still, he met Marrick's gaze steadily, daring him to try and get past John with an angry sneer of his lip.
"A man like him," Marrick spat, "doesn't deserve this kind of loyalty."
"What the hell would you know about loyalty?" John scowled. "Or him?"
"I know that the military wouldn't send in an untrained civilian to do their surveillance if they couldn't afford to lose him."
John's leg throbbed with his pounding heart as Rodney's reasoning for taking the undercover assignment echoed in his brain. No one would miss McKay, because he was a pain in the ass. No one would care, because for some stupid and insane reason Rodney really believed that...
"He is not expendable," John growled. Not now, not ever.
Marrick dove forward, knife arcing towards John with a vicious swing. He dodged back, the landing sending shudders of pain up his sliced calf. There was no time to pay it any heed, because Marrick was following up with another swing. John caught the incoming wrist in a two-handed grip, twisting brutally until the other man loosened his grip on the knife and it dropped to the carpet.
Unfortunately for John, Marrick still had one free hand, and the pilot saw stars as it boxed against his ears. He staggered back, fire racing up his calf with each uncoordinated step, and barely had time to raise an arm to block the next blow. They continued to grapple, exchanging blows and jabs, oblivious to the office environment.
They finally slammed into the desk, Marrick's back taking the brunt of the blow as John levered his weight down on his opponent. He snarled past the throbbing ache in his calf as a pitiful moan reminded him that there was deep red staining the carpet. The twisted, bloodied smile the cry summoned brought back the angry rushing in John's ears.
The next instant Marrick was flying over the desk. John's leg began to tremble with the effort to stay upright after the action, hindering his attempt to stalk over and continue handing out Marrick's well-deserved beating. His opponent was already rising, using the desk drawers to pull himself upright. The scrape of one of the drawers opening was John's only warning before a glock was leveled at him.
John dropped to the floor at the same time the door burst open. The jarring way he met the floor sent an angry jolt of pain up his calf, and he barely registered the sound of a single shot of gunfire from the doorway. Marrick jerked and spun away. John twisted on the floor, catching sight of a smoking P-90 barrel wielded by a stony-faced Lorne.
The red tint faded from John's vision, and he painfully dragged himself over to Rodney's side. McKay didn't actually look at him, just grimaced as another spasm of pain rolled through him. "What—?"
It took a little more effort, but John was able drag himself to a sitting position. Gingerly he pulled Rodney's bloody hand aside so he could inspect the wound. "Cavalry's here."
"Oh, thank god," Rodney breathed, voice shaking with barely checked pain. "I didn't think—"
"Yeah," John interrupted as he tried to slip out of his jacket, "me too."
"You're stripping?" Rodney choked out.
"You're bleeding."
"Don't remind me." Rodney swallowed, clenching his eyes shut as he rode through another spasm of pain. "John?"
A shock rolled through him at hearing his first name, but he squashed it down as he tried to staunch the flow of blood with his jacket. Leather wasn't much for clotting blood, but it was all he had. "Yeah, I'm here."
"What you said to Marrick—"
"Totally true," John said quietly, "and let us never speak of it again."
A shaky smile graced Rodney's features and even if McKay couldn't see it with his eyes closed, John returned it with one of his own. A shadow fell over them and he tensed, unconsciously covering Rodney with his body. He twisted in his position, craning his neck around to see that the shadow belonged to Lorne.
"We've secured the room." Lorne said, but was staring at Rodney with a conflicted, almost haunted expression. "The rest of the team is sweeping the building."
"That's nice," John returned, "although it doesn't stop McKay from getting blood all over my leather jacket."
"The docs are waiting outside." The "sir" was not spoken, but John could have sworn he heard it all the same. "We can't bring them into a combat situation."
"Funny," John said flatly, "because I've got someone bleeding under me who might fit that same description."
Rodney groaned in protest, but was quickly losing his coherency. Relenting, John focused on what was more important at the moment.
"We'll discuss this later, Major." John's hard tone conflicted with the gentle way he slid a hand under Rodney and started to lever him up. "Right now we need to take care of your charge."
Lorne's gaze flickered with anger at the accusation, but John didn't care. There were some things that you never did as a soldier, and endangering civilians was at the top of John's list of no-no's. Rodney McKay was not goddamn expendable, and every single person involved in this botched assignment was going to have that point hammered in their skull, including McKay. For possibly the first time since his 'retirement' John felt it was a good thing he no longer had his commission, because he was about to give the brass a lecture that would leave their ears ringing for weeks.
Apparently there were some perks to early retirement.