A/N: Since these first two chapters are pretty short little buggers, and it's now the new year and I'm feeling pretty chipper this morning, I decided what the hell - might as well post the next one. :) Here's to 2008 - may it be peaceful and productive!

Chapter 2

The small Libby airport was unique in that it had two control towers. One was the small functional one that actually served the airport; the other a set piece left over from when Spielberg filmed 'Always' there. The locals thought it would make a cool tourist attraction, and eight years later it still stood.

Shortly after ten a.m. a dark blue Sikorsky S-76C++ requested permission to land and inquired if there were any vans available to rent in the area. The controller gave them clearance to land, and after a short discussion with a buddy who was a mechanic got them set up with a van. It was a former Forest Service rig actually on the premises, its green paint slightly faded and interior smelling vaguely of fish, but it ran, the price was right, and they only needed it for a few hours.

The helicopter landed over by the false tower and one of the occupants riding in the back jumped out and jogged over to the garage just off and behind the real tower. "So, what brings you to the area?" the mechanic asked as he eyed over the very big man with shoulder length dreadlocks and dressed in camouflage.

"Hunting," the big man rumbled as he handed over four times the asking price for the van.

"Huh," the mechanic replied. It was bow season, after all – seeing guys in camo was pretty common the past few weeks. He saw the amount of cash and frowned. "You on the up and up?" he said as he raised his eyes. The tall man just stared at him, the ghost of a smile only touching his lips. The silence stretched into the more than uncomfortable level – more like a Silence of the Lambs creep-out level – and the mechanic actually took a step back. "Uh, around the side. Keys are in it," he said and cleared his throat. The big guy left without a word and the mechanic pulled a grease stained rag from his work coveralls and wiped his neck. He found some courage again. "Don't be getting any blood in the back," he called out to the broad back.

The big guy turned his head just before he rounded the corner and smiled. "Can't make any guarantees," he said before he disappeared.

That smile made the mechanic duck back into his shop without another word. He stared at the bills in his hand before he pocketed them – he recognized 'shut-up' money when he saw it. Hell, they'd had enough Mafia guys hide out in the area in the past that he knew when to keep his mouth shut.

Shortly before twelve thirty the pilot of the helicopter, who had been lounging on the steps of the fake tower after the fuel tank was topped, shot to his feet and trotted back to his aircraft. Then just before one o'clock the van returned and pulled up next to it. It blocked the view from the tower as they unloaded, and in a few minutes the van was coming back to the garage and the rotors of the Sikorsky started moving. The mechanic stepped out as the big guy parked the van, and a moment later the guy tossed him the keys as he jogged by. A few minutes later the heavy whap of the helicopter's rotors picked up and the craft rose gracefully and banked to the west. Only after the sound faded completely did the mechanic get up the nerve to go check his van.

-oOo-

Ronon Dex stared down at the unconscious man on the floor of the cabin and decided he wasn't getting paid enough for this shit anymore. He'd been working for the Project for over a year now, and each request from the colonel for his skills as a former big-game guide and tracker was getting harder and harder to swallow. Most of the enlisted men didn't question the colonel – orders were orders – but he knew the last few assignments were starting to bother some of them. Major Lorne, the de facto head of internal security and their current pilot, was one who shared his unease, and Sgt. Stackhouse, the man directly across from him, was starting to.

But the young Marine lieutenant, Ford, was still the definition of gung-ho. He sat next to Stackhouse, an icepack pressed to his nose and his head tilted back. Every once in awhile he'd lower the pack and glare murderously through blackening eyes at the man on the floor. Ronon had to stop him once from kicking the unconscious man, and if he saw any movement indicating more of the same, he would make damn sure the kid would be joining their 'specimen' on the floor for the rest of the flight.

Ronon's attention went back to the man. They'd been given a name, John Sheppard, and a location, and orders to bring him in alive and unharmed and nothing else. The last person they were sent after had put up a hell of a fight – shit, she'd damned near kicked his ass – so this time they went in quietly and with heavy duty tranquilizers. They hiked in from the end of the road, the van parked just out of view of the highway, and Ronon had barely settled in to observe and assess when the guy suddenly stopped what he was doing and looked directly at him. He spent nearly five minutes on his stomach behind a scraggly raspberry patch, barely breathing, until Sheppard resumed work. Then Ford started moving in, and something tipped Sheppard off. When the man sniffed the air, he knew right then they were dealing with another one of them, and he stayed put and waited since the wind was coming towards him at the moment. Then Sheppard bolted and when Stackhouse's shot sent the man in his direction, he calmly waited until he was past and stood. His timing and first shot was perfect and right where he aimed. Sheppard should have gone down within seconds, but he somehow kept going. The second shot finished the job.

He thought the guy was scrawny until he hoisted him over a shoulder to take him back to the van. He was a lot heavier than he looked, and when he flopped him down in the van he took one look at the corded muscles along his forearms and immediately secured his hands and feet with plastic zip cords. That was when Ford started to haul a leg back, and Ronon had to pull him back and slam him against the van to dissuade him of any action he might regret.

The dent in the side of their rental wasn't too noticeable.

He lifted his eyes and saw Ford staring at him. He just smiled back, and a few seconds later Ford put the icepack back on his nose and leaned his head back against the seat's head rest. Ronon kept smiling as he stretched his legs out, crossed his arms, and got comfortable for the flight back to the island.

Not quite an hour into the trip Sheppard twitched. Ronon drew his legs up just as Ford said, "Shit, he's waking up! He should not be waking up." Sheppard groaned as more spasms racked his bound arms and legs. His eyes even flickered open a few times and for a second Ronon was sure they focused on him. Very calmly Ronon undid his safety belt and got up, pulled a tranquilizer dart from a case in Ford's hanging tac vest, went to one knee, and manually inserted it in Sheppard's right butt cheek.

"Everything all right back there?" came Major Lorne's voice over the radio.

"It's good," Ronon replied as Sheppard slowly stilled again. He waited a minute before he pulled the dart out and put it back in its case, then he returned to his seat like nothing had happened. Ford and Stackhouse were both staring at him, so he shrugged and settled back into his comfortable slouch. He kept one eye on Sheppard for the rest of the flight, however, and the case with its second untouched dart was in his shirt pocket.

End Note: Heee, the gaming group I played with during and for several years after college was fond of the "manual insertion" technique. If it was handy, and had a point, it was used - broken table legs, candelabra, the star from a door sized star sapphire (ask Teprac about that one), Kobolds wearing pointy helmets ... Sigh. I miss those days. So, still intrigued?