Chapter 8
Samantha Carter's residence
Colorado Springs
17 September 1995
The throbbing pain in his stomach and head was all too familiar, an injury sustained frequently in all of his overseas missions. But for now, it was inconsequential.
Jack resolutely ignored it and willed himself to concentrate on the road instead, knowing every second of delay was a second closer to her life forfeit.
He drove like a bat out of hell, hoping, praying that no one got to her first.
Forced to make a stop at a red light, Jack pulled out his Beretta and attached a silencer. He pushed the car forward again when the lights turned, then went through the next yellow at the next major junction. Looking up at the road signs, he breathed easier knowing that her neighbourhood was only ten more minutes away.
He swerved into Carter's street in less than eight, finally slowing and rolling to a stop when he saw an unusual number of cars stacked up the driveway next to hers, lined up all the way down the narrow street. He parked behind one of the cars and cautiously made his way towards her house.
A party was in full swing at her neighbour's place, the chatter extraordinarily loud in the typical silence of an autumn evening in the quiet suburbs. The guests were dressed to the nines, holding glasses of champagne as they stood and mingled outside in the brisk air. Dinner was nearly finished; the remains of a large turkey, roasted potatoes, fruit punch and cake littered the catering table that had been set up outside. Beneath the wide canopy in the front lawn, a bartender mixed the after-dinner drinks, his counter queue getting longer by the second. White streamers were strewn all over the front garden, and the revellers quickly on their way to getting happily tipsy.
Jack guessed that it must have been a wedding anniversary of sorts, or some corporate shindig at a co-worker's place. Whatever it was, it was quite a significant cocktail party considering the extent of the celebration.
He exhaled slowly, thinking for a second. The lively atmosphere would be both a deterrent and a convenient cover. The hitman could not enter Carter's house without being seen by the number of people loitering around her driveway, but if he had managed to slip past them, the noise of the party would certainly conceal the sounds of a struggle coming from inside her house.
Jack wondered if he had reached her place a little too late after his skirmish with the other guy. He'd known it was a real possibility that he would arrive only to find Carter missing, or flat on her floor with her life already drained out of her.
It was only the party that had in all probability, saved Carter's life, even if she didn't know it yet. Sheer luck was all that kept her still breathing.
Walking past the neighbour's crowded driveway, he moved towards the trees lining her porch. The living room in Carter's house was lit, and through the half-opened blinds, he saw her typing on her laptop, her brow furrowed in concentration. Her bedroom was located at the side of the house, its dimly lit interior casting a yellow tint on the grass outside.
A loud exclamation, followed by bursts of laughter from his left made him snap his head up. Several guests were bidding their goodbyes, laughingly escorting a dishevelled, drunk man between them. Playfully grabbing his tie, they stumbled down the driveway and onto the road together, heading for their cars.
He took the opportunity of the momentary distraction to take the now-familiar pathway that led to her backdoor, withdrawing his Beretta out slowly as he inched toward the side of her house, risking a glance around her backyard before finally turning his gaze to her backdoor.
It was slightly ajar, letting out the tiniest sliver of light from inside.
Dammit!
He pushed the door open slowly, moving through the empty, dark kitchen, all senses on alert. Her kitchen led into her living room through a short corridor on the right. He stepped into the small passageway, keeping his eyes on the shaft of light that emanated from the living room.
A creak in the floorboards.
Light footsteps across the same space.
He inched forward, crouching out of sight and flattened himself against a wall, his eyes skimming the perimeter of the kitchen and part of the living room. Then he realised that was Carter herself who had gotten out of her chair, holding a large mug of steaming coffee and heading for the kitchen.
From his peripheral vision, he saw a moving shape emerge from her bedroom. His instinct took over. He lunged for her as she walked into the connecting passageway, bringing them both hard onto the floor, hearing the simultaneous dull thud of a bullet from another silenced gun and the shatter of her mug echo through the house. Scrambling off her, Jack immediately turned, rolled into a crouch, extended his hand and fired, the first shot ricocheting harmlessly off the wall as Carter's attacker ducked. His second shot hit the other man in the shoulder, the third finding its place in the centre of his head.
A sudden weight slammed into his injured side, the agony of the hit causing him to groan aloud. Carter had launched her body at him from her position on the floor, and they hit the hardwood floor again as she tried to press his face into it. He barely had time to stop her fists from pummelling his already-tender nose. She straddled him, but he used his strength to unbalance her gait, pushing her shoulders forcefully down and flipping her immediately so that he now loomed above her.
She twisted and bucked, trying to break his hold on her, but he only shifted more of his weight on her, immobilising her body.
"Carter! Stop!" He barked urgently, grabbing her wrists to immobilise her before she broke more parts of his face.
She froze involuntarily when she heard her name.
"Carter! I'm not trying to kill you!" He tried again, in a softer voice.
True to his promise, he slowly let go of her wrists, moving his hands away from her and rolled his body off to the side.
She hadn't moved, but her gaze was burning through him.
Jack slumped against the wall briefly, worn out by the adrenaline rush and the earlier encounter in the evening. Only after holstering his own weapon did he turn his eyes to Carter who had by now, clambered into a sitting position on the floor, her blue-eyes wide and unblinking in shock and growing rage.
A slight creak made them both sit up again.
Schrödinger entered from the cat flap through the back.
The cat eyed them and the mess on the floor, then walked to his bowl and lapped at his water calmly. They watched him saunter to the fireplace after he drank his fill.
For a moment, they sat in the darkened corridor, the sounds of their breaths harsh in the silence.
A glance at her bleeding arm through her red-stained T-shirt made him frown.
"You're bleeding out," he said without much preamble and gestured to her arm. "You need medical attention."
"What?" Sam blinked once, twice, willing the fog of panicked shock away. She cast her eyes around the living room, as though unwilling to look at the dead man, his blood now staining the carpet a dark red.
Blood was hard to wash out, she thought absently.
Then she stood up shakily and hit the light switch, her mind racing at a thousand miles a minute.
"You need medical attention," the man repeated as he looked her over.
The sound of his voice broke her adrenaline-fuelled thoughts. She looked at him, really taking him in for the first time, her gaze growing suspicious once again when he met her eyes steadily. A stinging pain in her arm made her wince, and she looked down in vague surprise at a wound that was already bleeding into her thin nightshirt.
A bullet graze in the upper arm, the raw, exposed skin serving as a dismal reminder that things could have gone much, much worse.
"And you are?" She asked coldly, not liking the intruder who had saved her life anymore than the other one who was now lying dead in her house.
"Jack O'Neill," he said. "Special Forces," he added as an afterthought, lifting his dog-tags.
But it soon became clear that he didn't want to reveal more, demanding her acceptance of his short answers. "OK," she replied warily. "And?"
"And now you get yourself packed, we leave and I'll get you to a doctor," he countered easily.
"If you think –"
"I already said I'm not going to hurt you."
"It's merely a bullet graze," Sam snapped.
"Not from what I just saw," he argued calmly and then sighed. "Look, Carter, I-"
"I'm a solider. I'll live," she interrupted him fiercely. "You, on the other hand….care to explain?"
"Not now."
The stern, controlled look in his face was back, where weariness had once been imprinted. She pursed her lips in thought.
Jack wasn't sure he could make her understand, not now, not when they were so exposed in a space that was already compromised.
"For God's sake, O'Neill, if that's really your name," she interjected more calmly, "you clearly know who I am. But that doesn't go both ways. You want me to follow you, after you tell me your name and nothing more….just –what the hell is really going on? You come in, push me onto the floor, shoot someone in my house and then I realise that man was trying to get me killed –"
He matched her stance, then gripped her uninjured arm and pulled her closer until she was an inch away from his chest. "Listen, we don't have the time for this," he told her brusquely. "There may be more of them, and god knows when they'll come. Get your ass moving and then I'll explain later."
Up close, she saw the bruises that lined his face, the dried blood around his nose and the way he was hunched, as though fighting some kind of pain in his abdomen. He was definitely more banged up than her, and those bruises looked like they had been acquired only recently.
Funny how that helped her decide take things up with him.
For now.
"OK. You have a story to tell," she finally agreed warily. "I'll be a minute."
"Wait," he added, seeing her gingerly walk towards the bathroom.
She stopped, clenching her fists so tightly that it hurt.
"Don't touch anything," he said, nodding towards the fallen hitman lying among the shards of broken glass.
She gave him a curt nod without turning around and disappeared into the bathroom.
Rinsing the wound and applying a light coat of antiseptic cream to it, Sam caught sight of herself in the mirror, wondering what the hell had just happened in the last fifteen minutes that had just turned her life upside down. She has been engrossed in her investigation, listening to her music with her headphones on, not having even heard the back door open. What sort of soldier did that make her? And now there was this O'Neill guy standing in her hallway, expecting her to leave everything – her work, her home after barging in…
How long had he been watching her? Or rather, how careless had she really been?
It was clear that she had been a target for god knows how long, and it was only the timely entry of O'Neill that had gotten her arm grazed and not her head taken off. What, or more importantly, who, had put her on their radar?
She thought about the security measures that existed in the Air Force, then deliberated on the porosity of the channels through which classified information flowed. Deep-space telemetry was a plausible cover for the layman, but unbelievable to the military types who could see through a cover story easily. All it took was a bit of research and the convenient placement of good contacts to turn even the most top-secret of bases into a leaking pipe of information that could drain into the wrong hands.
Which was probably, exactly what had happened.
It was the USAF's worst nightmare. And now it had just become hers.
Sam took her time washing her face and cleaning up, then stepped out of the bathroom. O'Neill was waiting for her a few steps outside her room, his stance deceptively relaxed as he leaned against the wall.
"Bring your service weapon. And," he hesitated, "all of your work documents. I mean it. All of it, including your laptop. Anything that you think is eyes-only information."
She looked at him sharply, but didn't say a word, and walked into the bedroom.
But before she could shut the door in his face, he stuck a foot in the door.
"Don't do anything funny. And I mean it," he said, looking at her steadily. Bending closer until his lips nearly touched her ear, he whispered, "It's got something to do with your Stargate."
Her eyes whipped to him in shock, but her weight leaning against the door didn't let up. He removed his foot and the door slammed shut on him.
The relative privacy of her bedroom relaxed her fractionally, and she sat on the bed heavily, her thoughts turning inwards. She still wasn't sure if O'Neill could be trusted. He was dangerous, certainly; the quick and efficient way that he'd taken out her assassin was proof positive of it. And apart from saving her life, he had clearly known several things were happening before he made it to her house.
Sam briefly toyed with the idea of leaving O'Neill to clean up that mess he'd made. It was a plan that involved climbing out of the window, hightailing it to her car and driving off to base without him knowing. Then she dismissed it immediately as the stupidest plan she'd ever made. She was in the middle of formulating another one until she noticed that her cupboard had been left partially open. Standing up shakily, she saw that her casual clothes were still neatly hung up, her military dress-uniform still encased in its plastic cover untouched since its return from the dry-cleaners.
Her killer had slipped through her kitchen door and gone straight to her bedroom; it was clear that he was searching for something he thought she had in her possessions. Or at least had tried to when he was interrupted.
Who was he? What did he want…and why…her?
The past few weeks hadn't been easy. She had sat in enough budget briefings with her scientific team to know that whole Stargate project was hanging off a precarious financial ledge. It was considered a drain on precious resources when nothing came out of it after decades of study. The funding from the top brass was slowly running dry; it had been made crystal clear that unless there were significant scientific and technological breakthroughs, it was all going down as a failed project in military history.
She and her team had interpreted these meetings as an urgent plea to get the alien device working as soon as possible. So she had made it her life, this unusual union of science and the military, and worked hard at it so that she could keep both. And now it looked as though she was on the verge of losing it all, just after she'd quite possibly made the most important discovery in the history of the Stargate project.
The base wasn't the safest place despite its top-secret billing, especially not while West had suspicious dealings under the table.
Had West known about her discovery in his office – and was sufficiently worried about it enough to send someone after her?
Or had the hit come from a completely unrelated source?
And where did O'Neill come into all of this?
She shook her head; the throbbing pain in her arm and the sudden slump of energy from the earlier spike in adrenaline wasn't making her think too clearly.
Taking in a deep breath, she threw in random articles of clothing, some toiletries, all the spare medication she had, a few power bars and all of her electronic equipment. She swung it over the shoulder, testing its weight. The duffel was one of the heaviest that she'd ever carried. Then she started changing.
Jeans, T-shirt, jacket, hoodie. Socks. Boots.
Considering the events of the past two weeks, it seemed that she had lived a blissfully oblivious life that was dedicated to her scientific pursuits within her military posting. But that was all before it had gone to hell.
Sam could have kicked herself. In her single-minded focus on the Stargate, she had forgotten to keep her eyes open.
It was tempting to tell O'Neill to screw himself, and return to the relative security of the base. She could report the attack on her house, then subject herself to heavy security surveillance, or voluntarily confine herself to the base indefinitely. But as unappealing as that sounded, it was undeniably, a naïve course of action. If the base had been compromised, then returning to it pretending as though nothing had happened – and alerting those who had been responsible for the attack – was akin to tossing herself into the lion's den. In fact, it would only be a matter of days, maybe even hours, before someone tried again, and succeeded.
Obviously there was no way in hell that was going to happen if she could help it.
That left her with no other course of action but to follow O'Neill.
He had promised her an explanation. She would hold him to that.
The enormity of what she was about to do hit her hard. And made her stumble back in sudden fear and doubt.
Captain Samantha Carter was going to be declared AWOL; the MPs were going to be knocking on her door when she didn't turn up for work. Given her rank, and the severity of what she was going to do, the consequences were unthinkable – horrifying even. Tried by General Court Martial, charged for desertion of duties, followed by a dishonourable discharge. The stern military upbringing in General Jacob Carter's household that had carried her through college and the Air Force Academy had also secured her utmost respect for rules, ensuring that she never blatantly crossed such lines. In fact, their existence gave her an ordered life and a solid, professional career that she cherished above everything. For that, she was grateful.
And now, it was terrifying to take the next step into unknown waters.
But she wasn't a trained soldier and a scientist for nothing; she did what she had to do after calculating the odds, even if it meant walking away at the most crucial moment.
Gather your courage, Samantha Carter, she told herself. Take that step into the unknown.
Not nearly five minutes later, everything was ready, everything in place. Almost everything.
O'Neill was nowhere to be seen. Moving towards the kitchen window, she saw him outside walking the perimeter of the house, fingering his gun nervously. She looked him over critically from that distance. His shoulders were still slightly hunched and tense, his eyes exhausted but wary.
He wasn't looking in her direction…yet…so, technically, she could…run. Find the nearest house of any base personnel…or go into the woods…away from her neighbour's party…time to stop thinking!
It took her a split-second to bolt.
She shot through the door, aiming for the back woods that lay behind her street and away from her neighbours…but not before getting O'Neill's attention. She looked back anxiously to see him in close pursuit, his longer strides closing the distance between them too quickly for her liking.
It took him less than five seconds to tackle her down into the high grass.
She yelped as she went down, her short-lived escape plan thoroughly thwarted. They couldn't even have been fifteen, twenty metres away from her house when he'd caught her.
"Damn you, Carter. I told you not to do anything funny, didn't I?" He asked her calmly and somehow, to her, that seemed more frightening than an angry, ballistic commander hurling obscenities in her face in basic training.
She struggled to catch her breath, resentfully noticing that he hadn't even broken a sweat nor was he panting as she was.
"O'Neill, if you think I'm just going to throw down everything and run –" She snarled through gritted teeth, doing her best to push his weight off.
"That's exactly what we're going to do. Run. Together. So I suggest you conserve your strength, Captain," he interrupted her tirade smoothly, an underlying tension present in his voice.
He was still pressed against her, making no move to get off any time soon.
She looked away for a second, then back at him. "And how would I know if you can be trusted?"
"You don't," he shot back immediately.
Shoving at him again, she asked quietly, "Getting comfortable?"
Jack sensed her acquiescence in the way her tense body relaxed beneath him. "Now we're talking," he said mockingly and shifted off her, rolling to his feet in a single, graceful motion. "C'mon."
By the time she was on her feet and dusting herself off, he was already standing and patiently waiting for her. When they returned to her house, he checked the perimeter for the last time as she went to get her things.
Jack walked back into the kitchen through the back door when he saw her emerge from her room. "All done?"
She curtly nodded once.
"Good. Leave your car and keys here and come in mine," he said seriously. "It's too recognisable. We'll get you looked at and then we'll change cars after that."
"What about…?" She gestured to the man still lying in the corridor. "And I should leave the cat with someone."
"We don't have that time. Chances are, someone else might come," he urged. "I'll have someone take care of the house, of everything. Even the cat, I promise."
She hoped he knew what he was doing, because she sure as hell didn't.
The party guests were nearly gone by the time they made their way down to his car across her lawn. She buckled herself into the passenger seat and waited until he was ten minutes into the drive.
"So talk."
"Your Stargate program is not as much of a secret as you think," he began slowly. "And if you join some dots you'll realise why."
She thought back to the day she had accidentally discovered West's duplicitous dalliances with publicly listed aeronautical companies. "I know," she acknowledged, surprising him with her agreement.
"You do?"
"Yeah. That's it's not that much of a secret, I mean," she clarified. "But…why me?"
"What do you think?" He spared her a quick glance, not wanting to get into any detailed explanation until they were both properly patched up. That, and he still didn't feel comfortable with revealing the entire side of his story. Yet.
But she didn't reply, staring ahead resolutely, her brow furrowed in apprehension.
"That still doesn't explain very much."
O'Neill kept silent. He had brought the car to a stop, she realised, having driven them to another neighbourhood across town. She didn't recognise this place; then again, she had hardly taken any time to explore Colorado Springs when most of her time was spent on base ever since she had moved across the country.
The build of the small house looked similar to hers, and through the half-drawn curtains, she saw that the living room lights were still on.
"Where are we? I thought we were going to a doctor?" Sam finally ventured to ask.
"I promised that I'd get you to a doctor. I didn't say we were going to a hospital," he said curtly.
She considered his response and nodded.
They were lucky to have escaped relatively unscathed, Jack thought as he rang the doorbell. The lights in the house were dimmed but switched on, so someone had to be home.
But, oh, the irony.
He had done exactly the opposite of what his superiors had tasked him to do; by saving her he had inadvertently thrown in his dice with hers, forcibly linking their paths ahead together. Carter had shown more resistance than he'd thought she would, but then again, she was no damsel in distress but a soldier with a…scientific bent. Jack briefly speculated on how they would fare together in the coming days, then banished the thought from his head. He'd never been in such a situation and he suspected, neither had she, having stayed far on the good side of the military regulations. But while he did respect them, it didn't take that much to breach those rules when his own convictions overwhelmed the orders given to him, especially if and when it meant that he could return from a mission and still keep his men's families intact, even though his own had been crumbling.
That however, was all about to change and he knew that in the coming days, that Samantha Carter's resolve would be sorely tested. He'd known veterans who had broken from such strains and wondered if Carter was also headed in that direction, now that the comfortable rug of military familiarity had been pulled, unwittingly, from under her feet.
It was going to be a show that he wasn't looking forward to see, like a useless bystander watching a train wreck about to happen.
He'd be utterly useless to her in that department.
Not when his own emotions hadn't even settled, not when he hadn't quite confronted his own demons yet. Comfort and reassurance weren't his strong suit. That much was obvious in the days following Charlie's death, when he'd proven himself an inadequate pillar of support to Sara.
Jack blinked, clearing the invasive thoughts, bringing himself back to the present.
Now all he needed to do was to pick up some spare medication; if not for her, at least for himself. There was only one person in Colorado Springs whom he knew he could trust.
The opening of the door stirred him out of his musings as he lifted his hand to ring the bell a second time.
"Jack?"
"Janet, thank God you're here," he breathed in relief, "we need your help."