Chapter 10

Aurora Suites
Colorado state border
17 September 1995

All the rooms were full, save one. He blamed it on bad luck and bad timing. To her credit, Carter didn't even bat an eyelid. He threw out a wad of cash on the reception table and stalked off, carrying what he could to their room.

She followed him, blinking in surprise at the tiny size of the room and at the double bed that took up most of the space.

"Sorry, Carter, but it's the best we've got," O'Neill turned to her from his position at the window. He fingered the curtain and studied the dark shadows of building beyond the glass.

"Beggars can't be choosers," she snapped.

He was surprised at her grudging acceptance, but didn't think to mention the thing about him and clichés. Instead, he studied her; she looked exhausted but still whole. "You OK?"

"Under such circumstances? This has got to qualify as one of the strangest nights of my life."

She grabbed her backpack and rummaged through it for her water canteen. Taking a swig, she stared at him. He was unreadable, the intensity in his eyes betraying his deceptively casual stance as he leaned on the window sill.

"Sit," he said, gesturing at the bed, unknowingly having given her an order.

She complied, seeing him take the chair next to the dresser.

Where to start? He sorted through a host of possibilities. Carter was asking about his involvement in this whole fiasco. While he searched for a way to tell her, he knew that she certainly deserved that much of an explanation. He fully intended to give it to her. He just didn't know how she'd take it when she learned of his original mission.

"More people have access to the top-secret Stargate project than you think," he began unhurriedly, stalling. "And I think, that there are those who are unwilling for it to get any further."

"Like the one who was sent after me?"

He paused, thinking a bit. "I don't know how much that guy knew, but there's every possibility that he was just another ignorant agent following his orders."

"Is that where you come in? The Special Forces had a hand in the project?"

"I don't know everything," he replied truthfully, thankful that she hadn't quite pursued the first question actively. Yet. "And I was hoping, you could help me fill in some blanks." By all accounts, his mission was a bust. He'd done the unthinkable, a complete reversal of what he'd been told to do. Yet it didn't mean that he was all that willing to spill all his indiscretions just yet.

"Help you?" Sam questioned incredulously, shaking her head. "Just what do you know about it?"

"Some things," he hedged. "Enough to know that the project was getting back on its feet, thanks to you, Captain."

She looked him in disbelief. "How did you know that? Where were…were there –? God, I don't know what to think."

He sighed. You owe it to her, O'Neill, he told himself.

She was sitting up straight, her bottle clutched to her almost protectively.

"I got my orders nearly two weeks ago. They were unusual, given under strange circumstances –," he started, then put up his hand when he saw her about to ask a question. "Let me finish. Then you can ask all you want."

See her nod her agreement, he continued, "I was given two weeks to finish my assignment, and all the resources possible to help me finish it. It was easy at first, studying the target, finding out about the target's lifestyle and work. I reported my findings at regular intervals. Then things started to happen."

He was silent for so long, having turned his gaze to the carpeted floor that she thought he had finished. Her shoulders slumped in relief. He had accomplished his mission; he had protected the interest of the Special Forces and taken out the man who now lay dead in her house.

"But you got the target right?" She urged him on. "I'm alive, I'm here. You got the guy. Mission accomplished."

"No, I failed," he put in calmly. "That's because you were the target."

She recoiled instantly, moving too quickly for his liking to pull out her Beretta from her holster.

"Put the gun down, Carter," he said languidly. He spread his hands out slowly, never breaking his gaze from hers. "I didn't take you out then, I'm not going to do so now."

Sam kept her hold on the Beretta tight, flicking the safety off. She didn't know whether to believe him, this armed, dangerous man who had killed someone in her house, yet got her medical attention because he'd believed her hurt, and was now sitting three paces away from her. He said her name with military familiarity, the same way a commanding officer addressed his subordinates and it was clear that he had grown comfortable addressing her this way when she was under his surveillance. Like she was one of those he knew, rather than an anonymous target he took out.

She hadn't corrected him. Her friends called her Sam. It was a measure of familiarity that was still not granted to him.

Still, she wouldn't hold her breath.

"So what changed your mind?" Sam gritted out, watching his relaxed stance. "How could I know you wouldn't do anything else later?"

"Because I was convinced something went wrong somewhere."

"What? What went wrong?" She retorted, lowering her gun a fraction. "What could go so wrong that would make you countermand your orders?"

"Why didn't you tell West that you've solved last symbol of the Stargate?" He shot back, getting annoyed with the way things were playing out.

"I asked first," she said, glaring at him. "What made you decide not to kill me?"

"Carter, I wasn't trying to be difficult," he placated. "Your withholding information from West told me something else was going on. And then there was Langford's accident to complicate things. The man they sent after you? I'm sure that was his partner had tried to take me out earlier this evening."

The surprise of his revelation had caused her to lower the gun completely. He guessed that it was a good sign.

"Why?"

"You tell me," he shrugged. "I figured that I was taking way too long to complete my mission. They got impatient."

"That was enough for you to not go against your orders. But that didn't mean that you needed to save me."

"Oh, Carter, I did, believe me," he drawled in affirmation. "Your military record checks out flawlessly. Several university degrees by the time you were twenty-six, a PhD in astrophysics, piloting experience in the Gulf, then deep-space radar telemetry under Cheyenne Mountain? Nothing that I can see warrants such an action against you. You're probably the Air Force's national treasure. Far be it from me to deprive our country of that."

Despite herself, Sam felt her cheeks starting to colour at that backhanded compliment he'd just paid her. "So you decided to play hero?"

"That too," he agreed mockingly. "But it being the right thing to do might have also been a factor."

God, the man was impossible, she thought. Getting a straight answer from him was like getting her teeth pulled. His insolence and his complete disregard for those orders had thrown her for a loop – not that she was ungrateful. That maverick behaviour of his – and she was beginning to suspect that it came up quite a bit in his years of service – was so foreign, so contrasting to her pedantic one when it came to the Air Force. That he would defy his orders to do what suited his convictions both horrified and amazed her. And if she guessed correctly, both of them were in deep trouble.

He didn't seem to say more, waiting for her questions instead.

"Are you even military? Let's not even mention Special Forces."

"Yes to all," he replied. "Black ops ring a bell to you? Want my ID?"

"Wouldn't hurt to see it, you know," she taunted. In response, he sighed irritably and pulled out his service card from his wallet, shoving it at her.

"Happy?"

She studied the card carefully, its laminated surface glinting under the glare of the cheap fluorescent lamps.

Jonathan O'Neill, Colonel
Service number: 69-4-141

They had sent a black ops soldier after her. A Colonel in the Special Forces, three ranks above her, with a wealth of untold experience. She would have been dead a long time ago had he not followed his own instincts.

"So who sent you? And why?" Her stance didn't relent. She tossed the card back at him.

"Believe it or not, it's hard to tell," he told her seriously, pocketing the card. "There is a certain protocol you follow during every mission briefing. The tactical team comes together and hashes out a risk analysis. There's a lot of strategic planning that goes on as well. When it's all done, it's given the go-head by the head honchos up there." He pointed his finger in the vague direction of the ceiling. "A one-man operation is uncommon, but it does happen. You get the support you need, but then you're on your own."

She thought she'd understood what he was saying. Like every soldier, they'd expected him to jump as high as they wanted, whenever they wanted. But they'd not considered the unpredictability of human behaviour, and O'Neill's penchant for treading – and crossing – these fine lines. Or maybe they had, and still took their chances with him.

"You said it was different this time."

He nodded. "Yeah, the whole clichéd cloak-and-dagger routine. I was just given a note for this. I accessed my assignment details from a special program they'd written. I don't know who was behind this."

"Pretty flimsy excuse," she pointed out caustically.

He ignored her comeback. "The lack of details was telling. All of my missions had taken place overseas. That's what the black ops teams do. Internal jobs? Not too much."

"But then you started digging." It was starting to dawn on her.

O'Neill had asked too much questions and done too little. And he'd decided to trust his own gut rather than his orders.

"Let's just say what I found out what I wasn't supposed to know. Then my systems locked up, and I found someone to tussle with a few minutes later. Coincidence? I doubt it," he said, running his fingers through his hair absently, causing it to stick out in all directions. "My orders were to just take you out. I wasn't told anything more. Like a good soldier, I was to follow them."

"Like a good soldier," she echoed dully. "And?"

"They sent someone after me, at the motel where I was staying," he added. "I figured that they came after me for not doing my job. They came after you for the original purpose – which, as I already said, I don't know about – and to finish what I started."

"You followed me, didn't you?" She asked, stamping down the sudden flare of anger at the violation of privacy after seeing him nod once. "So, what did you find out?"

"Military bases are linked by a network. I just accessed mine, and got a few run-arounds to get to NORAD. From there, it wasn't hard to get access to the network under Cheyenne Mountain…and your computers. What did I find out? The most incredible story that comes out of the pages of a book," he said calmly. "That there was a strange device several storeys high underground. That many people worked on it and had been for decades. That you were on the verge of discovering something, and then finally did, after your meeting with Daniel Jackson. I did more than follow you. From your DNA trace, I knew where you were every time of the day. Recording and broadcasting devices planted in your house told me what you said and did at home," he said bluntly.

Each word hit her hard. He had been nothing but honest, and perhaps a tad bit apologetic for having to face someone who, by all accounts, shouldn't been alive to feel violated about what he'd done.

But O'Neill wasn't giving her the space to back away. Neither was he going to apologise for doing his job thoroughly. He leaned closer, closely watching her face. "Now why didn't you reveal your findings to West?"

Of course he would know, she realised. There was sufficient personal documentation about the seventh symbol that he had accessed when she wrote that detailed report that day. All her research – her findings on atmospheric spikes, her documentation of the device's composition, her hypothesis of its function – had been laid open to him. O'Neill wasn't a fool; he had read enough to know what was going on at least where her work was concerned, despite the technobabble.

"I was going to," she admitted. "It was supposed to be the greatest scientific achievement of my life. When I had figured out about the point of origin and its symbol in my lab, I went to his office. Only that he wasn't there. He'd just left the room and I caught him at the wrong time. Or maybe it was the right time, now that I think about it." She grimaced, remembering the incident. "In his haste, he'd knocked over several pieces of papers, all of which were detailed contracts that he'd made with aeronautical companies. He was to get millions of dollars in exchange for sharing the Stargate technology."

Jack whistled low. That explained a lot. So Carter herself had uncovered some dealings that the director of the programme had ongoing. It also meant that her thorough research on these external companies hadn't been her going through potential job offers.

"So you decided not to tell him?"

"No," she murmured. "I assumed that West had sent someone after me because I found out something."

"Wouldn't it be stupid to kill their own science expert? Especially when you're the only one who can get it working?" Jack questioned ironically.

She snorted. "Everyone can be replaced. The hitmen just proved that."

It was a sombre reminder of their own situation. Carter's unexpected revelation about West's underhanded dealings had added an unforeseen aspect to this already complicated state of affairs. Despite his belief that Carter was too valuable a resource to dispose of, he still needed to consider the possibility of West having found out about her knowledge of his indiscretions and had done something about it.

"Is that why you didn't return to the base?"

"There was no way of knowing if there were people there keeping tabs on me," she pointed out, relaxing unconsciously. Their conversation had gone some way in reassuring her that O'Neill wasn't lying. "So, what do we do?"

He looked at her wan, tired face and was suddenly struck by how young – and beautiful – she looked.

"I think," he said slowly and stood, "that it is time for some rest. You can take the bed."

He grabbed some clothes and disappeared into the bathroom. A minute later, she heard the shower running. Too tired to argue, she leaned back on the pillows and checked the bedside clock. 0305 hrs.

Closing her eyes, she didn't even hear him emerge from the shower and settle in the chair next to the bed.

Jack looked at her sleeping form. He checked his gun and made sure that a full magazine was loaded in it, laid it on the table beside him, and then fell into a light doze.