Taken

Again

"I'll go out there—I'll try to convince them that you're not with me. That you got away."

"Come now, Colonel. Surely you don't think that they'll believe that?"

Their whispered conversation took the intensity and pace of rapid-fire debate—one speaking nearly on top of the other. Glinda still held the zat weapon in her left hand, her body twisted towards where the Colonel leaned against the tree stump.

"If I give myself up—surrender—maybe they'll let you go and you can go and find Jack."

"We don't know where he is." Glinda shook her head, and a leaf dislodged itself from her hair and drifted down to settle on her shoulder. "And we're not certain that was him, just now."

"One of us has to get away from them." Sam eyes narrowed. "And since they need me, I think it's got to be you."

"I don't mean to offend, Ma'am, but I think we should try to remain together."

"Glinda." Sam's voice lowered even further, her eyebrows furrowed. "I don't think you understand."

"I'm sure I do, Colonel Carter." Glinda caught and held that intent, blue gaze. "I know that those men out there consider me to be expendable. I'm willing to take that risk."

Sam's face fell, her pale features drawn almost beyond recognition. Around them, outside the copse of bushes, the guards' voices rose and lowered as they argued amongst themselves—jockeying for position. However muted their words had become, the ominous preparations of their weapons rang clearly out in the otherwise quiet of the forest.

"Ma'am—I'm not of any use to you if I'm not with you. I don't have the skills that you have for finding your way out of this forest."

"And I'm not prepared to watch you die, Glinda."

And there it was. Stark and blunt between them. No longer merely an ephemeral threat, but now a result completely within the realm of probability. Glinda blinked, ashamed that her cowardice required her to need that little bit of space between Sam's statement and her own answer. Swallowing hadn't ever seemed like a difficult task before, and yet now, working past the fear in her throat bordered on the impossible.

"Colonel Carter." Carl again. Glinda jerked slightly at the sound of his voice—so close to where they hid behind the trunk. "We both know that you're in there. My boss wants you back, for whatever reason, and my job is to bring you to him." He paused, his words punctuated by a sudden movement in the branches several feet away. He had teased at them with the barrel of his rifle again. "He wants you alive, but me?—Honestly—I'm not too picky about that part."

"He needs her, Carl." This voice came from further away and to the Colonel's left—on the opposite side of the trunk from Carl. "It'd suck to be you if you brought her back dead."

"Then maybe he should have come after her."

"That's what he pays us for." Glinda didn't have a name for this voice—it seemed calmer than the others, more mature, somehow. "I think you're forgetting that we're here to serve him, and not the other way around."

Carl paused, and through the greenery above her, Glinda could see the shape that was his body jerk as he suddenly drew the rifle to his shoulder, sighted, and fired into the bushes. The bullet tore an ugly, if benign, path through the vegetation, burying itself with a heavy thud into the earth a dozen or so feet away from Glinda's feet even as the report faded into the morning breeze.

Involuntarily, Glinda jerked, edging away from the spot where the bullet made a tiny mound in the hardened dirt. And yet, she couldn't take her eyes off it—imagining the projectile making its way through human flesh rather than the dross of random forestation. Despite her best efforts, she could not quell the shudder that wriggled its way through her, and she barely felt where Sam's hand gripped her arm.

"Carl! What do you think you're doing?"

"Providing service to Ba'al." A sound of crackling leaves and undergrowth made its way to Glinda's ears as he shifted in his stance. Another ominous metallic schick told her he'd cocked the weapon again. And when he spoke this time, his voice contained a smile. "Come on, ladies. Come out, come out wherever you are!"

Another shot ripped through the bushes—clearing a small path of twigs and leaves. Despite herself, Glinda jumped. Scooching towards the Colonel, she curled herself as close to the stump as possible as yet another shot ripped through the greenery.

"We could just light the whole thing on fire." Dave made this suggestion. "Flush them out that way."

"Nah—it's a ton more fun shooting it."

The sounds of Carl changing positions anew crunched into their awareness. Cocking his weapon again, he fired another shot into the mass of shrubbery—further, this time—well away from where Sam and Glinda backed up to the stump.

"Come out, ladies! I have plenty of ammo!"

"Carl! Cut it out! There are people around, you know." Barry's voice called from the other side of the shrubbery.

"So? It's private property."

"Still—you don't want them calling the cops by mistake."

Another shot splintered branches and kicked up dirt eight feet in front of them, and as the report faded, she heard Carl laugh. "Oh yeah. The crack team of police professionals here in Mayberry. Like I'm really scared of Andy and Barney. I'm shaking in my shoes that they'll arrest me and Floyd might make me his woman."

"Carl!" The fifth man's voice boomed out then—a tone that allowed no misinterpretation.

Through the leaves, Glinda could see the shadow of Carl as he lowered his weapon. Again, the newest voice raised itself. "We need her alive."

"Okay, then." The tenor of Carl's voice changed—became a tidge obsequious. "How do we get them out of there?"

The voices mumbled again between themselves above them, and Glinda found herself torn between trying to make them out, and sympathetically watching as Sam fought yet another wave of sickness. Taking care not to speak above a whisper, she leaned closer to the Colonel. "Will you be okay?"

Sam took a deep, silent breath and nodded. Exhaling just as quietly, she rolled her eyes towards the green canopy above them. "As strange as it sounds, Glinda, I'd feel better if I could just throw up."

"Is that normal?" Surely it wasn't. Glinda knew she'd adopted an expression generous with skepticism. "I've never been in your condition, so I don't know."

"Who knows?" With a tiny, half-hearted shrug, her eyes widening as some color returned to her cheeks, the Colonel answered. "It seems to be normal for me."

"I am rapidly losing my patience." The fifth man, still unnamed, spoke above them. His voice, a deep baritone, seemed infused with something that the other men lacked—confidence, perhaps, or arrogance. "It would be better for all of us if you would just come out. I don't want to give the order for all of these gentlemen to fire en masse into this lovely shrubbery. More might get hurt than leaves and branches."

The Colonel's hand tightened on Glinda's arm. She met Sam's gaze head on—knowing that the time had come for decisions.

"Glinda—I'm calling it. I'll go. You stay here." Her face had changed. Still nauseated, still wan, still worried, now Sam's expression also deepened into something more absolute. Glinda knew she viewed more than just Sam now—she was looking upon the face of Colonel Carter, who had directed operations in Atlantis, the woman who had commanded an interstellar space craft, the woman who had spent the better part of her adult life tromping through the galaxy battling unknown evil. Grim determination exuded from her features, and Glinda knew that her own arguments would make no difference.

"Ma'am—" she began, but her voice shook, and she bit her lips together. Compulsively, she tightened her hand on the zat, and gathered her bag closer to her. "Please."

The blonde braid bobbled a bit as the Colonel shook her head. "I'm making a decision. There's no point in both of us getting caught, and I can keep myself alive—I can't be sure about you." Sam reached out and pressed a hand to Glinda's arm. "Find Jack. Bring him to me."

"Ladies!" The fifth man spoke again, more loudly. "The longer you make me wait, the worse it will be. Believe me when I tell you that my companions enjoy wanton destruction. They'd make short work of your hedge."

Sam's clear, blue gaze bore into Glinda's green one. Without another word, Sam turned awkwardly in the small space, and crawled away, leaving Glinda huddled alone next to the trunk.

"I'm coming out." Sam's voice rose from the vegetation as she neared the outer edge of the greenery. After a pause, she spoke again. "I'd appreciate it if your goons didn't shoot me."

How did she do it? Glinda listened as the Colonel announced herself at the entrance. Her voice sounded at once conversational and commandeering—as if she expected the men gathered around to do her will. With a last flip of branches, she disappeared completely from Glinda's view. "I'm here. You got me."

"Where is your companion?"

"She couldn't keep up. She's holed up somewhere. Out there." Flippant, casual, the Colonel sounded as if it were absolutely true. "I was supposed to find help and come back for her."

"You're lying."

"I could be."

A long pause followed the Colonel's admission. Glinda listened intently, scanning what she could see of the area around her as the men seemed to be gravitating towards the stump. Tempted to hold her breath, she instead concentrated on inhaling and exhaling normally—as quietly as possible.

"She has nothing to do with this. Let her alone." Sam's voice had turned cold. "Take me back to the compound. I'll do everything I can to interface the Telchak device with the sarcophagus. Let Miss Baldrich go."

"That's unacceptable." Dave's whine interjected, shrill and nasal. "Our orders were to bring you both back."

"She can't help. She knows nothing about this." Somehow, Glinda felt certain that Sam didn't turn to face Dave, that her entire attention remained focused on the fifth man.

"Still. Those were the orders." The fifth man again, seemingly blasé, his voice almost bored.

Glinda heard him move back towards the stump, and some of the greenery to her right shifted. "Miss Baldrich—I believe you're still in there."

"She's not." Strong, clear, Sam sounded completely convincing.

But her interjection was drowned out by the fifth man's yell. "Dave!"

"What?"

To Glinda's ears, Dave sounded close—as if he'd stationed himself at the entrance to the hiding place. She found herself moving backwards, away from the sound.

"Go get the old one."

Apparently, Dave wasn't on board with this plan. A pause reached across the clearing on the other side of the stump, and then his voice broke it—even whinier than it had been before. "Why me?"

"Because you're the runt of the litter."

"Aw, come on, Jenkins."

A sigh—vociferous enough to reach Glinda's ears, erupted from Jenkins. "Dave—just do it."

"She's not there." Still collected, Sam's voice carried no hint of the desperation that would have given her away.

"I think she is, Colonel."

"Just take me, Jenkins. Take me back to the barn, and I will complete the sarcophagus."

"I have my orders."

A stalemate. For several long, drawn moments, silence reigned. Then, leaves crumbling under moving feet signaled someone walking, but, on the other side of the stump, Glinda couldn't even catch a hint of who it was. She searched the canopy, but could see nothing of what occurred just beyond.

"Dave—get in there." Growly interjected this, seemingly from farther than before. Perhaps he'd moved back to the ATVs? Glinda couldn't tell, she merely prepared herself to see Whiny Dave emerge through the greenery.

"Don't do it, Dave." Sam's voice resounded through the glade, strong, and resilient.

"Men." The single syllable seemed to be a signal. Immediately, the sounds of weapons being shouldered clicked through the clearing on the other side of the stump. Glinda could imagine it—the five men and their rifles pointed at Sam. She found herself staring at the zat warming her hand, wondering how quickly she could shoot it if she needed to.

But instead of gunfire, a sudden grunt broke the impasse, coupled with the grating sound of flesh on flesh. Glinda jumped, clamping her free hand over her mouth as she heard Sam's tiny cry—and her subsequent struggle for balance, for control.

"I said I had to bring you back alive. I didn't say anything about bringing you back unharmed." Jenkins was moving—his voice wafting around the clearing. "And I didn't say anything at all about the brat you're carrying."

Another hit—this one sounded harder. Glinda listened as something—someone?—hit the ground with a thud. And again, her imagination filled in what her vision couldn't. She could see Sam on the ground, in pain, see Jenkins, or Whiny Dave, or Barry preparing to hit her again—readying a kick or the butt of a rifle.

And within Glinda again burgeoned the Warrior.

Because no matter her own desire to get out of this mess, she could not—would not—sit by and allow the Colonel to be harmed. Whatever they'd been before they'd had lunch, before the blue light had paralyzed them and allowed their capture, they had become friends in the past few hours. Closer than friends, if one could be frank about it.

And whatever else she'd learned about herself in the past several hours, it was that she was capable of much much more than copying and collating and setting seams. She'd found herself in these hours. She'd found the woman—the girl—she'd once been. The girl who believed in heroes and villains and the overwhelming importance of love. The girl she'd been before she'd been saddled with grief and loss and the end of wishing.

She'd been shielding herself during all these years. Not wanting to be hurt, she'd been preventing herself from feeling at all. Satisfaction wasn't the same as joy—and no one—ever—had found happiness at the bottom of a file folder. And seeing the Colonel on the verge of such joy—and sharing even vicariously in that joy—meant more to Glinda Baldrich than she dared to express.

She forced her way through the quasi-tunnel, zat in hand. Breaching the entrance to her hiding place, Glinda took in the scene without blinking—she'd already seen it in her mind's eye—Sam curled up on the ground, a man standing over her, preparing to strike again. Glinda's hand rose automatically, and she pointed the zat at the man, firing without even thinking about it. He jerked backwards and hit the ground hard.

Lying prone in the shelter of the bushes, she turned her aim towards the man nearest her, but stopped at Sam's hoarse shout—and at the sudden shift of the other men—and the haste with which their weapons trained themselves on her.

"Don't shoot her!" Sam unfolded herself, grimacing as she braced a hand on the ground. The right side of her face nearly glowed—an angry, red welt forming on her cheek. At Sam's feet, the man named Jenkins lay still, sprawled at an unnatural angle in the leaves and groundcover, but the Colonel didn't spare him a glance as she appealed to the man nearest where Glinda lay in the shrubbery near the stump. "Please—don't shoot her."

Eyes narrowed, the man reached down and grabbed the zat out of Glinda's hand. Handing it to one of his companions, he jerked his head towards her—a nonverbal order, and none too gentle.

Summoning up all of her bravado, Glinda crawled out of the bush, dragging the big purse behind her. She knelt, and then, using the stump for balance, pushed herself to a standing position, ignoring her creaking joints and the leaves that fell from her hair and clothing. She refused to appear cowed—refused to cower. She drew herself up to her full height and glared at her captors down the length of her elegant nose.

"Well, Colonel Carter." Glinda recognized this voice as belonging to the one called Barry. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him step closer to Sam, grinning a crooked, nasty little smile. "It appears that your pants were on fire, after all."

-OOOOOOO-

"The shooting's stopped"

"I noticed that." Jack made his way quickly through the dense undergrowth, dodging trees as he jogged deeper into the woods. He ignored the stiffness of his joints, the stitch in his side, and the pain that radiated up from his knee. The barrel of the shotgun he held gleamed when it caught the light of the sun as it permeated the tall canopy of trees.

Daniel ran a few yards behind, his Glock in his hand. Far behind him, came the Goa'uld. That Jack wasn't more concerned with what position the clone took in their little parade meant more than he cared to admit. His normal mode of operation would have been to secure the bad guy before heading off into the unknown. Today, however, he just didn't care.

Taking the time to do that would have meant losing the trail—a trail that was already thinner and more diluted than he dared to acknowledge.

He followed the noises eastward—there had been several of them—all emanating from the same portion of the forest. He'd heard some shouting, and some rough laughter. It had echoed on the early morning breeze, wafting towards them like a buoy's anchor line drifted on the ocean. His tactical training returned with a vengeance, and he found himself fixing the location in his mind, and then finding markers in the woods that led towards the target.

Behind him, Daniel's breathing had degraded into a concentrated huffing, and Jack fought back a smile.

They had laughed about this just the other day. By the end of his time at the SGC, before he'd resigned and married Vala, the archaeologist had been in top shape. Now, his life sandwiched between raising his kids and being stationed in museum basements cataloguing old stuff all day, his favorite means of exercise had become a treadmill. Hardly the same thing as running pell-mell through alien forests being pursued by Jaffa. Three miles on one of those machines equated in no way with a cross-terrain jaunt like the one they currently suffered.

Jack had run into the same problem—only he wasn't quite as dedicated to the treadmill. He still had twenty or so stubborn pounds that Sam hadn't managed to get off him in the time since her return. Of course, her own exercise regimen had slacked off lately too, due to her constant nausea and all over pregnancy lethargy. In the meantime, Jack had given up—figuring that the General in charge of Homeworld Security could afford to ignore the threat of love handles gone bad.

He'd figured wrong.

He slowed as he noticed a dip in the forest floor, and was surprised to find himself on one side of a creek. Too large to simply jump, he searched for, and found, a narrow point a few yards down the way. Daniel drew up alongside him as he turned towards it.

"What's that?"

"A creek?" Jack glared at the archaeologist before brushing past him towards the ford.

"No—the sound. Do you hear that?"

Jack paused at on the sandy edge of the creek, holding his body taut, listening for what Daniel was hearing.

A new sound rang through the woods—a raring sputter—the starting grind of engines. He looked up higher on the bank where Daniel stood, hands on his hips, a keen expression lighting his features.

"What do you think they are? Not trucks." Jack sorted through sounds in his mind, making adjustments, figuring how much the distance would distort the noise.

"Quads?" Daniel holstered his Glock, snapping it into place. With both hands, he took his glasses off and dried his forehead with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

"It would have to be—with woods like this. Some sort of four wheel drive vehicle."

"Can you guess how many?"

"Four?" Jack shrugged. "Five, maybe."

The Goa'uld appeared at Daniel's side, his normally composed face shining with sweat. Taking a few deep breaths, he bent down and braced his hands on his knees, struggling to control his rapid breathing. From his distress, it was apparent that he didn't use even a treadmill. Probably relied on his cloned snake to keep from getting fat.

The thought made Jack grimace, which he hid by rolling his eyes up to where the sun had risen higher in the sky. He hated not knowing what he was up against. And the one among them who possibly did know was currently sweating all over his hand-made silk shirt. And yet, Jack's training—his desperation—wouldn't let him not inquire.

Tamping down his pride, he turned to the clone. "Ba'al."

"Yes, General O'Neill."

"How many guys does the other Ba'al have working for him?"

The Goa'uld considered a moment, wiping his brow and cheeks with his hand. Still breathing deeply, he turned his dark eyes up towards Jack's. "Five or six, from what I recall. He believed himself to be in need of Jaffa, but could not find any, of course. So he found some men of the Tau'ri who considered themselves to be mercenaries."

"Ex-military?" Daniel's brows lowered, his expression wary

"Probably people who couldn't make it into the services in the first place." Jack sighed, then took a huge step across the creek, his heel sinking deep into the sandy soil on the other side. Hopping up onto the other bank, he spared a glance behind him and watched as Daniel followed his lead. "Sometimes they think that they're badder than they really are."

Shaking mud off his boot, the General set off again, following the diminishing sound of the ATVs towards the eastern portion of the forest.

"So, we're looking at five or six mercenary types." Extending a hand to help Ba'al across the creek, Daniel then pushed the clone up the bank and set off in a fast jog after the General.

"Just because they didn't make the cut didn't mean that they aren't dangerous."

"No." Daniel's tone showed his full agreement with his friend. "Sometimes that kind of guy is more dangerous than the trained soldiers."

"Why is that?"

Ba'al's question had Daniel turning his head to answer. "Because often, people like that have a more laxed moral view than other people."

"Why should that matter?"

Jack's answer was curt, thrown over his shoulder as he shoved his way through the thick bushes and undergrowth. "Because that kind of guy often doesn't have anything to live for."

For a while, the only sound was the crushing of vegetation underfoot as they moved quickly through the woods. Jack found his first landmark—a huge oak tree—and then turned slightly towards his second—a large break in the trees that could turn out to be a meadow.

"Jack—" Daniel's voice called out from behind him. "Jack—what do we do when we find them? If they're from Earth, we can't just go in with guns blazing. They might now know what they're supporting."

In truth, the General had thought about that. Considered that whoever had taken his wife and secretary had been acting under the influence of a drug such as had been used on the SGC by Hathor, or some other sort of Goa'uld mind control. During the long drive to this part of the country, he'd asked himself what he would do if they were plain old Earthlings and not aliens that had kidnapped the two most important women in his life.

And somewhere along the way, he'd decided that it didn't really matter. That he really didn't care.

In for a penny, he'd figured. In for a pounding. Wasn't that the cliché?

Unexpectedly, the vegetation stopped on the side of a path—five or six feet wide, the dark earth pounded hard and flat by decades of use. It had been a long time since Jack had been on a trail ride—but he could recognize the distinctive markings left by shod horses. He turned onto the trail—recalling that the Mayfield property had been listed as agricultural—perhaps a horse farm of some sort? And most trails then, would lead to the barn.

Daniel followed him out into the path, calling after him. "We can't just go in shooting, can we?"

But Jack didn't answer.

He merely sped up into a run.