A/N's: thanks again for all your reviews, alerts, and even pm's, you guys make my day...
Glad you have found the next chapter under the M-category, and hope you are still enjoying this. I'm sure, Jack isn't enjoying this at all, though...
Captain McKean successfully led his men through the minefield, using the signs the Colonel had placed to stay on track. Lieutenant Olsen, the one with the injured leg, had been able to keep moving where they were not able to support him. As soon as they reached the end of the minefield, perfectly marked by a special marker, the other two officers rushed forward to assist their injured colleague.
"Well done, Leo. Are you able to move on?" McKean asked, worried about the Lieutenant whose face had turned deathly pale.
Olsen just nodded. They had to get out of here and he wasn't going to slow them down.
Captain Mckean used the compass the Colonel had given him to determine the direction as he led the men away from Camp Ockeloen. Colonel O'Neill had told him where to go and was counting on him to reach the destination. He was not going to let the man down.
They had made good progress, despite the injured leg of the young Lieutenant, when they heard the explosions. Stopping in their trek, the three men stared over their shoulders, taking in the enlightened sky.
Sergeant Wilson eyed the Captain. "That was at least one mine, Sir. Do you think the Colonel is all right?"
McKean's mind raced. Colonel O'Neill could have deliberately detonated the mines to create a diversion. In that case, he would have succeeded in rescuing Major Crook and the men would probably be on their way out. On the other hand it didn't sound logical for the Colonel to detonate mines in the same field they had to escape through; that could be dangerous. The Elite Forces wouldn't detonate the mines themselves, however. That made no sense either. So in the worst case the Colonel had stepped on a mine and was either dead or captured and the Major was still a prisoner.
One way or the other, McKean and his men were on their own and had to move on to reach the pick-up in time so they could report back to base. "We'll find out soon enough," he said grimly. "Let's move, people. Colonel O'Neill is counting on us."
Pushing all worst-case scenarios to the back of his mind the Captain concentrated on the task on hand and the three rescued men continued their trek through the mountains.
O'Neill soon found himself in the familiar interrogation room. There was a square heavy wooden table in the middle of the room, flanked by two chairs. The chains on the ceiling were still in place. A violent shiver ran down his back and he forcefully pushed his painful memories away. The guards who'd escorted him here blocked the way out of the room as they waited for the commander to appear.
It didn't take long as the small, black-haired commander marched into the room, snapping his fingers at the guards. They immediately stepped forward, grabbed O'Neill and forced him to sit down on one of the chairs. The commander took the other chair and sat down opposite to the Colonel. He glared at his prisoner, trying to estimate the strength of this man. He deliberately kept quiet, merely glaring.
O'Neill glared back. He knew there was no way out at this moment. He needed to concentrate on staying alive long enough for them to get tired of him. Once they would take him back to his cell he would have to come up with a plan to escape. Maybe Marc knew a way out. Although the chances were slim, the Colonel was determined to find one.
No way he was going to die here in this stinking Tyberian camp.
He had a life back home, a job he cherished and people he cared about. He definitely wanted to see them again. He was going to get out of here. Even if it meant he had to crawl on his bare knees. He'd done it before. He'd had another life to fight for then. A loving wife, a beautiful son…
Jack swallowed at the memory. Concentrate on your team, Jack, he told himself. Think about Daniel, Carter and Teal'c. They were his life now. Hell, he considered them even as family. They needed him. They were his reason to fight now. He wasn't going to give up.
The commander soon had enough of the silence. He noticed it wasn't making the other man nervous at all. "Where are the three Americans?" he asked, annoyed.
"What Americans?" Jack feigned surprise by arching his brows.
One of the two guards hit him, unexpectedly hard on his left cheek and he tumbled off the chair. The other guard grabbed him and dragged him back on the chair, the firm grip sending waves of pain through his already damaged arm. O'Neill slowly touched his cheek, which was already swelling up. At least his teeth were still in place.
"Where are the Americans?" the commander snapped.
O'Neill shrugged his shoulders and decided not to answer this time.
Although he was prepared this time, the blow still surprised him. It wasn't directed at his face this time. It landed hard and unmercifully at the back of his left arm. The guards had apparently noticed the damage that had been done to his arms by the shrapnel from the mines and used this spot to inflict more pain on their victim.
A deep groan escaped from the Colonel's lips. The sudden pressure on his damaged skin, on the small pieces of debris, which were still embedded there left him gasping from agony.
The commander smiled and nodded slightly at the guards. More blows landed on O'Neill's arms, one guard hitting him on the left, the other on the right. Jack closed his eyes to hide his pain, clenched his teeth and felt some sharp pieces dig deeper into his flesh. Soon he felt the warm flow of his own blood oozing down his arms. He was hit another couple of times, then the guards stepped back and the commander waited a second for his captive to regain his composure.
"Where… are… the… Americans?" His voice was dreadful and his eyes glowed furiously.
O'Neill opened his eyes and lifted his head to glare at the commander. "I'm the brother of David Copperfield. I've made them disappear," he hissed through gritted teeth.
The commander of course had never heard of the magician and wasn't amused at all. One guard pulled O'Neill's left arm over the table. The other guard placed a hand on Jack's shoulder, pushing it roughly down on the table. Jack heard the snapping of a knife being opened and the next second, the guard cut through his sleeve, just below the shoulder. One firm jab and the sleeve came off, exposing the damaged backside of his arm.
O'Neill tried to pull away, but his arm was locked in a deathly grip. With his shoulder and head firmly pushed down on the table he didn't even have an inch space to move. One of the guards held both hands, holding them straight above the exposed arm; just as a Japanese fighter breaking a brick stone in two pieces. Standing next to O'Neill, one foot forward and the knee bent, the man started hammering down on the bare arm with the sides of his hands, moving slowly from the shoulder downwards until he reached the elbow.
Jack groaned out loud, fought to pull his arm away but the other guard pinned him securely down. "Damn, you son-of-a-bitch," he hissed through clenched teeth as his bones, muscles and nerves screamed from the abuse. He was vaguely aware of the commander's laughter and the Colonel desperately tried to stay focused. The pain was overwhelming him and sweat appeared on his face, rolling down and dripping on the table underneath him.
The commander got up from his chair and approached his victim. "Do you wish to tell me where the Americans are now?" he asked, while bending forward to come into his prisoner's view.
O'Neill cracked his eyes open, glared at the man in front of him and thought for a second about spitting the man in the eye. Knowing that would be not a smart move, he settled for barking, "No, not really!"
The guard, who was pinning him down, steadied his grip, pushing him even harder on the table. The other guard grabbed O'Neill's upper arm, applying pressure on the already bleeding parts with his thumbs. These movements caused the embedded shrapnel to cut further through the Colonel's flesh and O'Neill couldn't stop from yelping out in pain.
This time the guard, who held him in his death grip, lifted his head up by pulling him on his hair, forcing him to face the commander again. O'Neill's face was soaking with sweat now and he wasn't able to see clearly through his pain filled eyes.
The commander looked at him, but didn't bother repeating the question. He already knew he wasn't going to get an answer and nodded at his guards. The guard roughly pushed O'Neill's head back down and leaned heavily on the man's shoulder. The other guard took his arm firmly in both hands, just above the elbow. With one firm jerk he pulled the arm upwards, while the other man pushed the shoulder down until they heard a sickening pop as the shoulder slipped out of its socket.
Jack inhaled sharply, a deep groan escaping from his lips before his body went limp, having no strength left to keep up with the game. His mind was attempting to block out the pain, but his head was spinning and his ears were ringing. He was unaware of being dragged to his feet. The guards hauled him back through the hallway, down the stairs and unceremoniously threw him into his cell. O'Neill landed on his stomach, let out another heartbreaking moan as his shoulder hit the ground and passed out.
Major Crook crawled towards the bars between the cells, softly calling his buddy's name. His friend had been thrown in only minutes ago and was unresponsive.
Marc tried to reach through the bars, stretching his muscles but still couldn't touch the still form on the cell's floor. He tried calling again. "Jack? Jack, wake up. Talk to me," he raised his voice a little this time.
Meanwhile, he let his eyes run over the prone body of his friend, visually checking for inflicted damage. He thought that O'Neill's right arm, which was closest to him, was bleeding again, but other than that he really couldn't tell.
"Come on, Jack. Wake up and look at me," Crook urged, not willing to give up. He wasn't really sure if his friend wouldn't be better off unconscious, but he needed to know how much the man was hurt and whether he could do anything to control the damage. Most of all, he was worried sick and just longed for a word of reassurance, telling him everything would be all right.
Stop fooling yourself, Marc. Everything is NOT all right and probably won't ever be.
"Jack?" he asked again and this time he was rewarded by some movement as the other man let out a deep groan and slightly lifted his head.
The effort of raising his head was probably too much as Jack let it drop back on the ground. "This sucks," he muttered under his breath.
Crook couldn't help but smile at the familiar comment. "Big time, Jack," he responded, then a deep frown covered his face. "What happened?"
Crook watched as his friend pushed himself up with one arm until he was on his knees, wincing at the sound of the other man's sharp intake of breath. He now saw the drooping left arm and the misshapen form of the shoulder. "Bastards," Marc muttered, taking in the sweat that was bedding O'Neill's face.
The Colonel raised his head, cradling his left arm in his right hand. "Yah think?"
Marc swallowed hard. He knew they had to do something about that dislocated shoulder before the swelling made it all but impossible. His mind raced, trying to figure out how he was going to get the job done.
O'Neill rose to his feet, swaying dangerously as the world spun. He waited until his eyesight cleared, then he moved towards the bars, searching for the right position.
Crook struggled to his feet.
"Don't touch me," Jack hissed through gritted teeth.
"But Jack," Marc protested.
"That's an order, Major."
Marc stepped back, doubtfully, his breathing increasing.
O'Neill assisted his left arm with his right, until his left hand could grab a bar at the height of his hip. Grimacing from the pain this caused, he inhaled deeply a couple of times before firmly putting his right fist in the armpit of his injured shoulder.
Major Crook closed his eyes.
O'Neill forced his bodyweight backwards, firmly holding on to the bar with his left hand while he cried out in pain. He held on, his fist firmly in place, his eyes tightly closed and forced his body backwards even further until the shoulder slipped back in place. Unable to release his grip just yet, he stood, his breathing erratic, in short, sharp gasps. Then, his right hand moved, opened up and cradled the injured shoulder. He released his left arm and turned, leaning heavily with his back against the bars.
"Shit," he gasped, and slowly lowered himself to the ground, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the bars. "Shit… shit... That hurt."
Marc swallowed the bile that was filling his mouth back down and let out a deep sigh. Gathering the water the guards had brought in earlier, he dropped on his knees close to his friend and handed him the canteen. "Here, drink some," he offered.
O'Neill gratefully took the canteen, drank some and then poured a little over his hand and wiped his face with it. Then he just sat there, trying to control the nauseating agony that was tearing up his shoulder and arm, concentrating on his breathing.
Crook visually inspected the Colonel's shoulder and arm from behind, taking in the swelling of both. There was still blood oozing down the arm and through the crimson stains, Marc noticed the extensive bruising. He bit on his lip, cursing silently and tore a piece of cloth from his shirt, soaking it with water. "I need to clean that arm," he warned, moving closer.
His friend nodded wearily, too tired to answer.
Marc started cleaning at the shoulder and carefully and precisely worked his way down to the elbow. It took all of his willpower to finish the job as the Colonel was moaning, flinching and constantly hitting his head backward against the bars. The Major tried to be as gentle as he could, but he also had to make sure to remove all the dirt. Hopefully some small pieces of shrapnel would come out with the bleeding as well, he thought idly. Crook moved to the right side, crawling closer to O'Neill's right arm. "You want a break?"
"And lose this loving feeling?" Jack hissed. "Nah… get it done."
Marc re-shifted the torn fabric of O'Neill's shirt to be able to clean the wounds at the back of his right arm. Although they were ugly to look at, some of them bleeding slowly and the whole area bruised; it wasn't nearly as bad as the other arm. Marc smoothly patted the abraded skin with water, looking for signs of infection. Luckily he found none but he realized that given the circumstances, it was only a matter of time.
O'Neill sighed out loud, his muscles slowly relaxing now that the worst was over. He sat quietly, with his head resting against the bars and his eyes closed. The pain in his shoulder was bearable now and the sharp stabs that had been running through his arms were replaced by a dull, numb feeling. His breathing was slowing down and the sickening feeling that had been overwhelming him after he'd relocated his shoulder was fading.
"Are you all right?" Marc broke the silence.
"Peachy… Just peachy," the Colonel cracked.
"I've got some water left. You think you could lie down? I should clean those injured legs as well. Do they hurt?"
"Hmmm," O'Neill answered, realizing that the Major was right. Although the guards hadn't hit his legs, he remembered the pain the moving shrapnel had caused him from sitting down on that chair. He grimaced while cautiously lowering himself into a prone position and lay quietly, allowing the Major to do the job.
Roughly twenty minutes later Major Crook was ready, satisfied he'd done all he could. He offered the Colonel the last sip of water, knowing the man was going to need it.
"No, you take it," O'Neill refused stubbornly.
"I don't need it. You do." Marc insisted. "I'm all right."
"Sure. Ready to run the Boston Marathon," O'Neill smirked.
Crook sighed. "Okay, not that all right. But I don't have pieces of metal stuck in my flesh, ready to start an infection. All my body parts are still where they belong…" he shifted uncomfortably, wincing as something pulled in his chest. "…I think."
O'Neill glanced at him, not unaware of the stiffness in the Major's movements.
Still, Crook looked at him determinedly, daring him to reject the water. "Damn it, Jack. Stop the fucking stubborn act and drink it."
Swallowing, the Colonel gave in and eased his thirst with the last bit of water.
"Good boy," Marc praised him teasingly.
"Don't let my looks fool you," the Colonel shot back.
Crook grinned. "Now, get some rest."
"Giving orders, Major?"
"No, Sir. Just a suggestion."
"Good suggestion then, Major. I think I'll take a nap," the Colonel shifted until he found a more comfortable position. "Don't stay on guard. The enemy already ran us over," he muttered before giving in to the exhaustion that was threatening to overtake him.
A/N's... yeah... it sucks, being back in Hell... See you guys on Monday? ::: ducks :::