A/N's: I do realize now that I did give insights to lots of characters' minds, except Teal'c. Maybe that is because he is just the stoic jaffa he is, LOL. Anyway, he will get a bigger role in one of the future chapters. Just wait and see (or read)...
For now, just another friendly reminder this story is called Return to Hell because... Posting this early in the evening, so you can catch your breath before going to bed.. Read on, if you dare, or skip this chapter if you don't...
The guards came in once again, checking up on the two Americans, noticing that the gray-haired man was awake this time.
One of the guards opened the door to their cell. "Come, both of you," he ordered.
The other guard was standing with slightly spread legs, his weapon pointing at the two men on the floor.
Crook struggled to get up, then turned around to give his friend a hand, but Jack had already managed to get to his feet by himself. Reluctantly, they followed the first guard and the second closed the line.
They were directed straight to the now familiar interrogation room. The commander wasn't there yet, and one of the guards pushed his weapon in O'Neill's back, forcing him into the direction of the table. The Colonel stumbled, bent forward and caught himself with two hands on the table.
"Sit," the guard barked.
In the meantime, the other guard had pushed Major Crook the other way and before the Colonel was seated, Marc found himself in the uncomfortable position of hanging on the chains that dangled from the ceiling, the heavy metal already damaging the only just recovering skin on his wrists.
Crook stared at his seated friend, concern evident in his eyes. He hadn't had the time to check the infected wounds this morning and he knew that they needed to be re-opened again in order to keep the fever under control. He couldn't stop wondering how much more his friend could take and how the guards would take advantage of the man's weakened condition.
The Colonel sat still, waiting for whatever was coming. His arms and legs were hurting, sending waves of agony through his body every time he moved. He forced his exhausted mind to think of a way out of there, but couldn't find the opening he was looking for. Besides, he couldn't leave now. Not with his friend locked in those chains. If only they would be able to survive the next round. Hopefully he would have enough strength left if their chance of escape offered itself.
The infections and fever were rapidly eating his strength away and the lack of enough water and no food only further deteriorated his condition. It would be so easy to give up hope, right now, right here. He couldn't do that though. He owed it to Marc to keep fighting; he wasn't ready to die yet himself but most of all, he was too stubborn to let those bastards win that easily. Feeling the worried glances of his friend in his direction, he looked up to throw an encouraging look at the Major.
The commander of the base came in and the guards automatically stepped back, saluting quickly before taking their position by the door.
"I have found your little path through our field, Colonel," the commander said, taking a seat opposite to the American airman. The man studied his opponent with a faint glimmer of admiration in his eyes, knowing it must have been one hell of a job for one man alone. "Now I don't need to know where the other Americans are anymore. I already know."
Jack glared at the man, looking him deep in the eyes, unwilling to be the first to break eye contact.
The dark man glared back, not giving in either. He appeared to be thinking; perhaps deciding what his next move needed to be. Realizing the American Colonel was too strong to frighten off with just a look, he deliberately glanced over his shoulder, slowly, at the man hanging from the chains, before focusing his eyes on the Colonel again.
"Guess that you're not needed anymore. That leaves the Major over there. I still want the box he took from the airplane. Do you know where it is?"
"Nope," the Colonel said shortly, telling the truth this time.
"Thought so," the commander said and snapped his fingers at one of the guards. "You can order him to tell me, though, can you not?"
"I won't," O'Neill responded determinedly.
The first guard picked up a wooden stick and approached Major Crook, looking back at the commander for a sign to continue.
"Let us see if you like to watch this," the commander sneered and nodded at the waiting guard.
The guard swung the stick far over his shoulder, then forward, letting it land full in the hanging man's midsection. Crook doubled over, as far as the chains allowed him, all air forced out of his lungs. He groaned, inhaled sharply and fought to keep his balance. Before he had completely recovered the stick hit him again, more in his side this time and he started spinning, furiously kicking with his feet to try to catch his balance. The third blow landed on his back and this time Crook yelped from pain.
O'Neill jumped to his feet, anger and frustration overtaking his self-control. The second guard grabbed him forcefully by his shoulders and roughly pushed him back down. The Colonel didn't even feel the death grip on his swollen shoulder and kept struggling while he was forced to watch as the other guard kept hitting Marc with the stick.
The commander laughed out loud, tremendously enjoying his own little game.
The American Colonel cursed and cursed; attempting to fight off the guard who had him pinned down on the chair.
The American Major was yelping, groaning and moaning; sweat running down his face. He had no strength left to stay on his feet and was hanging lifelessly on the chains. There was a small trail of blood trickling down his arms from his mangled wrists. The guard kept swinging the stick around, hitting the weakened man in the knees, then on the back and in his midsection.
The commander finally snapped his fingers and the guard stopped.
The Major, spinning around with his head down, struggled to get solid ground under his feet, and finally managed after the third try. The pain was etched on his face; his eyes were closed and his chin was bowed on his chest. He had no energy left to raise his head.
O'Neill's tensed muscles relaxed a little and he exhaled heavily. He had to fight extremely hard to keep his rage under control, knowing any move, any comment at all, would only make it worse for Marc now.
The commander looked triumphantly at the American Colonel. "Do you wish to end this? Tell him to give me the information I want, Colonel."
O'Neill glared furiously at the man and bit on his lip. If there was one moment in his life he needed to keep his mouth shut, this was it, he realized. He would only make matters worse, but God, it was hard as a couple of most unfriendly phrases burned on his lips to be snapped in the man's face.
The commander signaled the guard. The guard slowly pulled up Major Crook's shirt, exposing the extensive bruising on the American's ribcage. He placed his hands solidly on Crook's ribs, searching for the weak spot, where the bones gave away, smiling as the man flinched under his touch.
Crook tried to move away, but he had nowhere to go, being locked in those chains and the guard steadily pushed his other hand in Crook's back, holding him securely in place.
The commander once more addressed O'Neill. "Come on, Colonel. You can stop this. Do you really want to be responsible for this agony?"
O'Neill didn't lower his eyes. He could end it, right now, by ordering Marc to tell the commander the location of the hidden box. He couldn't do that, however. He knew that, and so did Marc. No matter what happened, it was their job to protect the vital information for their country and it was damn hard but he was going to stick to it.
Marc's eyes flew open, searching his friend, exchanging a quick look of understanding, his mouth forming the obvious words. "Don't do it."
O'Neill acknowledged the look. 'I won't, Marc. Forgive me,' he thought sadly and kept his mouth shut, his lips tightly together, forming a sharp, angry line.
The guard pushed hard, the action moving the broken bones internally through Major Crook's body and the man screamed this time, until his eyes rolled up in his head and he thankfully lost consciousness.
Then there was silence.
O'Neill was outraged and managed only by sheer willpower to stay seated, his fingernails digging into the palms of his hands as he clenched them fiercely. Don't give them anything, Jack. Don't give them anything. The words hammered through his brain, telling him not to give up, that as long as they were alive that there was hope.
The commander didn't give the Colonel and Major much time to recuperate. The small dark-haired man was not satisfied with the outcome of his game, as it was getting him nowhere. Basically, he had lost this part of the game and he had to try a different approach. He got up, walked over to the sagging body hanging from the chains and slapped the unconscious man hard in the face, not stopping until the man moaned and slowly opened his eyes.
Crook coughed, hard, deep, losing his balance again but the commander brutally grabbed him by the shoulders, placing him back on his feet and slapped him again, as the Major's eyes were almost drifting off.
"Your friend is stubborn. Do you wish to tell me what I want to know now?"
"Not a chance, you bastard," Marc hissed through clenched teeth, fighting to get his erratic breathing under control.
The commander had expected him to refuse so he motioned the guard who still had two hands on O'Neill's shoulders. The man tightened his grip, lifting the Colonel from his chair and threw him flat forward on the table. The commander stepped closer to the table, grabbing O'Neill's head and pushed it down, hard, with his face turned towards the man hanging in the chains.
One of the guards picked up the familiar stick and swung it repeatedly against the Colonel's damaged left arm, satisfied as the man writhed on the table. O'Neill fought to get away, arching his back and kicking with his legs, but the commander held his head firmly in place leaving him no room to move. Agony flared through his body as the wooden stick landed on the painful, puffy, infected areas, forcefully opening the wounds and soon blood and purulence was rolling down the swelling limb, dripping on the table.
Marc Crook closed his eyes every time the stick hit its target, wincing in sympathy, and then opened them again, locking his gaze on his friend. O'Neill's face was screwed up from pain and Marc could see him fighting to stop from screaming. Biting on his lips, he silently railed at their tormentors, desperately hoping for this session to end soon, one way or the other.
"Stop!" the commander ordered, releasing his burden to turn his head to the Major. "Do you wish to tell me now?" he demanded sharply.
Marc stared deliberately at the ceiling. Like Jack had done, he knew he had to keep quiet but he was too furious to face the commander. He couldn't say anything; he knew that. Although he knew about Jack's past he was still impressed by the way the man had been able to control himself. Shifting slightly, he winced at the burning agony that was tearing up his chest and concentrated on his breathing.
The commander turned to the man lying on the table. "How 'bout you?"
"Me?" O'Neill sneered, slightly out of breath. He was unable to keep quiet any longer. "Personally, I'd like to smack that damn stick down your throat."
The commander's face turned red. He pinned the American's head down again and nodded at the guard. This time, the blows were directed at Jack's other arm, until that limb was bleeding as messily as the first.
Jack was groaning out loud now, unable to suppress the sounds that escaped his tightened lips. He could almost feel the still present shrapnel moving, cutting through his flesh and maybe even his muscles and nerves; he didn't know. The world was spinning, black spots dancing in front of his eyes and he couldn't see Marc's face clearly anymore. He gave up fighting against the firm grip on his head, knowing it was of no use and hoped he wasn't going to throw up all over the floor.
It didn't last long. The commander had enough of it and exchanged some words in the Tyberian version of Arabic with the guard. The guard dropped the stick, moved over to the other side of the table and resolutely grabbed O'Neill's left underarm. The second guard stepped closer too, pinning the American's still slightly swollen shoulder down.
Marc's breathing increased, hurting his damaged ribcage, but he was unable to stop it. His eyes were opened widely in shock; his heart rapidly beating and he shook his head wildly, telling the commander he wasn't going to talk. He bit on his lip, whispering, "shit, shit, shit," under his breath.
O'Neill braced himself as well as possible, then the first guard lifted his underarm, gave one solid twist while the second guard pinned the Colonel's upper body down. The elbow gave away instantly, the sound making Crook sick to the stomach. O'Neill yelped, his breathing increasing to a high rate and he hit the table with his right fist before his body went limp, unable to fight back any longer.
Although his wrists were already bleeding, Crook furiously pulled, attempting to break free. "Son-of-a-bitch, you son-of-a-bitch," he snapped, unable to stay quiet. Realizing he was damaging his arms without gaining anything, he stopped fighting, biting on his lips to keep from saying more.
The guards roughly pulled O'Neill upward, throwing him back on the chair. The Colonel's left arm hung in an awkward position and he had to use his right arm to steady himself. His head was spinning dangerously and he almost fell off the chair. Tiny drops of sweat rolled down his face and he fought to get his erratic breathing under control.
One of the guards then released Crook from the chains, the wounded airman doubling over immediately, clutching his chest as he started coughing violently. He kept one hand pressed against his mouth as he rode it out, and then saw the spots of blood he'd coughed up. The guard pulled him over to the table and Marc wiped his hand on his grimy pants before he was pushed down on a chair next to the Colonel.
The two guards stepped back, taking their positions by the door.
The commander sat down, exhaling loudly, drumming the knuckles of his fingers on the table. "Although this was fun, it isn't getting me anywhere, gentlemen. It's time to end this little game."
He took his gun out, deliberately slow and intimidating, turning it in his hands, examining it thoroughly. Taking a napkin out of his pocket, he started polishing the weapon, spitting on it, then rubbing it until it shone brightly under the dim light.
It was a Colt .45, the classic revolver used in old-time Western movies. It had a rolling loading chamber, with room for just six bullets. The commander pushed his thumb on the chamber and gave it a swing, while aiming the gun at Major Crook's forehead. "I could end it, right now," he said, his voice calm and without a hint of emotion.
Marc stared him deep in the eyes, without moving an inch, although his breathing increased slightly as his nerves tensed.
Jack deliberately leaned back in his chair, as if making himself comfortable, apparently uninterested in what was happening.
The commander glanced at his opponents. Although he wouldn't admit it, he was slightly impressed by these stubborn Americans. He'd expected them to be broken by now, but it wasn't going to happen, he knew. "But…" he continued with the same steady teasing voice, "… what fun would that be?"
Using his thumb once again, he opened the loading chamber and slowly let five of the six bullets glide out the pockets, catching them in his other hand. He stocked them away in his pocket, closing the chamber and spun it around once more.
The commander glared over the table, lost in his thoughts, as it seemed. He put the gun down on the table. "One bullet, three shots." He shoved it across the table, into O'Neill's direction. "You decide whether you put it on your own head or your friend's."
O'Neill stared at the gun in front of him, his mind racing. They had to think of something, and they had to think of it fast. Did they have a chance at all, injured as they were? Could they outrun a bunch of fresh, trained soldiers through the Tyberian Mountains? He slowly picked up the gun, allowing his brains to come up with the plan he urgently needed. Weighing his options, he decided they had to try something. He was now certain they would end up dead anyway, so they might as well die while trying to escape.
Jack slowly aimed the gun at Marc's head for a split second, his eyes searching the eyes of his friend. Marc looked at him and the Colonel thought to detect looks of understanding. He sighed deeply, as if being in an inward struggle of deciding whom to aim at, then slowly moved the gun towards his own temple.
His next move surprised everybody.
Jack swung his arm in the commander's direction, aiming and firing two empty shots. Marc threw the table on its side, and then head-butted one of the guards in the midsection before the man could raise his gun. The commander dove behind the table. Jack rolled over his right shoulder, aiming the gun at the other guard, firing another two empty shots. Marc took the guard out with one single right hook on the chin. The second guard raised his weapon. Jack jumped to his feet and threw the gun at the man. The guard instinctively dropped his weapon to catch the gun, and then O'Neill was beside him and took him out with a backhand in the neck. Crook already opened the door.
That's where the escape ended. They stared into the faces of two other guards, guns pointed at their chests and both Americans stopped in their flight, raising their hands, defeated. Gasping for breath, they both cursed at the bad luck they were having. Crook had one arm pressed around his chest, breathing shallowly through gritted teeth. O'Neill favored one injured arm with the other; his face grimacing from obvious pain.
The commander got to his feet, put the table back up and stepped behind them, dusting his clothes and looked at the two guards lying unmoving on the floor. "That was quit a show," he commented, without showing any anger.
The two new guards motioned the airmen to turn around and roughly guided them back to the table. Crook and O'Neill sat back down, both fighting to work through the disappointment of their escapade. The commander had gathered the gun, checked the loading chamber, found the bullet still in there and spun the chamber once more. The new guards took their positions by the door, standing still, with their weapons raised. The commander shoved the gun across the table. "Again, Colonel," he said. "Three shots. And no more stunts."
O'Neill's mind raced. There was no way out anymore, no matter where he looked. He felt the tension of his friend next to him, could almost hear Marc's heart beating. Defeated, he picked up the gun, looked apologetically at Crook, silently telling him he was sorry for not having succeeded in getting them out.
No possibilities left; no small favors, and no miracles.
Jack slowly aimed the gun at his own temple, knowing there was no way on Earth he could point the gun at his friend this way. Marc closed his eyes.
Jack pulled the trigger.
The clip was empty.
Marc Crook sighed heavily, relieved but also afraid of the next shot. His eyes were now forced wide open and he stared at the older man, pleadingly, asking him without words to aim the gun at him instead of O'Neill. Marc knew he was bleeding internally and that he had little chance of surviving anyway. He also knew that his friend would never, could never do that.
O'Neill's heart was racing. He didn't feel the pain anymore, as the adrenaline pumped through his veins. Although he knew where he was, the only thing he could see at this very moment was the picture of his dead son.
God, Charlie.
He remembered the way Charlie had lain there, up in their bedroom, bleeding to death from that fatal gunshot. He remembered how he'd sat on Charlie's bed after the funeral, devastated, the gun ready in his hand and he almost willingly had done what he just now had been forced to do. He had still hesitated back than, tears running down his cheeks, wondering if it was the right thing to do.
Now, he had no other choice.
"Again." The sharp voice of the dark-haired commander brusquely interrupted his thoughts.
If anything good had to come out of this, it was that he was finally going to be reunited with his son.
Charlie. Please, be there, waiting for me.
He fired.
It was another empty clip. It took him seconds to realize that, too. Beside him, Marc let go a deep breath. O'Neill suddenly felt sick to the stomach, and dizziness overwhelmed him. He was gasping for air and sheen of sweat covered his face. He wondered briefly why he was disappointed, then, the realization hit him hard, like a truck forcing him roughly off the road. He wanted to die. He wanted to be with his son, to finally be able to wrap his arms around him, to tell him how terribly sorry he was, how he'd failed so miserably. He wanted the peace, to rest forever, not having to be responsible any longer.
On the other hand, it made him sad, that he had to leave Marc behind, that he had been unable to protect his friend as well. Besides, who was going to look after Daniel, Sam and Teal'c?
God, he was so confused. He stared blankly at the table, without seeing it.
"Again." The same voice, did it sound irritated?
Jack bit on his lip, quickly exchanged looks with Marc and closed his eyes. He couldn't keep them open, couldn't let Marc see the desperation that was there, the doubt, the fear but most of all, the shame at the will to die. He couldn't do it anymore, couldn't take it. He'd had enough of it. It was time to put an end to it.
I'm sorry, kids.
His hand trembled and he had to force himself to steady it. He took one last deep breath, mentally bracing himself for the shock that would come, that hopefully would end it fast. He gathered his strength, with the picture of his son in his head, waiting for him, an outstretched hand reaching, longing, and pleading…
I'm coming, Charlie… I'm coming.
Resolutely, the Colonel pulled the trigger the third time. The gun fell on the table with a loud thud, as his fingers went limp. Nothing happened. O'Neill couldn't move, heavily shocked by the past events and unable to comprehend just yet that he'd survived the third shot as well.
He didn't notice the anger that flooded the commander's face.
The small man jumped to his feet, snatched the gun away and leaned forward over the table. Pointing the gun at Marc's temple, he fired it.
O'Neill saw the whole scene passing by as if in slow motion, the shocked expression on Marc's face, the sound of the bullet leaving the gun echoing in his ears and he jumped up and screamed. "Nooooooooooooooo!"
Major Crook's lifeless body fell sideways off the chair, a gaping hole on the left side of his head. The blood was dripping on the floor, forming a small pool under the dead man's head.
Without thinking, the Colonel threw himself at the commander, hitting him everywhere he could; blinded by rage. A hard blow landed on the bridge of the commander's nose, and the bone broke easily in two under the force of the punch. Another one directed straight in the man's neck lost its force as the two guards had jumped closer, grabbing O'Neill's flailing arms, drawing him backwards, away from their commander, while the Colonel still furiously kicked around. The guards were unable to pin the outraged man down completely and one of them simply raised his gun, swirled it around and landed the heavy handgrip hard on the back of the American's head.
The Colonel sagged unconscious to the ground, a small trail of blood trickling down his neck.
The commander, bleeding messily from his broken nose, stood straight, looked around at the chaos around him and stepped over the dead body, towards the prone form at the guards' feet. Screaming furiously, the commander kicked and kicked, his heavy army boots landing on the unconscious man's back and legs. As his rage finally subsided, he regained his composure and barked his orders at the two waiting men. "Throw him in the hole. I've got to go to headquarters. Make sure he stays alive until I get back. I want to kill him myself." With that, the man wiped the blood from his face and left the room.
::: ...ducking out of the way, and off to go and hide in the closet... :::
see you guys on Friday... right? Pretty please? Or do you guys hate me now?
Is it safe for me to come out on Friday? On Halloween? :::shivers:::