The Candlestick Chronicles by Cjay

Chapter Eight: Untamed Reflection

The watcher checked his compass yet again. Wiping a trickle of sweat from his temple, he continued his clandestine journey over the uneven and forested terrain. By his estimation the feisty biker woman's last position should be dead ahead, just beyond the dense pines.

He wasn't sure just what it was he expected to find, but something of a definitely questionable nature was going on.

Catching sight of the over-laden Dr. Brightman leaving the SGC, her expression flushed with guilt, he'd known he had to follow. And, when she'd met up with the motorcycle rider in that seedy bar, his cynical nature kicked into overdrive.

Abandoning the doctor for the woman in possession of the suspicious coat, he'd followed her serpentine route knowing instinctively that the garment contained some form of contraband. Moreover, the cycle rider's best efforts to elude him added credence to his pursuit. He hadn't become the man he was today without heeding his gut.

Moving cautiously through the last majestic pines, he could see a Chevy van and the elusive red motorcycle parked behind a fairly large building constructed of logs. Overcast skies created a false dusk. Using the shadows, he slinked along the side wall of the structure, cocked his head and listened for the sound of voices. A man's deep bass mingled with a woman's husky murmur and reverberated through the wood toward the rear. Ducking beneath the high windows, he inched his way to the front of the dwelling.

A rough-hewn placard announced the building's purpose. The watcher hesitated. Evidently this was some kind of clinic. Maybe, the encounter between the biker and the physician had been more innocent than he first suspected. Still, the woman's stealthy behavior demanded investigation.

Moving softly onto the porch, he eased the screen door open and crept inside.

Mischief, dosing next to the ailing O'Neill, raised her head, her ears twitched. Growling low in her throat, hackles raised, teeth barred, she prepared to defend the helpless man bedside her.

Jeff heard the protective sounds of his trusty little companion over the intercom. Rising swiftly on silent feet, he took up the shotgun leaning against the wall.

Kris snatched Jeff's old forty-five from the table and prepared to back him up.

The pair fell into a familiar form of military dance.

Mischief's growls increased in volume, as Jeff snaked his way along the hall with Kris covering his six.

The watcher stood just inside the dimly lit room. A small dog guarded the covered form lying motionless on a narrow bed. The prone figure's face, surrounded by monitors and IV poles, was lost in shadow. Dismissing any real threat from the tiny canine, he pocketed his weapon, reached a hand out for the mini-collie to sniff and continued steadily toward the bed.

The tall human's unfamiliar scent enraged the little sheltie. Contracting her muscular haunches, the diminutive pup launched her attack. Firmly clamping her jaws around the offensive intruder's outstretched hand, she held onto the unknown assailant with fiery tenacity.

The small animal's momentum knocked the watcher to the ground, where he landed flat on his back. Using his free hand, he desperately attempted to dislodge the vicious creature with limited success.

Jeff, followed by Kris, entered the room and took in the sight of the normally docile dog's ferocious defense of their patient.

Exchanging a proud smirk with a somber Kris, Jeff placed the barrel of the shotgun against the writhing man's temple. "Off, Mischief!"

The sound of her master's voice penetrated Mischief's haze of defending rage. Releasing her foe, she backed away and sat down.

The downed watcher cradled his savaged hand. Panting with effort, he laid still, his face contorted with pain.

Skirting the stranger warily, Kris rushed to Jack's side. Finding him undisturbed, she pulled the thin sheet over his face, clinging to a vague hope of concealing his identity.

Jeff scanned their uninvited guest without recognition. "Okay, then. Just who the hell are you, and why are you sneaking around inside my clinic?"

Fixing a jaundiced eye on the gun barrel still resting against his temple, the watcher refused to respond.

"Maybe, I should let my dog work you over some more." Jeff snapped. Mischief growled obligingly, her body once more poised to spring.

Keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the man at his feet, Jeff smirked. Placing one foot firmly against the stranger's chest, he directed Kris. "Search him."

Kris slipped her gun into the rear waistband of her jeans and knelt down. Despite shaking hands, she deftly turned out the man's pockets, tossing the contents onto the floor. A military issue handgun, car keys and leather wallet were quickly followed by a compass and cell phone. Resisting the urge to shoot the bastard, she removed the gun's ammo clip. "Personally, I think we should let Mischief finish him."

Biting her lip, she flipped open the silent man's wallet. Angling his identification beneath a shaft of light from the hallway, Kris inhaled deeply. 'Crap!' Rising, she moved to Jeff's side affording him a clear view of the wallet's contents.

Riding high on adrenalin, the pumped up physician backed up a pace and motioned with the rifle. "Right then, suppose you get up nice and slow."

The watcher got slowly to his feet, his eyes darting cautiously between the man with the gun and the enraged sheltie.

Kris removed her forty-five from her jeans training it expertly on the interloper. Pressing the rifle barrel against the intruder's spine, Jeff herded him into an adjacent room.

Mischief returned to her post. Nipping the edge of the sheet, she pulled it away from the general's face and licked his jaw affectionately. Satisfied that he was safe, she settled once more against his side.

***

Perspiration trickled uncomfortably down Elizabeth Brightman's spine. Seated in the brig on a lumpy metal cot, heart banging madly in her chest, she pondered her predicament. 'Face it Elizabeth, there is no safe solution to this problem. You've no way of knowing just which side Kearney is really on, for all you know he is the mole and besides, you gave your word. Either way, you lose.'

Major Kearney was a formidable foe.

Incensed over the loss of their commander, Kearney had been relentless. Grilling the staid physician proved fruitless, compounding his anger. "Look Captain Brightman, we know the general's driver was a plant. I am convinced he had an accomplice here inside the SGC." Pacing, he tried to control his rising fury. "I'd like to think you are innocent. But..."

"I assure you Major; I had nothing to do with what happened to General O'Neill," Brightman repeated truthfully. "As I've said, all I'm guilty of is skirting protocol to aid a humanitarian effort... and if we are technical about it, borrowing government supplies."

Her story sounded credible and yet, he was convinced she was holding something back. Kearney's face turned another shade of red; the pulse in his temple throbbed. Clenching his fists, he nodded. "Borrowing sounds so very acceptable doesn't it?" He snorted acerbically.

"The truth is that you, dear doctor, are guilty of theft and perhaps, a great deal more." Sighing, he yanked open the office door. Two members of his security contingent stood at attention just beyond the portal. "Airmen, escort Captain Brightman to the brig."

Kearney lowered his voice to a mocking whisper. "Think of your confinement as an opportunity for self-reflection, Captain. I suggest you use the time to consider you rather limited options."

***

Inside the brig, Airman Ben Jefferson stood guard outside the captain's cell. His position here amongst the loyal members of the SGC was tenuous at best. Sooner or later, the disgustingly genuine and pugnacious Kearney would put the pieces together and his ass would be fried.

Earlier, stationed just beyond the doctor's office door, it had been all too easy to overhear a good deal of Major Kearney's interrogation of Captain Brightman. Jefferson's agile and twisted mind pondered the implications of said interrogation. Regrettably, his suppositions would have to wait until he was relieved of duty, leaving his post would expose him prematurely.

***

Jon O'Neill rested his head in Clare's lap and stretched out his long legs. Clare, seated on a blanket spread out under the trees, stroked his hair trying to quell her apprehension. "I'm not convinced this is the best course of action, Jon."

Gazing up into her angelic face, Jon reached up to tuck one of her shimmering gold curls behind her ear. He wondered if another fallen angel, Lucifer, would look as remarkably exquisite.

Her revealing litany of complicity hadn't shocked him. She wasn't the first innocent to be used and corrupted into a misshapen implement of iniquity. Still, he'd been surprised at the feelings her tragic history evoked in him. He'd thought he'd moved past such heartfelt sentiment long ago. The torn flesh of her small and birdlike wrists fed the magma churning under the icy surface of control he projected.

A Bible passage came to mind. Shifting his head, Jon nestled deeper into her warmth. "Vengeance is mine sayeth the Lord." He whispered in a sepulchral tone.

Clare stared into his molten eyes, reading the deadly intent there. For the first time, she feared him.

The young Tau'ri woman's convoluted explanation rekindled Teal'c's contempt for manipulative demigods. Wellington was in essence Clare's own personal system lord. He knew her pain. The marks upon her body added to his understanding. She too had seen the hope of liberation hidden within the depths of O'Neill's soul.

Many would dismiss Jon O'Neill's plan as futile, unaware of the 'lad's' canny strength. Their strategy was bold, but his warrior brother was a redoubtable fortress and inestimable adversary. They would prevail.

Adjusting his position, Teal'c sighted the area using the sniper rifle's scope. Satisfied that the perimeter remained clear, he flipped open his cell phone.

***

Jon's cell chirped. Expecting to hear Teal's deep baritone, he answered on the first ring. "Talk to me."

"Where the hell are you, Jon?" Daniel Jackson's angry voice demanded.

"Ah, Daniel I'm a bit busy at the moment." Jon replied coolly. "How's about I call you back?"

"Hold it!" Daniel began, "Jon, Sam just called... you are in way over your head."

"Danny this is not my first dip into the icy river of intrigue." Jon informed him shortly.

"Listen to me Jon, there's a lot you don't know... give me your position, we can help..." Daniel begged.

"Negative!" Jon barked. "And Daniel? Stop tying up my phone. O'Neill out." Watching the play of emotions over Clare's face, Jon severed the connection and laid the phone on his chest. "Now where were we?"

***

Teal'c's finger was poised over the speed dial when it rang. Noting the number displayed, he opened the connection. Before he could speak, Daniel Jackson's irate voice demanded his attention.

"Teal'c? Don't you dare hang up!" Still smarting over Jon's dismissal, Daniel was not about to tolerate another. "What the hell are you and Jon up to?"

***

Daniel starred at the phone for a long minute resisting the urge to throw it forcefully against the wall. Jack, no matter what his incarnation, could enrage a saint! And in his present state, their mutual friend, Jack's staunchest supporter, was no better.

Contacting Teal'c, he'd tried to reason with the big Jaffa.

Teal'c politely informed him that "all would be well" and hung up.

Shaking a fist, Daniel clenched his teeth and recited a mantra designed to relieve his frustration. "O'Neill, you are an intolerable ass..."

Jennifer Hailey picked just that moment to walk into the kitchen.

Following his brief chat with Colonel Carter, Daniel suggested Sassy use Jack's room for a 'cat nap.' Once the elderly lady agreed, he pulled Hailey aside and filled her in. They'd each tried numerous times to raise the errant clone by cell without success. 'I suppose the inconsiderate jackass shut the pesky thing off!'

Attempts to contact Teal'c proved equally futile.

Hailey rapidly concluded that Daniel had finally made contact. No one else rattled the usually serene archeologist quite as effectively as the O'Neill boys. Arching an inquisitive brow, Jennifer folded her arms and waited patiently.

Daniel repeated his mantra several more times, regaining some semblance of tranquility.

Watching his transparent play of emotions, Jennifer sought to soothe his ire. "They can't help it you know, it's their nature."

Hailey's statement penetrated his annoyance. She was right; still, it rankled. "Jon is too busy to speak to me at present. Apparently I was tying up the phone."

"So then we try Teal'c. If Jon's phone is finally functional..."

Shaking his head, Daniel interrupted her. "I just tried. It's no use. They are both unshakably entrenched in full-blown Jaffa revenge mode."

Jennifer's shoulders slumped in defeat. "We are so screwed!"

***

Damien Wellington possessed many unique characteristics, most of them unattractive, but he was no fool. Maneuvering the coupe through heavily congested traffic, he debated strategy with his minion Charles Duff. A dark sedan seemed to appear in his rearview mirror several times, albeit briefly. "So Charles, I fear we are being followed."

Duff pulled down his own sun-visor and peered into the mirror. "I don't see..."

"Are you questioning me Charles?" Damien's voice lacked his usual light tone. He so hated to be contradicted.

Realizing his error, Duff subsided. "What now?"

"We make use of our surroundings." Damien responded calmly. "And adjust our plans, just as we discussed."

A CTA bus parked ahead gave him an idea.

Pulling directly in front of the bus, obscuring them from the sedan's direct line of vision, Damien jumped quickly from the vehicle and boarded the large conveyance. "Hold up a moment my good man; I am waiting for a friend." Slipping the driver a fifty-dollar bill, he slumped into a seat.

The driver pocketed the crisp banknote and nodded. Covering the bases, he radioed dispatch, reporting an 'unforeseen delay.'

Duff quickly slid behind the coupe's wheel and drove on.

The suspicious sedan hung back a few car lengths and then shadowed Duff in the coupe. Damien rose nonchalantly from his seat, patted the driver and exited the bus. "I've changed my mind, carry on."

Pulling his coat lapels up around his face, Wellington crossed the street and faded into the crowd.

***

Major Paul Davis sat uneasily in O'Neill's vacant chair pondering the ramifications of events over the last forty-eight hours. With General Hammond currently unavailable and Colonel Carter ostensibly preoccupied with the general's funeral, the Joint Chiefs had placed him in charge of the SGC until a more permanent arrangement could be made.

Over the years Paul's duties exposed him to many of the Air Force's top officers. Jack O'Neill had been one of his personal favorites.

The major admired the crusty O'Neill's tenacity and never say die attitude, not to mention his wacky and irreverent sense of humor. Thus, he wanted desperately to find out what exactly precipitated his untimely demise. He'd enlisted the help of the most well informed member of the SGC staff, O'Neill's aide, Sergeant Walter Davis.

It was no secret that the serious sergeant and his rascal of a commander had an affectionately adversarial relationship. O'Neill hated the mundane responsibilities that Walter Davis embraced and often resorted to 'yanking the little guy's chain' just to 'spice things up a tad.'

O'Neill joked on more than one occasion that the 'Davis boys' were in a word, 'dissimilar.' He seemed to find the idea of the dashing major and the natty little sergeant's possible familial connection vastly amusing. A concept designed to fondly tease the often-humorless technician.

The major, for his part, found Walter's carefully hidden chagrin highly entertaining too. Few in the know would deny that O'Neill relied heavily on the man to keep him on track. And, that Walter was the man to see if you wanted information. In addition, the pint-sized sergeant made no secret of his grief, or his intense desire to ferret out those responsible for his general's death. Hence, the astute major decided to turn Walter loose and allow him to do his own private investigating.

Walter scanned the file one last time confirming his suspicions. Quelling his outrage, he gathered up the folder and headed to General O'Neill's office. He was about to knock on the open door when Major Davis spotted him and motioned him inside.

Walter shut the door firmly, his eyes ablaze behind his thick spectacles. "Sir, I believe I've found our mole," he began without preamble.

Major Davis reviewed Walter's findings with rising alarm. The next logical step was to alert the head of base security. "Good job Sergeant. What's Major Kearney's extension number?"

Walter's expression registered his unease. "The major received a call from Teal'c about thirty minutes ago. He then gathered two units of SF's and headed off to meet him. I'm sorry sir; I thought he informed you..."

Rising heatedly from his chair, the overlooked commander waved further explanation off with an impatient hand. "Save the apology sergeant. Evidently, our Major Kearney borrowed a page from Jack O'Neill's book of independent command decisions. Just find him!"

Walter turned tail and headed out of the office. Sighing, Major Davis picked up the red phone.

***

Sam Carter continued to stew. Unable to do more than sit idly in the backseat of the sedan while Malcolm Barrett tailed their suspects, she made use of her cell phone. The news from Daniel only added to her feeling of helplessness.

Barrett sympathized. The dangerous game that the young O'Neill and his Jaffa protector were playing was, at the very least, disturbing. "Personally Samantha, I think both Teal'c and the kid are categorically insane."

"Malcolm, we have no clear idea just what it is those two rogues are doing." Sam's loyal side defended. "It's entirely possible they are on the right track."

"So then, why not make use of every resource?" Malcolm argued.

"You're the one who pointed out the undeniable existence of a security leak." Sam replied shortly. The idea that an SGC insider was responsible for this whole mess sickened her. "I doubt that possibility escaped their notice."

"Okay, so then reason would dictate..." Malcolm began.

Sam Carter snorted. "Oh yeah, right! We just buried the kid's only family. How reasonable would you be in his shoes?"

Ned Drew kept his eyes on the coupe and his opinions carefully to himself. Listening to the exchange between the more seasoned operatives, he came to the conclusion that there was something very unusual about the general's elusive nephew.

Something besides the missing youngster's plight nagged at the self-professed computer geek. "Agent Barrett, sir, might I use your opera glasses for a moment?"

Barrett eyed Ned in the mirror and passed the requested item back. "Care to share, Drew?"

Hesitating, Ned studied their prey via the magnifying lenses. Sure enough, his farm-bred eyes hadn't deceived him. "Currently it would appear that the coupe has only one occupant, sir."

"The hell you say!" Barrett squinted ahead.

Sam Carter relieved Drew of the opera glasses and scanned the vehicle in question. Sure enough, only one head, the driver's, was visible. "Damn it to hell, he's correct!"

"I think we lost one about a mile back... right after we passed that busy intersection." Ned added tentatively.

Sam ran an exasperated hand through her hair. "We've been made..."

"...Literally taken for a ride." Barrett cursed expansively, considering their options.

"Colonel Carter, ma'am..." Ned began thoughtfully. "You mentioned earlier that Jon made an appointment to meet one of the suspects later this afternoon..."

"That's right, the theoretical school girl, Clare Wellington." Catching his train of thought, Sam directed her attention his way.

Running with his muse, Ned continued, "The Marquis's adopted daughter and if our information is accurate, his puppet..."

"Okay, what's going on in that head of yours Ned?" Barrett prodded.

"I don't profess to know Jon O'Neill, but..." Lost in the moment Ned's earnest face glowed with revelation. "If my uncle had just been murdered I'd want to settle the score... as in an eye for an eye. And, I wouldn't want any interference."

"Holy Hannah, he moved the meeting up!" Sam interjected.

"Ma'am you said Dr. Jackson made contact with both Teal'c and Jon O'Neill via cell phone right?" Ned queried, his eyes intent.

Stunned by her own lack of insight, Sam nodded as Ned went on.

"Well then, since we aren't sure of their location and we do not want to alert any bogies, might I suggest correlating their position by way of the GPS chip in their respective phones?"

"Ned you are brilliant!" Sam squeezed his hand and mentally kicked herself. 'Good one colonel, you allowed personal feelings to cloud your judgment. 'Don't be a dolt Samantha; this is no time for self-recrimination!' Dialing the SGC control room, she requested the ever-reliable Sergeant Walter Davis.

Sergeant Davis's familiar monotone greeting made contact with the detached military side of her persona. "Sergeant Davis, this is Colonel Carter..."

***

Crawling on his belly, Major Kearney pushed a low hanging branch away from his face. Glancing to his left, the dedicated security officer spotted his second maneuvering into position. Using hand signals, he gestured toward the young couple seated some fifteen yards beyond their hiding place. The pair looked like any other teenagers indulging in a picnic.

Employing binoculars, Kearney checked the perimeter and wondered just where Teal'c was situated. When the Jaffa phoned, dictating curt instructions, he asked few questions and gathered his most reliable security detail. Trust was something the dark skinned alien warrior had earned long ago from the men of the SGC.

Once they'd made the rendezvous, his men scattered finding the best cover possible. Kearney checked his weapon. His mission was clear and yet, he felt off balance. Success depended on the inimitable instinct and savvy of one young man, Jon O'Neill. The major muttered a fervent prayer.

***

Charles Duff watched the sedan veer off with complacent glee. Ha! Wellington thought he was the genius! 'Tut-tut, Charles, this is another victory you must keep to yourself, up-staging the Marquis isn't healthy; not if you want to live.'

Just to be sure he was truly alone, Duff eased the coupe into a hamburger joint and exited the car. Ordering fries to go, Charles paid for his snack and then, headed out the rear door grinning manically.

The next step was to make sure he didn't disappoint dear little Clare and her new boyfriend.

***

Hunched over his computer screen, Walter tapped into the base security system. Contacting the absent major directly, without knowing just what kind of operation he was conducting, wouldn't be prudent. Nope, however, tracking Major Kearney's GPS signal was both silent and efficient.

During his tenure at Stargate Command, Walter had developed an almost symbiotic relationship with the base computer. He easily pinpointed the major's location along with several others, and was about to report to Major Davis when Colonel Carter phoned.

Exchanging a meaningful stare with the temporary base commander hovering expectantly nearby, Walter hastily filled them both in. "Colonel Carter, Major Kearney and a security detail deployed some forty minutes ago just after he received a phone call from Teal'c; it appears that both Teal'c and the major's current positions are within a few hundred yards of one another." Walter paused, eyed his superior and lifted a questioning brow.

Major Davis, understanding his silent query, mouthed the word 'yes.'

Walter continued, "And ma'am, we believe our security leak is a member of the major's unit."

Alarmed, Sam's annoyance increased exponentially. "And exactly where might they be?"

***

Clare resisted the urge to squirm and popped another fortune cookie crumb into Jon's mouth. "I don't understand the delay."

Well aware of the time, Jon calmly chewed the sweet. "Relax, this kind of operation rarely runs like clockwork."

Clare snorted. "Some teenager! You should be scared out of your mind! What are you - the reincarnation of John Wayne or something?"

"Or something... " Jon agreed ruefully. "What good does it do us if I freak? Besides, Teal'c has our six."

"Damien never loses, Jon. He's truly gifted. And his buddy Charles... well lets just say, deranged is an understatement." Clare told him brokenly. Despite her newfound trust, she was terrified.

A large black Cadillac pulled up slowly alongside the curb. Recognizing the driver, Clare shivered. "It's Duff. I can't go back to that life, Jon."

"I promise you won't, Clare." Jon vowed, flatly, eyeing the vehicle. He knew what it was to be the victim of a heartless sadist. 'Even if it means killing you in order to save you.'

***

Charles Duff's beady eyes roamed the park, directing instructions to his associate. "Remember, we don't want to spook the kid. He's no good to us dead." Kaminski was not his first choice; he tended to make a mess and his cockney accent was annoying.

Blaine Kaminski lovingly fingered an ornate antique stiletto. "Yeah right, so the boss said. What about the girl?"

"Ah yes, dear Clare." Charles made a great show of pondering the question. Of late toying with Clare had lost its charm. "Regrettably she is superfluous."

Blaine ran an eager tongue over his full lower lip, his slate gray eyes gleamed. "Poor poppet."

***

Teal'c watched the vehicle park. Two men exited and strolled over to the place where Jon and Clare, feigning unconcern, continued their picnic. Using the magnifying capabilities of the rifle's scope, he searched the car and surrounding area. It would appear that the two had come alone.

Major Kearney, poised for battle should the need arise, took note of the approaching unfriendlys. Jon looked cool enough. Kearney still found it fantastic that the kid was in reality the general's clone. He looked so, well, young!

Clare whispered an introduction to Jon, her hands trembled. She wasn't sure which of the two she hated more, Duff or his cold-blooded sidekick Kaminski. "The tall one with the low-class English accent abhors guns. He carries an old-fashioned dagger. His playmate, Duff generally totes a veritable arsenal. Be careful, Jon."

Jon stood up. Assisting Clare to her feet, he made eye contact with Duff and slipped into character. "Hiya guys."

"Mr. Wellington sent us to collect his daughter and encourage you to join us for supper." Duff informed him in a reasonable tone.

"Oh yes, Jonnie, do say you'll come to supper." Clare begged convincingly.

"I..." Jon scratched his neck. "Wow, that's thoughtful of him, Clare, but I really need to head on home."

Charles stepped closer, his expression mulish. "Mr. Wellington is a very powerful man. I suggest you accept his cordial invitation."

Leaning over, Jon kissed Clare's cheek using her small body as a screen. His capable fingers slipped into one deep coat pocket and cautiously fingered his gun. Keeping his tone tranquil, he faced the duo. "Maybe some other time."

Kaminski exposed his dagger with a feral grin. "Oh, but we insist."

'Okay, O'Neill here we go! So much for strategy.'

"How cliche! Where's the melodramatic soundtrack?" Jon taunted unconcerned. "What are you going to do, stick me with that big hat pin?" He chortled. "My granny has one just like it."

Kaminski, intent on marking the smug little shit, jerked forward, his thick lips twitching with rage. "You little..."

Jon sidestepped the older man, narrowly avoiding the deadly blade. Balling his free hand into a fist, he nailed him neatly with an uppercut.

The force of the blow to his solar plexus dropped a breathless Kaminski to the ground.

Jon kicked the dagger away from the downed man and spun around to deal with Duff.

Shocked by the kid's speed and accuracy, Duff pulled Clare to his chest, placing his own knife blade against her smooth throat.

Jon froze.

Laughing humorlessly, Duff artfully pricked Clare's creamy flesh. A burgundy stain spread slowly over the pristine collar of her blue jacket. "How's this for melodrama, punk?"

Jon stared reassuringly into Clare's tear filled eyes. Tightening his fingers, he caressed his hidden weapon. "Let her go."

"Not gonna happen." Duff spat. "I will kill her."

Holding his breath, Kearney signaled his men to hold their fire.

Teal'c sighted the man's head and waited. Untimely interference would cost the woman her life. O'Neill would not be pleased. Nevertheless, should it become necessary, the somber Jaffa would choose Jon O'Neill's life over that of Clare Wellington.

Kaminski caught his breath and rose silently to his feet. This was all too easy. While old Charles kept the kid occupied, he retrieved his dagger. Intent on revenge, he crept up behind Jon.

The sound of gunfire rent the air. Kaminski's chest exploded in a cloud of frothy blood. Astonishment transformed his face into a caricature. He fell forward and laid still.

A second gunshot hit Jon in the left shoulder, knocking him sideways.

Several more gunshots reverberated in rapid succession.

Hearing the echo of unknown gunfire, Teal'c abandoned his hiding place. Using the terrain as camouflage, he hurried to aid his warrior brother.

Duff's wild eyes scanned the woods behind the park. "You sold us out bitch!" Dragging Clare along, his knife firmly against her jugular, the crazed assassin made for the Cadillac.

Jon struggled to his feet, staggering, he yanked the gun from his pocket.

A bullet whizzed by Duff's left ear. Ducking down, he used the helpless woman's body as a shelter.

Ignoring the incoming gunfire, Jon steadied his right hand. Taking aim, he squeezed the trigger.

The bullet seemed to hang briefly in mid-air, then plow into Duff's right eye.

Clare, freed from her tormentor's grasp, began to run toward Jon. Simultaneously, another bullet tore its way through her breast.

Shocked, Jon stumbled forward. Embracing Clare, he lowered her shuddering body to the ground covering it with his own.

Kearney watched in stunned disbelief as the airman on his flank squeezed off another round. "What the hell are you doing? Hold your fire!"

The airman redirected his fire barely missing the major's head.

Teal'c moved swiftly. Blind-siding the treacherous airman, he tackled him. "See to Jon O'Neill!"

Kearney nodded and ran to comply. Kneeling down, he attempted to gently roll Jon off the young woman's inert body.

Semi-conscious from loss of blood, Jon sluggishly fought the concerned major.

"Easy there O'Neill, it's me, Kearney." Regretting the need to overpower him, he wrestled the gun from the Jon's vulnerable hand. 'Son of a... He looks so damned young!'

Jon stilled. "The shooter?" He whispered hoarsely.

"Teal'c has him in custody" Kearney informed him quietly. This was his responsibility, his command. "I'm sorry, sir.

"Clare?" Jon's youthful countenance looked haggard, his deep-set brown eyes glazed.

Kearney, glanced over the ruined remains of the woman. "Gone." Using soothing hands, he prevented the besieged youth from viewing the grisly site. "Stay still son. It's not pretty."

"Just like Jack..." Jon closed his eyes and let the dark swallow his remorse.

***

The sedan carrying Barrett, Ned and Sam Carter tore around the corner and screeched to a halt.

The sight of a bloodied Jon lying silently in Kearney's arms washed over them like a winter tide. They were too late. Feeling as if she were trapped in some gruesome nightmare, Sam knelt beside the reflection of the man she loved placing a shaky hand over his limp wrist. "Is he... ?"

Grimfaced, Major Kearney pressed a field dressing against Jon's wound. "He's in a bad way, Colonel. I think the bullet nicked an artery."

Jon was still alive. Sam mumbled a prayer of thanks.

Raising her voice over the roar of an incoming rescue helicopter, she added, "If he lives I'm going to kill him."

***

Somewhere in the distance, the ragged jingle of an impatient phone roused Sassy from her slumber. The room, heavily shrouded in shadow, was unfamiliar. For a moment she was confused. Fumbling a bit, the elderly lady found a lamp and turned it on. Jonathan's lost boy, Charlie, smiled up at her, his mischievous face frozen and framed in silver for all time. Sorrowful memories of the day flooded back into her mind.

The phone abruptly stopped ringing and Jonathan's laconic voice requested someone 'talk to me.' Sassy smiled sadly. The thought that his wry humor would be preserved for all time on a sterile message machine struck her as strangely apropos.

Wondering why neither Daniel nor Jennifer had answered the phone, she opened the bedroom door and padded out into the hall. "Daniel? Jennifer? Hello?" There was no reply.

Worried, Sassy moved cautiously into the kitchen. The backdoor stood ajar; Daniel's crumpled body lay just outside. Rushing to his side, she carefully turned him over, noting a bloody gash over his left temple.

Danny's handsome face was battered, his left trouser leg saturated with his own blood. The knuckles of both his hands were scrapped and bruised. Clearly, he'd put up quite a fight.

Checking his pulse, Sassy was relieved to find it steady and strong. Grabbing a thick dishtowel from the kitchen she used her belt to tie a makeshift dressing around his leg wound. Then, rushing to the phone, she called 911.

Once help was on the way, the feisty Mrs. O'Connor scoped up a heavy frying pan and hurriedly searched the rest of the house. Jennifer Hailey was nowhere to be found.

Sirens pierced the ebony twilight. Daniel winced, his blue eyes opened partially. "Sassy..."

"Rest easy laddie, the police and ambulance are on the way." Sassy lovingly dabbed at the blood from Danny's head wound.

"Call Sam... the bastard took her... they took Hailey." Daniel struggled to raise his head.

"Who took her Danny?" Sassy asked her voice filled with dread.

"He's a mole... a traitor... SGC..." Vertigo assailed his consciousness. "Said... he'd kill her if... trade Jon for her life." Losing the battle, Daniel fainted.

On to Chapter Nine