By Biltong

"And a member of the congregation asked. "Since we are forbidden to dance, and drink, and do anything contrary to the Lords wishes, then what are we allowed to do?"

"You can enjoy nature," the priest replied. "Lie in the sun, cuddle your betrothed and rejoice."

"But that might lead to sex," another member of the congregation said sarcastically.

"Sex is allowed," the priest said valiantly. "As long as it is with your betrothed and no other."

'Huh," the other member exclaimed, wanting to see just how far he could push the priest. "And if I and my wife wish to do it standing up? Say pressed up against a tree?"

"God no," the priest exclaimed. "That is not allowed at all."

"And why would that be," the man asked. "You told me that we are allowed sex."

"Sex yes," the priest said desperately. "But not standing up. You move when you have sex standing up."

"So?" the parishioner exclaimed, confused. "Why is that wrong?"

"Because that might lead to dancing, which, as I have told you, is forbidden."

Doctor Daniel Jackson leaned back in his chair and waited for the reaction from his friends, which as expected, was muted.

"God Daniel," Sam groaned, sinking further into her chair. "That was terrible."

"Doctor Jackson has never been able to carry a joke to its successful conclusion," Teal'c muttered, almost to himself, as he stared, mesmerized, at the flames Jack O'Neill had just stoked up in the fireplace.

"No, he can't" Jack said, sitting down in his own chair with a thump. "Hell, he can’t carry anything, but we loves him anyways."

"I'm glad someone does," Daniel said, eying his teammates morosely. They were all sat in various chairs in Jack’s living room, close to a massive fire he had lit in the fireplace. It was warm and cozy and Daniel was sure the axe was just about to fall. Jack was showing all the signs.

"Not that its gonna stop me-* from chucking you out into that big bad storm," Jack said, proving Daniel right.

"But," Daniel said, hoping to get a quick plea in, but Jack was having none of it.

"Ah-ah," he said, his dark brown eyes dancing in the firelight. "No arguing."

"But…" Daniel tried again. It was wet and cold outside and he really didn’t want to leave.

"No Daniel," Jack said gently. "I need sleep, without interruptions." He drew in a breath, hardening his heart against the crestfallen archaeologist. "Danny, pizza I can do, coffee I can do, but a bed for one more night? That I am not willing to do. Not with a mission tomorrow."

"But it's raining outside," Daniel whined, stating the obvious, trying to play on Jack's emotions.

"It's been raining for near three days, Daniel," Jack said patiently. "And I have let you stay - for three days. But now I really need some time alone."

"Then time alone you shall have," Carter said, reluctantly rising to her feet. "Besides, like the Colonel says, we have a mission tomorrow."

"That we do, " Jack said, sounding as Irish as his surname. "At the crack of dawn."

"Which leaves only tonight to ravish any ladies you may have waiting in the wings," Daniel said, reluctantly uncoiling and getting to his feet. "I understand."

"Thanks Danny,’ Jack said quietly.

"Okay Jack," Daniel replied, and all of a sudden, it was.

He really didn't like the prospect of leaving the warmth of Jack's house for the cold sterility of his apartment, but he had to agree that they had outstayed their welcome slightly - like three days.

"Enjoy the beauties," he said, shrugging into his coat.

"No beauties to ravish," Jack said sadly. "They all got rained on and went home."

"And so shall we," Teal'c said. "Preferably without getting rained on."

"I'll take you home," Carter said when Jack raised his eyebrows enquiringly, and smiled prettily when Teal'c bowed slightly.

"Everyone get to bed early please," Jack admonished, herding them towards the door. "This idea that we have to stay up until the early hours of the morning is one of the main reasons as to why I am kicking you out now. We need to be alert on LG4 9H3, and we leave at oh-seven-hundred. Sharp," he stressed, just for Daniel’s sake.

"Yes sir," Carter said, not even blinking as the planet’s designation that not even she had remembered rolled glibly off her commanding officer’s tongue. Every now and again, he let the dumb act slip, and she knew from experience that he hated it if it was picked up on.

"Now scat," he said, making shooing motions at the door.

They scatted.

…

The phone rang just as Jack dived back into the house, making him scowl.

He really was looking forwards to a long hot soak in the bath and an early night, and if that was Daniel on the line, calling pathetically from his cell phone, he was gonna kill the runt.

"O’Neill," he snapped, waiting for the expected begging to start.

"Jack?" The voice sounded strained to breaking point.

"Joe?" Jack was most surprised.

Father Joseph O’Neill almost never phoned Jack, preferring to see his brother face to face rather than rely on something as impersonal as a telephone line with which to communicate with. They had been estranged for so long that even Jack could see the reasoning behind that. Besides, he got a kick out of showing Joe around town and the base. They were so alike in looks that they always drew amazed stares wherever they went. It was fun, but Joe had a job at a church in Chicago, and definitely wasn’t due for a visit yet.

"You okay?"

His brother didn’t answer, something that Jack instantly picked up on.

"Joe?"

"Ah, Jack, I need to see you."

"Anytime bro," Jack said, only to be answered with hissing silence.

Jack groped for a chair, his full attention now focused on his brother. He could tell that something was wrong just from Joe’s tone.

"Speak to me Bro."

"That’s hard to do." Joe’s laugh was sharp, a coughing hiccup that quickly petered out into silence, making Jack strain to hear if he could identify where his brother was calling from.

"Joe?" Jack was getting really worried now. "Where are you?"

Joe’s voice now sounded faint. "Ten…I’m almost at your place. I need…"

"What happened Joe?" Jack asked, peering through the windows into the rain. Joe was obviously calling from his cell phone.

"Stella Salanas," Joe said, coughing slightly. "I, she…"

"A woman?" Jack interrupted, feeling faint.

"Yes," Joe said miserably. "But not in the manner you think. I…she…dammit, they tried to kill me."

"Who did, Joe?" Jack asked, pulling the hallway phone cord as far as it would go, leaning out of the open window and staring down his driveway into the rain lashed darkness.

"Some Spanish speaking man," his brother laughed hollowly. "Ah well, he had a Spanish accent and I…he… He said his name is Etta. He works for Salanas and he wants me dead, I think."

Jack’s scalp prickled.

"Joe, where are you? Are you okay?" He stressed the latter question, wanting reassurances.

Again, the hollow laugh came crackling through the earpiece. "I am now, now I know that I’m close to you." He did indeed sound calmer, more rational, and Jack let out a sigh of relief, desperate to see his brother in the flesh. He and Joe had been through many a tough thing in their lives, but never had Jack heard Joe sound so spooked. He peered into the lashing rain, sheets of droplets glittering opaquely in the reflection of the driveway light he had left on, and crushed the phone tightly to his ear.

"Joe?" He didn’t mean his voice to sound like an impatient growl, but was helpless to prevent it from doing so.

His brother gave a small knowing chuckle. "I’m turning into your road as we speak."

"So you are," Jack said, noting the headlights reflecting off the road. "That’s good."

"Jack?"

Jack had just been about to replace the receiver when Joe’s voice stopped him.

"Yeah bro?"

"He stabbed me."

Jack’s blood ran cold. "I’m on my way," he snapped, and dropped the phone.

…

"It’s okay," Jack said five minutes later. "I’ve got you."

The night was bitter, and away from the cheery fire, Jack found himself shaking with cold, the rain plastering his light clothes to his body in a sodden mass, restricting movement. One look at Joe, however, and all his discomforts vanished.

His brother was covered in blood. Even his hair was matted with it, making Jack wonder how in hell Joe had made it all the way from Illinois, for craps sake.

"Jesus Joe," he cried, reaching for him. "Holy fucking God."

Joe let that one slide; he was too hurt to do otherwise.

He became aware that Jack was speaking to him, imploring him to concentrate.

"Reach out your arms," he was saying. "I need leverage in order to get you out of there."

Joe reached up a shaking hand and allowed his older brother to grab him and bodily lift him out from behind the steering wheel, as if he was a baby.

Usually he would have objected, even as a priest, he still had the stubborn O’Neill pride, but it had been a long hard drive from Chicago, and he was tired. So tired.

"Stay with me Joe." Jack’s voice was harsh, making Joe hang on to consciousness.

"He wants the eye of Sanchez," he mumbled incoherently, gasping as a wall of heat assaulted his senses as Jack carried him into the lounge and set him down on the settee.

"Stella told me…. confessional. "Shouldn’t have said… Jose Salanas wants the location."

"Shit." Jack’s far away voice sounded more amused than concerned. "How come you always seem to attract trouble?"

"Habit I guess," Joe mumbled, wincing as Jack pulled his shirt away from his skin. He would have helped, but he felt so tired.

"Hum," Jack’s voice was noncommittal.

Joe wanted to open his eyes, wanted desperately to see how badly he was hurt, but simply could not do so. The strong smell of antiseptic told him that Jack was hard at work, not that he could feel anything, which was a blessing he would gladly take, he thought drowsily.

"Bad?" he slurred.

"Yep," Jack replied. "Both you and your confessional thing." Joe felt his brother rise, his knees cracking, and he smiled.

"You ought to retire and settle down with Carter and give those knees a rest," he mumbled, moaning in appreciation as a blanket was gently tucked around him.

Jack’s voice was dry. "I’m assuming you are delirious," he said.

"Just about," Joe murmured. "How bad is it?"

Jack knew what he was talking about. He always did.

"You have a deep gash on your right hip. It’s more gory than lethal, and you have lost a lot of blood."

Joe forced his eyes open, blinking in the soft light before focusing on Jack’s face.

"So I’ll live?"

Jack nodded. "Yep. You were lucky. You have a large slab of skin sliced open, but with the right attention you’ll be fine." He sat down on the edge of the settee, his face serious. "Mind telling me what spooked you so much that you drove here all the way from Chicago?" He shook his head before Joe could answer. "Man, that must have been some drive."

"It was," Joe said softly, feeling shaky with exhaustion. "I just got so scared."

"Why?" Jack asked. "What could have scared you that badly?"

Joe wished he could tell him, he really did, but he couldn’t.

"Someone told me something during confession," he said.

"The eye of whatzit?" Jack asked.

"I shouldn’t have said anything," Joe said miserably. "In fact, I’ll say no more."

"Somebody sliced you open for something." Jack said. "Was it for the whereabouts of this eye? What is it?"

Joe shook his head, staring up at the ceiling. "Jack, you know I can’t tell you," he said. "Suffice it to say that it is something so terrible, yet something so valuable, people wish to obtain the information on its whereabouts at all costs."

"And you have that information?" Jack scowled.

Joe nodded reluctantly. "Yes. And the confessor, well, she was killed. By her husband, no less, who now wants the information from me."

"This sounds like a cheap movie." Jack moaned. "Why didn’t she tell hubby? In fact, how come she had the information and he not?"

"I don’t know," Joe said. "All I can tell you is that Jose Salanas is a nasty piece of work."

"You mentioned his name before," Jack said quietly. "Who is he?"

"Oh, just the most powerful gang lord in the greater Chicago area," Joe said, his mouth twisted.

"What?" Jack said, and then he shook his head ruefully. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Hey," Joe protested weakly. He was feeling better now that he was horizontal, but was still far from well, something that Jack knew, and was already acting on.

"I was thinking of just dressing you in some of my clothes and putting you to bed, but that wound is pretty nasty."

"Hospital?" Joe asked, already knowing the answer.

"I was thinking the infirmary," Jack mused, "but St Francis is closer."

"And more discrete," Joe said, struggling to sit upright. "Can you imagine what Daniel would say when he found out that I had been knifed?"

"Oh yeah," Jack said, slowly pulling him to his feet. "Knowing Daniel…"

"And we both know Daniel…" Joe filled in for him.

"He would never let it rest," Jack finished, and grabbed his keys from the hall table.

Ten minutes later, they were pulling into the emergency exit at St Francis Hospital.

…

Things moved fast after that, in fact, too fast for one grizzled bird Colonel, Jack thought sourly an hour later.

Using his patented O’Neill look, guaranteed to make any Airman turn to jello, he glared at the male nurse.

"I’m sorry," the man was saying, "but your brother reported that an attempt had been made on his life, and we have a set procedure for cases like that."

"We do?" Jack asked, stressing the we part.

"Yes," the nurse said, obviously Teflon coated. "It involves the Springs police department."

"Wonderful," Jack breathed, staring at the door leading into the room where Joe had been wheeled. His injury hadn’t looked that bad, but the doctor attending him had been in there with him for well over an hour now, and Jack was beginning to get really worried.

"He’ll be fine," the nurse said in a gentler voice. "Doc Masters is just worried about the amount of blood your brother has lost." He drew in a breath. "Is it true that he drove here non stop from Chicago?"

Jack nodded. "So he says," he said as the man rose. "Something happened there, something that sent him running."

"And he ran straight to you, Colonel," a deep voice said, and a tall thin African American sat in the chair opposite.

"Yes he did," Jack said calmly, watching the new man closely.

"Any idea as to why?" the man asked. Besides being tall, and built like a long distance runner, the man also possessed a pair of wise eyes set beneath a shock of grizzled gray hair - and an attitude that just screamed cop.

Jack hated being put at a disadvantage. This man, no this policeman, obviously knew far more about him than Jack liked. Jack, used to the shadows, suddenly felt exposed, and that fact annoyed him greatly.

"I might have an idea," he said slowly. "But I would prefer to give the information to someone whose name I actually know."

The man actually looked embarrassed, making Jack feel better.

"Sorry." He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a thin wallet. "Agent Marlon Murtaugh, FBI, Denver."

"Impressive," Jack said dryly. "What did Joe do that requires such illustrious attention?"

"We don’t know yet," Murtaugh said. "But when a full Colonel brings his twin into hospital, a twin that has been stabbed quite badly and is muttering about it being done on the orders of a certain Jose Salanas, it kinda sets our antennae twanging, y’know?"

"He’s not my…" Jack started to say, only to be interrupted by the doctor walking out of Joe’s room.

"How is he?" Jack asked, all thoughts of correcting Murtaugh fleeing.

The doctor looked exhausted.

"He has been admitted for observation," he said, making Jack tense. "He’ll be fine," he continued hastily, seeing Jack’s face, "but he is running a slight temperature, and is very weak. For our own piece of mind we are going to keep him here a day, and hopefully release him late tomorrow."

Jack nodded, feeling tired. He had always been the strong one, able to take all the knocks - go with the flow - so to speak, but seeing Joe’s frightened face and realizing that he had actually been attacked, had really been traumatic. Now that his care was in the doctors’ capable hands, he finally had the chance to relax.

"We’ll keep watch on him," Murtaugh said quietly.

Jack’s eyes flicked to the tall cop.

"Who is this Salanas?" he asked.

Murtaugh nodded, as if he had been expecting the question. "He’s a racketeer, a drug runner, and if reports are to be believed, a murderer."

"Joe said that he had killed his wife," Jack said. "Apparently she told him something during confession, something that got her killed."

"I don’t think it was the act of confession that killed her," Murtaugh said thoughtfully. "I believe that she hid the Eye of Sanchez from her husband, and Salanas, in his fury, killed her before she told him where it is hidden."

"What is this eye?" Jack asked wearily. It had been a long day, and was now almost midnight.

"The eye of Sanchez is a bomb," Murtaugh said, his face grim, staring around the almost deserted waiting room before refocusing his attention back on Jack. "Apparently Stella Salanas was a nuclear engineer. We think that the eye of Sanchez is a nuclear bomb, one that she was instrumental in setting up with odds and ends that her husband bought from the Russian black market."

"Odds and ends?" Jack asked incredulously. "She made a bomb with odds and ends?

"We believe so, yes," Murtaugh insisted. "What happened then is unclear, but we believe that your brother was somehow involved."

"How?" Jack snapped. "How involved?"

"Stella was very religious. I believe that your brother somehow got her to confess her sins."

"Probably, knowing Joe," Jack said ruefully.

"Yes, well, in Stella’s case that was a very bad thing to do," Murtaugh said. "What we do know is this. She moved the eye from its location in Chicago to another location that only she knew, and then phoned her husband up to tell him what she had done. This we have on tape. She was talking about God and religion and acting quite insane. Apparently, Salanas thought so too, but still managed to calm her down, luring her back to Chicago to talk about it. A day later, she was dead. Her body had been extensively tortured."

"You think that she refused to tell her husband where the eye was kept, don’t you?" Jack asked.

"We do," Murtaugh confirmed. "In fact, now that Ibarra is on the case."

"Ibarra?" Jack asked weakly, feeling like he was slowly losing the plot.

"He is an assassin."

"A Spanish person?" Jack asked, stiffening.

Murtaugh noticed his interest.

"Yes indeed," he murmured. "In fact, they call him the Spaniard."

"And he’s after Joe?" Jack asked, feeling dumb.

"We believe so," Murtaugh said, "That is why we are so interested in your brother. We nail him, we get Salanas - we hope."

"You realize that Joe can’t tell anybody a thing," Jack cautioned. "What is told during confession stays a secret."

"I know," Murtaugh said, scowling. Then his face cleared. "But there’s nothing that says that he can’t find the eye by himself, right?"

"And if the FBI are right behind him, well so be it," Jack said smiling. "It’s a good plan."

"One that can wait until morning," Murtaugh said, groaning as he got to his feet. "I need some sleep. I’m getting too old for this shit," he muttered.

"Tell me about it," Jack muttered, feeling a smidgen of sympathy for the man. "I had a mission tomorrow," he said, looking at his watch, "but I’ll have to cancel it now." His eyes met Murtaugh’s. "My brother’s life is far too important for me to be somewhere… foreign." He hoped that the FBI agent didn’t pick up on his momentary hesitation

Apparently he didn’t.

"Thanks Colonel," he said gratefully, shaking his hand. "Rest assured that we will look after your twin."

"He’s not my…" Jack said, but Murtaugh was already out of earshot, his feet echoing faintly in the empty hospital waiting room as he hurried towards the exit.

"Twin," Jack finished irritably, and headed towards the hospital reception, knowing that no matter how late it was, there would be reams of forms to fill out. There always was.

…

Half an hour or so later found Jack walking slowly towards his truck, feeling like he had just been taken to the cleaners. So what if he had no idea on Joe’s insurance details? All that tiny bitch with the button eyes need do was call the diocese of Chicago come sunrise and ask. Had she listened? Hell no. Well, eventually she had, but it had taken him at least fifteen minutes and a severe internal talk on anger management for him to get her to see the light.

On his credit card. Joe owed him - big time.

Yes, he could understand her fears that Joe might not have adequate insurance, he thought, unlocking his truck, but really, she had reacted as if Joe was admitted for open-heart surgery instead of just for observation.

"Curses on all bureaucrats," he said aloud, thumping his hand on the steering wheel before starting the truck and heading for the road.

Talking bureaucrats, the Air Force had their fair share, and some of them worked the late shift.

He groaned, staring at the dashboard clock. 00H30. Make that the very late shift, and the information that he was scrubbing a mission would not fill them with joy.

"Can’t be helped," he muttered, reaching for the car phone. "Joe is more important than whatever awaits on whatever planet."

He was completely alone on a dead straight stretch of road he had traveled on hundreds of times before. Yes, it was after midnight, and still drizzling with rain, but he had no warning of any danger until it was already upon him, sharp metal tearing into his tires and spinning him around helplessly in a spinning tinkling crashing rolling shrieking metal coffin that finally ended up in pain and darkness.

…

In the FBI headquarters in Denver, Agent Murtaugh was staring at a computer screen, feeling like death warmed up. Or maybe it was the hour of night. Despite what he had told that Colonel O’Neill, in reality he felt that there was no way he could go home, not with so many pieces missing in what was turning out to be a deadly jigsaw puzzle indeed.

As with most investigations he had been on, the more pieces they had, the murkier the picture became.

Take this Spaniard for instance. It didn’t fit. Why was an internationally hunted assassin doing on US soil, and why was he working for a petty two-bit gangster called Jose Salanas?

More importantly, what did Salanas possess that would attract the attention of such a man?

Was the Spaniard actually working for Salanas? And if so, why hire an expensive European, when most of his dealings were with South Americans.

Was it the Basque connection? Was Salanas connected to the ETA?

Something smelt. Unfortunately, he had no idea as to what it could be.

Eventually he rose with disgust and grabbed his coat. Maybe he wouldn’t be lying to the good Colonel after all. Things would indeed be better after he had had some sleep.

…

Jack's return to consciousness was bizarre to say the least.

He was cold and wet and hurt and someone close by was speaking Spanish.

Spanish?

Yep, someone was speaking Spanish, his words clipped and authoritive.

Even Jack, who spoke Spanish like a native - not that he would ever tell Daniel that - was hard pressed to understand what he was saying. At first he chalked it down to shock, he was after all pinned into the hissing wreck of what used to be his truck - the cloth interior roof a couple of inches from his nose - and then the man spoke again, and Jack realized that it wasn't shock that was confusing him at all.

No, the man, the Spaniard, he assumed, was speaking Spanish with a heavy Basque accent.

Suddenly things seemed a lot clearer, or perhaps he was dying. One of the two, he thought hazily. The Basques were ETA, that organization that wanted a separate Spanish state, weren’t they?

And Salanas’s wife had made a nuclear bomb, right?

Jack suddenly knew what had happened. The Spaniard hadn’t told Joe his name after all. He hadn’t said Etta would find him, but the ETA would find him.

Joe had the ETA after him. Holy crap.

Sss, right, Stella had made this bomb, but had gotten a serious dose of religion, compliments of Joe. She had told Joseph where the bomb was hidden, or perhaps where she had hidden the bomb, and Salanas had snapped and killed her.

Unfortunately for him, Salanas must have sold the bomb to the ETA, or perhaps not yet, or the Spaniard would have killed him, or maybe he had. It was in the early hours of the morning for Chrissakes, and the nearest newspaper…

Oh crap, they were going to use him as leverage to get Joe to talk.

"Get him out of there, quickly, before we all drown in this accursed rain."

Bobbing lights suddenly illuminated Jack.

"Boss, he's hurt."

The voice turned dry. "His vehicle, whatever it is, rolled three times, idiota. I expect him to be hurt." Jack heard footsteps squelching through the mud. "In fact, my sources informed me that the priests brother is a Coronel in their militar. He is dangerous. I am banking on him being hurt."

"Then you have been paid dividends Jefe," one of the voices said respectfully.

"Damn this bloody country," the Spaniard muttered. "Pull him out and let's go, before the accursed policia get off their fat asses and notice us."

"Si Jefe." Suddenly rough hands reached in for him, and Jack screamed.

He hadn't meant to. In fact, in his fuzzy mind he had been determined not to say a word, to calmly allow them to free him from the truck and then make a break for it.

The second one of the men grabbed his shoulder; he realized how stupid that idea actually was. After all, his truck, his Ford, had rolled three times, and as the Spaniard had expected, he was hurt.

Knowing that he had no other choice, Jack raised his voice and yelled into the night.

"Jefe," one of the men said fearfully. "His howling will send other's running."

Jack sure hoped so.

"Mierda," the Spaniard snarled, and leaned in close, so close that Jack could smell the garlicky breath of him. "Hold him."

Strong hands immediately did his bidding, grinding shattered bone into sinews and muscles, and despite himself, Jack immediately went limp, offering no resistance when the Spaniard jabbed a needle filled with morphine into his neck, thus ensuring his continued silence.

The narcotic now keeping him oblivious, Jack was unaware of being hastily pulled free from the wreck and stuffed ignominiously into the rear of a luxury car.

A man well used to making his way through life unaided, he was helpless to prevent his own abduction.

…

The next day, SG1, minus Colonel O’Neill were gathered in the briefing room, facing a serious General Hammond.

When he hadn’t arrived at 07H00 for their mission, they had been concerned. When he was still missing at 09H00, they were frantic with worry, but having been dismissed by General Hammond with instructions to stay away until he had found out what had happened, they were left hanging.

When they had finally been summoned to the briefing room, they had almost left skid marks behind them - such was their haste.

"What happened to Colonel O’Neill sir?" Carter asked taking a seat. Her stomach felt hollow. There was something about General Hammond’s posture worried her greatly.

"Colonel O’Neill never made it into the Mountain at all this morning," Hammond said grimly. "I was just about to send an Airman to his house when I received a telephone call from the FBI."

"The what?" Carter said, astonished. Being career Air Force, she had very few dealings with the FBI. Nor for that matter, she was sure, did Colonel O’Neill.

"The Federal Bureau of Investigation," Daniel said, stressing the name. "What do they want with Jack? " he asked.

"They wanted to have a word with him about his brother Joe," Hammond said, still looking stunned. "Apparently Joe is a witness in a criminal investigation."

"He is?" Daniel asked, looking stunned himself now. "Our Father Joe?"

"I believe so," Hammond said. "According to this man, Agent Murtaugh, Joe drove here from Chicago, having been injured by their suspect. Jack took him to hospital, where he is currently under heavy guard."

"Our Joe? Daniel asked again.

"Stop sounding like a parrot, Doctor Jackson," Hammond snapped. "Yes. Our Joe."

"He must have arrived just after we left Colonel O’Neill’s house last night," Carter mused, "and that was at 21H00 or so." She shifted in her seat. "Maybe Colonel O’Neill is still in bed," she said. "He was complaining of exhaustion, and if Joe arrived much later that night, maybe he’s still asleep."

"Perhaps," General Hammond said dubiously. "Although that will be a first for the Colonel, especially with his brother in hospital."

"Or perhaps the perpetrators that Father Joe kin O’Neill observed going about their nefarious activities followed him to O’Neill’s house, thus placing O’Neill himself in mortal danger," Teal’c said, making everyone look at him blankly.

"You mean the bad guys might have followed Joe to Jack’s house?" Daniel asked, feeling a headache coming on.

"Indeed," Teal’c said, his eyes dark. "O’Neill may be in trouble."

"Agent Murtaugh said as much as well," General Hammond said. "That is why he insists on the FBI investigating Colonel O’Neill’s whereabouts."

"A civilian organization?" Carter asked, surprised.

"We have no jurisdiction out there, Hammond said gently. "In fact, Agent Murtaugh was doing me a courtesy in speaking to me at all. However, Colonel O’Neill is Air Force, and I am sending you to his house to have a look around on that pretext."

"Where, who knows, we might find him still asleep," Daniel said mournfully.

"Perhaps," Teal’c said, but it was clear from his tone that he didn’t agree.

"Whatever the reason," General Hammond said, "you bring him here. I can’t have officers just doing as they …" He was interrupted by his secretary, his face somber.

"Sir," he said. "Agent Murtaugh is on the line again. He says it is vitally urgent that he speak to you immediately."

Hammond rose to his feet. "Stay," he snapped at Daniel as the young man tried to get to his feet. "I won’t be a moment."

Indeed he wasn’t, and when he returned, it was with bad news.

"Major Carter, Daniel, Teal’c," he said, leaning heavily on the back of his chair. " The FBI have found the remains of Colonel O’Neill’s truck on Chelton Road."

"The Colonel?" Carter asked, her heart in her mouth.

"Missing," General Hammond said grimly. "I want you and Teal’c to go to the scene and get as much information as you can."

"And me?" Daniel asked, his face pale.

"Get Joe," Hammond said. "Take Doctor Fraiser with you and bring him here. He is the key to all of this, and I really want to know what the hell is going on."

…

Doctor Janet Fraiser had never liked St Francis Hospital. Despite its cheerful walls and brisk efficient staff, she always found it depressing, made more so by the fact that somewhere in that rabbit warren of wards lay a kindly Catholic priest, one who had no idea that someone had abducted his brother for reasons unknown.

"Hey, wait up."

Smiling, she modulated her stride and allowed Daniel to catch her up, a puffing Agent Darren at his side.

"For such a petite person you sure have a fast walk," Darren said with a grin. "I'm glad you're not a suspect."

She and Daniel had picked up the blonde haired Agent in the foyer as soon as they had made inquiries as to the whereabouts of Joe. When they had identified themselves, he had taken on himself to personally lead them to Joe's room.

"Does he know that his brother is missing?" Janet asked, hesitating in the hallway outside Joe's room.

Darren shook his head, his young face abruptly serious.

"No maam," he said. "I had instructions from my boss, Agent Murtaugh, that I wasn't to say a word to him."

"That's good," Janet said in relief. "We have orders to take him back to Cheyenne Mountain, where General Hammond will inform him personally."

Darren's eyes narrowed, and she saw a momentary glimpse of the hard FBI man he was underneath his pleasant veneer.

"This is an FBI case," he said. "The Air Force had no jurisdiction over it."

"We know that," Daniel said calmly. "Agent Murtaugh will be there as well, and you are welcome to join us if you like."

Darren accepted with a nod. "I would like that," he said. "Joe O'Neill is my charge."

"Charge," Daniel muttered, staring at the two massive agents who blocked their path, only stepping aside when Darren flashed his credentials at them.

"Yes - charge," Darren said. "Like it or not, Father Joseph O'Neill is up to his eyeballs in deep shit. He is witness to something huge, and until this is resolved he is indeed, my charge."

"What did he witness?" Janet asked, only to have Darren shake his head.

"That isn't my information to tell," he said. "Let's get him back to your base and we'll take it from there."

...

Joe was feeling lonely. Lonely and bored and irritated that Jack wasn't answering his cell phone.

He pumped his pillows for the sixtieth time, he swore, and glared at the door. There were two large agents out there who were doing a beautiful job of making sure no one came in, and just as beautiful job of ensuring he didn't leave either.

Irritated beyond belief, he leapt off the bed and paced his private room, wincing as the stitches pulled in his hip. Apart from that, he was feeling fine again, and was livid that he was being prevented from leaving.

The door clicking open came as such a relief.

"Janet. Daniel. What the hell is happening?" he exclaimed.

"You tell me," Daniel said, pleased to see Joe so robust. He was so like Jack it was eerie. He had the same height, short gray hair, and even the same facial features, but what instantly set him apart from Jack was his utter guilelessness. Joe loved the world, and was convinced the world loved Joe.

Well, at least until recently.

"Some gangster's wife told me something during confession," Joe said, looking at Daniel with clear hazel eyes. "Now her husband wants to know what it was."

"Oh God," Janet said in a choked voice. Now Colonel O'Neill's abduction made sense. They were going to use him to force Joe to speak.

"Let's go to the SGC," Daniel said hastily, seeing Joe frown at Janet's stricken face. "Things can be sorted out that side."

"Oh, I'm okay now," Joe said innocently. "I drove through the night from Chicago. No one knows I'm here."

"Right," Agent Darren said, his tone neutral, and handed him his jacket.

...

The wreck that used to be Colonel O'Neill's car shifted, causing loose items inside the slick metal to jingle musically.

"Careful," someone said aloud, making the white-coated forensic technician grunt in irritation. He had been investigating wrecks for minute clues before most of his colleagues had been born, and knew what stresses he could, or couldn’t get away with.

"Okay," he said, extracting himself from the wreck. "I'm done."

"What have you found?" a familiar voice asked, and the technician smiled at Murtaugh, a good friend. As was usual with any of his cases, Murtaugh was totally zoned in, standing almost ankle deep in mud, oblivious to the light rain.

"This was a carefully preplanned abduction," he said, climbing up towards where Murtaugh was standing.

"In what way?" Murtaugh asked, turning to stare at a man and woman who were sitting in a distant car. She was blonde, her companion broad with a dark skin, and the technician wondered if perhaps one of them was a member of the abducted mans family. That had happened before now. The woman maybe? The technician was almost certain that the victim was a white Caucasian. The woman could very well be his wife. It would make sense.

"The victim was trapped," the technician said. That was how he and the rest of the FBI would refer to the abducted man until he was finally found. "From what I can see, he was wedged in fairly tight. Someone dragged him out."

"He was hurt?" Murtaugh asked. The question was an important one. An injured person was difficult to move, and thus, in theory, easy to find.

"Yes," the technician said. "How injured I can't tell, the rain has washed most of the evidence away, but I'm sure quite badly."

"How do you figure that?" Murtaugh asked.

"Bone fragments on the floor," the technician answered, his face tight. "From his collar bone, I think, but I'm only guessing."

"Christ," Murtaugh said, feeling his scalp contract.

"Yes", the technician said. "Whomever his abductors are, they have absolutely no compunction in squeezing a broken bone so tightly that fragments are forced straight through the skin."

...

The SGC, usually humming with people, was unusually quiet as Janet led everybody down to the twenty first floor. It had been decided beforehand that the meeting would be held in a specially set up room close to the infirmary. There were two reasons for this. She was close to the her equipment if Joe needed help, and FBI agents, trained to observe, would query things hidden from sight on the twenty eighth floor.

As expected, General Hammond was already seated; a grim mud splattered African American sat to his right, facing an equally as grim Sam and Teal’c.

"Sir, Sam ...Murray," Janet said, remembering Teal'c's cover at the last second, much to her relief. Sam offered Janet a weak smile in return.

"Hi George," Joe said, staring around the room inquisitively. "Where's Jack?"

His words thudded into awkward silence.

…

"I cannot tell what I know," Joe said a while later. A tear slid down his cheek, spilling from anguished light brown eyes. "I wish I could, but I just can’t. Not even to save Jack’s life."

The crumpled man that now sat with them was now so unlike Jack there was no comparison at all, Daniel thought, offering him a wad of tissues he always carried on his person.

Unlike Jack, who most probably would have gone hunting the kidnappers himself, the light of justice reflected in his eyes, Joe had reacted in precisely the opposite manner, folding in on himself in abject misery.

Daniel, who knew Joe better than that, could only stare at him in shock and wonder precisely what his confessor had said.

Whatever it was, the news of Jack's abduction piled on top of it seemed to be almost too much for Joe to bear.

"Can't you like, just show us?" Agent Darren asked, shifting uncomfortably. "I mean," he said hastily when Joe jerked his head up. "You don't have to say a word."

"No I can not," Joe said emphatically. "Well, I don’t think so," he amended, blinking rapidly.

"It would still be violating the laws of the church."

"Just show us where she hid the eye," Darren said persuasively. "It’s not that hard to do, surely?"

Joe ignored him, his fingers busy with a rosary he had fished out of his pocket.

"That's if the location of the eye is what Mrs. Salanas actually confessed to hiding in the first place," Murtaugh said, giving his junior officer a glare.

"The what?" General Hammond asked. Not having all the facts irritated him no end.

"I need some clarity here." It was not a request.

"Okay," Murtaugh sighed. "Let us take this right from the beginning, so we all know where we stand." His eyes met those of Hammond's. "As it is, I will be officially requesting your help through the correct channels as soon as I'm out of here."

"Thank you," General Hammond said, relieved. As the constitution stood, the Air Force was powerless to interfere unless a local law authority, or the FBI, asked them for help.

"Now," Murtaugh said, turning to Joe. "I will tell you what I know. Feel free to correct me if you are able."

"Yes sir," Joe said wearily. "When I can. I don’t need to be reminded what’s at stake."

"Two or three days ago, Mrs. Stella Salanas, a nuclear engineer at the Penrose Nuclear power station, came into St Michaels church, your church in Chicago, and confessed to a horrible sin," Murtaugh begun.

"It was Sunday lunchtime," Joe said pensively. "I remember it well."

"She said that she had made a nuclear bomb for her husband, the Chicago crime boss Jose Salanas," Darren prompted, watching Joe closely.

"I can't confirm that," Joe snapped. He was beginning to regain some of the fire of old, much to Daniel's relief.

"That's okay," Murtaugh said with a sharp nod at his subordinate. "I'm pretty convinced that we are right about that." He stared at the ceiling for a second before continuing.

"We know for a fact that Salanas was in negotiations with a faction from the Spanish ETA." He shrugged. "We, or rather I should say the Chicago office, at first believed it was all to do with running drugs into Europe, but when the ETA flew their own nuclear specialist into the country, we knew we had a far more serious problem than drugs on our hands."

"Like a working nuclear bomb," Darren said bitterly.

"The ETA," Joe said softly. "Yes, the man that hurt me said he was from them. I didn’t understand at first."

"This isn't good," Carter said, stating the obvious. "Do you think that they are going to use the bomb here?"

"We don’t think so," Murtaugh said. "From what we can deduce, it's destined for Barcelona."

"What is this ETA?" Teal'c asked, looking forbidding in his Special Forces uniform with its beige beret pulled down low over his forehead. "I have not heard of such an acronym before."

"It's a terrorist group based in Spain," Agent Darren said. "They are Basques, a section of the country that are fighting for their own independence."

"Then they believe that possession of this nuclear bomb might give them the leverage they need to achieve their aims?" Teal'c asked.

"Most definitely," Murtaugh said. "They could cause untold pain and suffering if they set it off. Hell even the threat of it exploding somewhere could force the Spanish government to capitulate."

"They are fanatical in their aims," Darren said. "If they get the eye, they may very well use it."

"Then we will need the location of this device quite urgently," Teal’c said, facing Joe.

"I still can't tell you what she confessed," Joe said miserably. "I’m a temple custodian, remember?"

General Hammond was pleased when the FBI men let that one slide.

"When they realized what a mess Salanas had made of the sale," Murtaugh said, glaring at Joe, "the ETA imported their top assassin, a man called Ibarra, or the Spaniard."

"Met him," Joe said weakly. "He hurt me."

"As he has your brother," Murtaugh said bluntly, making Joe blanche.

"What do we do now?" General Hammond asked, looking at Joe sympathetically. Kidnapping was way outside his level of expertise.

"We wait for the Spaniard to make contact," Murtaugh said calmly. "With the heavy rain having washed away most of the evidence there might have been at the scene of the crash, we are helpless to do anything else but wait."

...

"Coronel?"

Jack awoke to screaming pain, his tongue gummed to the roof of his mouth.

"Wha?"

Someone roughly grabbed his hair and a bottle of water was shoved against his teeth.

"Drink."

Jack had no choice. It was either that or drown. Blinking against the harsh light of what seemed to be a bare light bulb hanging on a piece of flex above his head, he did as ordered, soon sucking the bottle dry.

"Good." A man stood over him, blocking the light.

"Will he live?" The Spaniard was speaking to someone to his left, out of sight.

"Si jefe," someone answered. "He has a broken leg, and a badly broken right arm and collar bone, but besides that, he will live, I think." A foot prodded his arm, making him groan aloud. "At least until infection sets in where the bone has pierced the skin, here and here. When that happens, he will go fast."

"We need three days," the Spaniard said.

"Then you shall have three days," the other voice, (a doctor?) said.

"Keep him sedated," the Spaniard said. "My information tells me that this man used to be very dangerous. I do not need complications, not this close to achieving our objective."

"I have taken the liberty of placing a sedative in the water he has just drank jefe," the doctor said. "It would be cruel to allow him to die in agony."

"Good," the Spaniard said. "Stand back."

Jack was vaguely aware of a click and a flash and then the darkness swallowed him again.

...

Joe was living a nightmare. He was sure of it.

Crouched miserably in a pew in the small chapel he shared with NORAD's protestant priest, he sobbed, almost inconsolable with worry. No words of comfort could mollify him, because as he was leaving the briefing room, he had overheard that tall FBI man talking to General Hammond.

"You don't know if their information is correct," his fellow priest said, a likable fellow called Frederick Harrison.

"He said there was over a liter of blood in the truck," Joe said tiredly. "No, I have to accept it, Freddie. My brother may very well be dead."

...

"Colonel O'Neill will still be alive."

With Joe gone, the briefing room took on a more purposeful air.

Agent Murtaugh nodded at Daniel Jackson, noting the fact that the fit young man held his gaze unflinchingly. General Hammond had introduced him as a Doctor, but Murtaugh had no doubts that the young man was Special Forces. He had a kind of lethal casualness that he felt they would need on this case. Hell they all did, the blonde bunny too. And they were Colonel O'Neill's team? He thought back to their brief talk in the hospital waiting room, remembering the steel beneath O’Neill’s pleasant veneer, and nodded to himself. Yes, if his team was anything like O'Neill himself, then the FBI had good help available.

"I agree," he said. "The Spaniard wishes Father Joe's cooperation. Colonel O'Neill will be kept alive for a while. At least until he gets what he wants."

"After that, his life won’t be worth a bent nickel," Darren said, grimacing at the desk.

"Now what?" General Hammond asked Murtaugh. "What can the Air Force do for you?

"Nothing yet," Murtaugh said sympathetically. "Not until the Spaniard makes contact."

"How will he do that?" Carter asked bitterly. "Joe is here."

"The Spaniard knows that Father Joe is under heavy guard, so will find some other way of making contact," Darren insisted. "This creep isn’t stupid."

"Can't we take him back to the Colonel's house?" Carter asked.

"That's not a good idea," Murtaugh said immediately. "The Spaniard isn't above taking you all out, just to get at Joe. And once he has him, Colonel O'Neill is as good as dead."

"No one will take Joe O'Neill," Teal'c said, his face ferocious. "I guarantee that fact."

"Are you willing to bet your Colonel's life on that?" Darren said, earning himself three silent glares.

"Father Joe stays here," General Hammond said, his tone making it an order.

"Doctor Jackson, Major Carter, you will move into Colonel O'Neill's house. Contact his insurance about the loss of his truck, if you are able, and then lie low. Teal'c you are at Agent Murtaugh's disposal. Act as liaison between the FBI and the Air Force."

Teal'c inclined his head, aware that General Hammond was entrusting him with a great responsibility. "I will be at Agent Murtaugh's beck and call," he said gravely, stretching his English.

"Does Father Joe have a cell phone?" Agent Darren asked.

"Yes," Carter said. "A fancy one that the Colonel gave him last Christmas. She reached into her pocket. "I took it off him when he wasn’t looking." She shrugged. "Just in case the abductor called."

"Good," Murtaugh said, reaching for it even as Agent Darren unfolded a plastic evidence bag.

"So at this moment he has no contact with anyone outside this base?" Darren asked, placing the cell phone inside and sealing it.

"No one apart from the one true God," Teal'c said. "He is off base."

"Quite," Darren said slightly rattled. "Besides Him, the good father is isolated?"

"Yes, Hammond said. "And he shall remain that way until I say so."

"Thank you," Darren said.

"We believe, because of this fact, the Spaniard will be forced to contact the house," Murtaugh warned Daniel and Sam. "Yours will be the most dangerous assignment of all."

They both nodded at him, faces confident.

"We have been in worse positions than being stalked by an international terrorist," Daniel said. "Believe me."

The strange thing was, nobody smiled.

...

The letter came in the next days post. A plain brown envelope on which the address was written in a childish scrawl. Inside was one of the most hideous photos Sam and Daniel had ever seen.

...

"God, look at him," Sam Carter said half an hour later, her face still looking stricken. "He looks dead."

Once more, they were all congregated in the converted briefing room on the twenty first floor, and, like Daniel, she was still shaking.

Surprisingly enough, Agents Murtaugh and Darren were taking the picture of O'Neill lying in a pool of his own blood a lot more calmly than they were. Perhaps because they weren't so personally involved, she thought. Or perhaps because they had seen this, and worse, before.

"At least he has given us something to work from," Darren said holding the photo gingerly. "That’s nice of him."

"How so?" General Hammond asked, intrigued.

"The angle of the light, the composition of the wall seen behind his body, the very photograph itself give us clues," Darren said patiently. "Like, did someone buy this particular film spool from a local agent? Can we find the agent?"

"And can you do it in time?" Joe asked, looking wretched, standing in the doorway.

"Joe," Hammond said. "Come in and sit down before you fall down."

Eyes firmly fixed on the photograph; Joe circled the desk, his hands fumbling for a chair.

He had obviously not spent the night sleeping, and now, faced with the brutal evidence of what Jack was going through, he looked grayer then ever.

"Can you find Jack now?" he asked in a small voice, needing reassurance.

"We can certainly try," Darren said, hastily scooping the photo back into its envelope, and the whole thing into an evidence bag.

"Trying isn’t good enough," Joe mumbled. "I have to go there."

Joe's voice was so soft that only Teal'c with his acute hearing heard him.

"What was that?" he asked, making the others look up in confusion.

"I need to go." Joe's voice was stronger. "There is something I need to..." His voice broke and he blinked down mistily at the table, struggling to keep his emotions in check.

"Are you sure Joe?"

Daniel, who knew Joe almost as well as he knew Jack, had a good idea as to what Joe was intending to do.

"I asked the Good Lord for advice," Joe whispered. "I got advice." He looked up and instead of the expected misery in his eyes; they were amazed to see steely determination.

"I have something I must do," he said, his voice now hard. "I don’t want to do it, but I have to, for my brother’s sake." He turned to General Hammond.

"All I ask from you is a car… and a gun."

"The staff cars are at your disposal," General Hammond said. "Just give me twenty minutes to sort through the paperwork."

"The gun?" Joe asked, now an eerie shadow of Jack.

"Will be inside the car," Hammond said. "Just give us twenty minutes to get everything organized. That’s all I ask."

"Thank you," Joe said grimly. "I will spend that time in the chapel."

"You do that son," Hammond said kindly. "Oh, and by the way, you won't be followed."

"I won't?" Joe asked, looking astonished, but not as astonished as the other people in the briefing room.

"You will see no tail in your rear view mirror," Hammond said firmly holding his hand up as Murtaugh opened his mouth to object. "We cannot have you destroy your vows, no matter what the consequences."

"Thank you," Joe whispered, sagging in relief.

"Now, go and pray for Jack," Hammond said, "and I'll call you when we have a car ready."

...

"You cannot be serious," Murtaugh yelled as soon as Joe was gone. "There is no way that I will allow Father Joseph out there on his own. He is guaranteed to be picked up on and followed."

"That's what I'm hoping for," Hammond said.

Murtaugh's eyes instantly narrowed. "What are you up to?" he asked. "You have something planned, don’t you?"

"I’m an Air Force General," Hammond snapped, losing patience. "Of course I do."

He fixed his eyes on Daniel. "Get me Sergeant Siler," he ordered. "And make it snappy."

...

Joseph O’Neill had never been so upset before in his life. Even his prayers, usually a soothing balm on his emotions, didn’t seem to be helping anymore.

Maybe it was because of what he intended to do. In fact, he was sure of it. He was planning cold blooded murder, and the good Lord didn’t like such plans.

No shit. Thou shalt not kill came immediately to mind. Unfortunately, he could see no other alternative. Not this time.

Gripping the steering wheel tightly, he carefully navigated his way back along the road he had fled down one day and a lifetime ago.

God, how could he have been so stupid? In a way, it was because Jack had always been the stronger sibling. Joe had been leaning on him all his life, and assumed he always would.

"That’s assuming he’s still alive," Joe said aloud, feeling the rush of hot tears burn his eyes.

He was still alive, he insisted. He had to be. No, he was. He would somehow feel it if Jack died. He knew he would.

The weather was getting lighter the further east he drove, the incessant rain having stopped and the clouds separating to allow a watery sun to peer through, and every motorist Joe could see sported a happy smile, as if released from purgatory.

Joe wished that he could feel the same, and bask in the first sunbeams in a week, but he could not. He was driving towards his death. Of that, he was certain.

He thought back to Stella, remembering what she looked like with a sad smile on his face.

She had been larger than life, with a booming smile. He always thought it strange that she had married Jose Salanas, full of secrets, but then again, she had told him that she worked in the 7-11, so there you go.

It had been such a shock when she had confessed to being a nuclear scientist. So much so that he had laughed at first, the idea of this big busted cashier being a brain of note leaving him weak with mirth, leaning against the tiny confessional wall and waiting for the other shoe to drop. When it hadn’t, he had sobered up fast.

She was a nuclear engineer, she told him, and when she wasn’t busy with her own work she had been working on a bomb for Jose.

What kind of bomb, he had asked, and she had told him. So much yield, so many kiloton’s. One kiloton was equal to a thousand tons of TNT, she had told him proudly. Her bomb was a twenty kiloton one and it was hidden in Cedar Rapids in Iowa.

And then, before his shocked brain could unfreeze, she had broken down, crying piteously about how Jose had procured enriched plutonium and forced her to complete her life’s work, as if she hadn’t known what Salanas had intended to do.

She had been almost inconsolable, and Joe had realized with an eerie thrill that Stella was no longer sane.

He had spoken to her then, carefully picking his way through her nightmare of scattered emotions, taking time to sooth her psyche whilst asking her what they intended doing with the bomb.

Nothing, he had found out eventually. She had moved it, to where Jose would never find it, but somehow he had discovered her plan and now he wanted the location.

Shocked, yet pleased that the tattered remnants of the good person Stella used to be had hidden the bomb from her husband, Joe had spoken to her, telling her about compassion and forgiveness and how every soul in the world deserved a place in heaven, including hers. Finally, she had cried, clean tears now, not the harsh tears of guilt, making Joe feel that he was winning, pulling her back from the abyss.

Then, with a last hiccupped whisper, she was gone, never to be seen again courtesy of that bloody Spaniard.

"Damn you," Joe whispered, staring out at the road ahead, trying not to speed.

The Spaniard had killed her, and now he had Jack.

Joe wasn’t stupid. If the Spaniard had followed him all the way from Chicago to Colorado Springs, then he had an extensive network at his disposal, one that would already know that Joe was moving.

Joe was counting on it. Despite himself, his eyes wandered to the gun wedged between the seats, and his face hardened into one of resolve.

"Damned if I do and damned if I don’t," he muttered, and pressed down angrily on the accelerator.

…

Far above Joe’s head in a place were very few people have ever been, something unusual was happening. A strange box like object was slowly moving, unfolding delicate wings and turning its eyes to another part of the planet, a State in America called Iowa.

…

"He’s somewhere here sirs," a small lieutenant who went by the name of Kennedy said, pointing at the screen with one short lacquered finger.

"We’re picking up on Sergeant Siler’s UHF transponder, and we’re backtracking." She tapped quickly on her keyboard and the Argos 5 satellite above their heads moved another couple of millimeters, bringing the countryside into sharp relief.

"Christ," Agent Murtaugh muttered, staring at the screen with his mouth open. "I can almost count blades of grass."

"If you like," Lieutenant Kennedy said, her hands poised over the keyboard.

"That wont be necessary thank you," General Hammond said indulgently, well pleased in the way things had turned out.

The Argos satellite was the latest in a network of satellites ringing the globe owned by the air force. Ostensibly there for better communications, which they did admirably, one of them could easily be taken out of position and used for other purposes, like when someone was looking for a missing nuclear bomb.

General Hammond rocked on his heels and thought back to how accommodating his boss at the Pentagon, General Vindrine had been.

The world worked on favors, he thought. And after this one, the FBI would owe the Air Force a favor. The mere fact that they were also looking for Colonel O’Neill would be immaterial in the scheme of things, he was sure.

Well, maybe to the Pentagon, but not to him.

"Get a medical team saddled up and moving to Cedar Rapids within the hour," he said to Doctor Fraiser, who had also accompanied them into NORAD’s operations room.

"We’re ready to go now sir," she said, making him smile.

"Of course you are," he said. "I should have expected no less."

"Permission for SG1 and 3 to accompany them?" Major Carter asked.

"And me," Agent Darren said, mystified by her codes. "This is after all, an illegal operation without an FBI presence."

"Law school," Murtaugh shrugged when General Hammond looked at him.

"Permission granted," he sighed.

They immediately started heading for the door, only for him to stop them with a raised hand.

"Keep in contact with Lieutenant Kennedy," he said, "and remember people, no truce has yet been declared on terrorism." He looked at them ferociously. "That means if they want to fight, you take the fight to them."

"Yes sir," Major Carter said, her voice cold. "Understood."

…

Unaware of the transponder under the hood and the satellite watching his every move, Joe O’Neill carefully made his way into Cedar Rapids. The traffic had increased as the day turned into evening, causing the inevitable snarls known the world over. Luckily for him, he was going the other way, heading into town as others were leaving, but still, the delays were tiresome. It didn’t help that he thought of Jack every moment that he sat doing nothing, wondering if he was still alive and hoping, no, praying that he was doing the right thing.

He was being tailed, that he knew without a doubt. In fact, they didn’t even bother to hide the fact at all, a blue Buick sticking to his tail like glue for the past twenty miles or so.

Eventually he made it into Cedar Rapids itself, and, heart in mouth, he made his way towards what his hastily bought road map said was Jones Park.

To his relief, the park was empty of people, as was the parking lot, allowing him to park where he liked.

He switched off the engine with a sigh and waited, but not before stuffing the gun in the small of his back, just like he had seen Jack do, countless times before.

…

"What is he doing?" Lieutenant Kennedy asked. She sharpened the picture to such a degree that Murtaugh could almost read the vehicles license plate, had he any inclination to do so, and stared at the shadowy man inside.

"He’s trying to negotiate," he said, amazed at the priests pluckiness. "The location of the bomb for the location of his brother."

"Will it work?" she asked.

"It might," Murtaugh said dubiously, "although I doubt it."

…

The Lexus coasted to a silent halt, its occupants staring at the distant sedan with various expressions of caution.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" one of the occupants asked. "Christmas?"

The Spaniard stared at the sweaty face of Jose Salanas and curled his lip, not bothering to hide his disgust. He had been in this country for far too long, not a good thing for a wanted man, and Salanas was beginning to think that he owned him.

That would not do.

"This is your last chance, little man," he said dispassionately. "If this sacerdote does not give us the location of the eye, you will no more survive this than he does."

"But I’m paying you well for this," Salanas said, his face gray. "Where is your honor?"

"There is honor amongst thieves, yes," the Spaniard said, opening the door and getting out. "Unfortunately for you, I am not a thief."

He stretched, uncaring that the priest may see and recognize him and pulled out his cell phone.

"Baz?"

"Si jefe?" the man in the blue car asked, a loyal ETA man through and through, unlike the bumbling fool and his driver behind him.

"Approach the priest, the sacerdote, and ask him to join us. Tell him I have his brother."

…

Nerves stretched to breaking point, Joe watched as the occupant from the Buick got out and approached him.

"Senor? Padre," he corrected himself as Joe exited his car. "The jefe, he…" The man pointed mutely at a distant luxury car Joe hadn’t noticed at all, his English deserting him.

"My brother?" Joe asked. "My brother?"

All he succeeded to do was confuse the man, so Joe took a deep breath and headed towards the other car, wishing like hell that he had never heard of Stella Salanas.

…

"Jones Park," Lieutenant Kennedy was saying urgently into a microphone, speaking to the distant helicopter. "Grid references coming through now." Her hands flew over the keys.

"Roger that," the distant pilot confirmed, and Murtaugh realized with a thrill that it was Major Carter. "ETA ten minutes."

"Softly, softly Major," General Hammond ordered, taking the mike from Kennedy.

"Confirmed," the distant voice said grimly.

…

"Where is my brother?" Joe demanded as soon as he was in earshot.

"Where is the eye?" Salanas screamed, erupting from the car like a rocket. "You interfering religious bastard." He lunged at Joe, only to be stagger to a halt, a sharp clap sounding in the evening air.

"Adios punzar," the Spaniard said, watching as Salinas slowly crumpled to the ground, his expression of faint puzzlement slowly freezing into a mask of death. He should have done that an hour ago.

"Ah-ah," he said pointing his gun as Joe made to kneel. "Last rights are unnecessary where he is going."

"Perhaps you’re right," Joe said, watching the Spaniard closely. "All I want is my brother."

"All I want is the eye," the Spaniard said, mimicking Joe.

"That may be, but I give you no information until I see Jack," Joe said, heart in his mouth. It was crunch time - so many things could go wrong. Jack could be dead, or in another part of the country entirely.

"He’s in the trunk."

"Huh?" Joe asked.

"He is luggage," the Spaniard said, sounding amused. "We have him in the trunk." He turned to the same swarthy man that had spoke to him earlier and rattled off something incomprehensible.

The man immediately went to the rear of the car and pulled something out, dropping it to the ground with a meaty thud. It took Joe a couple of seconds to realize that it was indeed the body of his brother.

"Jack," he screamed, horrified beyond belief. His brother was covered in dried blood and looked dead. "What have you done?" he moaned. "What have you done?"

"Helped my country," the Spaniard said, his voice cold. "Now it is your turn." He pointed his gun down at Jack. "Speak, or he dies."

"I don't know where the eye is," Joe snarled, staring straight at the Spaniard and praying that the man would believe him. "Stella Salanas never told me."

He lifted his chin, defiance in his posture and death in his soul. The Spaniard didn't deserve to live. He knew this now. He knew this the second he had seen what he had done to Jack.

God. Jack. He was still breathless with horror.

One look at his brother and Joe finally understood Jack's reasoning that some people were quite simply beyond redemption. The Spaniard was one of them, a creature spawned straight from hell - Joe knew this now, and given just one iota of a chance, Joe was determined to pull free the gun hidden in the small of his back and use it.

The Spaniard was speaking, his English heavy and accented and difficult to understand, like it had been in Chicago.

"Think carefully now," he admonished. "Your brother's life is at stake here."

"She did not tell me," Joe said through his teeth.

The Spaniard's eyes narrowed, deep in thought. Could the priest be telling the truth? Did that miserable prostitute of a woman keep her secret until her grave?

He couldn't take that chance.

"Baz," he snapped. "Drag his twin here." He pointed his gun at an area perfectly between him and the priest.

Joe had never learnt Spanish, and consequently had no idea what had been said, and almost yelled when the driver leaned over Jack, but he was only grabbing him by his boots.

Feeling giddy with relief, he watched as Jack was dragged into the evening sunlight, exposing his horrible wounds clearly for the first time, making Joe moan in distress all over again. There was bone sticking through the tattered flesh of his shoulder, and the sight of it made Joe shudder, his stomach heaving. Thankfully, Jack appeared deeply unconscious.

He refused to think that he was dead.

...

"Oh. My. God.

General Hammond knew precisely how Lieutenant Kennedy felt.

Seeing something being pulled from the trunk of the car she had tried to focus the satellite camera on it, but the dark evening shadows made identification impossible.

That had all changed when one of the Spaniards had dragged the form into the sunshine.

"Is that Colonel O'Neill?" Murtaugh asked, knowing that it was, but needing official confirmation.

"Or what's left of him," General Hammond said darkly, stepping back smartly as Kennedy made a lunge for the bathroom. He couldn't really blame her; a bloody mangled body was a far cry from what NORAD usually focused on.

"I see," Murtaugh said, drumming his fingers on the edge of the desk.

"This being taped?" he said after a while, wondering just what the Spaniard and Joseph O'Neill had to speak about, over the body of his brother.

"Yes," General Hammond said, nodding as a shaky Lieutenant Kennedy reclaimed her seat and attacked her keyboard again. "Yes it is being taped," he reiterated, a ferocious look creeping into his face. "And will make a perfect training video for us on just how to take a terrorist down."

He pointed a blunt finger at the screen. Lieutenant Kennedy had pulled the camera back from Colonel O'Neill's still figure and a large swathe of the park could now be seen, the ground turning dark orange as the sun began to set in earnest.

"Look."

Murtaugh smiled, his smile now just as ferocious as General Hammond’s was, because there, at the edge of the picture, behind a small building of some sort, sat an Air Force helicopter.

...

SG3 were in charge, Major Reynolds and his men skillfully leaping from the helicopter even as Carter made to land, she sliding gingerly in behind the public toilets, noise bafflers on. Teal'c was right behind SG3, his face like stone, leaving just her, Daniel, Janet and what looked like a complete medical hospital set up in the helicopter’s wide belly.

Sam just hoped that the Colonel was still alive to make use of it.

…

Covered in head to toe camouflage, the marines of SG3 carefully made their way into the park, pleased to see that the place was deserted. Their instructions were simple; protect the Colonel and Father O’Neill at all costs. If that meant taking out some 'es-spaniel' terrorists at the same time, well, so be it.

"Jack!" Joe’s scream echoed around the park, making the marines look at each other grimly, recognizing a cry of despair when they heard one.

Sparing not a glance for the soft FBI type crouched somewhere behind him who insisted on leading this mission, the team leader spoke into his radio.

"SG3-niner to SG3-1. Choose your targets well and fire at will."

…

Baz spotted them first. Used to the hills of Catalunya, he was a hard man used to hard people, like the Spanish militar, who were always trying to sneak up on them unawares.

They had never succeeded, thanks to him, and these soft Norte Americanos were not going to succeed either.

"Jefe," he hissed. "Jefe. Afligir."

"Trouble indeed," the Spaniard hissed back, beside himself with fury.

Whoever they were, they were good. They hid in the park - the Spaniard estimated at least four soldiers, maybe more - close enough to successfully defend themselves if necessary and too far away for the Spaniard to do any real damage, especially with a hand gun.

"Jefe?" Baz whispered.

"Coraje," the Spaniard hissed, still facing the priest. Courage was necessary now. Fear would indeed kill.

"Go to Juan," he hissed, referring to the Lexus driver. "I will be joining you shortly."

He watched as Baz managed to get into the Lexus uncontested, and grunted. So, they wanted him, and only him. Interesting.

The Spaniard gave a feral smile and took a swift step forwards, reaching for the priest. They had one thing in their favor. The approaching military had no idea that they had been made.

Holding that fact close, he hauled the man off of his feet and into the car before the man could even yelp in surprise, piling in after with a shout.

"Go-go-go!"

Juan went, the car bucking like a startled deer, rocking the Spaniard and his precious cargo unmercifully. Ibarra was beyond caring. His people had lost their chance, thanks to this priest. Nevertheless, with luck, he himself would live to fight another day.

With luck.

…

Joe had literally no warning. One moment he was facing the Spaniard, Jack between them, the next he was sent flying into the Lexus, landing with such a thud that he almost lost consciousness. Blinking hard, he crouched and tried to get his bearings, only to freeze at a very distinctive click.

"What the hell?" he breathed as the car rocked from side to side, the engine roaring.

"I don't intend for your people to capture me and my men," the Spaniard said coolly, pressing the barrel of his gun against Joe's temple. "You are my insurance."

"Head for the exit," he snapped at Juan, pleased to see that Baz was in the passenger seat, cradling a shotgun. "They will not shoot as long as we hold the padre."

The driver, a soft man hired by Salanas nodded jerkily. "Si Senor." He had seen his boss shot dead by the Spaniard and wasn't going to argue - hell no. Crunching the car into gear, he spun the tires as he trod hard on the accelerator, fishtailing the Lexus wildly as he headed towards the only exit, uncaring of the slight bump he felt as he did so.

It was probably the Coronel, but it didn’t matter, as he was surely dead by now anyway.

...

The Coronel was far from dead, although he was beginning to wish it were so, just to stop the agony. Stuffed in the trunk of the Lexus for most of the day, he had begun to awaken as the sedatives had slowly worn off, his body returning to screaming pain, telling him in no uncertain terms that it had been abused beyond what it had been designed for.

He was still very groggy, which was a blessing in disguise, because when the Lexus went over his foot he hardly felt it.

...

The reactions from the people in Cheyenne Mountain most certainly made up for any lack of emotion on Jack's part.

"Bastards."

General Hammond's expression was vicious, his lips pulled back from his teeth in a snarl. Jack was not only his second in command, but also his friend, and the abuse he was going through truly sickened Hammond.

"We can add attempted murder to the list," Murtaugh said thoughtfully, making most of the personnel in the room stare at him in disbelief.

"Why bother?" Major Kennedy asked, her neat ponytail now looking quite disheveled. "One well aimed missile..."

"And we have one dead priest," Murtaugh said icily, "along with a couple of Spaniards and a hole in the road that the good citizens of Cedar Rapids would most likely sue the FBI about."

"Yes sir," she said, crushed.

"We have no choice now," General Hammond said. "Or rather, I should say, again." He looked at her kindly, sympathizing with her frustration. "We cannot injure innocent civilians, and Father Joe is definitely an innocent civilian."

"Well, at least we can help Colonel O'Neill now," she sighed, refocusing the now almost useless camera through into the dusky park.

"That we can," General Hammond said, squeezing her shoulder comfortingly.

...

"Colonel."

Fraiser was speaking to him, her voice urgent, her fingers warm against his throat. "Hang in there. You’re gonna be all right…"

""Cc..."

He reached up blindly with his good arm, trying to ward off the shadows that seem to flit around him.

"Can you hear me? Jack?"

"Ffrr..."

"Good." Her voice was rich with relief. "We're taking you home, Colonel."

There was so much he wanted to ask, the questions circling round and around in his brain like disturbed doves, but he was feeling so warm after being so cold for so long, and sighed in relief as the pain faded, one last sane part of him realizing that Doc Fraiser must have given him an injection of some sort, and welcoming it for the first time in his life.

…

The voice crackled through the speaker, making them all jump.

"SG1 to base. SG3 are still on the ground but we are en-route to Academy Hospital. The Colonel is alive. Repeat, the Colonel is alive. Have security meet us there."

"Affirmative," Lie Kennedy said, smiling widely.

"Security?" Agent Murtaugh asked General Hammond suspiciously. "What are you guarding?"

"Just a good officer," General Hammond said evasively. Actually, the security had nothing to do with what happened, but rather with where Jack worked, hence him not being taken to a hospital in Cedar Rapids or anywhere else en-route. The SGC could not afford to have any loose tongues, and an unconscious and perhaps delirious Colonel O’Neill would definitely be a security risk.

"Don't worry," he said, patting the tall Agent expansively. "The FBI is allowed to see him, I promise."

"He has to survive first," Murtaugh said, staring bitterly at the dark screen. "We need at least one brother alive to make a watertight case."

He was unaware of the suddenly icy quiet room behind him.

...

Major Reynolds was pissed off.

No, make that absolutely livid, and he couldn't see anything on the horizon that would change this mood of his anytime soon, more was the pity.

How in the hell had they been made?"

He stared at the lights of the departing car with a sick feeling in his gut, wondering if he would ever see Father Joe alive again.

...

Unbeknownst to everyone, Teal'c had decided not to sneak up of the car with the rest of SG3. The tactic seemed unsound, and the Chulakian, unused to earth based terror groups, simply equated them with the Goa'uld.

What would Apothis do had he been in a similar situation?

Teal’cs' quick dark eyes scanned the ground, the trees, and the dirt. Then he turned his attention to the distant car.

Apothis, in a similar situation, would have Jaffa watching the surrounding area, alert for the merest shadow.

Teal'c was not willing to take the risk that this earth creature might do the same.

Ignoring SG3's radio chatter and strange method of moving in on their target, he carefully made his way towards the parking lots only exit and crouched down to wait, discarding the M14 that someone insisted he have, and pulling a zat free from his pocket.

It was alien based and was dangerous outside the confines of Cheyenne Mountain. However, he too was alien based, and dangerous outside the Mountain. He looked at the zat in his hand and allowed a smile to cross his face.

O'Neill would approve.

...

O'Neill would indeed have approved, had he been conscious, but he was not. Instead he was far above the ground and tearing his way back to Colorado, Janet and Daniel by his side and Sam at the controls.

They weren't worried about Teal'c. They knew he was with SG3.

...

The members of SG3 weren't even thinking about Teal'c, and if they had been, they would never have expected him to suddenly rise as if from nowhere, standing square in the center of the exit, and staring unflinchingly at the approaching Lexus, the tattoo of Apothis totally exposed and glinting for all to see.

…

"What in heavens name?"

Juan slammed his foot down on the brake pedal before common sense kicked in. If they stopped, they were dead. All of them, and Mamma Agilera’s youngest son had no intentions of that happening. Hell no.

He didn’t need the hysterical screaming from the rear seat to tell him what to do - he was already doing it. Tromping his foot down hard on the accelerator again, he aimed the Lexus right for the man, only to have the most extraordinary thing happen.

First there was a high pitched zinging whining noise, clearly audible, even in the car.

Then there was this snake of what looked like colored electricity that literally encircled the Lexus, acting slightly like the case of St Vitas dance he and his fellow crewmembers had experienced so many years ago before the damn Norte-Americanos became so good at detecting their ships.

And then, to his horror, the engine simply died.

"What the fuck?" he screamed, grinding the ignition hysterically. "Baz," he screamed. "Kill him."

Baz was trying, but the shotgun was unwieldy to use in the tight confines of the passenger seat and with a sick certainty, he knew that he no longer had the time. Baring his teeth, he managed to raise the shotgun to face his open window just as the black devil reached inside, grabbing his throat with one hand.

Eyes bulging, Baz could not comprehend the sheer strength of the man. He was still wondering about it when his neck snapped with a dry crack.

The driver was far luckier.

"Fuck meee!," Juan screamed, and clawed his way out of the car.

Screaming like a banshee, and certain he was going insane, he stumbled into the park, straight into SG3.

Things had happened so fast that the Spaniard was still trying to comprehend what he had seen. The tall black man with the strange tattoo seemed have used the earth’s own electricity to prevent their escape, and for a moment he felt a sense of almost superstitious awe, before reality once more intruded.

He was looking at a man, one that could be easily killed.

Ignoring the screaming driver, he used the butt of his gun to club the priest, making the man go limp.

With that distraction out of the way, he quickly exited of the Lexus and faced the new threat.

"Get out of my way," he yelled, pointing his gun squarely at the giant’s chest. He took a step forwards and fumbled blindly for the open driver’s door. Escaping was becoming a pressing concern, not something to be taken lightly.

"I have no intention of moving from this spot, human," the giant said, making his blood freeze for some unaccountable reason.

"Then you die," the Spaniard hissed, and pulled the trigger.

"I think not," Teal’c the Jaffa said, and, moving far quicker than a mere human he took a swift step sideways, the zat rock steady in his hand.

"You, on the other hand, will."

…

General Hammond had been in the act of leaning over the screen, thanking Lieutenant Kennedy for her help when he just happened to look down. It was merely two tiny whitish blue flickers, almost as if there was a fault in the system between NORAD and the satellite, but as he watched, there was a third flash, and General Hammond, who always knew where the SGC zats were at all times, smiled.

…

By the time a dazed and bloody Joe O’Neill managed to crawl out of the car it was all over.

"Teal’c?" he said, staring around blindly, the advent of night turning the parking lot into an alien place.

"It is I," a deep voice replied, making Joe smile slightly.

"Of course it is you," he murmured. "Who else could it be?"

Teal’c let that one go, well used to human nature by now.

"You are well?" he asked, reaching for Joe with sure hands, spinning him around even as the man made to answer, just like he had seen O’Neill do so many times with Daniel Jackson. Now he understood why - it was because they could not be trusted, and could very well have a wound on their bodies that they were totally unaware of.

"Ow! I’m fine, Gerrof !" Joe moaned, batting at Teal’c even as he deftly removed the handgun General Hammond had given him.

"Do you mind?" Joe said, his voice an outraged squawk.

"You have no more need of this," Teal’c said calmly, efficiently removing the cartridge before stowing it in the pocket opposite the zat. "The Han’al’ark are no more."

"The what?" Joe asked, his sudden shift in thought almost making Teal’c dizzy.

"The Han’al’ark," he said, wondering if Joe O’Neill was hit harder on his head than initially thought. "The humans in this vehicle were fluent in the language."

"They speak Spanish on Han’al’ark?" Joe said dazedly.

"No," Teal’c said, patting him on a shoulder and wishing that SG3 would hurry up and find them. "They speak Han’al of course."

…

"What are we doing here?" Jack asked, a month to the day later. He was still gaunt and irritable, but was improving in leaps and bounds.

Well, maybe not leaps and bounds, Joe thought, smiling at his brother. Janet had had her work cut out for her when Jack had arrived in Colorado Springs, and even with the skilled trauma team at Academy Hospital helping her, it had been touch and go for a while.

Jack had been so badly hurt, with multiple broken bones vying for the attention, the worst being the exposed wounds where the bone had actually torn through the skin and been left unattended. Serious antibiotics had been set up and slowly administered, and to everyone’s joy, Jack had responded immediately.

Of course he had, Joe thought smugly.

Days of prayer saw to that.

Another fact in Jack’s favor was his incredible luck, if you could call being injured in the first place to be some kind of luck. The Spaniards car had ridden over his boot whilst trying to escape, breaking his anklebone but doing very little damage apart from that.

"The FBI are taking us to lunch," he said, wheeling Jack up the smooth slope that all the best hotels now sported.

The Hilton Hotel was one such place where wheelchair access was a breeze.

"At the Cedar Rapids Hilton?" Jack said incredulously, staring at the fine chandelier hanging in the lobby in obvious awe. "I think I’m paying too much tax."

"That, and I’m giving them the location to the eye," Joe said, smiling at his brother’s dumb act.

Jack immediately chocked one wheel, making the chair expertly spin around to face his brother.

"It’s here?" he asked, his face suddenly deadly serious.

"On the third floor," Joe murmured, almost inaudibly. "Room 368."

Jack’s easy smile returned, widening as he spotted Agents Murtaugh and Darren heading towards their position.

"They need something after losing the Spaniard," he said.

"Indeed," Joe said, doing a fair imitation of Teal’c.

Their eyes met and they both grinned

EINDE

BetaTested by CiGiK - Cape Town - Sunday 26th October 2003