AUTHOR NOTE:

Spoilers: Loads including the very start of S9.

Season: End S8

Content Warnings: Hint of rape, Language, Violence, Torture, Minor character death.

Disclaimer: Stargate Sg-1 and its characters are the property of Stargate (II) Productions, Showtime/Viacom, MGM/UA, Double Secret Productions, and Gekko Productions. This story is for entertainment purposes only and no money exchanged hands. No copyright infringement is intended. The original characters, situations, and story are the property of the author. Any similarities between fictional and real characters and events is solely based on the author's creation, nothing more. This story may not be posted elsewhere without the consent of the author.

Author's Note: For the non-shippers out there this fic will be okay. There is a ship angle in here but the story adheres to canon (with a few twists here and there) so don’t let it put you off. The plot is not about the ship. My thanks to Karen for her exhaustive betaing skills on the first half of this story and to Helen. Big thanks to my ever faithful beta, Donna, who has betaed this story for nearly two years and who keeps me straight on the American–speak. A final thank you to Soles for answering my earlier medical questions! Any errors are of course all mine.

List Of Iniquity

“Anger cannot be dishonest.”

Marcus Aurelius

Chapter 1

The Vistula Sródmiescie should have been an exotic place to be.

Basking in the warm light of the setting sun, the grandly-titled thoroughfare at the heart of Poznan was saturated with its noisy, colorful inhabitants, to the point where the city pounded as if with a life of its own. The people were happy and anticipating the holiday ahead, almost giddy at having put away their work tools for a well-earned rest. Overhead, coastal birds added their cries to the general melee as they soared on the air currents flowing between the towering buildings that dominated the city center, their beady eyes alert for scraps the revelers might carelessly let fall.

The taverns were open.

Drink flowed freely.

Poznan was a city that exuded welcoming warmth. And even the most reserved of souls would find its charms difficult to resist.

But one man did.

A man who was wary, suspicious, and acutely aware of the danger chasing his heels.

For him, the city’s charms were a distraction he could ill afford. The pervading mood of joyous excitement was an ominous foil to the very real and very personal threat closing in on him.

Poznan and its partying population were oblivious to the man’s concerns. Evening was approaching. Soon the flat limestone slabs that paved the streets would gain a welcome respite from the daytime heat, but not until the feet that danced across their surface with such energetic purpose had long since passed into the surrounding labyrinth. And that respite couldn’t come soon enough in order to cool the beads of sweat that glistened on the outsider’s brow.

His feet did not march in tandem with the rest of the crowd, and his polished, black, leather shoes fractionally missed the beat to which everyone else moved, creating an untidy disturbance in the flow of humanity that a discerning and watchful eye could easily pick out.

And the man was certain that such eyes existed.

Carefully scanning the masses.

Narrowing against the sun’s brightly cast fingers.

Searching.

For him.

General Jack O’Neill blinked sweat from his eyes and fought the urge to lash out at the people all around him.

He felt trapped and unnervingly close to unaccustomed panic.

He couldn’t concentrate. The pulsating music that blared in his ears was too loud, causing his heart to drum in time with the accelerating tempo.

With his senses already on overload and a savage pain gnawing his left side, he was desperate to escape the crowd.

Twisting his head from side to side, the seasoned USAF officer searched for a way through the sea of bodies that surged against him, at least six people deep on all sides. It was almost beyond belief: the sheer mass of revelers was practically picking him up and carrying him down Poznan’s historic Vistula Sródmiescie, conjuring up the uncomfortable illusion that greater forces were at work here, and that they were forces that had no intention of letting him go. It appeared his plan to lose his pursuers by joining the jubilant throng had well and truly backfired.

Gripped by a feeling of near-total helplessness, Jack even considered allowing himself to follow the flow of the crowd.

Except that danger lay that way.

And SG-1 was somewhere in the opposite direction.

He mentally shook himself, understanding that shock and physical exhaustion were his immediate enemies here. If he wasn’t going to be beaten by them, then he needed to dig deep and find that familiar streak of stubbornness, which was guaranteed to kick his butt into action whenever he needed it most.

He couldn’t just give in and drift with the wave of humanity that had him caught in its dangerous undertow.

There was too much at stake.

That thought kick-started his brain into gear. He needed to work his way back up this Vistula Shodmesh, a thoroughfare that sliced the city in two, and then he needed to get back across the river. Failing that, stumbling across a friendly SGC team would do.

Still, even with this semblance of a plan, fighting the temptation to give in wasn’t easy. But then, nothing about this day had been easy, and Jack was honest enough to admit that it was all his own fault. He was the one paid the big bucks to make the tough calls, and this time he’d definitely called it wrong.

Very, very wrong.

And wasn’t that just the understatement of the year?

He’d known something was wrong, but he’d followed his orders and allowed the treaty signing to progress to its natural conclusion anyway.

Crap! When would he finally learn to pay attention to his gut feeling?

Which had told him not to stay. But Daniel had whined and cajoled, like he always did, and Jack had had to admit that the festivities planned in their honor after the treaty had been signed did sound like fun. So, slowly but surely, his instinctive resolve to come in fast and get out even faster had been eroded, until his friend had persuaded him to ignore his better judgement. Like Daniel was somehow all-too-often able to do.

A sense of fair play twisted Jack’s mouth into a grimace. It was wrong to pin blame to Daniel and, in truth, his friend had probably done them all an almighty service. It was also worth the agony that he was in now to expose this treaty for the classic cover up it clearly was. Better to find out his serious lapse of judgement now rather than later, when it might be far, far too late. He couldn’t wait to confront Olec and ask him to explain certain conundrums. Like why no one had bothered to mention that some other deal with Earth was clearly going down here, or who was behind it. It couldn’t be coincidence that the Valtarians had wanted him here as a delegate at the same time that they were harboring a former US soldier turned mercenary who had a Grade A grudge against him, and who appeared to have planned out a nice little revenge scenario. Go figure. Some Earth heavyweight was up to something, and it was down to him to find out who, exactly.

Drawing in a ragged breath as he prepared for the immediate challenge facing him, Jack couldn’t help the question that formed in his mind as he took in the scale of the task ahead: why was it that every single diplomatic mission he joined went pear-shaped? An even worse scenario sprang to mind.

Thank God, this time, Kinsey was out of the picture. Jack couldn’t have faced the former senator’s self-serving interference clouding Earth’s best interests again.

Ignoring his aching body’s various demands for his attention, Jack turned resolutely against the tide of swirling figures and instantly flinched as a garish mask was thrust into his face. The feathery concoction slipped on past him, its owner seemingly impervious to O’Neill’s shock and the fact that the planet’s most honored guest had just temporarily blocked his path.

The whole incident seemed typical of PA2-599. Or Valtaria, to use this oddball planet’s actual name. Jack felt slightly encouraged, even amazed, that he could remember either designation right now, but an elbow in his ribs elicited a ragged gasp and brought him back down to earth as pain gutted him like the edge of the cold jagged blade that had caused the initial problem.

How quickly a place could lose its attraction.

Biting hard on his lip, Jack took a deep breath and forced his way through the crowd. He ignored the immediate and angry recriminations that rained down on him, and focused his attention on keeping upright on his unsteady feet and maintaining his fingers’ tight clamp on the wad of tattered dress uniform that was pressed over the bloody wound in his side.

The process was acutely painful, and, by the time he had broken out of the parade, he had gathered several more bruises to add to his already colorful collection. Staggering onto the sidewalk, he grew uncomfortably aware of startled looks that his appearance was drawing and, unsure anymore of how to identify friend from foe, he moved on through the city’s center as quickly as his injuries would allow him to. His immediate objective was clear, despite the fog that was beginning to invade his mind.

He needed cover.

He needed to get off the streets.

And he needed time to assess things and think through his next move.

So, with pain dragging him down and a suspicious stickiness covering his hand, he staggered into a darkened alley.

And it was not a moment too soon.

As he felt vomit burn the back of his throat.

-oo0oo-

On the other side of Crestajec River, a man stood in the opulent main chamber of the Imperial Palace and worried. Actually, Daniel Jackson had moved past the point of mere worry some time ago. Jack had been gone for hours now and SG-1’s archaeologist and part-time diplomat could tell that their host’s initially relaxed attitude to the disappearance of Earth’s most senior delegate was rapidly becoming serious concern. Which caused Daniel to also become fearful on his friend’s behalf.

Ambassador Olec Smolenski had definitely lost some color in the few patches of skin that could be detected amongst all the black hair sprouting from his face. The alien was the veritable extreme of the Goa’uld’s integration of Valtaria’s native humanoid population with the Lechitic humans stolen from the west Slavic population on Earth and introduced to the planet a millennia ago. The Lech ethnic branch included peoples from the area now known as Poland, and Poznan was the name given to the first Polish state on Earth. The resulting gene pool was an intriguing mix of alien and human, although what the Goa’uld had hoped to achieve Daniel could only imagine.

The bright natural intelligence that gleamed in Smolenski’s eyes redeemed the Valtarian’s troll-like appearance. Which was a relief, or Jack’s talent for less than tactful description might easily have slipped out from under the diplomatic armor he had been forced to don for this mission. As it turned out, the pair had got along surprisingly well, a mutual respect establishing itself quickly, giving Earth’s senior ambassador room to relax a little.

Which just made Jack absenting himself now, after the treaty was signed, sealed and delivered, all the stranger. Daniel swallowed down his impatience, conscious that it would sit ill with his formal attire and worry their newly-gained allies, and tried to listen as Olec gave a long list of reasons why General Jack O’Neill had to be fine.

Fine!

He’d just better be peachykeenhunkydorey fine! Or someone would pay.

Daniel closed his eyes to hear himself channeling Jack’s voice in his head. He had spent just over four days in close company with Jack and Daniel was certain his own IQ must have dropped at least several points in that time. Perversely, Jack’s intelligence quotient had apparently multiplied exponentially with his level of boredom until he had the Valtarians literally eating out of his hand. To Daniel’s disgust, the sharper Jack’s wit, the more they loved him. It was. . . simply. . . unfathomable.

Olec mistook his reaction.

“I’m sure he’s just lost, Dr. Jackson. This palace is a veritable maze.”

Daniel opened his eyes and winced.

Jack didn’t tend to get lost.

And certainly not for five hours.

Smolenski correctly interpreted the reason for the dubious look shot his way, and nervously wrung his hands. “There’s no reason for General O’Neill to come to any harm on Valtaria, Dr. Jackson, even if he has managed to find his way into the main city. Although,” he admitted, “the Vistula Festival can be a little overwhelming for the uninitiated. . . ”

Daniel realized that the Ambassador was beginning to mumble more for his own self-reassurance than for his visitor’s benefit. Daniel didn’t mind. . . really, they couldn’t have asked for more support from their hosts since Jack’s non-reappearance from the restroom. . . short of actually producing Jack alive and well, of course. They had launched a full-scale search the instant concern was raised, granting those SG teams, both river and city-side, full authorization to join in. The Valtarian delegation had taken the General’s apparent unscheduled side tour and the subsequent delay to the palace celebrations with remarkable good humor, although the atmosphere of insouciance was wearing thin as the preferred assumption of any innocent explanation lost credibility.

Needing space to think, Daniel nodded his head, thrusting his hands into his pockets as he moved the few paces needed to approach a window that granted him a magnificent view of the city heights. Spires and glass towers sparkled in the last of the setting sun, which was flooding the sky with glorious hues of purple. But, for once, such a picturesque sight afforded him no pleasure. Instead, Jackson’s collar irritated him and, distractedly, he loosened his tie.

There was no way, he mused, absolutely no way, that Jack would neglect to establish contact for five hours, not if he could possibly help it.

It was one of Jack’s most basic ground rules: maintain contact.

No contact left three possibilities: Jack was dead. . . but Daniel was most definitely not going there; or Jack was badly hurt; or he was trapped. Whatever the reason, Daniel felt certain that his friend was in trouble, but whether by accident or design he had, as yet, no way of knowing.

Although, he was as sure as he could be that these people were genuinely concerned.

Even Jack had lowered his guard after several hours of negotiation, despite his rubbing the back of his neck, a nervous reaction that had started back at the SGC the moment he got the first hint that the Joint Chiefs wanted him to take this tour offworld.

Daniel had been intrigued. Usually quick to jump at the chance to go through the Stargate - a treat far less available since the former leader of SG-1 had accepted command of the SGC - Jack had been strangely reticent about this mission. He had politely resisted the President’s persuasive argument that a General provided the appropriate stamp of authority demanded for a treaty between Valteira and Earth, even to the point where Major General Hammond had been forced to appoint a General Hank Landry as temporary CO of the SGC in Jack’s place. Fortunately, as it turned out, Jack and Landry were old friends, and, with all his cards neatly trumped, Jack had grumpily succumbed to the inevitable in time to evade a direct order.

Really, it had been Jack at his very pig-headed stubborn worst and, to start with, his evasive best. He might even have won his way if he had been dealing with a lesser man than George Hammond. The sparks had flown between Daniel and Jack too, given Daniel’s wholehearted, if biased, support for President Henry Hayes’ assessment: that Earth and Valtaria boasted comparable civilizations and that there were enormous mutual benefits to be gained from an exchange of knowledge. Earth had the edge on information technology, while Valtaria had very well-proven space defenses plus the use of forcefield technology to protect the Stargate from unwelcome intruders, defensive capabilities that had kept the Goa’uld off their planetary back, so to speak, for centuries. And that was all before Daniel even got around to considering Valtaria’s fascinating history.

A certain rank, backed up by the field experience Jack brought to the table, carried a lot of weight. In addition, the Valtarians had heard of Colonel O’Neill and SG-1. Which had seemed to make Jack the perfect choice to lead the treaty delegation.

Seemed? Daniel suppressed a groan and prayed the inadvertent slip would not prove prescient.

“I should have had someone direct the General to the facilities,” Olec decided, speaking his thoughts out loud for the first time in a while.

Daniel pondered this for a moment and gave a soft snort.

“This has never happened before,” the Ambaddasor continued.

Daniel was about to point out that Valtaria wasn’t exactly on the tourist map, when Teal’c walked in, his imperious demeanor drawing attention from all the occupants of the Imperial Hall. Colonels Samantha Carter and Dave Dixon followed close behind the stern Jaffa, their faces hard and closed. As they approached, Olec Smolenski and Daniel took a closer look at Teal’c’s darkened face and shared a look of dismay.

Daniel remembered Jack’s last words.

T? Follow me, and, so help me God, I’ll make you join the local knitting circle when we get back home. I am not a child who needs protecting, thank you very much. I am a fully-fledged Air Force General. Trust me, I can visit the can on my own!

Talk about tempting fate. Yup. Only a fool would want to be in the missing Jack O’Neill’s shoes when Teal’c got his hands on him.

-oo0oo-

Jack was still trying to catch his breath, his whole body racked by a coughing fit that brought water to his eyes. Half-doubled over, he rode it out, backed into the shadows as best he could, patiently waiting for the attack to finish and his eyes to re-adjust so that he could check out the damage.

On first inspection, things looked bad: his torn jacket and shirt barely hid the tell-tale signs of serious injury. He hissed at the sight of his pants, soaked in blood from the waistband down to mid-thigh, and quickly decided not to explore further. The throbbing ache from shoulder to hip said it all.

Shifting position uncomfortably, he looked about him. His hiding place was a sorry sight, little different from the seedy side of any big city, and just as surreal, with only a few short steps measuring the physical distance from the architectural gilded lily to the withered vines of the ghetto. It was the typical ‘wrong end of town’, complete with shattered glass, over-spilling garbage bags and congealed remains of dried-up vomit. Jack closed his eyes, the rancid stench, recognizable in any part of the galaxy, proving to be the proverbial last straw. Head spinning, he pitched forward.

Waiting hands caught him before he hit the sidewalk.

Which was all very unnerving. Because he’d not heard anyone approach.

But, momentarily, he leaned gratefully against the support. Until, “Okay, Major. We’ve got you. You can stop running now.” Followed by a sharp sting in his arm.

Jack literally cringed and his blood turned ice cold, as time seemed to stand still, any suggestion that friendly hands supported him evaporating in that instant.

Major.

He’d called him ‘Major.’

And that voice.

God Almighty!

The passing of time and the black pen of censorship had done nothing to erase the power those graveled tones held over him. Resurrecting horrors he had hoped were long-entombed in his past. The very sound of it re-opened old scars and laid bare the festering wounds that this voice had woven into his mind with such appalling carelessness all those years ago. Sores that had always only been covered by the very thinnest and most fragile of defenses.

Jack tried to swallow, only to find his throat was too raspingly dry to allow him to do so. Suddenly, the careful secret reconstruction of his sanity, a process that had taken months to perfect, was on the point of collapse.

All at the sound of a mere voice.

Except, this man’s voice had never been just a mere voice.

It bespoke of a time that was Hell on Earth.

A hell worse than Iraq even. For at least there, he’d known friend from foe.

Jack’s stomach was in danger of rebelling again.

While his mind struggled to catch up with events.

And made little sense of things.

His teeth chattered. He felt cold. The grip around his upper arms tightened as his knees buckled under him. He was losing control of his body. Insidiously. Like slipping gradually beneath an anesthetic. He could no longer feel his hands, or his feet. And his arms were too heavy to move. As were his legs.

Somehow, his mind still worked.

Enough.

To realize.

He’d been drugged.

Just like they’d done to him back then.

Crap.

His present world retreated, and the nightmare from his past surged back in its place, flooding his mind with its repellent sewage and, as Jack remembered the details, he moaned.

On his knees, broken, and face-to-face with the inheritance of his less-than-savory past, Jack pulled out the resolve he needed, set his jaw and looked up at an erstwhile colleague turned enemy. The face he remembered had changed little: older, and with maybe more lines, but the eyes that gleamed down on him were as cold and merciless as ever.

And still just as capable of tossing him over the cliff-edge of sanity with the reckless abandon that had been so shocking back then.

-oo0oo-

“Unfortunately, it’s the Vistula Festival,” Smolenski repeated unhelpfully.

Daniel watched Colonel Dave Dixon, leader of SG-13, roll his eyes, and decided to jump in quickly to prevent anymore unnecessary damage to diplomatic relations.

“So what do we do now?” he asked, directing his question to Dixon in deference to the fact that he was the senior officer present. He thought he caught Teal’c growl and glanced in his teammate’s direction. Although the Jaffa’s expression was relatively guarded, Daniel knew Teal’c better than most and, to his eyes, his friend was distinctly unhappy. Sam’s expression was equally guarded and equally as unhappy.

What had he said?

“We report back to the SGC and await orders,” Dixon informed him.

The source of Teal’c’s and Sam’s dissatisfaction became clear.

“And say what? That Jack just up and walked out?” Daniel demanded.

Sam Carter bristled defensively.

“No, of course not, Daniel.”

Dixon shifted and took her arm.

“A word, Colonel.”

For a brief moment Sam hesitated, before giving Colonel Dixon a tight nod. The pair moved away, leaving the three remaining members of the makeshift conference feeling redundant. After an awkward pause, the Ambassador bowed, indicating that he needed to confer with his colleagues.

Daniel and Teal’c watched him move away, and then Teal’c moved with unhurried purpose to Daniel’s side. His eyes were watchful as he dipped his head slightly, and his words were spoken so quietly, Daniel had to strain his ears to catch them.

“O’Neill would not leave without informing Colonel Carter. I am certain he has encountered some difficulty. However, I discern no deception on the part of the Valtarians.”

Daniel considered the possibility that Jack had left for some unknown reason of his own. His friend often stalked off in a huff, but not like this and not offworld where it might spark a full-scale diplomatic incident. And, anyway, he’d been in quite a good mood. So Daniel couldn’t think of anything that would cause Jack to take off like this.

Unless. . . but, no. . . he was not even going down the road of secretive undercover missions.

Not. Even. Going. There.

“I regret. . . ”

His friend’s hesitation drew Daniel’s attention.

“It wasn’t your fault, Teal’c,” he leapt in, anxious to put a stop to any possible Jaffa guilt trip. Teal’c was only here because of his loyalty to Jack. He was supposed to be on Dakara overseeing the establishment of the new Jaffa nation, and the last thing he needed was to assume any blame for whatever mess Jack might have gotten himself into. “He practically ordered you not to go with him. And several witnesses saw him leave the palace and enter the grounds safely, and under his own steam.” Daniel stopped. “You’re certain these witnesses were telling the truth?”

“I cannot be certain, but I believe their reports to be honest.”

“They saw a man wearing a United States Air Force dress uniform,” Daniel pointed out.

Teal’c stiffened.

“You believe that man was an imposter?” He stood in silent thought. “Yes. . . that could indeed be the answer.” He turned swiftly and began to walk away.

“Ah. . . Teal’c? Where are you going?”

“To inform Colonel Carter. General Landry must be made aware of this possibility.”

Seeing that Sam and Dave Dixon were engaged in what looked like to be a very heated discussion, it appeared to Daniel to be an opportune time to interrupt, before two of Earth’s finest drew too much undue attention to what was clearly becoming a serious disagreement.

“Teal’c, wait for me. . . ”

The Jaffa did not so much as pause. Daniel sighed, recognizing that it was pointless to try and slow him down.

Teal’c was on a mission.

-oo0oo-

The slap against his cheek stung furiously and, still unable to open his eyes, Jack turned his face aside in anticipation of another blow. It made no difference, the punishing aim of a flat palm found him anyway and a desire to prevent it striking him again forced him to fight his way out of the confused haze that had applied for permanent residency in his mind. Mumbling a weak protest, he shifted his head again, wondering why he was unable to defend himself. . .

Why his arms didn’t work.

“Wha. . . ?” he managed.

The bright slit of light that appeared as he struggled to open his eyes was immediately blocked out by something dark.

“That’s it, Jack. Wake up. Rise and shine.”

Aw crap. Memories seeped slowly into his mind with the unwelcome silent leaching of damp rot.

José Rodrigues Lopes.

Once this man had been his friend. Now he was the man who had taken him by surprise in the restrooms before forcing him at gunpoint into a hidden complex of tunnels, squeezed between the palace walls. They had emerged somewhere on the other side of the river. To Jack, their place of exit had appeared to be a good point to make a run for it, only for him to discover, far too late, that José had an accomplice waiting for them. And escape wasn’t going to be that easy.

José had wiped the blood trickling from his nose after Jack had head-butted him, and then succinctly expressed his displeasure with a knife as Jack was held tight within an unbreakable arm lock. If Jack had had any lingering hope that some scrap of their past friendship had survived its former disintegration, then it vanished in that instant. Feigning collapse as the blade bit into his side, he had felt the newcomer relax his hold.

It was a classic mistake, and Jack had punished him for it, briefly incapacitating the accomplice and then José with a makeshift weapon formed from a piece of wood debris on the ground, before bolting.

For all the good it had done him.

His flight had lasted as far as that grim back alley.

Where another face from the past had found him instead.

Fannigan. Colonel Zack Fannigan.

Jack remembered his hands holding him in the alley and then the voice in his ear. He recoiled as he remembered the impact that voice had wreaked upon him. Taking him back, to a time way before he’d joined the Stargate program.

A time he didn’t want to remember.

Full of damned distasteful things he thought he’d buried away.

Fingers gripped his shoulders too tightly and shook him, the pain helping him find his way back to the present.

If Fannigan was here too, here with him now, then he needed to deal with him now. Not try to fight ghosts that shadowed his mind.

Or God knows how many demons would decide to wake up and run riot in his head.

Shaking his head to further clear the murky cobwebs, Jack forced his eyes to open wider. Lopes’ ugly grin hovered right above his face, momentarily banishing all thought of Fannigan from his head and he groaned.

“Aw. . . crap, ” he managed before he shut his eyes against the sight, but the vice-like iron fingers only moved to grip his lower jaw until he gave in to the painful pressure and re-opened his eyes.

“That’s it. Look at me, Jack. Now tell me. How are you feeling?”

Jack stared up at his one-time friend’s pockmarked, olive-skinned face leaning over him. He hadn’t had a chance to study him before, but now, seeing José’s hollowed eyes and sunken cheeks, Jack decided the years had not served Lopes well. In fact, he looked like shit.

“Got a mirror?” he whispered.

José frowned. And Jack half-coughed and half-laughed at the confusion that flickered in the man’s eyes. As José paused, Jack used the fraction of precious time he had gained to try and scrutinize his surroundings. Shimmering water on his right reflected in the lit windows overhead. He could smell salt in the air. A thick coil of rope sat neatly piled in a heap at the water’s edge and the surface beneath him was concrete. Cold concrete. His ears detected the sounds of a heavy body of flowing water and he suspected that he could very well be close to where his inauspicious attempt at escape had begun. There was no sign of Zack Fannigan.

A tilted cup was pressed against his lips. He began to refuse it but José simply grabbed the back of his hair to support his head as he began to pour water over his lips anyway. Thirst took over and Jack took the risk, swallowing as quickly as he could so he didn’t drown.

“’S enough,” he eventually managed to splutter.

“A mirror?” José queried as he complied with the request and lifted the cup away.

For a split second, Jack debated the merits of antagonizing the man by explaining, and then shook his head.

“Doesn’t matter.”

José nodded, and patted Jack’s side. Instantly, shards of pain shot through him, reminding him that he’d been stabbed.

Damn him. That had been deliberate.

Hating his vulnerability, Jack tried to move again, unsuccessfully. The rough concrete beneath him was hard and painful and he realized his hands were bound together and trapped underneath him. Anger filled him.

“Bastard,” Jack grated, his outrage coloring his tone. “Untie me!” He began to struggle in earnest, ignoring the agonizing ache that seemed to have wrapped itself around his body. Crap. He was hog-tied.

His captor watched his futile efforts, amused.

“What? You think I’m stupid, Jack?”

“Then why?” Jack demanded, completely bewildered as to why José was doing this. Or even how he was here. “And how? How did you get here? Was it by ship? Or through the Stargate? Who sent you, José? Tell me!”

But José didn’t answer. Instead, his eyes took on a far-away look that caught Jack’s attention. He stilled, ceasing his pointless struggles. Instead, he lay quietly, trying to fathom out the intentions of this man with whom he had once shot pool and shared the odd warm beer on those so rare occasions in Nicaragua when they had believed it safe to let their hair down. Figuratively speaking.

It all seemed a lifetime ago now.

Jack’s head grew heavy and he let it drop back wearily onto the ground. Damn, he felt old. Way too old to be lying bound up and battered in some deserted shipyard on a planet far from Earth. With a man who had no business being here.

God. He hurt to the very core of his being. And not all of it was physical pain. There was, in addition, a well-recognized emotional agony.

From long ago.

From that time when he and José had been comrades-in-arms in a very dirty and dangerous war. Part of a longer period when Jack had done many ‘damned distasteful things’ in the service of his country. A time he’d thought consigned to the very bottom of the sewer that held his very worst memories.

But he and José were linked by a number of those ‘damned distasteful things’. Bound together still, even after all these years. Jack could see it in the cold expression in eyes that had shifted to watch him closely.

Deliberately.

To Jack, he appeared almost frozen. Just as frozen as he had turned when they had burst into that third floor hotel room to discover that the sniper lining Burke up in a rifle’s sight was not just a target to be eliminated. The sniper was a woman. But not just any woman either. She was José’s woman.

Marita

The love of his life, whom José had dreamed of lifting out of the poverty-ridden village in which they’d found her, and bringing her back with him to America.

Beautiful, enchanting, and dangerous, Marita had stood out from the crowd in a community enslaved to the opium trade by the need to survive, and she had acted as if the American-born Marine had been her knight in shining armor.

None of Jack’s team had been blind to her charm, but José had taken his infatuation to a whole new and totally unprofessional level. Alarmed, Jack had warned his friend, but José hadn’t listened and, when they had burst through that door, Marita had turned to face them.

They had both been shocked. Her presence completely unexpected but there she stood, a second gun raised, cocked, and pointing directly towards them.

Jack had done the honors.

Hell. He had not even hesitated, and he might as well have scrawled his own signature in blood across her slack body when he placed that perfectly centered hole in her head. And in the second that he killed Marita, Jack had created a space in time that tied him and José together, and yet divided them irrevocably. Destroying their comradeship.

Poisoning their trust in each other.

Jack shivered. He could still see the chill ghost of that moment in José’s eyes as they stared across at him now. Time had not healed his former friend’s pain, nor earned Jack forgiveness. But, then, he had never asked for any.

“I had to, man.” Jack spoke quietly, his words soft, every fiber in him hoping against hope that José would accept the truth for what it was. “She was going to pull that trigger. It was you or her.” He hesitated, and then gently pressed his point. “She was our target. You know that, don’t you?”

But José appeared almost disinterested, long seconds passed before he showed a sign that he had even heard a single word that Jack had spoken. Then, his chin lifted and bitter eyes met Jack’s.

“Yeah,” he nodded. “That’s what you said last time.”

Oh, God. Jack closed his eyes, frustration building, together with a real sense of the trouble he was in. He had to stay calm. For this was personal. Shit!

Jack had trained his entire Special Ops career not to let things get personal. Personal weakened a soldier. Personal risked allowing the enemy to get too close.

Personal got you killed.

And here he was.

Seeing only one way through, and praying personal wasn’t about to make things worse.

“I’m sorry, José.” He struggled to find the words. “For your pain. Your loss.” Emotion clogged in his throat. He coughed to loosen the hard knot. “But I can’t undo what had to be done. I can’t be sorry for that. She was ready to kill us all. Surely you see that?”

A plea had crept into his voice and Jack shut up abruptly. Dammit. José had him practically begging. His eyes skidded away and found only the cloudless night sky full of familiar star formations, albeit twisted, seen from this part of the galaxy. It reminded him that José was far from home, Fannigan too, and he’d got nowhere in making any sense of it. He wondered where his second apparition from days gone by had got to.

Or perhaps he had imagined him.

Both voice and face actually an hallucination created out of the stirring of memories of those darker days.

He shivered and his body moaned back.

It occurred to him that José must have patched him up while he was drugged. He didn’t remember much after Fannigan, or his ghost, had caught up with him in the back street.

The stars twinkled brightly above him, as many celestial bodies in the sky as he had questions in his head.

Where was his rescue?

What was José waiting for? He glanced at his captor and wondered how far he could push it.

“So? What now, José?”

A filthy look was his only reply. Jack bit his lip and watched as the other man checked a diver’s watch on his wrist. He was doing more than just checking the time and a nasty suspicion began to take root in Jack’s gut. Lifting his head with difficulty, he peered down his body to find he was dressed in diving gear, and then scanned their location again before groaning in understanding. José was picking up a similar wet-suit and pulling it on over his own thin clothing and it seemed to Jack as if the sound of water slapping against the side of the dock had just gotten that much louder.

“For God’s sake. . . ” he protested.

“You’ll be fine.”

José’s voice was flat as the man dragged out what could only be an oxygen tank. A shiny metallic blade magically appeared in his hand and slashed the air. The act was looking a little tired, Jack decided, although his side ached in a sort of sick anticipation. There was to be no repeat performance of earlier however as his captor merely flipped Jack over. There was a slight pull on the rope joining his hands to his feet and the hiss of metal through air, and then the tension between his feet and hands was gone.

But nothing ever came for free.

His ankles remained bound and bindings still contorted his wrists into an unnatural position behind his back. Waves of agony rippled out from his injured side and blended with cramping sensations sweeping through his limbs. His forehead tingled with sudden sweat. He felt the heavy weight of the air cylinder settle over his shoulders and arms. José’s hand began to wriggle the strapping around his chest. Jack understood what he was doing, but the effect was painfully uncomfortable and his insides were contracting in response to his rising panic.

José laughed at the colorful curses Jack let out through gritted teeth. The blunt words melded into a high-pitched animal sound as José tightened the strapping around his shoulders and chest. Then his head was being held firm as a plastic mouthpiece was forced between his lips. There was no point fighting it and, if he was going in, Jack wanted to check the regulator was working while he could still speak to report any problem.

Pushing his lips around the plastic to form a tight seal, he inhaled. Even with his chest pressed against the ground, his lungs filled with a reassuring mixture of compressed air, while José maneuvered a diving mask into place over Jack’s face. He felt his socks being pulled off his feet. He had no idea where his shoes had gone. Nothing replaced them and the night breeze was cool around his bare toes.

Helpless to do anything but comply, Jack didn’t fight as he was manhandled into a slouched sitting position near the water’s edge. Fear clawed at his insides and the urge to spit out the mouthpiece became almost overwhelming. He only needed a tiny shove to fall into the dark inky liquid that rippled uninvitingly below his dangling feet. The thought repulsed him.

He couldn’t do this.

Shit.

He was hurting, his feet and wrists were strapped tight, he was facing cold water of an unknown depth and he had no idea what was waiting for him in a fairly unpromising future: truly, things were not the best they’d ever been.

Turning his head, Jack searched José’s eyes safely enclosed behind his own mask. Looking for any hint of sympathy or weakness. In the dark, it was hard to see. But he saw nothing that gave him cause for comfort.

Instead, José held up a rope, which he clipped to some part of Jack’s wetsuit. The other end he retained in his hand. The action was somewhat reassuring. He didn’t think his old teammate was going to kill him.

When the expected shove came, it was still a surprise, but the shock on hitting the water was literally breathtaking. With Valtaria being so warm, Jack hadn’t expected the river to be quite so cold. And it was dark. His senses returned all too quickly, pain exploding through his nerves to the point where he nearly lost consciousness.

Blind, lost, and in agony, Jack struggled to help himself, but each twist and turn only tightened his bindings until he felt like screaming. He didn’t, but the instinctual reaction interrupted his natural breathing rhythm, and his chest tightened, cutting off his breath.

Crap!

He was going to drown!

In a murky harbour, on a planet far from home.

He was getting too old for these kind of situations.

Far too old.

And not likely to get much older unless he controlled his breathing sometime in the very, very near future.

Jack hauled air into starving and burning lungs, and expelled it slowly as he tried to establish some kind of regular breathing pattern.

He frantically searched for José as he tried desperately to get things under control, but all he could see was blackness. The horror of his situation was underlined by his gradual awareness of a gentle tapping against his thigh that he quickly identified as the connecting rope, its slackness sounding alarm bells in his head.

Shit. He was lost.

The instinctive urge to fight his way out of trouble took over and he thrashed his body in the water in an attempt to slow his downward plunge, but it proved painfully and completely useless and he continued to plummet like a stone into the murky river depths.

This wasn’t going to work.

His frantic movements ceased and an aching tiredness filled him, his body reminding him that he had been stabbed only a few hours ago, and that diving really shouldn’t be on his list of activities for the day.

As a slow death, this one sucked.

Think. He needed to think. And think calmly, for panic was the diver’s worst enemy. Forcing his body to relax, Jack’s chin dropped forward toward his chest as he was struck by the intense cold. It bit so deeply that his sharp intake of air was instinctive. Amidst the liquid darkness that wrapped itself round him like an ice-jacket the soul-deep exhaustion was almost overwhelming.

The mouthpiece slipped away.