Jack’s return to consciousness was sudden and immediate—and not all together pleasant. With a groan, he tried to turn onto his side, but for some reason that he could not comprehend, his body wouldn’t respond to his commands. His hands, somehow fixed above his head, were unmoving, but he had no time to try and figure it out. His stomach wasn’t going to give him another second—let alone another minute—to assimilate the information he needed.

His dinner from last night made a resounding reappearance and Jack was able to turn his head just in time. Unfortunately, his arm took the brunt of it instead.

Drowning in his own vomit was not at the top of his list of things to do. His heaves continued for several minutes, bringing up anything that was left. He squeezed his eyes closed as he tried to calm his spinning head and will away his nausea.

It took some time, but he was able to push it down to a tolerable level, which also gave him the chance to concentrate on other things.

He was cold. Not surprising really, but somewhat unexpected. For the past several days, he’d become accustomed to the cool damp air. But now, there was something different. Opening his eyes in an effort to figure it out, his gaze was met with complete darkness.

Jack lifted his head as far as it could go, but quickly set it back down as the nausea returned. A few minutes passed before he was able to get it under control again.

Point one: don’t move head.

As for the cold, another sensation had finally tickled his neural network. He felt a breeze in places that normally were covered.

Crap, he moaned. As if things weren’t bad enough.

Okay, point two: he was stark naked. Hey, he thought wryly, at least it’s dark.

Now, he knew he could lift his head—although it was not recommended—but his arms and hands were another matter entirely. He could wiggle his fingers, so the problem wasn’t there. His wrists were still restrained, but differently than before. This time his arms were spread wide, the cuffs apparently connected to a heavy steel bar.

Okay, point three: Wayne had decided to use a spreader of some kind. And knowing Wayne, it was probably also fastened in some way to the floor.

God, Jack thought, that boy has a strange obsession with control.

Once Jack was able to figure out what was keeping his arms immobile, it was easy to extrapolate that his legs were in the same predicament.

His body, as a whole, hurt. From his broken and bruised ribs to the multitude of welts and burns on his body, he knew he was in bad shape. Over the years, he’d been subjected to worse treatment, but back then, things had been different—he’d been different. He was younger—that much was without question. He’d been idealistic once—thinking that things would work out. He’d survived, but he’d been changed—hardened—by the experiences he had been forced to endure.

So, what was the conclusion of the matter?

He was naked, locked in a small dark room, lying spread-eagle on a mattress with little or no leeway for movement, and waiting for a madman to return and start everything all over again.

And he had to pee.

Jack closed his eyes and let out a long sigh. This was so not going his way.

It was bound to happen sooner or later, he realized, but just the thought of having to let his bladder go…Jack didn’t want to think about it. Sure, he’d done it before. Hell, he’d done it twice already that he could remember, what was the big deal now?

Maybe because it had been an unconscious reaction before. This time, he could make the choice.

But he couldn’t wait too long.

The smell of the vomit made him turn his head and he realized that he had probably already done enough to piss off Wayne, a little more wouldn’t hurt—at least not too badly at this point.

Jack sighed again, letting out his breath in one long exhale, his decision made.

The smell was sharper than he thought it should be and the relief he felt was heavenly, but Jack could feel the heat in his cheeks. He was ashamed at what he’d done, even though he knew it couldn’t be avoided.

There had to be an end to this somewhere. He wasn’t sure if he could do this for much longer. He was fighting, but part of him was already gone.

Stephan Selig paced restlessly in front of the small airport. His contact was late and tardiness was not something he tolerated—from anyone.

A solitary gray car pulled into the passenger pick-up area, slowing down and finally stopping before him. The window slid open and the driver leaned over to glance out, offering a perfunctory greeting.

"Hi. I’m Nichols."

"You’re late," Selig snapped, yanking open the sedan’s door and sliding inside.

"Something came up that I needed to take care of. If you had given me a cell phone number I would have called," Nichols said, his tone unflinching, just as Selig had remembered it being over the phone when they had spoken twelve months ago—and again last night. He jabbed the window button, watching as the glass slowly rose, cutting out all sounds from the outside.

"Is it done?"

"No. I didn’t think the time was right," Nichols said as the car pulled away from the curb, heading for the highway, his hands tightly wrapped around the steering wheel.

"I didn’t pay you to think. I said I wanted it done before I got here." Selig glanced over at the tight-lipped driver before continuing. "They’re looking for him you know."

"I assumed as much. They’re not going to find him."

Nichols’ matter-of-fact reply did not make Selig feel any better. In some ways, it just made him feel worse. He didn’t trust the man sitting next to him and he didn’t know why he was here.

Yes, he wanted to hear O’Neill beg for his life. Yes, he wanted the man to suffer. Yes, he wanted to see the man dead for what he had done to his sons. But, deep down, there was a quiet nagging doubt.

Was this really the right thing to do?

That doubt, though, was easy enough to push aside. Just a single glance at an old family picture put the resolve back into this heart.

Stephan Selig was alone because of Jack O’Neill.

He’d taken away his entire family: first, his sons and then his wife.

Jack O’Neill needed to answer for his deeds. Selig thought it appropriate for O’Neill to suffer before he died and finally ridded the world of his foulness, his poison.

That’s why he had looked for the best man to do the job.

But that was also why now, he did not feel comfortable. Here he was sitting beside a known killer.

Circumstances had certainly changed the way he looked at things, Selig realized. He’d had some strange bedfellows over the years in his quest to get to this very point in time.

He was going to see O’Neill’s dead body one way or another—even if it meant killing him himself.***

No one would know, Wayne reasoned to himself as he glanced sideways, watching as his passenger settled into the front seat, finally relaxing and enjoying the ride.

Wayne knew that this bitter old man was no match for him.

Besides, Wayne already had his money. He’d gotten his last payment this morning, right on schedule.

There was no reason why Selig had to live. Wayne’s passenger was just another link in the chain. One more person who would never live to tell the tale of who Wayne was or where he lived. One more person who demanded more of Wayne than they deserved.

He’d spent the time driving to the airport deep in thought. There was so much more that he could do to O’Neill—so much more time that he could spend. His other victims were weak, but O’Neill was different. Opened to him now was a whole new world of possibilities—a world that would not last forever.

Wayne had to take advantage of the opportunities as they were presented.

It was a sign and Wayne could not refuse.

Flicking on his blinker, Wayne slowly eased out of traffic and slowed down, taking the ramp to the park cautiously. He knew exactly where he wanted to go. He had the place already picked out.

It was quiet and secluded.

The old man would find his peace—just not in the way he had originally planned.

"Where are we going?" his passenger asked, recognizing the signs for the National Park as they drove in. There weren’t many cars around, Wayne noted, his eyes scanning the parking fields ahead. It would make things easier.

Things were progressing smoothly.

Another sign.

Wayne found a vacant spot at the far end of the parking lot and pulled in, turning off the engine and turning to his passenger.

"I thought we could walk from here. It’s not far to the house. It will give you the chance to see some of the scenery," Wayne answered, trying to keep his tone calm and conversational.

"I don’t want to see anything in this god forsaken section of the world," the man snarled. "I’m here for one thing and one thing only."

"In this world," Wayne said, opening the door and stepping out, "we all must take precautions. You insisted on coming here. I insist on walking the rest of the way."

"Fine," the man huffed, getting out of the car and storming around until he stood beside Wayne. "So, what are you waiting for?"

Wayne closed his eyes briefly, trying to control his urge to beat the living crap out of the man before him. That time would come soon enough. "It’s not far if we follow the lake," Wayne said, gesturing forward. Through the trees he could barely make out the light shimmering across the surface of the water.

The man nodded, stepping forward, his stride confidant. Wayne followed a few steps behind. This wouldn’t take long at all.

They walked silently toward the water through the thick forest. The path curved around to run parallel to the water’s edge providing the perfect cover. At one point, the path crossed over a deep ravine. That was where the accident was going to take place.

Wayne could feel the pounding of his heart as adrenaline began to surge through his body as they rounded another corner, his eyes catching site of the small bridge up ahead. He picked up his pace, positioning himself next to the old man, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. Glancing around quickly, Wayne noticed that there was no one around and the forest had grown quiet.

Even the forest respected him, respected his strength.

The setting couldn’t be more perfect.

Eyeing the man carefully, Wayne reached out quickly, placing his hand on the back of the old man’s neck. As the man turned, Wayne moved to meet him, his free hand coming up to grasp the other side of the man’s neck. Wayne’s hands worked instinctively, snapping the bones.

Selig was dead before he hit the ground.

They were standing on the small bridge—exactly where Wayne had planned. With a shove of his booted foot, the body rolled under the railing and gracefully fell into the ravine, hitting the sides several times as it tumbled, coming to rest at the bottom.

Never again would someone order him around with so little respect.

Never again.

O’Neill would learn that lesson soon enough.