Daniel stood at the kitchen counter staring down at the broken beer bottle in his sink. The brown glass had splintered and shattered, mixing together with the remains of the dark liquid itself—large pieces mixed with small ones, shimmering slightly, catching the light from the fixtures above Daniel’s head.

He sighed deeply, running a hand roughly across his face, feeling the stubble, his hand finally snaking its way to the back of his neck as he tried to rub some of the tension out of his shoulders. Ignoring the mess in his sink for the time being, Daniel stepped over to the fridge, grabbing the pitcher of filtered water from the top shelf. He caught sight of the Chinese take-out containers sitting serenely on the bottom shelf where Jack had left them several hours ago.

Jack.

What a fiasco that had been.

Quickly forgetting about his thirst, Daniel set the water pitcher down with a solid thump on the countertop as he slumped, sagging against the cabinet.

Damn.

Jack had come to him to try and cheer him up and what had he done? He’d yelled at him. Insulted him. Thrown his olive branch back in his face along with a good heaping of dirt and mud.

Sha’re wouldn’t have approved of his childish actions.

What had he been thinking? What had made him say the things that he had said?

With a purposeful stride, he started walking towards the other side of the kitchen, to the wall where the phone hung. He should call Jack, apologize for the things he’d said, for the things he’d done.

Daniel stopped in the middle of the floor, his determination fading quickly. I’m probably the last person Jack wants to hear from tonight, he thought, realizing the extent of what he’d done—the pain and the hurt he’d seen on his friend’s face—and the effort it had taken for Jack to come here in the first place.

Daniel also remembered the cold rage he’d seen in Jack and that had been scarier than any Goa’uld he’d ever encountered. Daniel could take anger—and had to when he was growing up and being moved from one foster parent to another. But having the sheer depth of Jack’s rage aimed at him was something he never thought he’d ever experience and it was truly frightening.

Jack could joke and fool around, but beneath that comic exterior was a cold-blooded killer. Daniel never believed it more than he did at that very moment.

Not only had Daniel insulted his best friend, he’d thrown his trust and their friendship back in his face—and that was the last thing that he had ever wanted to do.

Daniel took several more steps forward, his hand resting lightly on the phone. He should call. He should try to apologize. Even if Jack didn’t want to talk to him, he could always leave a message. Jack would eventually listen to it and then call him back when he’d cooled off.

His fingers dialled the numbers automatically and he pressed the phone to his ear, closing his eyes as he prayed harder than he had in a very long time. The phone rang and rang until the answering machine picked up. Either Jack was still out or he was screening his calls. Either way, Daniel had to leave a message.

"Hey, Jack…it’s Daniel. I wanted to say that I was sorry. I…I didn’t mean what I said earlier and I wanted to apologize. Call me when you get a chance. Thanks."

He hung up the phone, physically and emotionally exhausted. Daniel had been through the wringer these past few weeks and Jack had been one of his strongest supporters. He’d been understanding, a source of strength, of unwavering trust and friendship. When everything else seemed as if it were crumbling down around him, Jack had stood by his side, helping to hold him up.

Jack.

Daniel sighed, padding over to the door and locking it before turning towards his bedroom.

He’d done all that he could. Tomorrow was another day.

The unmarked, unremarkable gray car made its way out of Colorado Springs, heading north on Interstate 25, obeying all of the posted traffic signs and observing the law in every conceivable way—except for one.

The driver had only one stop in mind tonight, a little campsite on the outskirts of Denver, near Frederick. He’d been at the park many times before and knew it well. He’d rented a spot in Barbour Ponds State Recreational Park as far away from other campers as possible. A single tent was already set up, along with a cooler full of food and water. He still had enough stuff to last him several days, possibly even a week if he stretched things.

The plan was simple: sleep until just before the sun came up and then continue north, crossing into Wyoming before heading west on Interstate 90 into Montana.

The trip would take a while—probably about 17 hours when everything was said and done. He’d already decided to do it in two days, breaking the driving in half. He had all the time in the world. And this was the part he enjoyed the most.

His employer had been a little impatient these past few weeks, but now that the hardest part of the assignment had been accomplished, he shouldn’t have a problem. He always found the hunt to be dull. The victim never knew what was coming, never putting up much of a fight. All people eventually let their guard down—whether it was with a lover or a friend, or in this particular case, after carelessly tossing back five shots of Jack Daniel’s. Once that was accomplished, he could get on with the job—and this one was bound to be a load of fun.

He’d made the confirmation phone call just before he pulled away from O’Neill’s house, leaving a cryptic message on the designated answering machine just as he had been instructed.

They were headed to a nice little place in the middle of nowhere, a place he’d set up just for jobs like this. He’d had several similar assignments over the years even though many people scoffed at the price he charged. They claimed it was too high and he took too long. For the money he charged, his clients wanted things done immediately, but he’d found that in this line of work, speed did not necessarily mean quality and the clients never complained about the end result. He was justly proud of that.

And besides, his traveling companion wouldn’t mind a bit if it took a little longer—tied up as he was at the current time.

Chuckling to himself, he thought back to only an hour or so ago when the dart—his custom-made dart tipped with a special mixture of drugs—had found its mark in the dead of night, toppling O’Neill in one fell swoop.

Due to his size and strength, he didn’t need to use drugs, but sometimes they just made the job easier—especially when it came to the initial contact when the victim had to be subdued. Even though he knew he could have taken O’Neill out in hand-to-hand, he didn’t want to do any permanent damage this early on.

He’d been watching O’Neill, following him for days now, just waiting for the perfect time. But tonight, O’Neill had played directly into his hands.

When his prey stormed out of Jackson’s apartment building and had raced off down the street, heading directly for the bar, he’d known that tonight was the night.

It had been a sign.

He believed in signs. His momma had always told him that this world was full of signs and only those who were gifted and open enough could see them. She’d say, "Now you listen to me, Wayne Nichols. Wherever you go in this world, never forget to look around ya ‘cause those signs, they’ll be there to guide you and help you choose the path that’s right."

So far momma had never been wrong.

Wayne had easily loaded O’Neill’s limp and unconscious body into the trunk of his car, the light from the one bare bulb providing enough illumination to enable him to truss the Air Force Colonel like a stuffed turkey.

He’d nearly lost it then, laughing out loud at his unintentional pun.

Wayne had made sure he had brought more than enough rope and duct tape to do the job.

He decided to start with his victim’s wrists. First he stripped off O’Neill’s leather jacket and flannel shirt, shoving them deep into the trunk, leaving him in his black T-shirt. He tied O’Neill’s hands securely behind his back with the acrylic climbing rope he’d bought several months ago. Once they were secure he added several layers of duct tape to make sure—even wrapping a few extra loops over the hands themselves. There’d be no way for those fingers to get restless and somehow pick apart the knots in those ropes.

The ankles came next—minus the boots of course. Even in civvies, O’Neill still wore his boots. After tightening down the rope and trimming off the ends, Wayne wrapped O’Neill’s ankles as he had done his wrists, with several layers of silver tape, before securing O’Neill’s wrists and ankles together with another length of cord.
Stepping back, he gazed down at O’Neill and his handiwork, proud of what he’d accomplished.

A gag and blindfold followed next, with an extra piece of duct tape to make sure the gag didn’t move. He wouldn’t want that gag to come off at an inopportune moment. And from the file he’d read on the man, he’d start screaming loud enough to wake the dead as soon as he came back to consciousness. The drug should last the rest of the night, Wayne had estimated, allowing O’Neill to wake in the early morning hours and have the pleasure of the unending ride north to consider his predicament—hog tied and locked in the truck of a car heading God knows where. Many other men had found their confinement much too intense for their liking.

He knew this man would be different.

Wayne had tossed O’Neill’s heavy boots, the rest of the cord, and the remaining duct tape into the trunk with the unconscious man. As an afterthought, he had pocketed O’Neill’s keys. There was no need to leave those lying about.

And now, having reached the campsite, he settled into his tent. Wayne closed his eyes smiling slightly as his muscular body relaxed into the sleeping bag.

There’s nothing like a good night’s sleep for the weary. Besides, he had a long drive ahead of him tomorrow.

Jack O’Neill slowly worked his way back to the land of the conscious and regretted every minute of it.

His head hurt, pounding with every beat of his heart. For some reason that he couldn’t fathom, his arms hurt and he was having trouble breathing.

The last thing he remembered clearly was yelling at Daniel.

How that had anything to do with the pain he was feeling was beyond his current ability to consider.

Slowly his senses and his memories swam back into view making the picture in his mind even more distinct.

He remembered the bar and talking to Fred. He remembered driving home. He remembered falling to the ground, holding a small white dart in his hand.

Damn.

He’d been drugged.

That was so not good on top of a hangover.

He forcibly dragged himself closer to consciousness, the pain of his twisted limbs and his predicament finally becoming clear. He was blindfolded, gagged, and bound. It seemed as if he was in some kind of moving vehicle. From the limited room and the smell of oil, he figured he was in a trunk. The pounding of his head, though, was in time with the thump-thump of the tires on pavement—and from the sound of things, they were on a highway moving pretty fast.

He wiggled a little, trying to figure out how much room he had, only to moan into his gag, the pain in his arms and his head suddenly overwhelming him. He had no way to tell how long he’d been like this and no way to tell how long it would last.

Once he was able to get the pain under control, he took stock of his situation one salient point at a time. He was bootless—he could move his toes freely. He’d managed to lose his jacket and flannel shirt—he could feel the air on his forearms. One light tug of his feet pulled at his arms, nearly causing him to cry out again. Arms and legs appeared to be tied together.

And if his senses were working correctly, his pants were damp, so sometime during his unconscious stupor he’d apparently felt the need to relieve himself.

Wonderful, Jack thought sarcastically. He was hog tied, no less. This day just keeps getting better and better.

With no other options open to him, he sighed deeply, as best as he could manage, and resigned himself to rest and save his strength.

Things couldn’t get much worse—could they?

Pulling up to the lakeside cabin, Wayne smiled broadly. He was finally home and the fun could begin. He stepped from the car, stretching luxuriously, trying to get the kinks out of his lithe frame.

He’d had this cabin built when he was younger, when he was in his early twenties and just getting into the business. Right on Flathead Lake, the view of the unspoiled wilderness around him was incomparable. The cabin had all of the modern conveyances—plus a few extra special ones.

Out of all the homes he had, this one was his favorite. And for this particular assignment, it was perfect.

He moved to the back of the car, opening the trunk with the key. O’Neill was awake. He could tell by the way O’Neill’s arm muscles tightened.

Wayne moved quickly, untying the blindfold and pulling it from O’Neill’s face so he could see his victim’s eyes. From this point on, O’Neill could see anything and everything. He wasn’t going to come out of this cabin alive—at least as far as Wayne was concerned.

O’Neill’s eyes watered as he tried to focus, the light too intense after such a prolonged period of enforced darkness.

"Welcome home, Jack," Wayne said, leaning down so he could look the older man in the eyes and block some of the rays of the sun. "Did you have a comfortable trip?"

O’Neill stared back at him, his brown eyes hard and unforgiving. He muttered something unintelligible into his gag, but Wayne got the general idea. O’Neill was not a happy camper.

Well, that wasn’t about to change anytime soon.

"If you’d rather stay here, I can leave you. I was going to be nice and bring you into the house, but if you don’t want to," Wayne said, stepping back a little, his hand coming to rest on the top of the trunk lid.

"Mmfph, mmfph," Jack said loudly, his eyes widening and relaying the message his mouth could not.

"Fine. I’m glad you’ve decided to cooperate," Wayne grinned sarcastically, pushing Jack forward a little to gain access to his bound hands. "Now, don’t get any ideas, Jack. I’m just going to untie your hands and feet. I can do this with you conscious or unconscious. It makes no difference to me. Do you understand?"

At Jack’s slight nod, Wayne quickly untied the rope holding Jack’s hands and feet together, leaving his ankles and wrists still bound tightly with the layers of rope and tape. Coiling the extra length of rope in his hand, Wayne rolled Jack back over so he could look him in the face.

It was obvious to Wayne that O’Neill was in pain from the way his forehead was creased and his eyes were tightly screwed closed. Being stuck in the same position for two days would do that, although O’Neill had handled the trip well, even better than Wayne had expected.

"Jack, I’m going to bring you inside now so don’t get any ideas. Do you understand me?"

O’Neill’s eyes flicked open, understanding clearly evident, even as his eyes continued to water from the light. He nodded slightly. Apparently, O’Neill’s tolerance for pain was pretty high—something else Wayne filed away for later.

"Good," Wayne said, levering the older man up before hoisting him over a shoulder, O’Neill’s upper torso hanging down his back. "Oh, and I’d recommend not throwing up or anything. I’d hate for you to drown in your own vomit since that gag isn’t coming off just yet."

Slamming the truck closed with his free hand, Wayne moved easily over to the cabin, fingering through his keys one-handed as he searched for the one for the front door. Finding it quickly, he unlocked it, moving steadily deeper into the house. He entered the main bedroom and strode to the closet. Pushing aside the clothes hanging there, he opened another door, revealing a dark staircase leading down under the main section of the cabin.

Flicking on the lights, Wayne descended. O’Neill had been still and quiet for the entire transfer so far, but now he was starting to fidget. "Jack, I’d recommend that you stop whatever it is you’re doing now," Wayne said, his voice a matter-of-fact.

When O’Neill ignored his suggestion, Wayne started moving faster, jostling the older man slung over his shoulder. In the basement hallway he passed a large cabinet and stopped, pausing only long enough to grab a drug ampule and a needle. He placed both items in his deep jacket pocket. He’d need them in a few minutes.

Pulling out another ring of keys, he unlocked the stainless steel door at the end of the hallway that opened to reveal a large room completely constructed out of metal. The slightly sloping floor lead to a drain located in the center of the room.

A threadbare mattress in the corner of the room was the only consideration Wayne made for the comfort of his victims. He dumped O’Neill roughly onto it and even tied as he was, the man quickly tried to flip over, to somehow move to get his feet in a position to deliver a powerful kick.

Wayne was expecting nothing less.

He quickly flipped O’Neill back over onto his stomach, placing his knee in the small of his back before he leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Now, why did you have to go and do that? That wasn’t very nice, Jack," he purred, readying the injection, Jack’s dark brown eyes struggling to watch his every move, as Wayne positioned the needle just below Jack’s neck, directly over the spine. "Now, I’d suggest you didn’t move a muscle right now. I’d hate to cause any permanent damage so early on."

Wayne knew the initial injection would hurt, but it was minor compared to the pain he would feel from the drug itself. O’Neill tensed as the needle slid in easily, directly into the space between Jack’s vertebrae. Withdrawing the plunger a bit, Wayne noted there was a little spinal fluid backwashing into the syringe. Perfect, he thought. He’d gotten the placement just right the first time. Pushing the plunger down the rest of the way, Wayne emptied the contents with a single press of his finger.

Jumping up, Wayne palmed the used needle and stepped back to watch the man before him writhe in pain. This particular drug he enjoyed using when he had to teach his victims a lesson.

In addition to the intense headache they immediately got from the delivery of the drug, it was designed to feel as if fire was ravaging the very nerves of their bodies.

Wayne had found this drug quite accidentally, but now used it extensively on his more uncooperative subjects. It was a type of attenuated Polio virus, causing both paralysis and a heightened sensitivity of the victims sensory nerve endings. With this drug, he didn’t have to worry about respiratory arrest or the diaphragm muscles becoming paralysed as he had with other drugs. Several of his subjects had died that way early on.

Depending on the dose, the effect could last a few hours or several days. With the dose he had given O’Neill, he shouldn’t have to worry about him going anywhere for two days at least.

It would give him just enough time to prepare everything else.

As Wayne walked out of the metal cell, he turned the light off, plunging the room into darkness.

He left the door open, though.