An insistent beeping woke Wayne from a deep, restful sleep. Rolling over onto his side so he could see the time, he realized the sound was not from his alarm clock, but from the motion sensor that was set up in the metal cell downstairs.

It was 3:30 am on Tuesday morning and Jack O’Neill’s paralysis was wearing off—several hours earlier than Wayne had originally estimated.

Perfect.

Jack O’Neill was like a dream come true.

Pushing himself up out of the bed, Wayne padded barefoot across the darkened master bedroom and opened the closet door, heading down the hidden staircase into his basement lair. The air in the house was cool making Wayne wish he had stopped to pull long pants over his loose-fitting boxers, but he knew this wouldn’t take long. He shivered slightly, the hairs on his arms rising. Stopping briefly at the large closet at the bottom, he snagged a pair of black, mid-thigh length, skin-tight cotton boxers, his hunting knife, and his spare key ring before heading to the end of the hallway, flicking on the interior light as he swung open the door.

O’Neill, curled up on his side with his legs tucked up toward his chest, was dry and fast asleep. The harsh, bright fluorescent lighting didn’t even wake the slumbering man.

Wayne could remedy that situation easily enough, he thought, striding over and pushing O’Neill onto his back.

Apparently, O’Neill hadn’t been sleeping.

Both of O’Neill’s legs shot out, hitting Wayne in the groin and knocking him flat on his back as he clutched himself, trying to manage the pain. Another swipe of O’Neill’s legs caught him a glancing blow on his side.

Getting the agony under control quickly, Wayne rolled to his knees just as O’Neill tried once again to kick him—this time aiming for where Wayne’s head had been merely seconds before.

Wayne’s adrenaline was pumping and he felt alive for the first time in years.

This was the way things were supposed to happen. And to think that Wayne had originally decided not to take the job when it had been offered nearly one year ago. He’d completed a number of "government" jobs over the course of his professional career and in this instance, he had been uninterested at first. After all, O’Neill was only an Air Force Colonel, another paper pusher. What fun could that be?

But something had made him change his mind.

He’d seen a sign the very morning he decided to pass on the job, making him rethink his decision. A series of unusually severe storm systems had descended suddenly upon the area—and then multiplied out across the world—causing widespread confusion and panic. For Wayne, he’d seen it as a godsend and immediately called his contact, agreeing to take the assignment. Not long after—a few days at the most—everything had calmed down once again, convincing Wayne that he had indeed made the right decision.

Besides, the living proof was squirming and fighting before him, trying to put his lights out.

He smiled broadly as he watched O’Neill attempt to head for the door, trying to regain his feet even with his arms tied behind his back. Wayne let him find his feet before attacking.

A punch to the face sent O’Neill reeling, nearly causing him to lose his balance. With a second blow to O’Neill’s stomach Wayne heard an audible crack as Jack was rocked backwards, pain etched deeply in the lines of his face. He tried to cradle his midsection by bending over, but this left him open for Wayne’s final move. The last punch landed precisely on Jack’s jaw, snapping his head back into the metal wall, his eyes rolling back in his head as he slumped to the floor in a heap, unconscious.

Wayne wiped the few beads of sweat off of his brow as he towered over Jack, breathing deeply. He might as well get the rest of this done before he woke up, Wayne thought critically, remembering that he had come here with a specific errand in mind.

Pulling the nearest leg to him, Wayne yanked Jack so he was lying facedown on the floor once again. Wayne retrieved his knife and knelt beside the body, slicing quickly through the bonds on Jack’s wrists and hands, ripping the silver tape free, throwing it toward the door. He’d pick it up on his way out.

Jack moaned a little as his arms dropped to lie beside him, finally free of the restraints—but not for long.

Wayne rose and went to recover the boxers he’d dropped when Jack had attacked moments before. Flipping the man roughly onto his back, Wayne slid them into place before heading back to the metal cabinets, unlocking another door to reveal a variety of items. He selected two and, leaving the door open, returned to O’Neill’s side dropping them to the floor with a sharp metal clunk as he squatted down once again. He’d go back for the rest in a minute.

Pulling O’Neill’s closer hand to him, Wayne started fastening the heavy metal cuffs on the red and rope-burned wrists. These handcuffs were not your run-of-the-mill, standard issue cuffs. These had been specifically designed to Wayne’s particular specifications. They were made of a high-strength industrial metal and were locked with a custom designed key—of which there were only two copies, one on each of Wayne’s key rings. All of Wayne’s restraints—in various sizes and for various situations—shared the same locking system. The restraints were designed to conform to the wearer’s wrists, sitting tight against the skin. The short, thick chain linked the two cuffs and also provided an ideal place for additional items to be attached—whether it was a lead chain or a specially designed locking clamp.

Once Wayne had finished securing Jack’s wrists—in front this time—he moved to the ankles, shackling them together with a larger set of restraints.

O’Neill was starting to come around—his eyes moving beneath his lids. There wasn’t much time left.

Leaping to his feet, Wayne hurried to the cabinet and retrieved a steel cord that he attached to the chain between Jack’s wrists before connecting it to a small device hidden in the ceiling.

Just as Jack was regaining consciousness, Wayne quickly flipped a switch in the cabinet and the device in the ceiling started to spin, taking up the slack in the cord and raising Jack’s wrists above his head.

Jack’s eyes opened slowly, confusion clearly evident in the brown orbs. "What?" he said. Wayne was almost certain that Jack was trying to focus on his surroundings, trying to understand what was happening to him. If he were in Jack’s place, he’d be doing the same thing.

He stopped the device before Jack’s wrists got too high. Wayne wasn’t ready to do anything more tonight. He just wanted to make sure that Jack was ready for the morning’s activities. Grabbing a locking clamp, Wayne roughly pulled Jack’s feet to the nearest D ring recessed into the metal floor, securing Jack in place.

Tapping Jack’s bare leg lightly, he smiled broadly. "Well, wasn’t that fun?"

O’Neill sent daggers his way, refusing to comment.

"Enjoy the rest of your night," Wayne said, locking up the cabinets and collecting his knife and the garbage he’d left behind. "Cleanliness is next to Godliness, don’t you think, Jack?"

"I’m not going to tell you anything." The sound of Jack’s voice—determined and steel-like—nearly stopped him in his tracks. Turned to the door and away from his captive, Wayne allowed his surprise to spread across his face.

"I don’t care," Wayne said, throwing the words carelessly over his shoulder. "I’m not interested in anything you’d have to say."

"Who the hell are you?" Jack asked, his voice harsh, his eyes flashing with anger, stopping Wayne in his tracks. His muscles tensed beneath his light cotton shirt, but he fixed a broad smile on his face before he turned back to his victim.

"Oh, we haven’t been formally introduced have we? I apologize for that," Wayne said, bowing low, his hands nearly scraping the floor in an exaggerated gesture to the shackled man before him. "My name is Wayne Nichols and I’d like to welcome you to what will be the last home you’ll ever have." He turned with a flamboyant motion and stepped to the door. "Good night."

Jack sighed deeply as the door slammed shut behind Wayne. The sound of the bolt sliding home was loud in the silence, echoing strangely against the walls.

Wayne Nichols? Who the hell was Wayne Nichols? Jack wracked his brain, but nothing was connecting. Whoever this guy was, he obviously meant business.

Jack was grateful for the minimal protection Wayne had permitted him—although a shirt or a blanket would have been nice as well. He scooted back an inch or two—as far as his bonds would permit—so he could lean a little easier against the cold metal wall.

He was trying to ignore the discomfort in his arms and chest. From the pain radiating outward, Jack was sure that at least one rib was bruised, perhaps broken. Without a closer examination he couldn’t be certain. Unfortunately, he knew the feeling of bruised and battered ribs far too well for his liking.

His arms, though, were another story. Thankfully, they were no longer behind his back, but now that they were hanging several feet in the air—and above his head—it was not much better. His muscles were painful and sore from being stretched backward in such an awkward position for such an extended length of time. The limited freedom of movement he was now enjoying was causing excruciating pain along both his back muscles and his arms.

As an added bonus to his already miserable situation, he was sure that his arms would probably fall asleep in an hour or so and then he’d get the wonderful privilege of pins and needles as the circulation was eventually restored when the maniac returned and, hopefully, let him down.

Not if, when, because Jack was positive he would return. He obviously enjoyed his job far too much. This of course meant that Jack would not be enjoying his stay.

He already wasn’t.

As if the pain in his body and arms wasn’t enough, he had a raging headache. Getting hit with a fist in the jaw and, from the feel of things, also impacting the back of his head on the metal wall would do that to you. The lack of food and water did not help matters either.

Now, his earlier attempt to leave the premises would have been considered foolhardy by some—and in many ways he’d have to agree. He had known that escape was a long shot even when he had been planning it, but he had to try. With his hands still bound behind him, his only option had involved using his feet and the element of surprise. As soon as he found he could move his limbs once again, the plan had gone into effect.

Jack was surprised at how quickly Wayne had appeared—merely minutes after he’d managed to curl himself into a ball. That answered another of Jack’s questions though. Wayne had to have cameras in the room, or at the very least, motion sensors of some kind.

Glancing around the room, finally getting the chance to actually see where he was with the benefit of the bright overhead lighting, Jack tried to locate the various sensors and detectors he knew had to be there. He spotted four: one in each corner of the room. They were small and, from the looks of things, very high tech.

Wayne liked his gadgets, that much was certain.

Jack knew that he’d made his fair share of enemies over the years, but he never thought that they would ever resort to kidnapping and murder. Although, Jack through wryly, a good portion of those same people hadn’t lived long enough to do anything about their "disagreements" with him. Mostly they ended up meeting their maker a bit prematurely because one of their hair-brained schemes or plans had gone to hell in a hand-basket—just like Jack had known it would at some point in time.

But, Jack was proud to say that he never had anything to do with those mysterious events. There were things that he would do for his country—and that was not one of them.

Jack let his thoughts run free, mulling over the reasons and the possibilities, finally settling on one. This probably had to do with the Stargate program. But what exactly? Although Senator Kinsey was annoying and had motives of his own, this was generally not the route that Jack could see him taking. Granted, a few years down the line things could be very different and Kinsey might be inclined to take more drastic action where the Stargate was concerned.

But that still left Jack with two unanswered questions: who and why?

Shifting his aching body on the cold metal floor brought Jack’s attention back to his current dilemma. Things hadn’t changed, but he just knew that one thing was certain: he needed to get out of here quickly before Wayne managed to do something to him that was a little more permanent.

Unfortunately, his only option at the present time was to sit and wait. Waiting was something he detested doing for any length of time. He even hated it more than the torture the System Lords or insane humans could bring upon him.

Go figure.

How much time passed before Wayne arrived once again, Jack could not tell. He’d managed to nod off a little, his head cradled awkwardly into the crook of his arms, the weight pulling uncomfortably at the metal on his wrists and causing them to dig deeper into his already abused body. He’d managed to ignore the pain, pushing it to the back corner of his mind, which allowed him to sleep.

He didn’t hear Wayne enter the room, but when Jack finally opened his eyes once again, the first thing he saw was Wayne’s ugly mug—only six inches away. Apparently, Wayne had been waiting for him.

Joy.

"Morning sleeping beauty. How was your nap? Did you get enough sleep?" The words, while outwardly kind, were insincere, dripping with sarcasm. Wayne’s hazel eyes, though, were wild, a strange light gleaming from within. This man was not exactly what O’Neill would consider sane—and Jack had developed a pretty broad definition of what that term meant over the years.

"Oh, well, you know," Jack said, trying to figure out the best way to respond. He wasn’t sure what would tick Wayne off. And contrary to his team’s most popular belief, he really wasn’t masochistic. If all things were equal, he’d never get himself into these situations in the first place. Unfortunately, the universe and the world at large had other things in mind when it came to Jack O’Neill. "I’ve had better and I’ve had worse. Room service leaves a lot to be desired, however."

"I’ll make sure I tell someone who cares," Wayne said, the corner of his mouth twitching, threatening to break out into another broad grin. "So, Jack, we get to spend the better part of the day getting to know each other a little better. That should be exciting don’t you think?"

Jack smiled without humor, wincing as his bruised jaw muscles were forced to move. "Oh, yeah. I’m really looking forward to it."

This snide remark was rewarded with a slap to his cheek, rocking him back a little. "That wasn’t very nice."

"Best I could do on such short notice."

"Don’t worry, Jack. By the end of the day you will have wished you’d been nicer," Wayne said, rising to his feet and striding to the locked cabinets. He paused before opening the door, turning back to Jack with a thoughtful expression on his face. "Now, where should I begin? There’s so much I could do."

"Whatever floats your boat," Jack muttered, sighing deeply and turning his head toward the door of the room—which was closed tightly. Even though he didn’t want to know exactly what Wayne had in store, there was just something about this whole situation that made him turn back, watching Wayne’s every move. It was almost like watching an accident on the side of the road—he just couldn’t turn away even though he wanted to. Jack felt like he was staring down a runaway train heading directly for him, horns blaring.

Wayne was digging deep within one of the cabinets and had another door opened part of the way. Several items were piled on the floor—metal and wires twisted together into an obscene sculpture—and none of them looked like fun.

Unfortunately, Jack had had plenty of experience over the years with the various methods used for torture. While this smelled distinctly of another torture session, there was something noticeably different.

Wayne didn’t seem to be interested in any information.

Actually, Wayne didn’t seem to care one iota for any of the classified items of information that he had packed away in his mind.

And that worried Jack more than anything else did.

What if this wasn’t about information? What if this was about something else entirely? What the hell was he supposed to do then?

"So, Wayne," Jack said, clearing his throat a little. "What is it…exactly, that you, ah, do for a living?"

Wayne turned, eyeing Jack strangely before turning back to the closet. His voice was hesitant and puzzled when he finally replied. "Why do you ask?"

Jack offered a weak shrug and gestured as best he could with his hands bound as they were—old habits die hard. "Well, we’re apparently going to be spending some…time…together and…well, honestly, I’d really like to know what this is all about."

"Ah," Wayne said, turning back to O’Neill, a long piece of wire twirled between his fingers. "I figured this would come up some time or another."

When he didn’t continue, Jack rolled his eyes heavenward. "And?"

"Oh," Wayne said, focusing finally on O’Neill’s face. "Well, if you really need to know and you haven’t figured it out for yourself, I guess I’ll have to tell you. I’m a problem solver. You, my friend, are a problem."

Now while Jack knew he could be annoying, a royal pain in the mikta, and very outspoken, he’d never been referred to as "a problem." This did not bode well. "Look," Jack said, grimacing a little at the soreness of his muscles. "This is probably a bad idea. You know, you could just forget about this whole…misunderstanding…and we could both be on our merry way."

Jack knew that this conversation was really not getting anywhere and from the looks of things, it wasn’t about ready to get any better.

"Now see, Jack, that’s not going to happen," Wayne said, stepping forward to kneel in front of O’Neill, his eyes level with Jack’s. "You see, I’m one of the best problem solvers that has ever been around and I’ve never gone back to my clients with an incomplete job. If I did that now, for you, it would not be good for my business. And, you see, my business is my life."

"Now, Wayne," Jack said, a ball of fear growing in the pit of his stomach. This was so not good. "You know that I’m not just your average citizen or anything, right?"

"Of course, you’re not," Wayne said, rising to his feet, his face turning red with anger. "What do you take me for? I’m the consummate professional. I’ve been working on your particular case for close to a year now. You know," he said, his face changing rapidly from rage to coyness as he turned back to the cabinet. "You’re one of the most difficult people I’ve had to pin down, but I knew sooner or later, that you’d let your guard down." Wayne whirled back suddenly, his voice rising once again in anger. "So what if you’re a big Air Force Colonel? Makes no difference to me who you are or what you do. As long as I get paid, that’s the only thing that matters."

"So," Jack said, drawing the word out in the silence that had fallen between them. "How much are you getting?"

"Actually," Wayne said, flashing a smile. "You’re my highest paying assignment. Whoever you pissed off wants you to suffer for a long time before you die."

"Before you kill me, you mean."

"Well, of course." Wayne offered a weak shrug and a smile. "What else did you expect?"

"For you to let me go."

"We’ve been through that."

"Yeah," Jack sighed slightly. "Hoping you’d change your mind actually."

"That’s not an option at the current time," Wayne said, turning back to the cabinet and withdrawing a long cylindrical object. Jack recognized it immediately. During his years in the military and now again at the SGC, he’d campaigned against objects like the one Wayne was holding. While rightful police officers could benefit from its use, more often than not, they usually fell into the hands of some homicidal maniac. And then Jack, in turn, would end up just as he was now—helpless, alone, and at the mercy of one man’s whims.

"And what exactly are you planning to do with that?" Jack asked, panic slowly rising in his voice, as he tore his eyes away from the Electro-shock "stun" gun in Wayne’s hands to look at his captor’s face.

Wayne’s smile was chillingly bright. "Have fun."

Wayne could barely contain his excitement as he watched the fear and panic rise in the face of the shackled man before him—pulling at his restraints unconsciously, struggling to break free. While Jack noticeably tried to calm his emotions, Wayne could still sense them lying just below the surface.

This would be fun.

Jack had recognized the stun gun as soon as Wayne had withdrawn it from the cabinet, his eyes widening in horror as Wayne took a step closer to him. Other men when faced with a similar situation had generally been puzzled, unsure what was in store for them. Some had resorted to begging and pleading for their lives. Now while Wayne normally enjoyed such a display from his helpless captive, these men had been weak, spineless excuses for men. Men Wayne was more than willing to rid the world of their genes.

From that point on, things had progressed steadily—the torture reducing these once great men to sniveling shells of the men they had been before.

But now, unbelievably right before his eyes, the nearly naked man shackled and bound before him took a deep breath and opened his eyes again, looking at Wayne with one of the calmest and unconcerned gazes he’d ever seen.

Wayne was flabbergasted.

How could this be? How could this helpless man before him not be scared, terrified for his life, anticipating the pain that Wayne knew he could—and would—inflict on him over the course of the next several days? What was this man made of that he could stare unflinchingly at the face of his torturer?

The man’s arrogance and gall irritated him.

He’d wipe that smug expression off Jack’s face quickly enough. Of this, Wayne was convinced. ***

Breathing deeply, Jack opened his eyes, gazing levelly at the man towering over him, the stun gun rhythmically slapping against the open palm of his hand.

Wayne’s confidently smug expression shifted slightly, his eyes narrowing in puzzlement. Apparently, his response was something Wayne did not expect. Well, Jack could work with that easily enough.

"So, it’s time for the torture is it?" Jack asked, tilting his head at an angle, gazing up at Wayne.

As quick as a flash of lightening, Wayne struck out, his hand swinging widely, the side of the stun gun connecting solidly with the side of Jack’s head. Jack saw stars for a minute, but quickly blinked them away, his eyes watering slightly. "What was that for?"

"I’m just getting started," Wayne growled, striking again with the blunt end of the weapon, hitting Jack’s side at the same point he had the night before.

Jack bit his lip to keep his yelp of pain to himself. There was no need to fuel his captor’s obvious desire to hear him suffering. He watched Wayne out of the corner of his eye, standing before him sucking in deep breaths of air, his eyes wide and dilated. Jack nearly groaned. He always had to get the crazy ones didn’t he?

When he could catch his breath again, Jack offered a weak smile. "So, Wayne, what’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this? The wife enjoy your line of work?"

Wayne’s eyes hardened, but surprisingly to O’Neill, he answered, his tone quiet. "I was raised up here and I don’t have a wife." Wayne paused and Jack could see the storms of emotion in his eyes—flickering quickly back and forth between calmness and rage.

This young man did not have a grip on reality. Hell, Jack thought, he was probably barely hanging onto reality with the tips of his fingers.

"So…" Jack continued, his voice trailing off slightly. "How about mom and dad? Still living at home are ya?"

"Dead. They’re both dead," Wayne answered, gritting out the words between his clenched teeth.

"Maybe that’s better for them, huh. They don’t get to see the sadistic son of a bitch they raised."

Enraged, Wayne swept down, his face inches from Jack’s. "I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to work," he said, the words coming in a primitive growl from deep within Wayne’s throat. "And I’m going to enjoy every minute of this as I wipe that smug smile off of your face," he continued, the thumb of his right hand flicking a switch on the weapon in his hand.

Jack tried to move, to somehow duck away from the gun, but tied as he was, he couldn’t go far. Wayne jabbed the business end of it into his side and with a manic smile, activated it.

An agonizing pain swept through Jack, his muscles convulsing as the electric current ran through his body. A strangled cry of agony unintentionally issued forth from his mouth before blackness swam over him, his senses overloading until he felt no more.

Wayne was breathing deeply, his breath coming in harsh pants.

How dare he!

He stepped back, a flush of pleasure crossing his face as O’Neill’s head lolled between his arms, his body completely slack against the restraints.

Wayne tried to get his breathing back under control as he basked in the afterglow of emotions caused by what he’d done. He hadn’t intended on jabbing O’Neill for so long so early on. He had planned to work up to it, but Jack had asked for it. He’d taunted him, teased him.

Jack had taken control—asking the questions, demanding answers—just like his father.

And his father was dead because of it—just like Jack would be.

How dare he question me! He has no right. He has no right to judge me. I am the judge and jury—the beginning and the end, the Alpha and the Omega—in this matter. I have the power over life and death. Jack would have to acknowledge that fact—even if it kills him.

Wayne switched off the power on his stun gun, absently remembering that he needed to conserve its power. Even though it was rechargeable, he didn’t want to have to worry about it in the middle of today’s exercises.

The gun had performed perfectly—immobilizing his victim within seconds and causing intense pain. Wayne’s nose twitched a little as the smell of urine and human excrement wafted up from the figure before him. Wayne nodded to himself. Yes, the device had worked perfectly—just as the dealers had said it would.

As much as Wayne hated the smell and the uncleanness, he knew that this would not be the end of it. He still had plenty planned for the afternoon.

Wayne stepped back, eyeing his victim closely for a moment before grabbing a folding chair and settling himself into it.

He loved this room.

He loved the possibilities this room offered him.

The room had special hookups in the walls, ceilings, and the floor. Cameras recorded everything that happened in the room from four different angles. The shelving offered ample space for his tools and toys. The hooks in the floor were grounded so there was no worry about him of accidentally shocking himself when he used electric torture methods.

Jack was starting to stir. Wayne glanced at his watch, impressed that it had only taken a few minutes for the man to regain consciousness. It was good to know that Jack was especially resilient.

This would be fun.

Very fun indeed.

Consciousness came back to Jack slowly and the first thing he noticed was the odor. Shit, he thought to himself. Wonderful. Just what he needed. Could the day get any worse?

Jack opened his eyes briefly, blinking in the harsh glare from the bright overhead lights. His head was hanging down between his arms, his chin against his chest. A wave of nausea washed over him, making him clamp his eyes shut tightly as he waited for it to pass.

He had forgotten how painful a stun gun could be.

Releasing the breath he’d been holding, Jack opened his eyes once again and raised his head, squinting a little as the room tilted. He was thankful it didn’t spin.

"So," he said, catching his captor’s eye and offering as broad a grin as he could muster. "That was fun."

Wayne rose quietly from his chair, gliding over to Jack, stopping a few feet from him. "I’m glad you enjoyed it," Wayne said, his tone sarcastic as he moved again, this time settling down at Jack’s feet. "So where were we?"

"I think we were discussing your heritage as a sadistic bastard," Jack said, taunting Wayne with his tone and his words.

Instead of reacting as Jack thought he would, however, Wayne just smiled and switched the power of stun gun on. "I would guess," Wayne said, looking intently at Jack’s bare feet before him, "that we have a similar background then. Wouldn’t you say, Jack?" Wayne lightly touched the activated gun to the sole of Jack’s right foot, sending tendrils of pain shooting up Jack’s leg.

Even as he tried to move away, to shift somehow away from the pain, Jack only managed to allow the current to touch new areas of his foot, sending waves of agony up his nerves. Wayne withdrew the device before the pain overwhelmed Jack, leaving him gasping for breath instead.

But before Jack could fully recover, before he could utter a word, Wayne had begun again, attacking his left foot in a similar manner. Wayne continued this pattern for hours, alternating feet and spots until Jack was whimpering from the constant assault on his feet.

Jack knew that the skin around the restraints had to be red and bleeding by now. He could feel the sticky wetness against his skin and under his calf, the blood beginning to pool a little beneath him. Some of it came from the cuts on his feet as well, Jack imagined. He could feel his feet and ankles swelling against the restraints, cutting off some of the circulation. The electrical burns Wayne had inflicted on both of his feet Jack knew were in direct retribution for his lashing out the night before. Even though Wayne did not utter a word, Jack knew.

And through it all, Wayne sat still before him, delight clearly etched across the lines of his face. He was enjoying himself.

It would be some time before Jack would be able to walk on his own two feet. Not that Wayne cared.

"Well," Wayne finally said, catching Jack’s attention. He stretched a little and looked at his watch, before locking his gaze with Jack’s. "I think it’s about time for me to take a break and get some lunch. I don’t know about you, but I’m starved. This work makes me hungry."

"Yeah…" Jack mumbled. "Bite me."

Wayne rose to his knees and crept over to Jack’s side. Jack had a bad feeling about this.

"You know, Jack," Wayne purred, the soft tones directly in his ear. "That wasn’t very nice."

"So what are you going to do about it?" Jack asked, his tone full of anger, pain, and frustration.

Wayne smiled broadly and leveled his gaze on Jack. "This."

His eyes locked with Wayne’s, Jack couldn’t look away. Even as the stun gun came down fully activated, he couldn’t turn away from the cold, grim determination he saw in Wayne’s hazel eyes.

Jack could feel his eyes widen in surprise when the first sensations rushed through his body.

The pain was even worse than before. Instead of his feet or his side, Wayne had pressed the tip of the device hard against his groin, activating it at its highest setting. Even as Jack tried to fight, to somehow move, the agony swelled within him, rising exponentially. In the throes of the pain, Jack could hear Wayne laughing.

Even as Jack screamed, the pure sound erupting from deep inside him, Wayne’s deep-throated laugh taunted him, following him down into the blackness that had become his escape, his salvation.

Smiling broadly, Wayne switched the power off, allowing Jack’s body to slump, the muscles finally relaxing once the electric charge was no longer present.

He stood, whistling to himself, as he placed the stun gun back on its base, allowing it to recharge so it would be ready for later. Gathering up the other items scattered throughout the room, he placed them carefully on the bottom shelf, closing and locking the doors of the cabinet. He pulled open the door and grabbed the folding chair, carrying it outside into the hallway.

He took a deep breath of the clear, clean air of the hallway before he closed and locked the door behind him. As an afterthought he turned the light off.

Why waste the energy? It wasn’t as if O’Neill needed the light. Besides, he wouldn’t be seeing anything for a while. Wayne had made sure of that, holding the device longer than he should have, making sure Jack would stay unconscious longer than before.

Grinning, Wayne made his way up the stairs to the main level. He had to run to the store to get some stuff for dinner and while he was there he’d pick up a quick bite for lunch as well. He hadn’t seen Edna in a while. She was always so nice and sweet, still treating him like a child. She reminded him of his mother.

He also had to send out another round of pictures.

That was one of the strangest parts of this assignment. His employer, while remaining completely anonymous, wanted to see progress pictures. Everyone else he’d ever worked for just wanted to see the body. This employer was different.

Wayne had taken several pictures with his digital camera on the night of Jack’s kidnapping, sending them once he had gotten Jack settled downstairs. He didn’t send all of them, deciding to send a selection of images—Jack unconscious next to his truck; Jack hog-tied in the trunk of the car; and Jack bound and gagged in the metal cell. He took them from various angles, making sure they were visually interesting.

Wayne took great pride in his work—and it showed.

He had to download some images this afternoon from the digital recordings from the past day and send them along as well. There were some great shots, he knew. It was just a matter of choosing which ones to send.

Closing the front door quietly behind him, Wayne strode to his car, his steps purposeful and efficient. He had a few things that he needed to do before be could continue. The quicker he finished them, the quicker he could play.

And Wayne liked to play—especially with his new toy.