STARGATE ATLANTIS: Blood Ties by Blood Ties (SGA-8)

Author:Blood Ties (SGA-8) [Retail]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fandemonium Books
Published: 2020-06-30T19:33:56+00:00

chapter seventeen

Daniel came to with indistinct memories of a fireball and a jolt of searing pain anchored in his mind. That alone was enough to be troubling, but he already could tell that he wasn’t badly injured. Hushed murmurs came from somewhere above him: Arabic, he identified, reminding him where he was…or at least where he’d been at the start of all this.

Dragging his eyes open, he struggled to adjust to the low light and found three — no, four — men standing around him. There was no immediate evidence of weapons, although he knew better than to make any presumptions along those lines. Still, he wasn’t tied up or gagged, which was a good sign. It beat the alternatives, at least.

A dull throb on one side of his head made itself known, and he reached up to brush his fingers over a light bandage just behind his right ear. Since he had a better than passing familiarity with concussions, he was confident that this didn’t qualify. The material draped along his arm also alerted him to the fact that he was no longer dressed in desert camouflage but instead in traditional robes. Another good sign.

His hosts watched him, their facial hair and the uneven lamplight colluding to make their expressions unreadable. Wondering what had happened, Daniel tested his voice and found it scratchy but serviceable. “Aih elly hassal?”

All four men showed the same amount of surprise — namely, no surprise at all. Stepping closer to him, one of them answered, “Your group was attacked. Insurgents, you would call them. We were nearby and pulled you from your vehicle before they could capture you.”

“Shukran — thank you.”

“Mafi mushkillah — no problem. It is our way of taking some small measure of control back from the many factions in this country that claim to act on our behalf.”

It was a reasonable response, but Daniel took it with a grain of salt all the same. Cautiously, he pushed himself into a sitting position and looked around. His pallet rested on the stone floor of a cellar-like room, lit only with lamps and a couple of flashlights and smelling vaguely of goats and other animals. In the corner unmatched chairs surrounded a worn wooden table cluttered with several pots and plates, a small bowl of fruit, and what looked to be homemade candles. There were no windows; he could tell it was night only because one wall was damaged and offered a porthole view of the darkened street outside.

Glancing up at the man who’d spoken, he said, “Are we still in Baghdad?”

“Not quite.”

Lack of power notwithstanding, a steaming cup of black tea was offered, and Daniel sat fully upright and accepted it with gratitude. As soon as the sweetened drink touched his tongue, he recalled the coffee he’d had just before — “Tariq!” he said sharply, almost sloshing the tea over his hand. “He was there when the attack started.”

The reply was laden with the burden of loss. “I regret to say that there was little left of him to be found.

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