STARGATE SG-1: Survival of the Fittest by Survival of the Fittest (SG1–7)

Author:Survival of the Fittest (SG1–7) [Retail]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Fandemonium Books
Published: 2020-06-25T10:16:50+00:00

chapter fourteen

Missing Link: Absent member required to complete a developmental chain.

“I am hurrying up!” hissed Maybourne and inserted the fifth skeleton key in as many minutes into the door lock. “Don’t know what he thinks he’s keeping in there. Last time I saw something like this, I was in Leavenworth.”

Probably a hyperbole, but still not exactly encouraging, given the fact that Harry’s lock-picking talent wasn’t what had busted him out of jail. That particular miracle had been wrought by Jack O’Neill calling in a lifetime collection of chits.

Not for the first time tonight George Hammond wished they could have hidden out at Jack’s place. It would have made things easier all round. But Colonel O’Neill very likely headed the NID’s list of People To Be Put Under Surveillance. Hammond sighed and checked over his shoulder. The orange-pop glow of streetlamps bounced off low clouds and trickled into this backyard in suburban Colorado Springs; a timid soul in one of the neighboring houses had left on a nightlight, and three or four yards over a lovesick tomcat yowled his misery. Otherwise everything was quiet. Question was for how long.

“Hurry up,” Hammond whispered. Again.

“For the — ” A gentle click cut off the tirade, then the lock gave. Maybourne straightened up and eased a kink from his neck. “See?”

He nudged the crack in the door wider and slipped inside. A fraction of a second later Hammond heard muffled cussing, followed by a series of dull thuds. Damn. “Stand down, Sergeant!”

There was a pause. Next the lights came on and the door flew all the way open. In the frame stood Sergeant Siler, wielding the great-grandmother of all wrenches. If Harry had been given a center parting with that thing, he probably needed a neurosurgeon.

Behind the wire-frame glasses, the sergeant’s eyes were wide as saucers. “General! I… You…” The wrench gave a diffident wiggle that made Hammond want to duck. Siler swallowed. “Uh, sorry, sir. Please, uh… come on in.”

“Thanks.” Hammond stepped into a small, well-appointed kitchen that was twice as clean as his own and outed the unassuming sergeant as either a neat-freak or a hobby cook. A groan from behind the door made him turn.

Maybourne was coming to, gingerly probing what promised to become the goose-egg to end them all. “I’m okay. Thanks for the concern.”

Siler’s eyes went even wider. “Sir, that’s Colonel Maybourne!”

“I noticed. You won’t be needing the wrench, though.”

“Yessir.” Siler closed the door, locked it, and deposited the tool on the kitchen table. “Was it him who kidnapped you?”

Evidently the NID had stuck with the abduction tale, the easier to explain his planned demise, no doubt. Hammond shrugged. “In a manner of speaking.”

“Want me to call the police, sir?”

“No,” said Hammond.

“No!” yelped Maybourne, picking himself up from the linoleum. His gaze arrested on Siler, and his jaw dropped. “On second thought, maybe you should. I’m not sure that’s legal.”

The sergeant’s pajamas displayed scenes from the marital life of Marge and Homer Simpson you didn’t get to see on any television network Hammond had ever heard of.

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