DISCLAIMER: All publicly recognisable characters and property of Stargate SG-1 belong to MGM/UA, World Gekko Corp. and Double Secret Productions. This fan fiction was created solely for entertainment purposes and no money was made from it. Also, no copyright or trademark infringement was intended. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author. Any other characters, the storyline and the actual story are the property of the author. Not to be archived without permission of the author(s).
The fact that the van was a standard, ordinary, run-of-the-mill refrigerated all-purpose carrier was not lost on Jack. Neither was the fact that it had been torched, along with a half acre of over-dry timber. Detective Amos Carroll looked grim as he recounted the van's discovery. "Got lucky with this one, Colonel, in more ways than one. A volunteer fire unit was heading back to their station after a training run. Saw the flames and fortunately had enough water to hold it at bay until more units could arrive. Dry as it is, the fire could have gone for miles. Several housing developments and a hospital just over the hill. Could have been ugly if we'd had to evacuate."
Jack nodded sympathetically, well aware of the intricacies of emergency evacuations in a military environment. He shuddered to think of the problems involved in a civilian withdrawal. "And the van?"
"Oh, yes, sorry. Your missing friend. Well, the back of the van, over the gas tank was completely gutted. We got luckier in the front. The wind took the flames away from the cab. The back of the seat is singed, but the VIN's easily readable. The trace shows it's owned by a rental company in DC."
"Credit cards! Renting a car requires a credit card. This is terrific." Sam's smile indicated her delight.
"Sorry, Major. I don't think it will help us. I suspect this was rented under a fake name."
Her face fell. "Oh."
"Detective Carroll?" A young trooper approached the portly detective.
"What is it, son?"
"Dr. Foster said to give this to you. He's already dusted it, got only partial prints. So far it's the only thing in the van with prints. Whoever left it was very careful. This was wedged between the seats. We'll try to do a match on the prints as soon as possible."
Carroll reached out and took a tiny slip of paper. "Thank you, son." His voice spoke of dismissal and the young man returned to the van. "Hmmmm, a ticket stub. Don't know to what, though."
"May I see?" Jack held out his hand expectantly, and breathed a little easier when the detective dropped the stub into his palm. He studied it for a moment. "This looks famil... Ah. WWF."
"What?" Sam and the detective asked simultaneously.
"World Wrestling Federation. I recognize the bottom part of the stub."
"You do?" Sam stared at her CO in shock.
"Colonel, are you sure?"
"Absolutely. I've seen..."
"You've been to one of those things?" Sam asked, aghast.
"No." Jack replied, too quickly. "Uh, NO, but SG-3 go whenever they get a chance."
Sam eyed him skeptically as Carroll spoke up. "No telling how long this has been here, but we'll do a trace on the ticket number. Who knows, maybe we'll get lucky. ... Again."
"I think it's recent. If I remember correctly, the Rock was supposed to face off against Triple H and the tickets had a special look for that match."
Nodding, the detective walked toward his patrol car, not quite successful in hiding his grin.
Jack looked puzzled as the man left then turned to catch Sam trying to conceal a grin. "What?"
"Nothing sir."
"Spill it, Major."
"Triple H? It sounds more like a dude ranch. ... Sir."
Daniel attempted a bravado he didn't feel as he stumbled across the threshold into the bedroom. He'd been half-drowned and stripped bare-ass naked. He was really cold, tired, hungry, scared to death, and to top it off, he felt like hell. Enough was enough. Daniel whirled to face his guards. "Dammit, I said don't push'. The look on the smaller man's face instantly told him this had not been a good idea.
Strong hands shoved the scientist against the wall, a forearm in his Adam's apple successfully pinning him in place. A coiled strip of rawhide appeared out of nowhere grasped tightly by the leering guard. Daniel cringed as the leather was rubbed gently up his bare chest, and across his face. A soft, ominous voice whispered in his ear. "Consider yourself lucky. Orders are you're not to be physically damaged -- no marks, yet. But when that changes..."
All things considered, Daniel would have preferred the threat to have been thinly veiled. The smaller guard increased the pressure on his throat, and smiled as he watched Daniel struggle to catch his breath. Humorless dark eyes studied his young prisoner for a moment, then suddenly the guard released his strangle-hold. Gasping, Daniel automatically brought his hands up to his throat, and wheezed in a fresh supply of oxygen.
"Put this on." The larger guard held out robes reminiscent of those he'd worn on Abydos.
Relieved to be able to cover himself, Daniel hastily complied, ignoring the ogling of the guards. A quick glance in the mirror - damn, when had he lost his glasses - closest to him startled him badly. The robes, which appeared sufficient for his peace of mind, were actually somewhat translucent. 'Don't stand in front a light, Daniel.' And to make matters worse, the hem extended barely past his ... well, he'd seen prostitutes with more cover. But the native peoples of ... 'ACK! Get a grip, Daniel!'
The unnatural tightness in his chest was hard to ignore as he found himself in the grip of another coughing spell, and he nearly doubled over as the pain in his chest and shoulder intensified. Strong hands prevented a fall while propelling him toward the door. "The colonel wants to see you downstairs."
Okay, downstairs. Not the bedroom. He really hoped no one noticed his sigh of relief. And maybe it'd be cooler downstairs. God, he was soooo hot.
"A dude ranch, Carter. Oh, Puhlease! Well, I'll give you that on Triple H, but The Rock, Jerico, Undertaker ... no ranches there." Jack tapped his foot impatiently as he spoke.
"No, sir." Carter schooled her expression to be carefully neutral.
"Well, Colonel," Jack whirled to face the detective once more. "Looks like you were right. This is a WWF ticket stub and there was a show, uh, match, of some sorts three nights ago."
"How do we know it belongs to one of the kidnappers?" Sam finally voiced her confusion.
"The van's a rental. They get cleaned between rentals. A ticket stub would never have been left between the seats."
Sam eyed Jack skeptically but Detective Carroll merely nodded. "The colonel's right, ma'am. We're running a search on the outfit that sold it. With any luck, someone used their credit card."