“O’Neill!”
Teal’c went down first, convulsing beneath a snaking sheen of blue energy. Spinning around, Jack barely managed to grab hold of his weapon before he was hit too, a nerve-numbing shockwave radiating out from his right shoulder. He pitched sideways, legs giving way, and saw Carter fall, sprawling across Daniel before the world went black.
CHAPTER TEN
Dusk was a hint of purple in the western sky by the time Makepeace swung his Dodge SUV into the visitor center parking lot and killed the engine. Though sunset was while off yet, the sun had already dropped behind Pikes Peak and, according to the dash, the temperature had cooled to a pleasant sixty-five degrees. Makepeace scanned the few cars that remained in the lot. The park was close to closing, but there were still a number of minivans and station wagons occupying a few spaces — family cars, their occupants the remnants of what had most likely been a busy day. Come Labor Day, the lot and the center would be deserted at this time, the few tourists who visited having long since departed. There was no sign yet of the man he had come here to meet, and none of these vehicles looked like they’d be his preferred mode of transport. Harold Maybourne was a man who liked to keep other people waiting, a message, Makepeace thought, about who was in control.
It had taken Makepeace longer than usual to get here. His conversation in the infirmary with General Hammond had left him antsy, though he couldn’t pinpoint why. Perhaps it was the general’s refusal to let him take SG-3 back out on the search and rescue, but Makepeace sensed that something more was going on. Of course, working for the Stargate Program, he was used to there being secrets to which he wasn’t privy. He wasn’t always on the need-to-know list and that was just fine by him, but today… Hammond’s expression had turned guarded, as if he’d been about to share something with Makepeace, but then changed his mind.
Maybe he was just being paranoid. Or maybe he shouldn’t have mouthed off about the Tok’ra, but dammit he hadn’t said anything that wasn’t true. Either way, he’d left the base with a distinct feeling of unease, the Tollan artifact a heavy weight in the gym bag he carried. Instead of heading straight to the rendezvous, he’d swung south on 115, keeping an eye on the rearview, then took a few random lefts and rights, before doubling back on himself up I-25. Not until he’d hit North 30th, did he shake the notion that he’d been followed. The sooner he offloaded this damned tech, the better.
Makepeace picked up the bag and got out of the SUV, taking a moment to survey the towering red rocks that surrounded him: The Garden of the Gods National Park, Colorado Springs. Given the delusions of grandeur held by the very sons-of-bitches who threatened the planet, the irony of the name did not escape him, and he wondered if Maybourne had chosen it as a rendezvous point deliberately. He doubted the man appreciated its majestic beauty. Then again, Makepeace also doubted whether Maybourne had that sophisticated a sense of humor.
He headed into the visitor’s center and made for the coffee shop. He hadn’t yet followed Hammond’s direction to grab some shut-eye and the toll of two back-to-back missions was starting to weigh on him.
“What can I get ya?” asked the waitress — Trish, by her name badge — with a sunny smile, though Makepeace caught the way she flicked a glance at the clock behind him. Evidently, it had been a long day for her too and she no doubt wondered at a visitor arriving so late.
“Coffee, please. Black, and throw in an extra espresso shot.”
“The coffee I can do, hon, but we ain’t no Starbucks.”
Makepeace gave her a smile and nodded, then pointed to the ‘Theater’ sign suspended from the ceiling. “Is the movie still on?”
“It sure is,” said Trish. “Five minutes until the last show of the day. That’ll be five dollars for the ticket and a buck seventy-five for the coffee.”
Makepeace thanked her, handed over a ten and told her to keep the change.
“Well, thank you, honey.” Apparently, a decent tip was the very thing to make a late visitor less objectionable. “You go on in and enjoy the show.”
He’d only just settled into his seat in the darkened theater, when he heard the door open and close behind him. Harold Maybourne sat down a row in front just as the screen brightened and the first bars of America the Beautiful drifted out of the speakers.
“You’re late,” said Maybourne.
“I had to make a detour,” said Makepeace, resisting the urge to ask where Maybourne had been hiding that he knew when he’d arrived. The colonel loved his subterfuge too much and it wouldn’t do to encourage him.