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This story is No. 2 in the series "A Brane of Extraordinary Women". You may wish to read the series introduction and the preceeding stories first.

Summary: After “The League of Extraordinary Women”, some of the characters take the next steps in their own worlds, with sometimes surprising results.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Multiple Crossings > GeneralDianeCastleFR1347142,04251969124,27827 Jul 128 Dec 14No

SG-1 and That Brit, part 2

A/N: This is a sequel to “The League of Extraordinary Women”. It will make a lot more sense if you read that first. Also, this chapter is a follow-up to the first chapter in this story and the previous chapter, so go back and read those if you haven’t done so.
Disclaimer: None of these characters belong to me. If you want details on ownership and all that jazz, you’ll want to read the appropriate intros in “The League of Extraordinary Women”.

Jack O’Neill knew a trap when he saw one. And this had ‘trap’ written all over it. In giant neon letters. With neon arrows pointing at it too. At least the trap wasn’t for him, this time. He hoped.

Nope, Khatami was going to be attacking Krykov as soon as Krykov stepped into the street. It was so obvious he wondered if maybe it could be a strategic feint, with the real attack coming from elsewhere. Like those two goons who hadn’t left the building with Khatami, unless his hearing was getting as bad as his knees. Or Dr. Giles, who had walked out, and then stopped walking before he reached the outer doors.

He really wanted to know what the heck was up with that.

He grabbed Daniel and walked out of the auction room. The open floorplan told him that the two Iranians and Dr. Giles had to have gone up the stairs on the left side of the room. He wasn’t ready to walk out the front door with an unknown number of armed threats aiming firearms at the back of his head, and he didn’t want to have to charge up an open staircase to take out at least three threats when all he had was an automatic and a derringer. Naturally, Hammond couldn’t let him carry a zat around. One of those big ol’ Gou’a’uld sonic grenades would be pretty handy right about now, but he couldn’t haul something like that around, even if the SGC had been able to get one, which they hadn’t because the Tok’ra were still treating them like children.

He heard the noises upstairs. A sound like someone making a single clap with their hands, a crash, a shattering vase, a distinct thud, another clap, and another thud. He didn’t need to be a genius to figure all of that out. He grabbed Dannyboy and dragged him the other way. They ducked through an archway and around a corner.

Naturally, Danny wanted to shoot his mouth off and asked questions. He clamped his left hand over Danny’s mouth and held up his right hand to show him the military hand signal for ‘silence’. Danny nodded. He used the hand signals for ‘three men’, then ‘upstairs’. Danny nodded again. They waited for over ten more minutes.

Krykov and his thugs finally left with three aluminum briefcases, presumably containing the three tablets. They waited just inside the front doors until an armored American Humvee pulled up in front of the building, and then they opened the front doors to make a dash for it.

Jack slipped forward to a curtained window and peeked out. He gestured at Danny to stay back, just in case someone blew up the Humvee. Or the street.

Quiet feet were sneaking down the staircase. Jack pulled out his sidearm and flattened against the wall.

The oxfords of Dr. Giles came nearly silently down the stairs. Giles tilted his body and used a cigarette lighter as a mirror to get a glimpse of the room before exposing more of himself. Then Giles slipped down quietly while carrying a silenced Walther PPK.

Oh. The lightbulb went on. He’d already figured he didn’t have to worry about the two Iranians coming down the stairs again. Or doing anything anymore, except ruining the upstairs carpet with bloodstains. But now the rest of the puzzle pieces were falling into their places.

He waited until Giles was all the way down the stairs and unscrewing the silencer. Then he coughed slightly and said, “Nice tradecraft.”

Giles’ eyes flickered over in his direction, but went right back to the window.

Krykov made it to within fifty feet of the Humvee before someone fired an anti-tank weapon from a window of the hotel opposite.

Jack whirled away from the window and snapped, “Danny! Down!”

* * * * *

Rupert was looking at Jack O’Neill, when from the corner of his eye he spotted the distinctive blast and trail of a rocket-propelled grenade. He spun to his left, pulling curtains with him as he moved.

The blast on the Humvee blew in every window on this side of the building. Glass went tearing across the room like glittering knives. If he hadn’t moved out of the way, he would have been shredded into hash. If he hadn’t dragged the heavy curtains for protection, he still would have ended up with dozens of vicious cuts. As things were, he had a minor gash on the back of one hand, where he had been holding the curtains. He already had some slight scarring on the back of that hand, from a previous assignment. He had been ridiculously lucky to get out of that one alive. He hoped that his luck didn’t run out today.

Krykov had a second Humvee in readiness, and it was already rolling into the street. Someone in the back seat was firing on the hotel windows with a machine gun. Krykov was bleeding and covered in blast debris, but his minions were covering him effectively, keeping him in the shadow of the wrecked Humvee while waiting for their compatriots to open up enough of a hole for them to get Krykov into the second Hummer.

If he hadn’t taken care of the two Iranians upstairs, they would have already put nice, neat holes in Krykov and all of his forces. He used his cigarette lighter as a mirror to peek out the window without exposing himself to submachine gun fire, and he spotted another terrorist maneuvering another rocket propelled grenade launcher. He knew the backblast on an RPG-7 was manageable from a hotel window. The first stage of the launch was no more than a shotgun blast to launch the weapon a safe distance from the handler before starting the burn on the primary rocket engine. Still, he didn’t want said operator to take out Krykov’s backup Humvee.

A sharp pistol shot rang out from down the hallway, and he glanced over to see Jack O’Neill ducking back out of sight of the combatants. He checked the hotel windows with his makeshift mirror. O’Neill had expertly taken down the RPG operator at the optimal moment. The man was hanging halfway out the window, quite dead, and the weapon had fallen down to the street below, where it was unusable. Temporarily, at least. He would have to remember that O’Neill was a crack shot with a handgun. The man was probably also a marksman with a rifle. Dr. Jackson, on the other hand, seemed to have fairly minimal spec ops skills.

Rupert took a quick look. One terrorist team was in the hotel room directly over the one he had been using. The dead man was still hanging out of the window, and another terrorist was using the body as a rest to aim another rocket propelled grenade, only to take heavy fire from the machine gun Krykov’s minion was wielding.

He was concerned about that room. It was the best viewpoint, but there were supposed to be two Syrian agents using that room as an overlook to keep him safe. He knew the Iranians weren’t the type to tie someone up and leave them alive. Particularly if the someone was a government agent.

Immediately to the left of that room was a team of two men with cheap knockoffs of AK-47’s. One of them managed to pick off Krykov’s machine gunner just as the man exposed himself enough to take care of the RPG wielder. The other Iranian was pinning down Krykov and his bodyguards. Or rather, bodyguard singular, as there was only one left alive.

And the window from his hotel room was now open, with another gunman peering over the windowsill. That meant that the man’s backup had to be trying to get into Rupert’s suitcase. That couldn’t be permitted.

Rupert looked down the hall at O’Neill and gave him the U.S. military hand signals to stop and take cover. He ducked back to the side so he wouldn’t take any accidental shrapnel. He held up his keychain and pressed the button on the fob.

The explosives in his suitcase detonated, taking out the hotel room, the rooms on either side, the three hotel rooms underneath, and the three hotel rooms overhead. The blast launched most of the exterior wall out into the street, and it pounded down on the Humvees and Krykov’s men.

Krykov seized the opportunity. He pulled himself to his feet, drew an automatic, and put two bullets right in Kolokhov’s ear. Then he slapped his remaining bodyguard on the shoulder, and they limped as quickly as they could to the remaining Humvee. They tossed the late machine gunner into the street and took off.

Rupert glanced at Kolokhov’s body. A nice, quick execution would never be noticed in the middle of a street battle. And it wasn’t as if anyone would miss Kolokhov. Rupert assumed that Krykov knew – or guessed – that Kolokhov had stolen the tablets in the first place, and was using the auction to milk Krykov for a lot more money. So much for honor among thieves.

Rupert didn’t bother to look for O’Neill and Dr. Jackson. He had a gunrunner to pursue. He had a good idea where the Iranians would station support forces, and he headed straight for them. They had something he wanted. Ready transportation.

He ran up the stairs, through the door on his immediate right, and through the cramped room. As he ran, he screwed the silencer back onto his Walther. In front of him was an open door with a small landing just outside it. He was looking at a ten or fifteen foot drop, and below the landing were two dirty cars and two motorcycles. That meant a minimum of four men, probably at least six.

He stepped to the doorway, staying just inside in the darkness, and chose his targets. He knew that as soon as he started shooting, they would react. The silencer would only give him a couple seconds’ reprieve.

Wait, this was what he needed. One of the terrorists was holding a radio and signaling the others to pursue Krykov. As the first motorcyclist stepped on his starter, bringing the old Harley to a roar, Rupert fired.

Radio operator first, through the radio and into the ear. First car driver next. Second car driver. Second cyclist, before he could mount the motorcycle. And then the man still revving his engine.

The sixth terrorist leapt in from the side of the landing, and Rupert’s next shot went wide. Rupert brought up his elbow to deflect the man’s machine pistol, and the wicked-looking firearm went off, chewing up the floor to his left.

He brought up a knee, but the man deflected it with a thigh. He grabbed the painfully-hot barrel of the machine pistol, twisting it so that the man’s trigger finger was caught in the trigger guard. The snap of the finger was audible even after the deafening chatter of the machine pistol. The man only grunted at the pain.

The man got in an elbow strike to Rupert’s solar plexus, driving the wind out of him. He returned the favor with a knifehand strike to the man’s throat.

The man tried to roll off to the side, and Rupert refused to let him break contact. Rupert rolled on top of the man’s back and grabbed the slide on his Omega Seamaster wristwatch. The two feet of diamond-coated wiresaw slid out with an almost inaudible whir. It was designed for cutting through objects, say, steel bars, but it worked just as well for this.

Rupert whipped the wiresaw around the man’s neck, and pulled hard. The man choked desperately and scrabbled at the diamond-coated wire, coming away with bloody fingers. Then he slapped at his clothing and came up with what looked like a Red Chinese army combat knife.

Rupert pulled hard with his right hand, letting his left hand slide toward the man’s neck. The wiresaw ruthlessly sliced through both carotid arteries, and the man sagged to the floor.

Rupert quickly wiped the wiresaw clean on the man’s clothing, then let it retract once more into the wristwatch. He scrambled to his feet and once again removed the silencer. He wasn’t going to find it useful while riding a motorcycle. He replaced the ammo clip so he had more than one bullet available, and he moved back to the open doorway.

He used his cigarette lighter as a mirror to check for lurking gunmen, and when he saw nothing but dead terrorists, he moved. He quickly holstered the Walther, leapt down off the landing, and snatched up the machine pistol the closest corpse was still holding. He kickstarted the motorcycle and roared off down the alley.

He was fairly sure the other backup team was even farther away, and – if he was extraordinarily lucky – wouldn’t know which way to go to ambush Krykov. Meanwhile, he knew the direction Krykov was headed, and he knew there was a reasonable chance that Krykov might be headed for his safehouse near the airport, which Fatima’s people had told her about.

If he got out of this alive, he was going to make sure that Fatima was clear in future on who she was supposed to tell secrets to, and who she was not, no matter how good in bed that person might be.

He roared down a narrow street, hoping to catch a glimpse of Krykov’s Humvee. He didn’t want to lose them and have to take a guess at their destination. No, Krykov was injured, and down to a driver and one hurt bodyguard. If he could catch up to them when they pulled up to their safehouse, he could reclaim those tablets without too much trouble. If they managed to get into the safehouse first or went straight to a plane at the Damascus airport, things would be messier. If Khatami managed to get his hands on the tablets, things would get much more complex. And extremely messy.

He cut through a back alley. He cursed under his breath as soon as he spotted the other terrorist team traveling down the road just to his right. He was only catching glimpses of them when he passed an alley or an open area on his right, but there was no mistaking them. He was going to have to do something about them.

to be continued
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