Threat Assessment
Author: Regency
Title: Threat Assessment
Fandom: Stargate SG-1
Pairing: Sam/Jack
Spoilers: None.
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Word count: 673
Summary: Sam does not deal well with threats against her husband and son.
Author’s Notes: Written for the missing letter challenge at scifiverse . My missing letter was ‘C’. As you can see, using Jack and Carter was out, so I sort of just hoped you all got what I was going for there. Hope you enjoy anyway.
Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognizable as being from Stargate SG-1. They are the property of their actors, producers, writers, and studios, not me. No copyright infringement was intended and no money was made in the writing or distribution of this story. It was good, clean fun.
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Sam should have known it wouldn't be that easy. It had had the makings of too good a day for her. Finally, a day off from the Hammond to see her family and look at what it had turned into. Not that she was that upset about her missed day; no, though it would have been easier to be angry about that. No, she was angry about the quiet.
She'd arrived by taxi to find her house empty. Maybe six years ago that would have been the norm, but these days Sam was fortunate if she got to take a deep breath before she was overwhelmed by shouts of, "Mommy!" and skinny, eager boy arms wrapped around her knees and rising.
Seeing his smile was worth the trouble of beaming down every three months for too brief a time. Her flawless boy-her flawless boy who wasn’t here. Neither was his father and she was failing to pretend that didn’t worry her all the more. Her husband was many things but none of them were thoughtless. He would have left a note before they’d gone wherever they had, maybe sent a text telling her where to join them. He knew how important these days were, he treasured them, too.
Sam had just hung up the phone after a fruitless jaunt through her rolodex when she heard a heavy set of thumps at her front door. Ever wary of just who might be looking for her, she swept her sidearm up and into her waistband en route to answer. She eased toward the peephole, steady and light on the balls of her feet, and looked out.
Nobody there.
The air in the house felt suddenly hot and oppressive. Between her shoulder blades, her skin stung and tingled, tight. There’s a bead on me. A sniper’s got a bead on me. She was familiar enough with the sensation not to visibly respond to this new reality. She hadn’t earned her eagles by being easily spooked.
The door knob turned easily in her hand while the other wrapped around the grip of her weapon. She was going out. Danger ahead and behind, she knew it intuitively; but more than that mattered, her family mattered and somehow they were tied up in this. She didn’t know how or who was behind it-yet-but she would find out.
After all, she’d exploded a sun. A game of Risk was nothing, not when Sam was playing for keeps. And she swore, on the shaggy, blond head of her son and the flint-furious eyes of his father as he held him, that she was.
Nobody pointed a gun at their kid and lived. He had no doubt ended lives for less and he would no doubt end more of them for this. He wouldn’t bury another son. She would be right beside him, as always; everything he’d taught her and all else she’d learned guiding her hands. She wouldn’t be defeated now that she finally had everything she’d dreamed about.
Not while she still breathed.
“Sir,” soft and warning, an old habit revived.
He dropped low fast, their son held tight; a trust survived.
The men around them were doomed regardless.
She snapped the wrist of the first minion to try to stop her. He squealed; she pistol-whipped him, tossed his dead weight behind to take a hail of near-faithful hits that were more than near. Shot the knees off Idiot Two, made herself another shield, and made it to relative safety.
Gun shifts hands, a life for death. She had her little boy pressed to her shoulder, though it wasn’t Kevlar. But even if her husband’s skill was rusty, his aim was true. They died, so they lived.
The sudden stillness throbbed, gaping with bullet holes and the bruises she saw peering from beneath his sleeves and at the wings of her son’s missing smile. Someone had hurt her boys and they weren’t alive to pay. Someday, however, someone would have to.
She’d make damn sure of it.