Action/Adventure, Week 1: "The Sting" (1/2)
Title: “The Sting”
Author: kristen999
Genre:Action/Adventure
Prompt Don’t bring a knife to a gun fight
Word Count: 13,600~
Rating:PG
Warnings:None
Summary: The team has to go undercover to root out the latest threat to Pegasus. A drug dealer trafficking the Wraith enzyme. Who’s going to con who? And most importantly. Who has the coolest costume? Team fic. Lots of guns, fights, and insults.
Notes: Big, wonderful thanks to my betas: everybetty and wildcat88 .
The theme from Miami Vice was on a continuous loop; no one could hear it of course, not unless speakers magically grew out of his ears. The very idea that a song from a bad 1980's TV show could have taken over his mind was appalling. This wasn't South Florida; there were no sports cars or hot super models hanging around. Okay, the jumper could outperform any Ferrari and Teyla could kick any woman's ass on a catwalk.
And no matter how hard Sheppard and Ronon tried, the two of them would never be Crockett and Tubbs. Thank God.
Rodney scrubbed the pink pastel world out of his head, blaming re-runs on TV Land during his trip to Earth for rotting precious brain cells.
“McKay, I said, pay attention.”
“I was paying-I mean, um...what were you saying?”
Teyla was too polite to laugh, in his face at least. Ronon twirled his blaster, a smile playing over his lips. If he quoted Tombstone one more time, Rodney was going to make Sheppard eat the DVD. It was the colonel's fault for picking that for movie night the previous week; Ronon had been enamored with it ever since.
“Maybe if you stopped daydreaming.”
“Did you forget how to use a life signs detector?” Rodney huffed at Sheppard's pissy expression, glancing up at the sky in an exaggerated fashion. “No, there doesn't appear to be any activity.”
Admittedly, taunting Sheppard when he was in one of his moods was like poking a stick at a grumpy lion. The hair and demeanor were exactly the same, the growl only slightly less scary.
But Sheppard didn't verbally spar back, just resumed his prowl around the gate, P-90 at constant readiness.
Teyla seized the moment to wander over to make Rodney feel guilty. “Must you antagonize him?”
“You were in the same meeting where he hatched this hare-brained idea. If you ask me, he's watched Ocean's Eleven too many times.”
Rodney had every intention of ragging Sheppard about this. The man’d had some warped, idiotic ideas before, but they were always made at the brink of certain doom, where leeway was allowed for such insanity. But this!
“This is nuts,” he blurted out loud.
“He has a point,” Ronon grunted.
Rodney folded his arms. “I rest my case.”
Sheppard practically gave himself whiplash at the whine of a familiar engine.
Rodney glanced at his tablet. “I'm detecting a Hive in orbit.”
“What was your first clue?” Sheppard deadpanned, weapon pointed in the direction of the dart and the approaching figure. “How many life signs?”
Rodney checked again. “Just the one.”
The rest of the team took positions around the Wraith. Ronon didn't snarl when Todd walked by him, but it didn't stop him from glaring, his hand twitching around that cannon of his. Teyla remained dignified, nodding politely and maintaining the poise she’d learned during the whole posing as a Wraith queen incident.
The colonel met Todd's curious expression with a cool as ice exterior.
“Sheppard,” Todd purred. “What can I do for you?”
“I think we have a mutual problem.”
“Really? And what would that be?”
For crying out loud, enough with the tap dancing. “Come on already,” Rodney sighed, rolling his eyes.
Sheppard ignored him and went on. “We know that you guys have suffered some losses recently.”
Todd didn't take the bait.
“There's been a group of humans hunting down Wraith and mutilating their bodies. There haven't been enough deaths to raise alarms so far. After all, what are fewer mouths to feed? But the numbers are mounting.”
“You have my interest,” Todd replied.
“I bet if you looked closely, the corpses all have something missing.”
Rodney couldn't take the colonel's sense for the dramatic and jumped in. “The Wraith are being poached for their enzyme glands. I'm sure you're aware of the enzyme’s potent effects on humans?”
“It is a rather unsettling reality. Though the chemical reaction from the feeding process has other benefits,” Todd said slyly.
Ronon bared his teeth and clenched his fists.
Sheppard sent Ronon a silent signal that kept the big man's temper in place. “A very well organized group of people are harvesting a whole lot of Wraith to fuel a sick new demand for the enzyme. And that's not good for either of our people.”
“Do you think we cannot handle a few... humans?” Todd challenged.
“I think you guys are so busy with politics and where your next meal is coming from that you haven't realized how screwed you are.”
Sheppard's tone got Todd's attention and the alpha posturing was dropped. “We've discovered a great demand for this stuff on an alarming number of worlds. The greater the demand...”
“The greater demand for our enzyme,” Todd finished as he nodded in realization. “I admit it is difficult to keep up with our numbers with the infighting between hives.”
“We thought it was just a few scattered incidents in random cities,” Teyla spoke. “However, we were wrong. Whoever is gathering the enzyme is supplying more and more worlds, increasing addiction rates and spreading this illness to others.”
“If we're not careful, this whole thing could explode into an epidemic. The last thing we need is populations hopped up and strung out on enzyme.”
“What McKay is trying to say is, we need to break up this ring before it gets too big to handle.”
Todd studied Sheppard, the gears turning behind that pasty face. “Why are you telling me this?”
This ought to be good. Leave it to Sheppard to act coy. “We were just trying to be conscientious,” he drawled.
Todd knew this was a lead-up to a ridiculous request. “You need something.”
Oh yeah. Just a little help with re-creating the enzyme. No big deal.
“Maybe,” Sheppard said.
Todd tilted his head in amusement. “What are you planning to do?”
Sheppard grinned ear to ear, the tough guy act all but forgotten. “We're going undercover to shut it down.”
And the drums of Miami Vice swelled inside Rodney's head.
Rodney had hated drama in school, even if he'd won a few awards as a kid. Not that it mattered for someone who had skipped several grade levels. Besides, truly legitimate schools were concerned with real research and academics, and dismissed acting as a frou-frou credit used to justify large creative arts' budgets. To think they gave out scholarships for such things.
He fiddled with the non-prescription glasses he was using as his disguise and shoved them in his pocket.
Then he hurried to the locker room, lugging a stupid black briefcase in addition to his normal gear, and slumped down on the bench, out of breath.
“Where's your lab coat?”
“I'm not wearing a lab coat, Sheppard. I don't wear one now. And I don't know how 'dressing up' is supposed to help me--”
Rodney finally looked up and lost all his vocabulary skills. “What the hell are you supposed to be?”
“The leader.”
“Of what? A sci-fi role-playing troupe?”
Sheppard was either a reject from a Matrix movie or he wanted to prowl for goth chicks. His t-shirt was almost hidden by a long, fitted black leather coat cut at the waist so it flared out slightly and hung only an inch off the floor. The chest and back material looked like lizard skin and both shoulders were adorned with spiky segmented armor.
“Do you really need two sidearms? You're pushing the space cowboy thing a little far.”
“We're supposed to be a ruthless drug gang. We need to look the part.”
Sheppard wasn't kidding. Both guns were highly visible, his vest bulging with extra ammo clips, and his K-bar knife was probably hidden in the back of his belt. For all he knew, Sheppard also concealed a Highlander sword.
“That's a Wraith coat,” Rodney accused.
“Borrowed it from Todd. If we're going to be posing as bad asses then we need to--”
“Look the part. Yeah, yeah.” But where were his cool clothes? It wasn't fair. “You get to be the cyber punk and I get stuck being the geek.”
“You are a geek,” Ronon said from the doorway. He actually strutted over, wearing an elaborate coat made of crimson leather so polished that you could see your reflection. “Here,” he said, handing Rodney a necklace of Wraith teeth. “We're all supposed to wear one.”
“Because I want a string of rotted fangs around my neck. Oh wait. They're supposed to match my white lab coat,” Rodney mocked, slipping on the jewelry and giving Sheppard the evil eye.
“I packed the jumper with a spare, so you'll still have one.” Sheppard smirked.
“You sure you don't want a spike collar instead?” Rodney snarked back.
“The necklaces are symbols of our conquests as Wraith hunters,” Ronon spoke proudly.
Rodney fingered one of the incisors dangling around his throat, imagining the Satedan all wild-eyed, stalking a drone and killing it with his bare hands. He refrained from any sarcastic comments, aware of all the blood and sweat that went in to obtaining it.
“Are we ready?”
Rodney turned toward Teyla and his eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets. Her auburn hair was streaked with red highlights and fell loosely over her shoulders. There were Wraith symbols tattooed down her neck and over her chest, the rest of the designs disappearing under her black sleeveless halter top. Dark leather pants replaced her normal BDUs and a Glock was holstered on her left hip.
He threw his hands up in the air. “Seriously? Did I miss a meeting in our secret costume and makeup department?”
“You're the Chemist,” Teyla said. “I did not think you required a costume.”
“Yes, I'm the Chemist,” he snorted, putting the words in air quotes. “How imaginative of our team leader. And look, here's my prop.” Rodney pulled out the fake glasses and pushed them over his nose.
“They look very distinguished.” Teyla smiled. “And you do not have the added burden of having to act outside your normal comfort zone like the rest of us,” she reasoned.
“Speak for yourself,” Ronon snorted. “I'm always a badass.”
Rodney put on his vest while scavenging inside his locker. With an “A-ha!” he found his leather jacket and shrugged it triumphantly. “Who says pharmaceutical whizzes have to wear lab coats?”
“I don't know. All you lab people are supposed to look a bit off. Maybe if you turned your clothes inside out or spoke in a German accent.” Sheppard gave him a disapproving expression. “You look too normal.”
“Maybe I should dye my hair hot pink or wear a tinfoil hat.” Rodney's rant landed on deaf ears as he glared at them all, his eyes inadvertently settling on Teyla's chest. “Those are temporary, right?” At her arched eyebrow his cheeks turned a bright scarlet. “I meant the tattoos of course, not that... well...um...”
“Yes, the designs will wear off in a few days.”
Sheppard had no qualms admiring the artwork. “Should have gotten Keller to give me some fake tats.”
“I could you give you a real one.” Ronon smiled.
With all the fun and games, it was hard to believe they were about to seek out the scum of the galaxy in a mission that was bound to get them all killed in the most brutal manner possible.
Pegasus drug dealers were bound to give the cartels on Earth a run for their money.
They headed for the third bar on M1P-176 since the previous two hadn't crawled with enough vermin for Sheppard's taste. If they kept at their current rate, Rodney was going to be drunk off his ass.
Darmous was a bustling boomtown by most standards, one of those overnight trading Meccas that enjoyed brisk prosperity while the Wraith dealt with their broken numbers.
The accepted philosophy here was to live one day at a time and enjoy it while you damn well could.
The place was a backwater, stunted town that would give most third-world countries a run for their money, but this one had an Old West meets Shanghai feel. On the one hand, the town was filled with typical dirt roads, taverns, and unlawful brutes of every size and shape. Yet past the wagons and vendors hawking their wares in old style booths, there was ice in the drinks, men with old-fashioned cameras willing to take your picture if you sat long enough, and furnaces in the back of most establishments for cold winter nights.
Pretty sophisticated for a planet that risked being culled.
It was this type of commerce that attracted visitors through the gate, lured those seeking fortune or pleasure. The transient population made it the perfect center for a black market operation.
Rodney took a seat at the end of the bar, eying the gathering riffraff with disdain. He despised crowds. “Can we leave if this turns out to be a bust?”
“I think we might be here a while,” Teyla remarked.
Every head in the room turned as they entered. Carrying enough weapons to arm a small army seemed to get people's attention. Ronon was in his element, matching each look with a more menacing one. “Think this might be the place.”
“Yeah, to get stabbed in the back,” Rodney mumbled.
“The people we interrogated during the investigation said those who supplied the enzyme came from this world,” Teyla said quietly, then smiled at the outsized bartender who wandered their way.
“What can I get ya?” he inquired of Teyla’s breasts.
Teyla grabbed the man's chin to pull his attention away from her body and toward her eyes. “To start with, you will address me to my face.” She never let go, squeezing until the bartender went stock still.
“Wine or ale? It's on the house.”
Teyla took a foaming mug of ale and actually chugged the thing. Ronon's grin widened by a mile while Sheppard admired her ability to gulp the whole beer without taking a breath.
She slammed the glass down and wiped the froth from the corner of her lips. “Not bad. I'll have another.”
Sheppard tapped the empty spot on the bar in front of him. “While you're at it...how about the rest of us?”
The burly bartender wiped the area down, grumbling under his breath. Sheppard took that opportunity to pull a considerable amount of coinage from one of his pockets, sliding the money across the bar. “I think this should cover things for a while. And I don't want any of your swill. How about the good stuff?”
All that was missing was the ka-ching noise of a cash register.
Suddenly the big ox was all smiles, wiping his greasy paws on his equally filthy apron. “The name's Manny. Whatever ya want, just ask.”
Ronon sniffed his drink, swirled the amber liquid, and gulped it down. He cased the entrance without turning his head and belched loudly to cover his canvassing with the disgusting sound.
The 'good stuff' was like acid, like slightly watered-down rubbing alcohol. Rodney fought his gag reflex, choking the liquid down then searching for a glass of water to no avail.
Nighttime set in, sending everyone to the rapidly crowding tavern for their liquid dinner. Too many people crammed inside the sardine can, leaving very little elbow room. Rodney started sweating profusely, mopping his brow with his shirtsleeve.
The colonel with his S&M Wraith outfit showed no signs of discomfort except the small beads of sweat at his hairline. He was even still wearing his aviator sunglasses. One thing was for certain: Sheppard's P-90 was gaining a lot of attention sitting nice and pretty for all to see on the bar.
Manny was quick with the drinks, but hurried from corner to dark corner, whispering with others.
The various inquiries and rumor mongering weren't subtle. Soon the big ox was at their beck and call, cleaning the same dingy spot in front of Sheppard. “So, what brings ya here? Ya lookin' for something?”
“Usually people look for us,” Sheppard replied.
“Yeah? Are ya mercenaries?” Manny inquired, scanning their weapons.
“No, we handle people's problems in other ways.”
“Ya deal in guns?” Manny's eyes strayed toward Rodney. “Stolen tech?” When no answer was forthcoming, he smiled. “Slaves?”
Sheppard fingered his necklace. “Something better.”
They had every eye and ear in the room. It wasn't like Sheppard was trying to keep his voice down. Ronon no longer slouched over the bar, now he stood to his full scary-as-hell height, a neon sign saying: listen, but don't get too close to us.
Manny flicked his gaze from the team to his dishrag. “Don't care about Wraith trophies.”
“Neither do we.” Sheppard matched the stares from the left and right side of the bar. “What about the enzyme?” When the bartender blinked at the clearly unfamiliar word Sheppard scowled. “The power of the Wraith. The clear fluid that gives them strength.”
Rodney winced, sweat soaking his back. This was it. Like waving a syringe and shouting, “Who wants a fix?”
“Enzyme, huh?” Manny feigned ignorance.
“You don't know of its wonders?” Teyla cooed. “Strength, endurance, like liquid fire in your veins.”
“Do you like to play with fire?” The ox leered, hand reaching to stroke her hair.
Teyla replied by twisting the man's wrist and slamming it down. “Do you?”
“No,” squeaked out.
Ronon leaned over dangerously. “You pour the drinks. Nothing more.”
Teyla released her hold. “You could use some enzyme,” she taunted.
His customers snickered and the bartender returned to stocking his bottles with his tail between his legs.
“Do you want a megaphone?” Rodney whispered to Sheppard. “How about a billboard?”
“Just keep smiling, McKay. We want the attention, remember?” Sheppard hissed back, checking their surroundings.
Rodney noticed a guy stagger over, his cronies a motley crew of degenerates with ragged clothes and low-tech guns. Ronon stepped into his path and the guy barely noticed until he’d bounced off the big man’s chest and nearly fallen over.
“Hey, just wanna talk.”
Rodney could smell it, the way the guy's skin sweated out the drug. Days spent with Ford's merry men were hard to forget; the odor had hung in the air, heavy and pungent.
The stranger's face twitched and his hands couldn't stay still. “I heard you guys got something we want.”
Sheppard made a show of asking for another round, completely unconcerned by those trying to intimidate them. He waited for his drink then took a long, slow sip before replying. “We have plenty of what you want.”
“That's good to hear,” the stranger crooned.
“But we don't deal with little people.”
How many times had Sheppard practiced that line in front of a mirror?
A hush replaced the hustle and bustle. Every muscle tensed. An entire bar held its breath.
The twitchy man shook with anger, clenching his fists. “Maybe we'll just take it from you.”
Ronon was outwardly bored looking, though Rodney knew better. He recognized the set of his teammate's shoulders, how all his limbs loosened before striking.
Teyla had slid off her seat, her body coiled and ready.
Sheppard slipped off his shades and rested them on the bar.
“Really?” The colonel picked up his weapon, flipped the safety off, then clipped it to his vest and allowed it to dangle freely. “I'd like to see you try.”
The stranger was lightning quick, grappling with enzyme-heightened reflexes for Sheppard's P-90. And not just his hands--three or four others reached for the colonel's arms and shoulders.
Seconds were fleeting things. You could have the upper hand in one then be flat on your back the next.
Ronon cracked two skulls together, dropping the thugs behind Sheppard while Teyla kicked the feet out from under another goon.
The stranger fell to one knee as the colonel held his wrist at a sharp angle. “Not good enough.”
“Think I'm alone?”
Sheppard grinned. “Never did.” Then he shoved the guy to the ground.
Teyla nudged Rodney between Ronon and the colonel, both closing ranks around him. People lunged forward. More bad guys, more random people searching for a fight.
Ronon ducked and weaved with ease, smashing faces in return. While the thugs were reckless, the Satedan was focused. He anticipated moves, countering blows with stronger ones of his own. Watching the big man fight gave meaning to float like a butterfly, sting like a bee.
Rodney held fast against the bar, the wood digging into his spine, watching his team give lessons in hand-to-hand. Teyla was fluid grace, bending away from people twice her size and chopping them down with punches to the head and mid-section.
Then he saw the glint of metal before she did.
“Teyla!”
Rodney pulled out his gun, unable to aim with so many moving bodies. Teyla dodged the knife, using the guy's forward momentum to snap his arm in the other direction and break it.
The crowd created a circle, screaming and hollering for more. It was too many sweating, stinking people and the bad guys used the confusion to leap in and out of the horde toward the team. One barreled into Rodney and he yelped, slamming the handle of his Beretta over the guy's skull.
They were in the middle an all out brawl.
Sheppard was smart; Ronon and Teyla were the better fighters, taking on most of the bad guys. But he was the main target, many trying and failing to get near him.
Gone was Sheppard's casual manner. Those who got past the gauntlet were taken care of with military efficiency and whatever worked. Break a nose; go for the sternum. Use your elbow or your knees.
Rodney heard the glass break on the bar, saw a guy with long hair wield it like a blade. Sheppard one-upped him, defending with the bar stool, clobbering him in the jaw and slamming it onto his back.
“We done?” Sheppard asked breathlessly when no one else tried to attack. “Good.”
If anything, the tavern was busier, the allure of blood and broken bones too much to pass over. Sheppard checked on Ronon and Teyla, neither the worse for wear. Then he slipped on his shades and rapped his knuckles on the bar. “How about another?”
Rodney picked up the overturned stool and sat on it, his body still shaking from adrenaline. ”Better be glad no one here had any real training,” he warned. They'd been badly out-numbered and even those with poor fighting skills were dangerous on the enzyme. And there was no telling how many were using it.
“I knew we could handle it,” Sheppard retorted, drumming his fingers on the bar. “We needed to shake things up.”
That was an understatement. They couldn't have wound the crowd up any tighter. People clambered closer, but lost the nerve at the last second. Ronon and Teyla's gazes crisscrossed the room and finally, some inebriated soul was just drunk enough to risk things.
“You're all on it. Right? I mean how else could ya take on twenty people?”
It wasn't twenty, maybe ten or twelve. Didn't matter. Random stranger number two rambled and raved loud enough for the whole bar to hear. “I've seen someone run forever on it. Farmers working nonstop in the fields, bringing in four times the average harvest without a break. It's a miracle.”
“It has its uses,” Sheppard said coolly.
“Uses? I was in the military on my world. My unit could do any mission. We were unstoppable.”
“It makes you feel more alive.”
Rodney gripped his glass tighter and tighter with every testimonial. Had he ranted like that? Were these people that freaking stupid? Did they have a clue what the enzyme did to their blood chemistry, their electrolytes? To what little brains they had left?
He wanted to throttle those gathering around them like a campfire. Ronon and Teyla played along, both sounding like spokesmodels for the stuff; if you called Ronon's grunts of agreement, speaking.
And Sheppard sat there, basking in being the center of attention. Rodney thought about kicking him in the shin, then caught on to all the little signs that no one else but his team could have read.
The perma-grin so fake it was made of hard plastic. The stupid chuckles.
Then it hit him. Those nifty two hundred dollar sunglasses were a mask the colonel hid behind.
“Dregar controls such trade on Darmous.” The new voice accompanied a middle-aged guy who looked like your typical bar bouncer. Broad shoulders, hands that might crush small boulders, beat-up jacket and two day's worth of beard. The only thing missing was a pony tail. Their newly acquired fan club moved out of his way.
“Not anymore,” Sheppard replied, standing up and resting his arms casually on his P-90.
Ronon had never sat down and was ready to rearrange the guy's face if he did anything shady.
“You can't just come here, run your mouth, and think you can muscle in on territory that's already taken. Dregar sits on the throne here.”
Sheppard went toe-to-toe with the guy, his Wraith get-up trumping the biker look easily. “What was your name? I normally like to know who I'm speaking to.”
“Troff.”
It took all of Rodney's willpower to keep a straight face.
“Troff. The last I checked, supply ruled the game and we have the largest amount of enzyme in Pegasus.” The colonel cocked his head. “Guess that makes me the king.”
“You?” Troff scoffed. “We've been running the pipeline for cycles. We have hunting parties across eight systems that capture Wraith. Can you do that?”
“We don't have to,” Sheppard said.
That was his cue. Rodney started to shrink from the pressure; the rest of his teammates offered silent reassurances. Troff pinned him with a stare and the bar suddenly became an auditorium of sneering drama geeks.
“You see,” Teyla piped up, oozing sensuality as she glided toward him. “This is our greatest mind. But you will refer to him as The Chemist.”
“Don't underestimate him. He knows how to kill you a thousand different ways,” Ronon whispered.
The burly guy's face faltered then he snorted in disbelief. “So what?”
Rodney stiffened. Not in fear, no. Not this time. He caught Ronon's eyes and smiled. “So what? Do you know the molecular makeup of chloroethylhexene? Can you tell the difference between diacetyl and dimethyl diketone? Can you even pronounce phenylpropanolamine?”
Troff stared at him in confusion, just another brute without an I.Q. Rodney had just gotten started. “Do you even know what the Wraith enzyme is? No, didn't think so. It's a complex metabolic that causes norepinephrine, dopamine, and serotonin transporters to reverse their direction of flow in the brain. This inversion leads to a release of transmitters from the vesicles to the cytoplasm and from the cytoplasm to the synapses, causing increased stimulation of post-synaptic receptors.”
“What is he talking about?” someone asked.
Rodney spun around at the befuddled onlookers, wishing for a PowerPoint display. “The enzyme enters the brain and triggers a cascading release of chemicals. It's not magic. It has parts, parts most of you couldn't possibly comprehend, but with a mind like mine, well--”
“What the good doctor is trying to say is that the enzyme can be made in a lab,” Sheppard interrupted.
“Made?” Troff parroted.
“Yes, as in created.” Rodney cleared his throat, raising his voice. “I have the key to an endless supply of enzyme. Without the Wraith.”
The bar swelled with excitement. Even if most of the people hanging around had never tasted the drug, the enzyme's reputation was well known.
“Does it do the same thing?”
“How much do you have?”
“Where can we get it?”
“Hold on!” Troff shouted over the noise. “You fake the Wraith venom?”
Venom? These people lacked serious creativity in naming things. Rodney counted to three in his head. “Artificially create it. There's a difference.”
“Who wants a rip-off? I bet it doesn't even work.”
Ronon sensed his opening, a predator playing with his prey. “You think it doesn't?” His teammate pulled out one of a million knives and pressed his left hand flat against the bar.
The room hushed in anticipation, pressing in closer. Troff backed up a step, glancing at the bartender then at the Satedan.
Ronon splayed his fingers apart, taking the tip of the knife and jabbing it in the tiny spaces between each digit in rapid succession. It was a fascinating spectacle; the blade was no more than a flash of metal as he kept it in constant motion.
Each rotation he stabbed the table faster, the tip of the weapon marking holes in the wood. Rodney waited for him to stop, the knife nothing now but a rapid plunking sound. Round and round. And with every pass, Rodney's heart pounded harder.
Sweat dripped off Ronon's nose, down his arm. There was hollering and cheering. And the scariest aspect of the show?
Ronon never took his eyes off Troff, never looked at his own hand. Rodney was getting dizzy watching the dance, his chest constricting at the thought of spilled blood.
When he didn't think Conan could go any faster, the big guy slammed the knife into the bar inches away from his foe and got right into Troff's face. “I'm your huckleberry.”
Troff flinched and the crowd murmured to themselves, obviously impressed by the insult they didn't understand. Rodney sent a death glare at Sheppard who was doing everything in his power not to burst into laughter at the mangled use of the Doc Holliday quote.
It worked.
Drunks and lunatics showered them all with offers of drinks and requests of deals and in the meantime Troff slipped out between the masses, undoubtedly to report to his boss.
Rodney pretended to drink for the rest of the night, shooing away idiots who dared to try to comprehend his earlier words. His head pounded and his stomach growled for food. Thankfully, people ran out of money or time, and the four of them finally sat around the nearly empty bar.
He really hoped it wasn't sunrise already.
Sheppard stretched, popping bones that shouldn't make such noise. Teyla covered a long yawn and Ronon munched on what passed for chips.
“So, I think that went better than planned,” the colonel said chipperly.
Ronon grabbed the rest of the snacks, smacking loudly. “What do we do next?”
Rodney didn't like the glee in Sheppard's eyes.
“Now, we turn up the heat.”
The stench assaulted Rodney's sensitive nose and he pinched his nostrils shut. Hands tugged on his vest, his boots; men on their hands and knees cried for help. All around people with tear-streaked cheeks wailed. Sweaty and filthy clothes covered skeletal bodies. The arms around his neck were frail and brittle. The woman's stringy hair stank of the enzyme.
“Please, help us,” she begged.
“Look at them all,” Teyla whispered, holding onto the hand of a child.
“It's like a damn plague,” Sheppard growled. “What does this make? Third town in the last two weeks?”
“But the whole village?” Teyla held the little boy close. “They couldn't all be using it?”
“They're not,” Ronon grunted. “Most of the men, their warriors are on it. Some of the women, too,” he gestured at the poor soul clinging to Rodney.
“I'll radio Atlantis. Tell them we have another rehab center to set up,” Sheppard said, reaching for his comm.
“We gonna do something about this?” Ronon spat.
Sheppard surveyed the gutted remains of a once thriving trading spot. “Yeah, once we figure out who's dealing it.”
“McKay, wake up.”
Rodney's whole world shook and he pulled the rough blanket around him tighter.
“McKay.”
“I'm asleep. Can't you see that?” Rodney growled. When he felt the thump again, he flipped onto his side. “And stop kicking the bed!”
“Come on, Sheppard said to haul your ass up. We've got a mission.”
“What? I thought we were on a mission.”
“Yeah, this is part of it.”
“I've slept for...” He blinked blearily at his watch. “Four hours? And on this lumpy mattress and near a drafty window that won't close. And did you hear all that noise last night?”
“Yeah. I scared away the guy who tried to break into your room.”
“What?” Rodney was up like a shot, fumbling to find his pants. “Someone wanted to kidnap me already?”
“No, but now you'll ready when it happens,” Ronon grinned.
The wagon had been pulled by a pair of donkey-horse animals that smelled of wet fur and dirty socks. The bitter liquid Teyla had the gall to call coffee sloshed around in his belly on the bumpy ride. To top off his morning they'd been forced to walk over a klick, using the woods on the outside of town for cover.
“This is incredibly stupid,” he whispered despite the need for silence.
“We need to flush these guys out,” Sheppard retorted, eying the open field ahead. He gave the signal to wait, the four of them crouched in the underbrush. “There are only two lookouts.”
“I'm on it.” Ronon disappeared into the undergrowth before Rodney could protest splitting up.
“Are you sure about this supposed intel? I mean, we're dealing with lowlifes and bottom feeders,” Rodney asking, doing his best to use his low voice.
“I assure you that the source that contacted me after we left the bar is fairly reliable,” Teyla explained, checking out their six. “I used certain measures to verify the truth,” she alluded, but did not explain further.
“The money we gave the guy for his information helped a lot, too.”
Rodney gave his team leader an exasperated expression. “We've been here what? One day and the locals want to help us? Sorry, that doesn't fit with our track record.”
“I don't think this guy wanted to help. He saw us as a way to screw over Dregar so he followed us to the inn and bribed the owner to find which rooms we were using.”
“And how come I wasn't asked?”
“Your room was at the end of the hall and you needed your beauty rest.” Sheppard shook his head. “You don't remember looking for the karaoke machine, do you?”
Rodney sputtered at such a preposterous accusation. He’d drunk water the rest of the night. Hadn't he?
Sheppard's face was all serious business, checking his life signs detector. “I'm counting only ten out there. It'll be a piece of cake.”
“Why would they make a large deal out in the open like this?” Teyla wondered.
“I'm not sure, but it might give us a slight advantage,” Sheppard replied, watching the Satedan creep closer to his targets.
Ronon made easy work of the guards roaming the perimeter, sneaking up and knocking them both out. He dragged both bodies into a nearby ditch and hurried back over. “They were both armed with Genii rifles.”
“Figures.” Sheppard verified his weapon was in working order and stood behind the cover of a thick tree, his long leather coat billowing behind him like a freaking rock star. “Alright, let's make our introductions.”
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Part 2