In the second watch of the night, Sister Helena tossed and turned in her sleeping bag. She began to dream and have a vivid nightmare.

  She dreamt of a time when she was still a part of the Rogue NID. Victoria and her cell had pulled off another successful heist, that of a T-47 energy converter from the people P7Y-422 and just returned to Earth to bring it to Colonel Galli at a safe house in Houston. They landed their cloaked Tel’tac at a NID hangar on the city’s south side. Within minutes, the energy converter was loaded into a black SUV. Since this was Victoria’s hometown, she drove.

  “Good to be back home, eh Burney?” Asked Percy Kipling, leaning back as the Houston skyline appeared in the distance.

  “Oh, absolutely,” Victoria replied with a faint smile. There's something magical to me about seeing this view.”

  “Colonel Galli says we'll have extended leave after this mission,” said Neuman.

  “Now that would be a refreshing change,” Kipling quipped.

  “Any plans for your downtime?” Paul Mandell asked.

  “I haven't visited my Papa in a while, so I'll probably do that. I'm also hoping to go up to Enchanted Rock west of Austin and do some camping,” Victoria replied.

  “Mind if I tag along?” asked Neuman.

  “I'd be honored if you join me,” Victoria replied. As Victoria drove the SUV North on State Highway 288, she asked Rob Yoakum for directions.

  “The safe house is at the corner of Valler Drive and Tall Shadows Drive. Major Cross streets are Beltway 8 North and Greens Road for the east-west; the north-south are Hardy Toll Road and Aldine-Westfield Road.”

  Victoria let out a long hearty laugh. “Of course it’s in Gunspoint!”

  Yoakum raised an eyebrow. “Gunspoint?”

  “Its what us locals call Greenspoint because all of the crime,” Victoria explained, her voice edged with wry humor.

  Yoakum nodded with a small chuckle of his own, but the moment of levity didn’t last long. Victoria noticed a black pickup truck following them in the rearview mirror.

  “Kipling, keep an eye on black truck,” Victoria said sharply. “I believe its following us.”

  “On it,” Kipling replied. He locked eyes on the pickup and its license plate.

  Victoria’s grip on the wheel tightened as she changed lanes to test her suspicion. The pickup shadowed their every move. A knot of tension coiled in her stomach.

  “I’m taking us off 288,” she muttered, signaling to exit on to US Route 59. The lights of the city blurred past as she led the SUV onto Interstate 10, then North Main Street. Despite a series of deliberate turns—right onto Hogan Avenue, left onto Fulton Street, another left onto Quitman Avenue—the pickup stayed glued to them.

  “They’re still on us,” Kipling said, his voice tight.

  Yoakum cursed under his breath, fumbling to load his pistol. “We need to lose them Vic,” he said his breath coming quick.

  “Yeah, no kidding,” Victoria snapped as she yanked the wheel and sharply swerved onto a side street. The neon lights of shops and restaurants passed in a blur. A quick turn onto a quiet residential street and a near miss with a garbage truck made Victoria’s pulse thunder in her ears as she pushed the SUV to its limits.

  From the back seat, Mandell shouted into his coms. “Safe house five minutes away! Galli's waiting!”

  “We might not have five minutes,” Victoria snapped, her voice sharp with determination.

  Gunfire tore through the air shattering the SUV’s rear window. Yoakum cursed, ducking low as shards of glass flew. “We're sitting ducks here!” he growled as he returned fire.

  Victoria's grip on the wheel tightened. Her mind raced, scanning the streets for an escape. Then she saw it. At an intersection ahead a semi-truck barreled through at full speed.

  “Hold on!” Victoria growled yanking the wheel hard to the left. The SUV swerved into the intersection, narrowly squeezing past the semi as it braked with a deafening shriek. Kipling let out a scream. Behind them the pickup skidded to a halt, its tires screaming in protest as it narrowly avoided a collision.

  For the first time since their chase began, silence filled the SUV, broken only by their ragged breathing.

  Kipling let out a shaky laugh. “Damn, Burney, remind me never to piss you off!” Victoria didn't answer. Her knuckled where white against the steering wheel as she sped towards Greenspoint.

  **** ***** ****

  Victoria’s team arrived at the safe house and brought the converter inside. After it was secure, Victoria went out onto the porch to recollect upon her recent mission. All was quiet. Victoria’s felt unease gnawing at her. Something was not right.

  There was no distant hum of traffic.

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  No hum of city life.

  Just pure silence.

  Then—she could see a faint light coming towards her. The light came closer… then closer…

  “Shit!” It was the black pickup.

  Victoria pulled her radio from her belt and her pistol from her holster. “Defensive positions!” Victoria barked as she made a beeline for a large bush that concealed an entrance to a basement to hide.

  The truck pulled up to the house and four people got out, two men and two women. The oldest, a French woman in her early fifties with graying brown hair walked up onto the porch. Her companions, a slim man in his early thirties with brown hair and with sharp and expressive features; a lanky man in his mid-thirties with brown hair, hazel eyes and sharp jaw line; and a woman with ebony skin and slim build in her early thirties with black hair and dark eyes and expressive features stood on the lawn casually, but Victoria could tell that this was a ruse. She attached a silencer to her pistol.

  The French woman knocked on the door. “This is Colonel Lucie Catez of the French Armee de l’air. My colleagues and I have an arrest warrant for Robert Yoakum, Rebecca Neuman, Victoria Burney, Percy Kipling and Paul Mandell.

  A voice responded from within the house, defiant. “On whose authority?”

  “On the authority of Brigadier General Jonathan J. O'Neill of the United States Air Force!”

  “We don't recognize his authority, Colonel!” came the reply.

  Colonel Catez remained unfazed, her tone sharp as a blade. “I have standing orders to from him take you in; I can bring you with warm or I can bring you in cold,” said Colonel Catez.

  Victoria was tensed as gunfire erupted from the safehouse’s defensive positions. Colonel Catez and her team scrambled for cover, but chaos ensued as bullets tore through the silence of the night. Victoria’s sharp eyes tracked the slim man and the ebony-skinned woman falling to the ground, while the lanky man bolted in retreat. The French woman remained resolute.

  “Five against two,” Victoria thought to herself. “Easy peasy! Ha! What a scaredy cat! Do you think they could take us? It would take a whole effin’ army to take us!” Victoria watched as the French woman disappeared. She emerged from her hiding spot, her pistol held steady, despite the tremble in her hands.

  Silence.

  Then...

  “Drop the weapon!” A voice demanded from around the corner of the house. The voice was firm yet tinged with something softer—a plea.

  Victoria narrowed her gaze but did not lower her weapon. “Drop yours first!” she shot back, her voice betraying no emotion. She recognized the lanky man as Major Patrick Larkin. He had been an instructor at the air base she had been stationed at in Iraq.

  Patrick immediately recognized Victoria as the woman who flew all those daring missions, especially during Operation Airborne Dragon. Patrick was the one who recommended that General O’Neill speak to Victoria about being offered a job at the SGC. He recognized that she had a lot of potential to offer the SGC. He envisioned her leading an SG team one day. She had potential.

  Patrick’s shoulders sagged slightly as he exhaled, lowering his weapon halfway but not fully. “You don't have to do this, Burney,” he said, his tone quiet, almost resigned.

  “I’m afraid I do,” Victoria replied gripping her pistol tightly. Her stance was solid but inside her heart raced wildly.

  A humorous laugh escaped Patrick’s lips. “And here I thought you were used to believe in something more than just orders.”

  Victoria froze, the weight of his words landing heavy on her chest. For the first time in the mission, for the first time since she stole the converter from the Langarians, doubt crept in her mind.

  Patrick stepped closer, lowering his weapon further as he spoke again, his voice filled with quiet disappointment. “I remember you, Burney. The one who flew the unthinkable missions—the hero of Operation Airborne Dragon. You’ve got potential, a future, if you just make the right choices. Don’t throw it all away.”

  Victoria’s grip faltered. Her finger hovered over the trigger, shaking. She searched Patrick’s face for anger, for fear—but saw only disappointment.

  “You’re better than this,” he said simply, his gaze unwavering.

  The words cut through her resolve like a blade. She squeezed the trigger—just once—and a deafening silence followed.

  **** ***** ****

  At that moment Sister Helena bolted up. Her breathing was heavy. The air around her in the tent was cool, still. She was no longer in the past. She was back in the present: in a tent, in an abandoned monastery on planet P4X-987. Her hands shook as she touched her forehead.

  There was no blood.

  No gun.

  Just ghosts.

  Instinctively she grabbed her breviary. She glanced at her watch. 04:30 hours. Fairbairn would be sounding Reveille in about thirty minutes. She took several deep breaths. Making a pot of coffee from the stash of coffee she brought she poured herself a cup. She went to the table and flipped to the back of the book to the Office of the Dead.

  “For Patrick's soul... for all of them,” she whispered. She made the Sign of the Cross on her lips using the side of her thumb. “Lord, opened my lips. And my mouth will proclaim your praise. Come let us worship the Lord, all things live for Him. The hymn, psalms, canticle, and reading she prayed spoke of comfort in God's mercy, hope of redemption, the resurrection, and God's faithfulness.

  Helena prayed. “God, our Creator and Redeemer, by your power Christ conquered death and return to you and glory may all your people: Lucie Catez, Jotham Wescott, Wilhelmina Antoine, and Patrick Larkin, who have gone before us in faith share in His victory and enjoy the vision of Your glory for ever, where Christ lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, God, forever and ever. Amen.

  “May the Lord bless us, protect us from all evil and bring us to everlasting life. Amen.” She made the Sign of the Cross as Fairbairn returned from guard duty. After taking off her tactical vest and setting it and her P90 on the table, she went into her tent and grabbed her penny whistle. She softly sounded “First Call” and then went to the coffee pot. Noticing that there was a fresh pot of coffee made, Fairbairn made herself a cup. She sat at the table opposite Sister Helena.

  “Good morning, Sister,” said Fairbairn.

  “Good morning, Isolde,” Sister Helena replied quietly.

  “Did you make the coffee?” Isolde asked. Helen and nodded. “Thank you! I appreciate that.” Helen nodded again timidly. “Is everything alright, Helena?” Fairbairn asked, noticing the uneasiness on Sister Helen's face.

  “I had a nightmare,” Sister Helena replied timidly.

  “Oh? Sorry to hear that,” Fairbairn replied. “Those are no fun. Do you want to talk about it?”

  “Not currently. It involves some personal matters.”

  “I see,” said Fairbairn. “I see that you were praying. Did that help you?”

  “A bit,” Sister Helena replied. “Thanks for asking.

  “If you ever need to talk, I'm always available,” Fairbairn said.

  “Thank you, Squadron Leader. That means a lot to me.”

  “Hey! We're a team; we look out for each other,” Fairbairn replied as she took a sip of her coffee. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go wake the boys up!” Sister Helena grinned as Fairbairn took her penny whistle to her mouth and began to play that familiar tune that once roused Helena from sleep many years ago. She remembered fondly the lyrics that were associated with the tune:

  I can't get 'em up,

  I can't get 'em up,

  I can't get 'em up this morning;

  I can't get 'em up,

  I can't get 'em up,

  I can't get 'em up at all!

  The corporal's worse than the privates,

  The sergeant's worse than the corporals,

  Lieutenant's worse than the sergeants,

  And the captain's worst of all!

  I can't get 'em up,

  I can't get 'em up,

  I can't get 'em up this morning;

  I can't get 'em up,

  I can't get 'em up,

  I can't get 'em up at all!