"Just wonderful." Rodney McKay adjusted the field glasses a second time, as though a little more clarity might just change the reality in front of him. "Special Agent I-am-an-asshole Barclay, with drones."

"wnnnnnnnnn"

"Oh very articulate. And for your information the details are very sticky, and as undercovers go this is actually the best we came up with in the remarkably limited time we had available" Rodney turned to his companion, "and since this part is, I am certain, all your fault, I really don't want to hear any more about it. It isn't as though I haven't been pulling our irons out of the fire on almost a daily basis for the last ten years!"

He opened the car door. "First order of business is to walk in there and get the lay of the land, and if we can get rid of Barclay, and drones, so much the better." He checked his weapon, and then his back up, and then the back up of his back up. Staff Sergeant-Major Rodney McKay RCMP liked to be prepared. He picked up his briefcase, nodded to Shep to check he was following and headed across the road to the court house, and the United States Marshals' Office, Eastern Kentucky Division.

This was a really, really bad idea, but if Jackson was right, and of all the soft-scientists that Rodney had encountered over the years, he wasn't about to start betting against Jackson now; if he was right, Kolya was closing in on a gene-carrier, possibly even more powerful than John.

There were other disturbing signs. They had fought Kolya in two galaxies now, they'd thought they'd got him. John had killed him outright. But that had proved to be a clone and Kolya had got away again. If the intel was right, they were going to be in the fight of their lives for survival with no guarantees of success.

The brief was simple, infiltrate, protect and extract if necessary. Then it would be up to the gene-carrier if he wanted to come to the SGC. Either way, his life would never really be his own again.

McKay reached the sidewalk outside the courthouse building and tapped his earpiece, "heads up." Fifty feet away, a brief flash of brake lights reassured him that the rest of his team were in place.

Security wasn't insurmountable, but he had to show his credentials, and the old guy on the scanner raised an eyebrow at his weaponry and his spare clips. Rodney resisted the urge to roll his eyes, and to take the elevator, choosing the stairs, less eyes on Shep the better.

He walked into the Marshals' Office, noting the single exit, the small bullpen, crammed with desks, they'd opted for partitions rather than cubicles, given the amount of space, not a surprise, he noted the one holding tank, presumably the real cells were downstairs beneath the court house, locker rooms, conference room, currently full, chief's office, one very curious and extremely young secretary, and the unwelcome sight of Barclay in full flow, with two obviously Feebie accolates hanging around attempting to look tough. And failing miserably. They looked like they didn't know what to do with their hands.

Clearly the Federal Bureau of Investigation's recruiting methods had not just slid down the slippery slope, but plummeted off the precipice.

Rodney took a deep breath, walked over to the door and swept through it before anyone could draw breath to stop him, aware that Shep had slunk around his knees and was currently making himself unobtrusive, but within biting range of Barclay.

"Gentlemen, and Ladies," acknowledging the young colored woman in the room, "I'm sorry you had to start without me, but now I'm here how about we all get caught up, then Agent Barclay can leave."

That stopped them in their tracks. "McKay!" Barclay was pissed, which was good as far as Rodney was concerned, because the shyster was as bent as a nine-dollar note, only so far, Rodney couldn't prove it.

The older man at the head of the table was getting to his feet, Rodney focused on him first, ignoring the younger men, although at first glimpse he had pegged his target and a possible pair of useful allies in the young woman and a younger man sitting either side of him. It was simple to recognize the body language of team. Rodney had been living that body language for nearly ten years now.

"Who are you?" the older man was likely the Chief Deputy, and it was clear that he didn't like Barclay, but that didn't automatically make him on McKay's side, though Rodney had an inkling that it was a good few steps down the road to getting there. Chief Deputy Mullen's little team didn't like Barclay either which was pretty obvious too, so all Rodney needed to do was whip out his badge and make a phone call, and he was pretty certain that they were going to love him.

At least until the running and the screaming started. And Rodney knew that was going to come soon.

"Staff Sergeant-Major Rodney McKay, RCMP." He pulled his credentials out, and handed them to Mullen. Who took them with a suspicious glare, but a tiny infinitesimal twitch of the lips which suggested that if Rodney could get rid of the FBI's incredibly unwelcome presence, it would be both entertaining (on a slowish morning) and would earn at least the Chief Deputy's co-operation.

The three deputies were now staring with open curiosity and a sense of anticipation was hanging in the air. Barclay was blustering about jurisdiction and some other flim-flam, McKay tuned him out. A career which involved dealing with some of the most over-promoted windbags in two galaxies had thankfully dialed his switch off skills to the maximum. He leaned across the table, for the conference phone and punched in a number.

"Homeland Security." Crackled through the line. Well, that made everybody sit up fast.

"Staff Sergeant-Major Rodney McKay for General Jack O'Neill, he's expecting me," Rodney was aware that the youngest Marshal mouthed the words O'Neill and Homeland Security, and all three of them were staring at him as though he had three heads. Mullen was looking both vague and amused. And Barclay, well… Rodney thought a few uncharitable thoughts waiting for the connection.

"O'Neill." Barked a very gruff tone. "McKay, dammit."

Rodney pointed to Barclay and then to the phone. "Special Agent Ellis Barclay, FBI," Barclay made the fundamental error of drawing breath.

O'Neill moved in for the jugular. "Barclay, your presence is no longer required. Do I make myself clear? Homeland Security and the Royal Canadian Mounted Police have this one all sewn up, and our friends the Marshals will back us up." The virtual double-underlining of Rodney's jurisdiction almost made McKay want to kiss him. Except he was pretty certain that Jackson wouldn't like it, and while Jackson was no mechanic, Rodney was not about to test Jackson's impressive cunning.

Barclay was scowling, but packing up, his minions looking even more useless than they had before they received their marching orders.

It was impossible to resist, Rodney waited while they gathered their papers, and headed for the door. "Bye bye!" He said, fake cheery wave, and that tone patented by Tour Guide Barbie in Toy Story 2.

Barclay shot him a furious glare, and no doubt would make another attempt at getting in the door, but this game was too vital to risk a security breach.

The youngest marshal was taking a swig of coffee at the time and snorted. Rodney waited for the furore to die down a bit, and for the man to stop coughing and spluttering.

Rodney had the floor. "Ladies and Gentlemen, Acastas Kolya. Belongs to a splinter terrorist group that call themselves the Genii." Like he said to John when they hatched this plan, it was the details that were a little sticky. "He's here, in Kentucky, or so we have been lead to believe. We don't know why he's here." Fingers crossed for that little lie, "but he's here and believe me that means nothing good."

From a cursory glance at their office badges and the desk tents as he passed by he'd learned their names, the young one was Tim Gutterson, Army Ranger Vet and the office sniper, which would no doubt come in handy, army meant orders and as a sniper he would be smart and resourceful, the young colored woman was Rachel Brooks, the dossier was thin but suggested that she was smart, hard-working and fond on crossing every t and dotting every I, which would make her an asset too. It was the target he wasn't too sure of. Raylan Givens was a smart, talented marshal, with a too quick temper and enough chips on his shoulder to start a mulch factory. It was Raylan who asked the question.

"Why are you here?" the brown eyes were narrowed suspiciously, "you're a mountie."

"Where's your dog?"

Oh god. Rodney rolled his eyes and was about to launch into the explanation that Due South had a great deal to answer for, when Shep darted from behind the board where he'd been lurking inconspicuously and took a flying leap. He landed with precision across Tim's lap, pinning Tim's arm and hand to the table with his chest and forepaws while slurping Tim's coffee as fast as he could.

"Would you give the nice man his hand back and get off the table." Rodney gritted out between clenched teeth. He shot a look at Raylan and Rachel, "and before you ask, he's only willfully deaf and he's not a wolf." He's not exactly a dog either but that's one of the things we're keeping under wraps for now.

Shep's antics were definitely the icebreaker though. Mullen, Rachel and Raylan were laughing, Tim was trying to look aggrieved, but the upward curve of his lips and the way his eyes sparkled said something different. For a moment the young marshal looked very young indeed, and something like a fist closed around Rodney's heart for just the briefest of squeezes. Before this was over, they were all likely to be sadder and wiser.

He pulled himself together. Job to do. Things to get on with. "Acastas Kolya." He opened his briefcase and pulled out the file.

There were the inevitable questions and answers and a whole dog and pony show that was true in the broad strokes, and this was the part that was making Rodney feel sick. There were parts of this that these people needed to know. To stay alive, and he didn't have authorization to do that. Which is why when they came to the end, Rodney took a risk.

"One last thing," he pulled a small file photo out of his inside pocket, "you see someone who looks like this, you shoot to kill, and you need to give it everything you've got."