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“Damn. You’d think it'd be easier to find a pharmacy around here. Where are we? Do they have pharmacies?”
Mac lifts his head from the cool glass of the car window. “We're in Vermont,” he mutters, kneading his forehead with his knuckles. “Of course they have pharmacies.”
“Yeah, tell that to Google Maps,” Jack gripes, tossing his phone Mac’s way.
“You don't have reception. Google Maps thinks we've fallen off the face of the Earth.”
Jack groans. “We’ve been driving through the woods for ages. This is like, the perfect place for a serial killer to hide out.”
“We’re still pretty far out from the nearest city,” Mac says regretfully. “Just keep going.”
“Only you would get a cold after the mission is done. Why can't you be a normal person and get it before the mission? Then you can't go on the mission, which means I can't go on the mission. I would kill for a break, Mac.”
But Mac doesn't have the energy to argue. He waves Jack off, slumping against the window again.
“You better be grateful.” True to form, Jack continues the argument alone. “Nobody else on this team would drive your sick ass through serial killer woods to get you cough drops. I want you to remember this when you're picking out my birthday present-”
BAM!
There's fire. The Jeep rolls. Glass shatters everywhere, metal bending and screeching.
And then, there's nothing at all.
---
The world is hazy when Mac opens his eyes. Frost coats the frozen earth and tinges the underbrush. Cold, dry air fills his lungs and a wheeze escapes them.
“Oh. So you are alive.”
“What-?”
Dirt, too dry to be mud, but only barely, presses into the side of his face and brushes his ear. He tries to lift his head, but the effort it takes only makes his face plant that much harder when his head drops again.
“It’s okay,” the voice says. “It’s just me.”
Mac can’t place the voice. It’s familiar. Chillingly familiar. It makes Mac’s stomach clench. But he can’t recall why.
“I’ll be honest,” the voice continues. “At first, I really thought I killed you. I mean, you weren’t moving, and head wounds just bleed so damn much. You know how it is.” Footsteps circle around Mac, light and even.
Even surface distribution, Mac notes. Large surface area. Men’s size 10, maybe 11. Wide foot. And the dissonance from the toe means it’s a stiff shoe. Either new or rarely used.
And then a pair of black dress shoes, far too shiny for a dirt trail in the middle of the woods, steps into view. Mac rolls onto his back, shoulders and leg and head aching from the movement, and finds himself staring down the barrel of a hunting rifle.
“Stay right there, MacGyver,” the voice coos, and Mac doesn’t need to look past the gun to know who’s holding it.
“Murdoc.”
“Oh, good. I didn’t shake your brain up too bad then. That bazooka can be a real doozy on the noggin.”
Bazooka?
“What did you-? Why are you-?”
“Ah, ah.” Murdoc tuts reproachfully. He squats down, slinging the rifle onto his pack and aiming a pistol at Mac’s forehead. “I know your mind is inquisitive to its own detriment, but you’ll need to have a bit of patience today.”
Mac groans, wincing against a killer headache. He can’t be sure if it’s from the car crash or his cold. Or maybe it’s both.
“You're a tough man to track down, MacGyver,” Murdoc says, standing again and planting his boot on Mac’s chest, gun still at the ready. “Fortunately for me, I have this nifty little program. Lets me know any time the Phoenix assigns a case to one Angus MacGyver. And since you were in the remote edges of Vermont and I was in the remote edges of Vermont, I figured I’d stop by. Say hello.”
For a moment, Mac drowns out Murdoc, trying to assess his situation.
In the middle of the woods. Trees. Maple, birch, spruce, pine. Northeast US, maybe still Vermont, though all bets are off with Murdoc.
On his back. Hands bound. Rope and duct tape. Feet are free.
Injuries. Head wound, concussion probable. Arms are okay. Pain and swelling in his left leg. Suspected femur fracture. Right leg is normal. And something about the abdomen. Something’s wrong…
Wait. Where’s-
Mac coughs, trying and failing to push Murdoc’s foot off. “Where's Jack?”
“Hm… Jack? I don't know if we've met.”
“You-” Mac coughs again, this time succeeding to push Murdoc away. He sits up slowly, head pounding. “You blew him up.”
“Ugh, Mac, you know you need to be more specific. I’ve blown up so many people that they've started to blend together.”
“He was in the car with me,” Mac growls. “Where is he?”
“I imagine he's still in the car.” Murdoc studies his nails, gun still trained on Mac.
Mac swallows hard. Jack must have survived. There's no alternative.
“Oh, don’t look so sad, MacGyver! Come on! I’ve got some fun things planned today, so why don’t you-” He jerks his head to the side. “Up, on your feet! There’s a good soldier.”
But Mac doesn’t stay on his feet for long, falling with his first step.
“I will admit,” Murdoc sighs, squatting down beside Mac again. “I wasn’t sure the bazooka was the best idea. Too many variables. But I also couldn’t not take the risk. I mean, I’ve been trying to kill you for years. When would I get a better opportunity?”
Mac groans. Pushes himself up on his hands.
“It does increase the risk of leg injuries, which makes moving you around a real pain in the ass. But there are ways.”
Well, if Mac’s heart wasn’t racing before, it definitely is now.
“This will be easier if you don’t fight me. Trust me; this is a mercy.”
And then the pistol cracks against Mac’s head, and everything goes dark.
---
“ Så flådde han kråka og lema ho sund, hei fara og lema ho sund- oh.”
Mac frowns against a stabbing headache and a leg burning in agony. He’s not as cold as before, and the ground is drier. Wood.
“Forgive me,” Murdoc says airily. “I was workshopping lullabies. Still new to this parenting thing.” He sighs. “My mother used to sing me to sleep with that one: kråkevisa. It’s about a man who thinks a crow is out to kill him, so he kills the crow first. Then he makes shoes out of its skin and hangs the crow’s neck in the church. I suppose it’s her own fault that I tried to emulate the man. And there were no crows near my home, so I made do. Mother did make a lovely pair of shoes.”
This is far too much information. Mac can’t even process it. All he can do is look around, searching for threats.
“Where are we?” he murmurs.
“This is where I come to get away from it all,” Murdoc explains. “Cozy place, isn’t it?”
Mac sits up slowly, hands (still tied together, regretfully) immediately going to the dark red drenching his shirt. “Wh-?” He lifts the hem, finding a metal shard sticking out of his side. The wound was clotted, but sitting up tears it open again, bright red flowing over deep maroon.
Murdoc hums. “Car accident, I suspect. Not important, really. Just don't pull it out.” He shrugs. “Really, MacGyver, we have bigger fish to fry here.”
“Like what?” Mac grits out, holding pressure against the wound.
“You really have no sense of drama. But that’s okay. I like that about you.” He paces to a table. Mac can’t see what he’s doing. “So I’ll throw you a bone, just this once.
“You, my friend, have been an insufferable presence in my life since the day I was hired to kill you. I planned everything perfectly. I was stronger than you, more prepared than you, faster than you.” He picks up a tray and returns to Mac’s side, kneeling to look at Mac properly. “But you still managed to-” He sets the tray down with a sharp clatter. “-slip through my fingers.” His voice remains even, rhythm never faltering. “You were the one who got away. And ever since, I’ve been chasing you like a dog, trying to rectify that.”
Murdoc hums. Puts on a pair of white rubber gloves. “I think enough is enough, don’t you?”
Mac can’t stand up. Not with his leg swollen and (most likely) broken to hell. There’s no getting out of here. He sees two options:
1. He stalls long enough for someone to find him. But this requires someone to realize he’s missing. Even if Jack survived (and he must have survived, because Mac can’t live in a world without him), he’s probably just as lost as Mac is. Their best bet is that Riley or Bozer notice they’re missing. That will take a minimum of three hours, maybe four.
Or,
2. He incapacitates Murdoc and uses the items at his disposal to contact help.
It’s not a difficult choice.
“Remember, back in LA? When we had that little chat over nightshade and handcuffs?” He smiles, and it’s scarier than when he’s angry. “That was a good day.” And then his voice hardens to steel. “But you cut it short. I never got to pry Cassian’s location out of you.” He sighs. “I don't need his location anymore - obviously - but wouldn't it be a treat to have you give it up anyway? A nice dose of humiliation before I kill you.”
Mac glares up. He's not sure how effective it is when he's on the ground and bleeding. “So what? If I don't talk, I get to live?”
“Of course not,” Murdoc scoffs, screwing a needle to a syringe and stabbing a vial with it. “Living was never on the table. You either talk and die or get tortured for nothing and die. Your call.”
Mac shifts backwards. He can't help it. With Murdoc leering over him, needle glinting and malice-driven eyes gleaming, Mac’s every cell is screaming at him to get away. But in his state, moving just jars his leg, pain choking the breath from his lungs.
Murdoc is less than enthused. “You should leave the torturing to the expert.” And then he stabs Mac in the arm with the needle and depresses the plunger.
At first, Mac feels nothing at all. Just that absent but nagging concern about the mystery drug in his body. And then, things start to sink. The pain doesn’t go away - if anything, it’s worse - but his awareness is fluttery. Sounds are muffled at first and then ring for eons in his ears. The world is filtered with a blurry blue haze. Murdoc’s face comes in and out of focus.
“The belladonna clearly wasn’t enough last time. So I made my own… adjustments. But I’m sure you figured that out by now.”
Yeah. Mac definitely does not remember the sewers being like this.
“So I’ll ask nicely. Once. Where were you hiding my son?”
Mac coughs. Maybe it’s his cold. Maybe he’s about to vomit. He can’t decide. “I didn’t… I never knew… I didn’t even know he-”
Murdoc’s ring cuts Mac’s face as he backhands him. “Liar! You knew, and you kept it from me! You took a son away from his father, all under the guise of ‘protecting’ him.”
“No one… ever told me,” Mac swears.
And Murdoc nods once, expression stony. “You made me do this.”
Shiny. Cool steel. Brand new. Long and sharp and strong. Clamping. Pulling. Pressure. And then-
Mac can’t help it. He screams.
“Oh, come now, MacGyver,” Murdoc chides. “What’s one fingernail between friends? A ring fingernail, no less. Hardly important. Though the index nail is looking awfully tempting.”
“I…” His voice shakes so badly, he can barely speak. “I told you all I… all I know.”
“I doubt that.”
And then the middle and index nails are gone.
“Okay, so fingernails aren’t your kryptonite,” Murdoc says, barely sparing the writhing figure on the floor a second glance. “That’s fine. We can move on.” He hums, scanning his tray of tools, and then sighs. “I’m not feeling it. Nothing’s speaking to me. I’m going to have to get creative.”
Mac thinks, for only a moment, that perhaps this will be his reprieve. Maybe he’ll have a few seconds to breathe. But then there’s a sharp, twisting, cutting agony, ripping his insides to shreds.
“Funny thing about the human body: it will do anything to stop the bleeding. Even if there’s a foreign object in the wound, the body will still try its damnedest to heal around the sucker. So before you know it, that thing is basically melded into the skin. And even the slightest movement-” and here he twists the metal shrapnel viciously “-will tear the skin open all over again. Hurts so good, huh?”
Mac is leaning more towards “hurts” than “good,” but Murdoc doesn’t really want Mac’s opinion. He just wants to hear himself talk.
“So what do you say? Want to tell me now? I already have him, so it’s not like you’re hurting anyone. Barring yourself, of course.”
Mac doesn’t have the air to defend himself. But Murdoc interprets this as defiance. And in his own act of defiance, he rips the shrapnel from Mac’s side.
“Ooo, that must’ve hurt.”
But Mac can’t hear him over his own screams.
Murdoc drops the metal, returning to his tray. “How’s that leg feeling?”
Oh god. Not his leg. The leg that’s still throbbing, even under the agony of his side. Mac has a plan - thinks he has a plan - but if he wants it to work, he needs to act now.
Murdoc grabs a hammer and turns it in his hands. Then he shakes his head and grabs a meat mallet instead.
Mac has his hands on the shrapnel now, cutting away at the ropes. Murdoc doesn’t notice, though it’s only a matter of time before he does.
“So, tongue feeling looser yet?” Murdoc hasn’t looked up yet. He hasn’t looked up yet. He hasn’t-
“What are you doing?” Murdoc hisses, reaching out to snatch the metal away. But Mac is in pain and drugged and still has his stupid head cold , and his survival instincts are far past active. With a sudden burst of adrenaline-powered strength, Mac rips the last of the ropes and tape away and swipes out with the shrapnel. He catches Murdoc in the hand, but this only seems to make him angry.
Murdoc holds his injured hand to his chest and pulls out his pistol.
Mac doesn’t waste another moment, kicking out with his good leg and hitting Murdoc’s head. As he jerks to the side, Murdoc hits his head against the corner of the table and falls still. Later, Mac will look back with horror at how ridiculously lucky he was, but in the moment, Mac is just desperate to escape.
As gently as he can manage, Mac drags himself across the floor, grabbing Murdoc’s gun and pocketing the cartridge. Best to keep Murdoc away from loaded weapons.
Then, Mac grabs the rope hanging from the table (excess from the rope used to tie him up, no doubt), and secures Murdoc’s wrists and ankles. It’s not foolproof, but it’s a temporary fix until Mac can find something stronger.
After a moment to brace himself, Mac slowly, painfully slides himself around the room, trying to get a lay of the land. There are a multitude of torture weapons on the tray, of course, though few look like promising supplies. (Mac does grab the meat tenderizer though. Just in case Murdoc gets loose.) There’s an alarm clock on the table, which Mac manages to knock to the floor. There’s probably more up there, but Mac can’t see much past the table’s edge. Mac himself has a few paperclips and a stick of chewing gum. (Something about that feels cliche, though he has no idea why.)
The best find, however, is a drawer in the kitchenette. The moment Mac opens it, despite it being above his line of view, he instantly knows what it is: a junk drawer. Lord bless the person who invented junk drawers. They’ve saved Mac’s life on more than one occasion.
Feeling around, Mac procures a few tubes of used lip balm, more bullets, a pair of scissors, and a small coil of wire.
And Mac has all the makings of a quick and dirty spark-gap transmitter.
With shaky hands (and three fewer fingernails than usual), Mac removes the battery from the alarm clock. Then he connects it with the wire, leaving the rest of the coil to act as an electromagnet. Then he adds a paperclip across from a nail in the floorboards, forming a spark gap. Now Mac just needs a second battery.
Mac searches the junk drawer and the lower cabinets, coming across a forgotten smoke detector. It’s perfect. Just one problem though:
Mac can’t get the smoke detector open. He tugs and pries at the battery door, injured fingers curled into his palm. He uses the wires and the tenderizer and everything he can find, but nothing will open it. He hangs his head before trying to pry it open with his fingers again. He’s so close. He can’t lose now. One more battery - just one thing to complete the circuit - and he’ll have his transmitter. He’ll be able to signal for help. He’ll get out of here alive.
There’s a crash. Mac jumps, sending shockwaves of pain up his leg and through his abdomen. There’s clattering around the room. Cursing and rustling. Yelling and breaking glass and gun safeties. And then, footsteps approach Mac. Someone is trying to talk to him.
“Get… get away…” he pants, refusing to look up. “Back off.”
“Whoa, hey,” the voice says, and it’s that awful Texan drawl that makes Mac’s spirit soar. “It’s just me, hoss. I ain’t gonna hurt you.”
“Jack,” Mac breathes, allowing Jack to help him sit up. “I thought you were…”
“Yeah. Well. I’m not.” He jerks his head to the side. “No thanks to Jerkwad von Bazookaface over there.”
Murdoc is still bleary-eyed, surrounded by at least four SWAT officers.
“How did you…?” Mac looks at the nail on the floor, then back at Jack. “I didn’t finish the radio.”
“I don’t need a radio to find you.” It’s almost sweet, in a weirdly them type of way. “You left blood all over the place. Followed it like breadcrumbs to the witch’s candy house.”
Mac blinks. “You and I remember that fairytale very differently.”
“No, you just lack imagination.”
Mac sighs, sagging against Jack’s steady hand. “I am too high for this.”
Jack pats him reassuringly. “Definitely, buddy. Now, let’s get you outta here. There’s a bag of cough drops with your name on it on the plane.”
Mac doesn’t reply right away. He’s overwhelmed by a strange sense of… safety. “Hey, uh, Jack?”
“Hey, uh, what?”
“Thanks.”
Jack just smiles. “S’what brothers are for.”