The boy silently crept along the lakeshore. There was an olive drab backpack strapped on him, a bamboo fishing rod hooked on carefully. There was a certain fishing spot that kept him coming back, about two-thirds of a mile away from Pike Cove. It was a small creek type formation, and the crappie drifted in from the cedar lake, which was connected by a narrow canal. The catching was fast and furious, any fisherman's dream.
He had no real reason of sneaking, other than he was on very private property. The sign at the foot of the entrance trail boldly read "Stop! Trespassers will be shot!" This did not stop him. The owner of the 2.6 acreage of lakefront land was Chuck McGuire, a war veteran from Duluth. The boy doubted the sign was a statement of truth, rather just assurance.
He walked up to a small wooden dock, a canoe loosely tied on. Again, the canoe was also McGuire's, but he had always used it, why change. The boy carefully stepped in the canoe, only taking one of the worn paddles. He grabbed his gear from the dock, and untied the rope. After a push off with the paddle, he was gone.
The boy reached the spot in less than ten minutes encountering no trouble to this point. He tied off on a long narrow iron pole, which was installed by him personally. Now the fishing began.
He started off with removing his beloved Swiss Army Knife from his coat pocket. There was an excess of line on the bottom of his pole, a problem that would prevent him from casting correctly. With a quick swipe, the line was cut, and was already loading a counterweight. The boy preferred old fashion fishing. He could do the same with his man-made bamboo rod that a priceless reel could on a carbon fiber pole. He believed the modern stuff did too much for one, combining with his personal budget, kept him using a bamboo reed pole. They were in big abundance and very reliable.
The boy took his first cast, using hand tied rigs for his starting weapon. In less than ninety seconds, he felt a tug on the rig. With a quick, upward thrust, a 2.5 pound crappie was flung from the water, and into his canoe. This process repeated six more times, finally deciding to pack up and go home. He gathered them on some extra fishing line, and secured them on the side of the canoe. With everything packed up, he slowly paddled back towards the dock.
When he returned to the dock, he quickly tied up, leaving his gear in the canoe. The boy glanced at his watch. It read 6:30AM. Most thirteen year old boys would be sleeping at this time on Saturday morning. Not this one. He pulled out a filleting knife from his pack. Next, the boy carefully lifted the crappie from the water, sitting them gently on the dock. And then, right there on the rickety dock, he began filleting the crappie, not wasting an ounce of meat. Experience had increased his speed, and by 7:00, he was loading up the freshly cut filets in his portable cooler. The small icebox was always in the pack on the way there, than carried on the way back. It slowed his pace, but not by much.
The boy shouldered his pack, and handled the cooler. When he turned around he realized he was looking down the cold, steel barrel of a rifle.
He was taken up to an old shed, the gunman still prodding the barrel into his back. The boy got a quick look at the man, instantly recognizing that it was not Chuck McGuire. Subtract about thirty years, and 60 pounds, and you had the appearance of the gunman. He had not spoken a word, and the boy didn't want a conversation himself.
The door to the shed was flung open, and he was thrown inside. The gunman took a quick look around, than stepped inside himself. He leaned the rifle against the wall and removed his coat. There were two chairs, the boy already took his, and the man remained standing. There was a long period of silence, then broken by the gunman.
"Who are you?"
The boy had no answer
"I'll will ask you again, who are you?
The man's voice had a foreign undertone to it, not quite American but close.
"I hate that I have to do this."
Quickly and surprisingly, the gunman came down with a fierce backhand. The boy screamed, but the pain was soon gone, and the yelling ceased.
"Okay, you're a tough one I see. Well let's see what we can do about that, eh."
The foreign man unsheathed a deadly looking blade from his hip. He slowly rotated it in front of the boy, showing off its grimacing serrated edges. The man gently placed the knife against the soft flesh of the boy's throat. What does he want? I'm just a kid. I can understand punishment for being and using restricted property, but this?
In the boy's thirteen years of life he had never encountered something so crazy. The pressure of the blade was becoming more firm by the second.
"I'll will ask you again before your own blood stains your clothes, what is your name?"
The blade was starting to cut, the boy ending the soon to be torture with a gasping talk.
"Okay, Okay, I'll tell you, I'll tell you just get the blade off"
The blade was removed, but kept close. After much protest, the boy finally spoke his name.
"My name is Angus MacGyver."
Pete Thornton looked at the cab toll. It was getting atrocious. He had to be seen in a cab, not his normally driven Lincoln. The so called "office" he was investigating for the DXS knew his car and the plate number. Modifications could have been made, but it was simpler and much safer to go via cab.
The aged cab pulled up the curb to Dunder St. The small continuous clicking of the toll stopped. It read $23.50. Pete could see the hidden smile from the driver, a sum that would make his jackpot. Reluctantly, Pete pulled out his wallet and gave him exactly $27.50. He deserved no extra.
Pete stepped out into the breezy LA climate. It was nothing like Sacramento, though quite refreshing to his body. He straitened out his wool sports coat (Which carried a Smith & Wesson .38 snub nose revolver) and slowly headed to Johnson & Johnson Paper Co. What was supposed to be a paper financial firm handling a mill down in San Jose, was an illegal drug manufacturing hide out. The DXS caught on about three months into production, though still over 150 million USD was distributed through the eastern US, and northern Canada. The selling was hot, and Jim "Sugar Daddy" Mathews was persistent. Pete had started investigating this about six weeks ago, one of Mathews' men catching on. He saw his car and his tags, and he relayed the information. Pete had to be careful.
The front door to Johnson & Johnson was a simple dead-bolt door. The office was supposed locked down for maintenance, though Pete had a feeling he'd make some company. According to DXS blueprints, there was a hidden trapdoor located somewhere along the processing hall. There was a supposed underground bunker, which contained the assembly line and all production equipment. But, a valuable computer was also down in the bunker, a flash disk containing all transactions of the drugs. Buyers, Sellers, hard proof. That was all Pete needed to bring down the Johnson & Johnson "Paper Co."
Pete quickly made a low profile shuffle to the door. He put his hand on the wooden grip of his .38, clasping the door handle with his other. In a swift motion, he threw out his revolver, the butt making contact with the glass window pane. Pete stuffed his short, chunky arm into the narrowing hole.
He was in.