Hi, MacGyver fans! I've been writing fanfic for the past seven years, but this is my first venture into the MacGyver fandom... I guess I got antsy waiting around for season 3, so I've been playing around with this plot in my spare time. I hope you guys enjoy, let me know what you think!
Obligatory disclaimer applies. I own nothing. ;)
Chapter One
Mac had never really cared for bars.
Social drinking could just as easily be done in the comfort of his own home, surrounded by friends, without the added buzz of inebriated excitement adding to the ambience.
Not that he minded the public setting, necessarily... but something about the dim, hazy interior of a bar always made Mac a little uneasy. A poorly lit room packed with people whose judgement may or may not be significantly impaired seemed like the perfect breeding ground for petty thievery, pickpocketing, or stupid fights started over the smallest infraction.
But two weeks undercover had Bozer missing Los Angeles night life, so Mac agreed to join his best friend for a quick drink. A cold beer was probably just what he needed to wind down after a greuling mission, anyhow. Halfway through nursing his first beer, the blond's brow raised as he watched his friend polish off his third drink of the night.
"You're lucky Jack didn't come with us. He'd have a field day with all those mixed drinks you're getting. You'd never hear the end of those two screwdrivers, or..." Mac eyed the empty lowball glass beside him. "What was that last one?"
"Mojito." Bozer tipped his glass back one last time, catching the last few drops of rum and seltzer. "Tell me about it. I love a good beer as much as the next guy, but there's nothing wrong with a cocktail every now and then." Stirring the ice left in his glass, Bozer grinned. "I can practically hear his voice right now, 'all that fruit and sugar nonsense-'"
"'-got no place messin' up my alcohol'," Mac finished, mouth upturning into a grin of amusement. "I've heard that line a hundred times."
Applause off to his right caught Mac's attention, signalling another crowd pleaser from the kid singing at the back of the bar. Sounded like John Denver. Turning back to his beer, Mac watched a handful of patrons head outside, making room for another wave of jerseys arriving to watch the game that night.
Absently tapping the bartop, Bozer scanned the room. "Looks like a pool table is opening up - loser buys the next round?"
Glancing at his nearly empty bottle, Mac considered for a moment before shaking his head. "Sorry, Boze, I'm beat. Didn't get much sleep on the flight back home this morning." As if on cue, a yawn forced its way to the fore, only to be stifled as Mac gave his foggy head a quick shake. "Sorry. Stay as late as you want, but I think I need to head back. Matt wants us in early tomorrow."
Bozer nodded. "Sure thing. I'm pretty sure I can make a bet with few guys waiting for the game to start." A cocky wink indicated that he fully intended to win several drinks that night.
"Go easy on 'em, champ." Blond locks falling out of place over his tired blue eyes, Mac took the rest of his beer in one gulp. He shrugged into his jacket, wiped a sleeve across his mouth, and firmly gripped his friend by the shoulder. "Night, Boze."
"Later, Mac." Bozer clapped him on the back, heading toward the pool tables. Turning slightly, he called back, "Don't wait up for me, alright?"
"Not a chance," the seasoned agent answered, shaking his head. Hands stuffed into his pockets, Mac left the warm, shadowy bar and stepped out into the night.
Keeping his stride long, Mac walked briskly between the rows of cars. A full lot had forced him to park as far from the door as seemed humanly possible. A cool breeze brushed against his cheek as he walked, sending the barest tingle down his neck.
Mac could almost swear he could hear his footsteps echo as he crossed the wet pavement. But an irregular echo, not quite in sync with the rhythm of his boots.
Mac swallowed the dryness that tickled his throat. His scalp itched; the back of his neck pricked warningly. Risking a glance over his shoulder - to assure himself that it was nothing, just his hyperactive senses on the fritz - Mac's chest tightened, his stomach twisting.
Dark sweatshirt, ball cap pulled low. The same man he'd seen leaving not ten minutes ago.
Your average, run-of-the-mill mugger, maybe? A hard up lowlife looking to land a wallet?
Metal glinted in the moonlight, a silver flash in the figure's hand; Mac's shoes pounded against the asphalt as he broke into a dead run. Great, he was armed. Fumbling in his pocket, he managed to find his keys the moment he reached his car.
The all-too-familiar pop of a silencer sounded at his back a mere fraction of a second before hot metal barely scored the top of Mac's ear as he reached for the sedan's door. For a wound so small, the burning sensation was tremendous. Mac yanked the car door open and dove inside, adopting a new fervor as tires screamed against the asphalt, stopping short not six feet from his own vehicle.
A large, muscular arm stopped Mac's attempt to pull the car door shut and effectively separate himself from his attackers. Iron fingers wrapped around his arm and jerked him from the vehicle as if he were a rag doll, spinning him sharply and slamming him against the driver's side hard enough to knock the wind from his chest.
Falling back on years of combat training, Mac threw an elbow back, aiming for the larger man's ribcage as he attempted to turn and face his attacker in an effort to lessen his disadvantage.
As if the move was anticipated, the moment Mac's elbow landed, a rough hand caught his forearm and twisted sharply, eliciting a strained grunt from the smaller agent as his arm was pinned behind him.
Fingers entwined in his hair yanked his head up, then the hood of the car seemed to rush up to meet him; and everything went white - blinding, fiery white, like electricity - and completely silent for one long, excruciating moment. Then the sounds of electronic music and intoxicated laughter rushed back all at once, his vision tunneling and roaring back to focus.
Coppery warmth spread over his tongue, dripping lazily over his lower lip and tracking down his chin. Cool metal settled at the base of his skull, sending a panicked shiver down his back and through his shoulders. Knees buckling, he drew a ragged breath, working to keep his wits about him.
Mac's vision swam, the world growing dangerously spotty. Despite temporarily hampered mental faculties, the blond knew his best chance for escape - and likely survival - was to make a break for it before they forced him into their car.
Disregarding the gun, Mac whirled shakily, keys firmly in hand, and drove the jagged point directly at the face of dark figure accosting him.
A stifled grunt, followed by a sharp curse - in Spanish, unfortunately not Mac's best language, though he had a decent understanding - then calloused knuckles struck him full in the face. More arms caught him from behind, looping around his chest and crushing his throat.
Metal jangled, the telltale sound of keys hitting pavement. The arm at his throat tightened, forcing Mac's head back. Inhaling sharply, he struggled to keep any sign of fear at bay as hot breath prickled against his ear. "No deberías resistirte."
Don't resist. You'd like that, wouldn't you? Mac nearly laughed despite himself as he strained against the arms holding him.
"You should cooperate. We aren't supposed to hurt you yet."
Yet? Well, maybe you should've thought about that before you slammed my freakin' face into a car.
"Hold him, Santiago!" The first voice sounded before him, suddenly escalating in intensity. "The two of you should be more than a match for a boy so skinny!"
"Cállate, estoy intentando," was all the response Santiago gave, as he and his partner struggled to keep the young agent in check.
Another voice sounded behind him, sharp with urgency. "Hurry and get him in the car, we can't have people coming see what the trouble is."
"No one is coming. For all they know, our unruly little amigo here has simply had too much to drink."
A short laugh, then something hard struck Mac square on the cheekbone, knuckles rapping his eye with enough force to send stars across his vision.
"Más rápido, Manuel." Santiago again, sounding clearly worn. Mac felt satisfaction at the tired note in his attacker's voice, but struggled anew when the pressure at his throat was relieved, only for a rough hand to grip him by the hair and pull back so the younger man's neck was exposed.
Mac could barely see two feet in front of him, being well-distanced from any kind of streetlamp, but easily caught the glint of moonlight on the tip of a needle. The defiant set of his jaw merely drew a laugh from the man holding him.
"Hold still, blondie." The man before him - Manuel, apparently - made short work of the syringe, nodding to Santiago as soon as he finished. The two yanked Mac backward, toward the sound of an engine.
On the off chance that someone was within earshot, though he ruled that option out immediately due to the roaring and electronic thumping of the neighboring club, Mac seized his rapidly shrinking window of opportunity to try and catch someone's attention. "Hey-!"
The sharp, desperate cry ended in a strangled sound, cut off by thick cloth. Dirty too, from the taste of it. Mac choked, trying to spit out the fabric as it was knotted behind his head, jerked hopelessly tight.
"Se tranquilo, chico bonito. You want to live, sí?" The iron grip on Mac's shoulder tightened, the firm hand giving him a rough shake. "Respóndeme, americano! You want to live to see your friends again?"
The younger agent seethed, grinding his teeth nearly hard enough to tear through the gag. Grunting and indicating the affirmative with a nod off his head, he hoped his attackers would somehow be physically seared by his hot, angry glare.
"You get your act together, amigo, and this will be much easier for everyone."
His leg struck metal. Too high for a car. Had to be a bigger vehicle, maybe a van. Shoved headlong into the back, his forehead struck hard against the opposite door, eliciting a groan as he bit further into the gag.
"I'm in. Drive."
A new voice, deep and low. Firm, meaty hands caught Mac's wrists as he reached for the cloth at his mouth.
"Don't." The same hands jerked the younger man's arms behind him, securing him with plastic ties. "We will kill you if we have to... And I know somebody who would really hate for it to come to that. I bet he'll do everything we ask if he thinks it'll keep you alive."
Who? Jack? They could only mean Jack, but what could they possibly want?
Whatever was in that needle was definitely starting to work. Mac could barely shift his legs, and his search for some kind of improvised blade on the van's floor was ended prematurely when his hands grew stiff and heavy and refused to move any more. Seething at his captor's feet, he could feel the angry red flush creeping up his neck, coloring his face.
"El niño pequeño está enojado." The third voice held a lilting, amused note. The toe of a boot nudged Mac's leg.
Enojado... Angry. Darn right I'm mad. Freakin' furious, actually. If I wasn't so... so tired, I'd show you... just how mad... I am...
Mac gave in to the incredible weight forcing his eyes closed. Whatever drug cocktail they'd mixed up for him was like an anchor, pulling him down so hard that Mac could have sworn he was about to sink right through the floor of the van. The numbness finally took over, creeping its way to his brain and dragging him fully into the depths of insentience.
