You'd have to be fairly paranoid to presume someone's having you followed, just because a nondescript blue pickup has been tailgating you for the last ten miles.
But then, Jack Dalton hasn't reached the ripe old age of thirty-six without picking up a little touch of paranoia.
"Not what you say, it's the way you say it," he observes. "Mon chérie, I'd have given you the benefit of the doubt about chasing me up the wrong end of a one-way, but that slip n' slide maneuver at the last off-ramp? No, you gotta be shadowing me. Or you're another ex-cabbie. Or both? Bet you're both."
On a different day he'd lead them a merry chase around the clogged arteries of Los Angeles traffic, but right now he's got other fish to burn. Instead he pulls up at a yellowing light, slowly and ostentatiously easing to a stop. At the last possible second he kicks the hell out of the accelerator and charges straight through the red light. Cars honk from all sides; he very nearly gets flattened by an angry eighteen-wheeler.
In his rearview mirror, he can see the pickup driver mouthing something foul.
Jack grins. The airport's only ten minutes away now.
What the hell, he'll make it in five.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Sammy's snoring in an otherwise deserted office, as usual. No one lurking about in the hanger. His plane looks untouched, except for the delivery of his latest cargo: a crate marked "Contents Highly Explosive. Do Not Open. This Way Up." Whatever the heck it is in there, he's not going anywhere near it. Dalton Air operates on a strictly "Pay now, ask questions not at all" basis.
He gets the plane into the air, eases off the throttle at twelve thousand feet, and is just starting to feel real good about life again when something goes creak in the back. Not the usual six-months-until-metal-fatigue-collapse sound he's used to, more like someone moving around just out of sight. A "Hi, I'm that serial killer who was stalking you just now, meet my brand new chainsaw," type of creak.
That's it. He's dead. Anybody crazy enough to go after a pilot while the plane's in mid-air, there's really not much you can do.
With one hand, Jack removes a wine bottle from under the seat, uncorks it with his teeth, and takes a good long swig.
"All right, at least I won't die cold sober now. How about you? Care to indulge in a dollar's worth of quality California rotgut?"
"Friends don't let friends fly drunk," MacGyver tells him, yanking the bottle well out of reach.
"Mac! Sorry, nice to see you. Surprised you're not a mad assassin. Uh, hate to break it to you, but we're not on the ground anymore."
"I noticed," MacGyver says, slumping into the passenger seat. "Where are we going?"
"The sundry delights of a Nevada ghost town. Hope you weren't planning a hot date tonight."
"Mmm."
"There's an old amusement park they're reopening up there, in dire need of - well, whatever it is I've got in the back. Mind explaining what you're doing on my plane?"
All he gets in response is a snore. Looks like his friend's out cold.
Oh well. Poor guy never could stand heights.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Four hours later, when they're walking from the landing field up an annoyingly steep path to their destination, Mac's a bit more coherent.
His story, on the other hand...
"So, Pete finally gets in touch and says, yes, I'll convince the DXS you're not their mole if I have to go all the way to Bill Casey, but don't go home and for god's sake don't come back to the Phoenix Foundation. Meantime, I've still got this whole motorcycle gang or whoever they hired chasing me."
"Some people would enjoy that," Jack observes.
Mac doesn't really go in for eye-rolls. His knack for wry pauses does just as well.
"Even once they break out the live ammo? Takes two hours before I've shaken them off, and by then I'm on the edge of town and not thinking too clearly, after being awake for three days straight." He looks mildly embarrassed. "So I broke into your plane to get that sleeping bag you borrowed - you really need a new lock, by the way, it's even worse than the last one - only I guess I just dozed off then and there. And of course Murphy's law has to kick in, doesn't it?"
"Cheer up. It's not like you're the first one," Jack says.
"Wait. People make a habit of falling asleep in your plane?"
"Oh, sure! There was this tramp, then a couple of Marines desperate to get back to base before their leave was up. Even a real leggy beauty once."
"You can skip the details, Jack."
"Dalmatian named Spot. I asked the owner which one in particular she was named for," Jack informs him, straight-faced, "and he waves his hand at her and says 'That one'. Man after my own heart."
"Uh-huh. Your eye's twitching."
"Well, it happened to somebody," Jack says defensively, as they crease the top of the hill and look down at the amusement park. Colorful lights shine; calliope music plays. "This little bar down in Santa Monica, everybody agreed the guy was real convincing. Especially since he was buying the drinks. Say, that looks fine. They must be making pretty good progress down there."
"And that's where we're delivering your cargo, huh? Shouldn't we have unloaded it from the plane or something?"
Jack shrugs. "Eh, it looked pretty heavy. So I'm a little behind schedule, no big deal. What harm's a little laziness?"
He's barely finished speaking when there's an explosion.
Way downhill, a few remaining fragments of plane are smouldering in fiery pieces. For once in his life, Jack Dalton is utterly speechless.
Before he can even think of a reaction, MacGyver's grabbed his shoulder and is shoving him off the main path, out of sight.
"Jack, think. Whoever hired you, is there any chance he could have been Murdoc? Somebody went to a lot of trouble setting me up, if this is like the last time he was trailing us-"
"Definitely not. C'mon, I'd have remembered bazooka guy! No, he was more like-uh-"
"Like what?"
"See for yourself," Jack says with a shrug. "Hi again, Bert. Is it Bert?"
MacGyver turns round. Big bear of a man. Holding an automatic on them.
"It's Bert," the man confirms, gruffly.
"Wonderful name for a hired gun," Murdoc says, popping out from behind Bert. "Wish I'd thought of it. Bert the Assassin, doesn't that just have a delightful swing to it?"
Bert grunts. "No."
Jack sneaks a shared look of bewilderment with MacGyver. Really, it doesn't seem right for the guy with the gun to be the unhappiest one here.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The man looks even less happy as they descend the hill towards the amusement park. Over the gates, someone's ripped out the original sign and installed a tremendous techicoloured neon display: "Bert's Big House of Murder and Mayhem!" It flashes in alternating colours every three seconds.
"I didn't put that there," Bert says, flushing.
"I did," Murdoc says cheerily. "To help you get into the right frame of mind, MacGyver- well, and Dalton too, since you're here. Bert did such an excellent job maneuvering you two here, full marks to him on the setup. Though if you'd had any sense, you'd have set that bomb to have gone off mid-air."
"You said that you needed me to demonstrate the personal touch. You said that was the whole point of this damned malarkey!"
"True. Very true. On the other hand, if they'd had an oh-so-tragic accident, I might be very put out, but technically that'd have to be the end of it. You have to look out for this one," he adds, in a not-at-all air of confidentiality to MacGyver. "Terribly unimaginative. Of course, this means I hate his guts, but it's against HIT policy to kill fellow employees."
Mac's gone into terse mode. "You going to explain what we're doing here?"
"Oh, I'd love to, but it's Bert who really should do the honours. Time for your big speech, Bert!"
"I put in to be an assassin for HIT," Bert says. "And I never would have if I'd known how much trouble it was gonna be. They said I needed to demonstrate more initiative."
"Not a single death trap to his credit. Though I do admire his taste in targets. Even if I did always plan to kill you personally, MacGyver," Murdoc says, with a significant look.
"Say," Jack says hopefully. "My name's not MacGyver. Any objections if I go home now?"
"Tut. Tut! What self-respecting hero ducks out on their friends like that?"
"No, I'd really prefer that," MacGyver says. "If I'm going to be spending all day escaping death traps in a murder theme park, you think I want him around distracting me?"
"Hey!"
"What? I thought you wanted to leave!"
"Then it's up to Bert, I suppose. Bert?"
"One guy, two guys, what does it matter? Hope you both die."
"Sorry, Jack. Did my best."
"Mac, just for that I'm gonna save you from one of these death traps. You watch."
"Thanks. But also, no thanks?"
"Gentlemen," Murdoc intercedes, as they approach the first ride: a decrepit wooden roller coaster. "Behold, the first trick of Bert's diabolic cunning. Also the last, if he's any good."
Bert clears his throat. "It's a four-minute ride. Or a two-minute ride in your case, because I've taken out some of the track up there...get it?" he explains, miming a rollercoaster cart falling straight down.
He looks over at Murdoc. "How am I doing?"
"Actually," MacGyver says, "Due to the forward momentum, the cart would be describing an arc instead. Like this," he says, demonstrating.
"I'm going to say, not good," Murdoc says sadly. "Never allow the target to outsmart you about your own plan like that. Even if you kill them, you'll still feel stupid afterwards."
"How am I the one pointing out, that this is completely crazy!" Jack explodes.
The other three stare at him. Mac looks nonplussed.
"Well, sure it is. But sometimes you just gotta go with the flow, huh? Besides, I figure that's an original Prior and Church design, and I've always really wanted to ride on one of those. Luna Parks, I've read all about them..."
"You just get in the cart there instead of making a speech," Bert says.
"Happily." He does.
Jack enters with considerably more reluctance. He figures he enjoys a coaster ride as much as anyone, but one that's actually supposed to kill you, instead of just pretending to? Doesn't sound like so much fun.
Clickety-clunk. Clickety-clunk. Clickety-clunk.
And this ever-so-slow, painstaking crawl up the hill...oh god, can even Mac get them out of this? What's a roll of duck tape going to do to save them from imminent demise?
Mac nudges him. "Well, this has been fun, but I think we're done now."
"What? What are you going to do?"
"Get out, of course."
He puts his hands on the side, and gracefully swings himself out of the slow-moving cart.
Put that way, it's almost embarrassingly simple.
"That doesn't count," Bert snarls, when they reach the bottom.
"I'm afraid it does," Murdoc says, ostentatiously marking something on a clipboard. "It's not your targets' fault that you neglected to tie them down or anything, you can't expect them to do your work for you...now then, what was your intended escape from the trap? Or was that it?"
"Didn't have one. What do I want that for?"
"Honestly! Next you'll be asking me which end of your gun the bullet comes out of - Bert, the number one rule of building a death trap is, always make sure you have an escape plan! Because when you get stuck in it yourself - and you will one of these days, accidents happen- you do not want your last thought to be 'I wish I hadn't been so diligent about making an escape-proof death trap.'" Murdoc shakes his head, despairingly.
"But if you build it like that, then the target can get out too."
"Yes. Well, that's the price you pay sometimes. And I did tell you, MacGyver's the best. You should have left him up to me."
"Oh, don't listen to him," Mac says. "Let us go home. Try your boss on it instead."
"If I'm gonna go through this nonsense," Bert growls. "I want it to be someone worth my time and trouble."
"I'm not worth your time and trouble!" Jack pipes up.
"Will you two just shut up?"
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
The next trap is a plank over a snake pit, with what Bert promises to be half a dozen fanged specimens. He throws a rock down to get them riled up.
"Rattlesnakes. Maybe not the most lethal variety out there, but I was working to a deadline."
"I said be imaginative," Murdoc says, unimpressed, "and all you've done is rip off a movie. I have half a mind to call a forfeit and let them go home early."
Doesn't matter anyway. To Mac's horror, Jack immediately shoots the lot.
"How could you? Those were innocent animals!"
"Yeah, and they were going to bite us!"
"Why are you even armed? You know I hate guns."
"I'd like to know that too," Bert says, looming ominously.
"Mac," Jack says patiently, "do I have to remind you, this time I didn't invite you along? Didn't ask for a favour? Just going along, minding my own business for once?"
"It's your fault for not doing your due diligence, Bert," Murdoc calls. "Should have done a pat-down search, like a sensible assassin."
"How was I supposed to know that pacifist here had a friend who could shoot straight? Thought he was just a dumb hick who crashed planes."
Jack narrows his eyes. "Speaking of which, we haven't even started settling that little score. That's one plane plus a really good cab you guys owe me now..."
MacGyver takes the gun away from him before he can shoot something else with it.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"This one you'll like," Bert says to Murdoc. "Tunnel of hate. As they go through it, subliminal messages play ordering them to die. This one, it's the target's problem figuring out how to manage the hit."
"Better," Murdoc admits, as the ride begins.
Bert's graffitied over all the hearts and romantic messages with spray paint and black arrows. It'd be schlocky, if not for the threat of imminent death hanging over them - nah. It's definitely schlocky.
"Mac, what are we going to do now?"
"Absolutely nothing. Subliminal messages can't make you go crazy, that's just an urban legend. We'll be fine," MacGyver says easily.
Jack's just starting to relax, when the death metal starts. At, ooh, a hundred and thirty decibels? Maybe it can't kill them, but this is going to be a pretty uncomfortable-
MacGyver passes him a set of heavy-duty earplugs. Jack puts them in gratefully.
After that, it's just a matter of waiting for the exit.
"Thought you travelled light. Where did these come from?"
"Your plane. I always keep some in there, so I can get some sleep however rackety your engines are this week."
"But two sets?"
"You know I like being prepared."
"Wonderful concept, poor execution - ha ha, poor execution- so that's another failure," Murdoc notes, scribbling away on his clipboard. "Now, admittedly death isn't everything in building a death trap, but you do have to realise it's an important component."
Bert's looking seriously annoyed this time.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
"This one'll work," Bert says, as he finishes duck taping them to the boat (with Mac's own roll of the stuff, no less). "One of those - what d'you call 'em, flume rides."
"I don't see any water," Jack observes, looking around the empty concrete channel they're currently trapped in.
"I haven't opened the floodgate yet. The idea is," Bert says, warming up to his spiel, "there's this little holding area down the first drop, only I've blocked it off. So when you get down there, it'll just keep filling up until you guys drown. And it isn't water, it's beer. They had vats of it just lying around from when this place was a going concern, I figured I might as well put the stuff to use."
MacGyver frowns. "Now that does sound nasty. Though Jack here might like it."
"Oh, sounds great. Can we skip the dying angle? That's the only part I don't like."
"Drown...MacGyver...in...alcohol," Murdoc says, scribbling away again. "Unstylish, but points for an ironic demise."
"It doesn't smell like beer in here. Did you test this yet?" MacGyver asks.
"No. Didn't have that much on hand. Who tests death traps, anyway?"
"I do!" Murdoc says, looking irritated. "You want to workshop these things, Bert. I can't help but get the impression you aren't taking this seriously."
"Take a few deep breaths," Mac warns Jack. "Hang on to the boat."
He could ask why, or he can breathe. Listening to Mac's probably the smart choice, so he does the second.
Anyway, the why becomes very obvious about a minute later, when a wave of beer washes over and then past them. The boat bumps along a few feet, but stops just short of the fall.
"Yeah, I kinda figured that would happen," Mac says, grimacing as he shakes out his beer-soaked mullet. "A boat on top of the water floats easily, but a boat underneath the current, with two guys in it, only getting pushed along for a few seconds, that doesn't have any kind of buoyancy going for it...Should be easy to escape now. I only carry around regular duck tape, it's not the waterproof kind."
Jack spits out a mouthful. "This really is the cheap stuff, isn't it? Bleah."
"On the basis of that performance," Murdoc informs Bert, "I'm afraid-"
He doesn't get any further than that. Bert shoves the boat down over the edge of the drop; it splashes down out of sight.
"I'm afraid you've still failed. Consistently shoddy work today. Besides which, the universe is cruel, I don't happen to like you, and I have every reason to believe that MacGyver will be back in three minutes, very much alive if a trifle unwell from alcohol fumes."
"We'll see about that," Bert snarls, and dives in.
Murdoc hums a few bars of Tchaikovsky to himself and settles down to await developments.
They come rapidly enough; Jack Dalton swims his way back up, spluttering.
"So. What's going on down there?"
"Bert came at us so fast, he knocked himself out hitting his head on the boat. Mac's dived down to rescue the guy, because he's an idiot. Me, I'd say good riddance." He wrings beer out of his cap. "This is gonna need some serious TLC before I can wear it again. Which makes one cab, one plane, and a dry-cleaning bill now. Plus the other half of my fee for flying in the bomb that blew up my plane in the first place..."
Mac struggles upwards, drenched but pleased. He's got Bert under one arm.
"Hey. Managed to save him after all."
A furious Bert abruptly pistol-whips MacGyver, shoves him into the beer channel.
Jack tosses his cap to safety and launches himself at the assassin. They start struggling over the unconscious troubleshooter, one trying to hold him above the surface of the liquid, the other trying to push him back down.
Murdoc looks on with considerable interest.
It's quite relaxing, watching a fight that he has absolutely no stake in whatsoever.
xxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
There comes a point when Bert just quits fighting. At first, Jack thinks it's because he's got the guy's beat.
"Had enough, huh?"
"Nah, it's just there's no point now. Look at the guy. He's dead."
"Uh," Jack says, and punches Bert out flat while dragging his friend from the liquid one last time. MacGyver's stopped breathing.
Dammit, he knows just what Mac would do with a drowning victim. Mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, a smile afterwards and a comment that it was no big deal.
Jack really, really wishes now he'd been paying attention when they taught this in Scouting, instead of plotting ways to separate Neil Ryder from a particularly elusive set of baseball cards.
"Just to make sure, though," Bert pants, cocking a pistol at MacGyver.
Murdoc neatly swipes the weapon and passes it to Jack. "Bad form, Bert, very bad form. After saving your life? No, we're knocking it on the head for the day. Cover him, I'll be busy."
Jack's absolutely positive that he's had more infuriating experiences than watching bazooka guy save his buddy's life, but he sure can't think of any of them right now.
Still. There is this nice little Walther P5 he's holding. A lot snazzier than that secondhand police special.
"You wanna go ahead?" he asks Bert. "Make my day?"
"No real assassin has ever said that. Ever," Bert says in disgust.
"Okay. Good thing I'm not a real assassin then, huh?"
"Yeah. You're an idiot."
"Sure. One who's holding a gun to your face, so don't you forget it."
"All right, he'll live now," Murdoc says. "Your debt of honour's paid off, Bert, but you've flunked your test tragically. Try again next year."
"Doesn't stop me killing them on my own time." Bert flips out yet another gun from a jacket pocket. This one's bigger.
"Wait," Jack says frantically. "Wait wait wait. If HIT doesn't care about whether we die or not now, why even bother killing us?"
"Got a reason why I shouldn't?"
"Uh...because it's the wrong thing to do?"
"Not buying what you're selling," Bert says, shaking his head. "Any last words?
Okay, forget Mac's kind of do-gooding. Time to fall back on old-fashioned avarice.
"You got any idea how much HIT might pay you to be a double-agent?"
Bert doesn't put away the gun. But he doesn't start shooting, either.
"I mean, if you know anything about MacGyver, and you must if you were this excited about killing him, you know the Phoenix Foundation is pretty hot stuff. Smart as hell, but they're babes in the wood when it comes to trusting people."
"Huh. Why don't you try it yourself, if it's so good?"
Jack shrugs. "Because, damn it, Mac knew me in high school and he's wise to all my tricks. But a guy like you, nothing would hold you back. You could have the place cleaned out in six months. I mean, he saves your life after a day like this? Think about what kind of egomaniacal goodness that takes. Feed him a sob story, spy who came in from the cold, they'll eat it up over there."
"And you want - what? A cut or something?"
"Twenty percent? Ten," Jack says hastily. "That'll include covering you if and when you need it. And leave off trying to get Mac here. Like I said, he's my old school buddy."
"That one's not negotiable," Bert says flatly. "I said I was going to kill him, I'm gonna kill him."
Jack sighs. "Okay. Whatever. But not today, huh? Trust me, if you can get Mac on your side, the whole Phoenix Foundation will be wide open like a smashed pinata."
Bert frowns, considers.
"C'mon. Wake him up. Tell him that you've had a change of heart, you wanna quit HIT and join the Phoenix Foundation. The guy made friends with a bounty hunter once! He'll buy it."
Jack tosses his gun aside. Holds his breath.
Thoughtfully, cautiously, Bert lowers his own weapon. He holds out his hand. "Shake, then."
Murdoc promptly shoots him.
"And who would have guessed that the comic relief would turn out to be so providential?" the assassin says, blowing off his gun. "He should have remembered that I was still listening. By accepting your offer, he effectively resigned from HIT, which made him a civilian again. And no longer an employee."
"Don't you have to garrotte people with their own shoelaces or something, when they betray you?"
"I save that for interesting people, and Bert wasn't at all interesting. I daresay the board won't be surprised. They know perfectly well I have every intention of taking out MacGyver myself." He looks over at the troubleshooter with avid intent.
"You ever kill Mac," Jack says quietly, "and I'll be around to make sure you don't enjoy it."
"Can't you guys find somewhere else to have this conversation? It's getting a little morbid for my taste," MacGyver comments. "And why do I taste like lipstick?"
"Guess."
"He was saving your life," Jack says reluctantly. "Uh, I forgot all my CPR."
"No animals harmed in its testing. I'm a thoughtful man, MacGyver."
Mac wipes his mouth off, but looks mollified. "Well, that'll be something to do on the way home. Remind me to tell you all about it."
"Speaking of which, how do we get home?" Jack asks. "Since my plane is now in tiny, tiny pieces."
"Oh, to the victor go the spoils," Murdoc says dismissively. "You can have Bert's plane, I'll take my motorcycle, we'll forget this piece of sordid intrigue ever happened. Better hunting next time."
"So you're not going to try to kill us," Mac says slowly.
"Not today, I refuse to play second fiddle to anyone. Particularly a corpse. Particuarly one I've shot myself."
"Damn," Jack says. "Now I wish you hadn't woken up so soon, Mac. If he'd mentioned that before, I could have kept quiet about it, let you figure a way for us to get home, and get the Phoenix Foundation to buy me a new plane on the grounds that it only got wrecked because these guys were after you. Then I'd have two planes! Neither of which I'd have to pay for!"
"Okay, so one of you stopped me dying, and one of you's busy plotting accounting fraud. Remind me, who's the good guy here again?"
"Duh. That's you, Mac."
"He has a point there," Murdoc agrees. "Good thing for him you're not a betting man, MacGyver. Dalton didn't even manage to save you from any death traps today, did he?"
"True enough," Jack agrees, without twitching. There's no way anyone could call a gun a death trap, after all.
Murdoc catches his eye: for a single, introspective moment Jack can tell they're thinking the same thought.
One assassin, with a code of honour. One conman, with no taste for murder but a plausible tongue.
Between the two of them, they've saved MacGyver's life.
And the funny thing is, Jack thinks as they head out into the sunlight, Mac's never even gonna know it.