Pete's own heart nearly stopped as he ran up to the side of his friend where he lay sprawled upon the ground. MacGyver had fallen from the balcony above the hotel, and he wasn't moving. A thin string of smoke rose from an ugly hole over Mac's heart, but no breath of life steamed from his lips. Beside him, Jack removed his hat and hung his head sadly.
Then suddenly Mac coughed and groaned aloud. Fumbling, he drew out of his shirt pocket a badly dented knife, the bullet-hole not quite defacing the small cross carved on the wooden handle.