-Mac -

For many years, it had surprised Mac to learn that there were some people who lived their lives without any major, life-changing surprises. People who moved through each day expecting things to go a certain way and whose life more or less corresponded to that expectation.

Life had not treated Angus MacGyver with quite the same deference.

Along the way, he'd started to expect life to disappoint, to destroy, to turn sideways and to pull the metaphorical rug out from under him. Until he met Jack Dalton and realized that sometimes when someone says I've got your back, they meant it.

Jack became Mac's exception—his litmus test that all other people were measured against.

The idea that their target had Jack in his sights coiled a snake of rage in Mac's gut. He knew they shouldn't have split up. Nothing ever worked well for them when they separated.

Moving toward to their meeting point through the knee-deep snow was exhausting. The snow was wet and heavy, chilling him even through his insulated TAC gear. The icy crystals reflected the brilliant sunlight, teasing his vision even through the protective goggles; he had to force himself not to growl in frustration. He struggled to find solid ground as the frozen land slipped beneath his boots, catching himself against protruding rocks and branch-bare trees.

And then Jack's voice slurred through the comm in his ear, breathy with surprise and tinged with pain.

"M-Mac…tr-trip wire…."

Panic ripped through MacGyver like a living thing.

"Jack? Jack, talk to me!"

There was no universe where Jack being hurt was going to be something MacGyver would handle well. It had happened before—too many times in Mac's recollection. And every time it had felt like his world was ending.

Because the world simply did not work without Jack.

"Jack. Report." The hiss of silence in his comm was his only reply.

Finding another gear, he covered the area in half the time he'd calculated.

"Jack? You there? C'mon, man…answer me." He swallowed, pulling himself through a deeper snowbank. "Please?"

In less than ten minutes from Jack's last transmission, Mac was coming up on the area where they'd originally agreed to meet. Leaning against a tree, he pulled his goggles down around his neck, grabbed binoculars from his pack and fought to slow down his breath.

Jack hadn't responded to his calls; no matter how desperate he was to find him, Mac didn't want to alert anyone else in the area by shouting Jack's name until he could find out what condition his partner was in. Trailing the binoculars along the edge of the tree line, he saw a section of disrupted snow and what could only be the top of his partner's pack. Back tracking with the binoculars, Mac looked for footprints in the snow, blood, something to indicate why Jack wasn't moving.

Shifting his view to the tops of the trees, he spotted an empty hunter's blind. It looked like the snow along the trunk of the tree had been recently disrupted and Mac could see a rope with several heavy knots still swinging from recent use.

Tucking his binoculars away, he grabbed a breath, then started toward where he'd seen Jack. Just as he edged away from the safety of the tree, a flurry of movement to his left startled him. Spooked from their nesting place, a flock of pheasants shot to the sky with a warbled cry of irritation. Mac dropped to a crouch, making himself as small a target as possible, and saw in the distance a floom of snow kicked up from the heels of someone running full-out in the opposite direction.

Isaac Gray. Had to be. But why was he running away from them?

"Dammit," Mac muttered, then pushed forward in the snow until he reached Jack.

His partner was eerily still, slumped sideways in the snow. Mac checked his pulse—it was strong and steady. He carefully turned the other man to his back, eyes scanning his camo and the surrounding snow for signs of what had happened.

Plenty of animal tracks, no blood.

Removing Jack's goggles and pulling his ski mask down to expose his face he saw that the man was unnaturally pale, but not yet hypothermic, and was breathing evenly.

"Jack," Mac said, tapping his partner's face. "Hey, man, c'mon. I need you to wake up for me. Jack!"

Nothing.

Swallowing, Mac began to run his hands over Jack's torso and arms, then down his hips to his legs, one hand catching on a piece of metal protruding from Jack's thigh. Leaning over he realized it was a small, metal dart. He pulled his glove off with is teeth, then grabbed the dart, pulling it straight out of Jack's leg. He wasn't nearly as worried about the small amount of blood that would result from the removal of the dart as he was about what kind of substance had been injected into his friend's bloodstream.

"Okay, buddy, let's see," Mac said, keeping up a steady stream of words—basically meaningless, but purposeful in their effort to make sure neither of them felt alone.

He turned the dart over in his hand, immediately running through all of the possible tranquilizers and side effects. Eyes shifting to the animal tracks he'd spotted earlier, he realized it was probably meant for the wolves, if it was this close to the hunting blind Gray had set up. And if that was the case, it could be ketamine or Xylazine.

Hands shaking, he muttered a prayer to a God he wasn't sure he believed in that it was ketamine. The side effects there were bad enough, but with Xylazine…well, there was a reason it was called the 'zombie drug.' His eyes skimmed the label on the side of the small metal cylinder, his vision blurring as he tried to focus on the miniscule writing.

"There," he whispered to himself as the chemical compound of C13H16ClNO finally became visible. "Thank God." Ketamine.

It was impossible to tell how much had been injected into Jack—enough to render him almost immediately unconscious, which was worrying enough. Mac checked his friend's pulse again and was relieved there wasn't a change. Mentally reviewing the side effects, he knew Jack was in for possible impaired motor function, increased heart rate, delirium, hallucinations, and possible temporary amnesia—and that was after the tranquilizing effects wore off.

Mac pocketed the dart, sitting on his haunches and looking around their environment. One thing was immediately clear: they couldn't stay where they were. The cold was bad enough, but they were clearly on a hunting path for either wolves or some other animal with paw prints bigger than his hand. He needed to find shelter, and soon.

Jack had been lying in the snow long enough, and with the ketamine suppressing his respiration, he was at serious risk of hypothermia. Mac felt his initial panic at Jack being hurt take a back seat to the fire in his brain as he scanned their environment for a way to transport his friend.

He was strong, but Jack was taller and heavier than him. Plus they each had their packs and Jack's weapons...he needed to be smart about this.

"Trip wire," he remembered, looking around where Jack lay.

Finding the slim wire coiled up like a stretched spring near the base of a tree close to where they sat in the snow, he tested its strength with a couple hard tugs. Following the trajectory of the wire across the path to where the dart had been triggered, he pulled the firing mechanism free from the snowbank.

He was impressed; whoever laid that trip wire had used both the spring action of a rifle firing pin and a grenade's launching mechanism to fire the dart. Mac pulled it all free, then went back to Jack. He rolled his partner carefully, removing the man's pack, and began to transfer as many critical supplies—clothes, MREs, matches, ammo, a flare gun—as he could from Jack's pack into his own. The rest, he buried in a snow bank next to the nearest tree.

He then emptied Jack's rifle and slipped the bullets into Jack's TAC vest. Using his Swiss Army knife, he split Jack's pack and laid it flat on the snow next to his partner, then stood and scanned the wooded area next to them for the right sized branches.

Moving his goggles to the side, it occurred to him that it had gotten colder as he'd been working. Colder and darker. Glancing up at the sky, he shivered as he saw thick clouds gathering to shadow the once too-bright sun. He moved quickly toward the hunting blind and found some thick enough sticks for what he needed, then returned to Jack.

Frowning, he saw that Jack was also shivering. There wasn't much he could do until they found shelter, but the sight of his protector looking helpless and vulnerable shot a surge of rage through Mac. He moved as quickly as his cold, gloved fingers allowed, using the remaining trip wire and pack to create a hammock between the two branches, then attached Jack's rifle to one end using the straps from the pack.

"Pop…." Jack muttered, shifting restlessly.

Mac adjusted Jack's ski mask to cover more of his friend's cold face, then as gently as he could, rolled the other man onto the hammock.

"Somethin's wrong, Pop…." Jack groaned, one hand flailing.

"You're okay, Jack," Mac tried to reassure. "I'm getting you out of here."

He wasn't certain how long the ketamine would keep Jack under, but it was a pretty safe bet his friend was in for a rough time when he came around. He needed to get him hydrated and warm, and if the sky was any indication, out of the path of the coming storm.

"'s…wet. Sticky," Jack mumbled, tossing his head. "'s blood. Why's he bleedin'?"

Mac grimaced, then stepped to the head of the makeshift travois he'd built and lifted the rifle, using the strap as a brace across his hips. Covering his own face once more, he began to pull Jack forward, glancing back to see that his friend was firmly on the pack. Jack's feet drug twin furrows into the snow, marking their trail, but there wasn't much Mac could do about that at this point.

There were times having almost total recall was a curse, but at the moment, Mac was relieved as he mentally reviewed their map. There would be no way he could support Jack and confirm their trajectory. He knew which way Jack had traveled from the fire tower, and since his friend hadn't reported spotting shelter on his way—and Mac knew he'd not seen any in his path—he started to cut through the center of their grid, more or less in the direction he'd seen the man running when he'd first reached Jack.

It was slow going; the pack on his back now weighed as much as he did and Jack's limp form on the travois pulled and sank into the deep snow. Mac lost count of the number of times he had to dig the edges of the branches free so that he could keep moving. His breath hammered through dry lips and dampened his ski mask, ice crystals collection on the condensation and creating an almost impenetrable shield that he had to keep knocking loose against his shoulder.

The temperature continued to drop.

Despite the effort of pulling Jack behind him, Mac felt himself shivering as the wind picked up, blowing gusts of loose snow across his goggles. He had pulled out Jack's extra sweatshirt from his pack at one point and did his best to wrap it around his partner, but Jack's shivering didn't abate.

When the snow started, Mac couldn't decide if he wanted to whimper or growl. He was exhausted; as the snow swirled around them, he felt himself stagger. He had the Sat phone; he could radio for an evac, leave Isaac Gray and his information out in the Northwest Territory.

"Somethin's wrong," Jack was muttering in their comm as Mac paused at a clearing to catch his breath. "Feel it. Pop. I feel it."

Mac pushed his goggles down around his neck, looking down at Jack, worried. He lowered the rifle and crouched down next to Jack. Pulling off a glove, he felt his friend's face beneath the ski mask, but they were both so cold he could barely register the feel of skin let alone temperature. He shrugged out of his pack and removed his canteen.

Crouching down next to Jack, he pulled his friend's ski mask away from his mouth.

"Easy, Jack," he soothed, hoping his partner heard him through the comms as the wind stole his words.

"'s cutting…needles in my skin…." Jack turned his face away from the canteen and Mac had to shuffle closer, pulling Jack against him to brace his head.

"C'mon, man," Mac encouraged. "Just a little water."

"Cutting me, Pop," Jack whined, his voice achingly young.

"It's okay, man," Mac tried, his heart twisting at the break in Jack's voice. He didn't know what Jack was talking about, but he desperately wanted to drag him out of it. "I have you, Jack. I'm here, okay?"

"'s not fair, Pop."

"You can say that again, partner," Mac said, finally getting Jack to swallow some of the water.

Capping the canteen and covering Jack's face once more, he stood and started to shoulder his pack when he caught sight of something moving out of the corner of his eye. A shadow, no more, the blowing snow making it impossible to focus.

His mouth went dry. Wolf? Mountain lion? Gray?

The wind screamed, surging and battering against him as he turned to check their perimeter. The cover of the trees was gone; around them now were miles of open field and snow. He'd started to make his way toward the head of the travois once more—dragging his too-heavy pack and contemplating building a snow cave to shelter inside until the storm passed—when he saw the shadow move again.

This time, Mac could see it more clearly: it was a person.

Mac tensed, his mind flying in multiple directions at once: Jack, cover, exposed, storm, fight, safety, attack.

"Hey!" he shouted, moving deliberately away from Jack and the travois. The shadow followed him. "Hey, I'm over here!" He waved his arms, watching as the figure turned as though to run.

Knowing his partner would have stuffed him in a snow bank for this move, were he conscious, Mac charged. He ran toward the greyed image, edges made fuzzy by the falling snow, his only clear thought that he had to keep the any danger away from Jack. With a roar born of frustration and fatigue, Mac launched himself at the figure as it turned to escape, colliding with his midsection and dragging him to the ground.

The move would have worked perfectly to give Mac the advantage and find out who was tracking them if it hadn't been for the fact that the figure had been standing at the edge of a steep hill.

The minute they hit the ground, the snow collapsed beneath them and Mac felt himself rolling, helpless to stop his decent. The other man tumbled with him, his bulk crushing the air from Mac's lungs as he rolled over the smaller agent. A large, snow-covered boulder stopped Mac's decent with abrupt force, shoving a cry of pain from his lips as his ribs caved with the impact.

Lying still a moment, desperately trying to capture his breath once more, Mac waited until the world slowed its crazy spin before lifting his head. Snow collected on his lashes and burned his cold skin. The ski mask over his mouth was damp from his rapid breath. He bit back a groan as he rolled to his stomach, dragging his knees slowly under him.

"That went well," he panted, turning to see where the other man had landed.

Instead, he saw salvation.

It was a small cabin—most likely a ranger's station of some kind. The man he'd tackled was nowhere to be seen, the path his body had taken down the hill a deep furrow in the snow. Mac pushed unsteadily to his feet, bracing himself against the boulder that had stopped his fall.

His ribs protested, a sharp pain shooting across his torso with enough force he caught his breath, a hand immediately going to his side. He looked around, trying to assess if the cabin was occupied and jerked in surprise as the tall figure of a man rose up from behind another boulder not twenty feet away.

"в следующий раз," the man shouted.

Mac blinked, stumbling back, his brain scrambling to translate what he recognized as Russian. Next time.

Before Mac could reply, the man turned and disappeared into the storm. Huffing out a breath, Mac shook his head, then looked back up the hill he'd just tumbled down. As he began his painful climb, he calculated exactly how screwed they were.

Isaac Gray was as good as a ghost, their only contact so far was a man who spoken Russian—which didn't bode well for Gray's fate if he held intel on the FSB—and who had certainly spotted the cabin, same as Mac.

Their salvation could end up being a trap.

The pain in Mac's side spiked as he panted through the climb. He knew the cold air was turning the lining of his lungs into ice crystals. If he didn't get them indoors soon, he'd be coughing up blood from burst vessels in his lungs and Jack would become hypothermic until his heart stopped while he was unconscious.

He had no other choice. He had to take shelter in the cabin.

Finally reaching the top, Mac fell face-first into the snow, completely spent. Turning his head so that he could drag in rough breaths, he pushed himself up on trembling limbs, blinking the snow from his eyes to find where he'd left Jack. His goggles forgotten where they hung around his neck, he rubbed his vision clear with the back of his gloved hand and crawled forward until he reached the travois.

"Jack," he rasped.

His vision blurred and he shook his head quickly to clear it. Jack wasn't moving. The restless muttering from before was silent. Mac felt his heart slam against his ribs.

"Jack?" His voice shook.

He pulled a glove off with his teeth, then reached for Jack's ski mask. His hand was shaking. The ski mask caught on Jack's lower lip, causing it to bounce slightly against his teeth as he pulled it down, snow immediately collecting against Jack's mouth.

Mac felt his breath catching in his freezing lungs, his ever-whirring mind skidding to a stuttering halt. He shoved his fingers under the ski mask, seeking Jack's neck, holding his breath….

There. Pulse, strong and steady.

His vision swam with heady relief. Bending over his partner's chest, Mac let out a strangled breath.

"Don't scare me like that, man."

Jack shifted abruptly beneath him, a sharp cry of fear or pain skimming across the tension emanating from Mac like a stone across a deceptively smooth pond. Mac sat up quickly, wincing as the motion stabbed at his side.

"Hey, hey, hey," he rambled, his hand up by Jack's face, pulling the goggles away from Jack's face when he realized the older agent's eyes were open and he was trying to see around him. "Jack, you're okay, it's okay."

Jack's hands reached up clumsily and Mac caught one, thumb to thumb, bringing it against his chest. He swallowed, meeting Jack's confused gaze squarely.

"Where's Pop?" Jack asked, his voice ragged. Mac realized with chagrin that Jack's voice was slapping against the frigid air, not echoing in his ear through their comms.

"He's not here, Jack," he said, making sure he was heard over the shrill wail of wind. "I'm here."

Jack blinked snow from his eyes, looking at Mac as though the younger man was a lifeline. "You're here," he repeated.

"I've got you," Mac promised, gripping Jack's hand tightly.

Jack's eyes grew heavy, the snow on his lashes falling to his cheeks as his blinks grew slower. "Don't let go."

As he felt the older man relax back into unconsciousness, Mac whispered in reply, "Not an option, partner."

Reassured that Jack was alive, though chilled through and partially buried in snow, Mac covered his partner's face back up as best he could, then stood and shouldered his heavy pack, groaning softly as the weight shifted something along his ribs. He picked up the rifle and started for the hill, ignoring the slick sweat of anxiety that immediately coated the back of his neck and his upper lip at the thought of hauling Jack down that steep incline.

His boots slid in the snow. He caught himself as the travois slipped to the side, Jack's limp body dragging along the surface. Regaining his balance, Mac carried on, righting the travois, but a minute later, he slid again, landing on a bent knee, his ribs screaming in protest.

"Ahhhhfuck," Mac groaned, wanting to press a hand against his side, but unable to release the rifle lest he drop Jack into the snow.

He fought to stay upright, his muscles quaking from the combination weight and effort. Over the periodic scream of the wind, he heard a mournful howl with echoing yips of a wolf pack. It was impossible to tell where the animals were, except that there were near. Mac tried to move faster, but slid in the snow once more, going to his knees, the travois sliding past him, tugging him over to his side.

"Just a little help," he breathed. It was said like a prayer before sleeping: asking forgiveness and only half sorry. "All I'm asking."

Gasping, the frigid air sucking the moisture from his eyes and burning his skin, Mac pushed to his feet once more and trudged forward, finally reaching level ground, the snow so deep it pressed against his thighs as he waded toward the cabin. The yips of the wolf pack grew louder and suddenly Mac realized he could hear a growl to his left. He chanced a look over his shoulder and saw a large grey wolf standing just beyond the boulder that had stopped his fall earlier. The snow dusting the animal's coat gave off the impression it had been sitting there for quite some time, almost as if it were waiting for him.

"Oh, shit," Mac muttered, trying to move faster.

But he was spent.

His breath rasped in his throat, rattled his freezing lungs. He knew it wasn't typical of wolves to attack people unless they were protecting their territory, or starving. He was counting on neither of those possibilities being an option at this point. He put his head down and pulled Jack forward, bracing himself for the wolves to attack.

He made it to the front door of the ranger's cabin in one piece. As he pulled his Swiss Army knife from his pocket with shaking hands, he chanced a look back. The wolf was still there, watching, its calculating gaze raking Mac's figure and he imagined he felt the impression of judgement left behind.

Picking the lock took longer than Mac needed it to, but soon enough the door was open and he was falling through the opening, landing inside the small cabin on his hands and knees. Gasping, winded, he turned and grabbed Jack under the arms and pulled him from the travois into the cabin, kicking the door shut behind him. For a moment, he simply sat and shivered, Jack sprawled in a heap across his lap.

It was almost completely dark inside.

One small window graced the west wall, letting in the fading ambient light leftover from the afternoon storm. His breath rasping loudly against the quiet of the interior and his body shaking from the cold, Mac eased himself out from underneath Jack and used the wall and door to gain his feet. He felt his way around the edge of the cabin until his hip bounced against a table and he heard the distinct metallic rattle of a gas lantern.

Stiffly, he slipped his pack from his shoulders, digging into the front pocket of his TAC vest for waterproof matches, and in moments had the lantern lit and illuminating the interior of the small cabin. Everything was coated in a thick layer of dust—enough that Mac's fingertips had left tracks on the side of the lantern. It was a miracle the thing had fuel. Cobwebs clung precariously in the corners, their architects having vacated long ago.

Maps of the area were tacked to one wall. A table, chair, and some shelves of canned food and cooking pots were near where Mac stood. A wrought-iron, pot-bellied combination cook stove and fireplace sat in the middle of the room, its metal chimney exiting through the roof. Multiple cords of wood were stacked along the wall behind it, and nearby was an old-model Army cot.

Stripping his ski mask and hood off, remembering at the last minute to get rid of the goggles around his neck, Mac made his way over to where Jack lay slumped on the floor inside the door.

"C'mon, Jack," he muttered, grabbing his friend under the arms once more and dragging him to the cot. "Let's get you off the floor."

Lifting the older man's bulk to the cot made his ribs scream and Mac grit his teeth so hard he felt his jaw pop. Once Jack was lying on the cot, Mac turned his attention toward warming the place up; they were both shaking so much from the cold it was hard to think. Thanks to the fire starter resting on top of the stack of logs, Mac was able to get a fire lit in the cook stove in minutes, the heat reaching welcome fingers throughout the cabin.

Kneeling in front of the cook stove, Mac suddenly felt immeasurably tired, his eyes drooping as his body shivered. Everything ached; he just wanted to rest. Just for a little while.

"Mac."

His head snapped up at the sound of that voice, blurry vision scanning his surroundings, for one brief moment forgetting where he was. He looked over at Jack, but saw his partner was still out cold. It was then he realized, it hadn't been Jack's voice grabbing his attention…it had been his Granddad's. The one voice that had been able to push him his whole life, no matter the obstacle, no matter the loss.

"Okay, Harry," he rasped in the quiet of the cabin. "I hear you."

Groaning, he pushed to his feet, moving slowly over to the bunk, pulling Jack from his snow-encrusted, frozen gear as gently as possible. He stripped Jack out of his boots, coat, and head gear, laying them over the stack of wood to dry, covering his friend with what looked like an Army-issue woolen blanket that had been folded at the foot of the cot.

Jack didn't have many extra clothes and Mac's spare sweatshirt wasn't big enough to cover him, so he had to make do with the blanket and heat from the cook stove. Jack continued to sleep off the effects of the tranquilizer dart, his shivering beginning to lessen as the room heated up around them.

Mac stripped out of his own cold, wet gear, lifting his T-shirt to get a look at his ribs. Broken blood vessels radiated out from a center bruise, coloring his entire left side with the varied blue hues of a deep bruise.

"Well, that's pretty," he muttered as he eyed the damage.

A gentle prodding indicated that while he probably had cracked a couple ribs, nothing was broken. All he had in his pack to support them was a roll of duct tape and pulling that off would be a bitch. He decided to forgo bandaging unless he absolutely had to.

Dragging his spare sweatshirt over his head, he returned to Jack and checked to see if his shivering had stopped, sitting at the head of the cot and gathering his partner's head up against the crook of his arm as he tried to get more water into him. Jack had already woken up once and been semi-coherent, so Mac had to prepare for the tranquilizer to wear off soon and the after effects to kick in.

He wasn't wrong.

Within an hour, Jack started to hyperventilate, eyes flying open as he stared sightlessly across the room, screaming about a horse and barbed wire. Mac held him by the shoulders, trying to soothe him as best he could, heart breaking as Jack continued to call out for his father.

"It's okay. Jack…Jack! It's okay. It's not real," Mac said, climbing onto the cot behind his partner and wrapping his arms around Jack's shoulders. After a moment he realized he was practically rocking the older man in an attempt to reassure him. "It's not real, man. There's no barbed wire."

"It's gonna cut 'im all up, Pop. We gotta do something…." Jack whimpered, his hands reflexively reaching up to grasp Mac's wrists. "'s my fault…. 's my fault."

At that, Jack sobbed, a deep, wracking sound, his shoulders shaking against Mac's chest, the younger man unable to do anything but hold on. Mac tightened his grip, running out of reassuring words and resorting to softly shhh-ing his partner to try to alleviate his fear.

"'m sorry, Pop," Jack whimpered.

"It's okay, Jack," Mac said softly, rubbing the top of his partner's buzzed hair as he finally started to calm down. "It's not your fault."

Mac leaned back against the wall, Jack still resting against him, fatigue pulling at his eyelids, but before he was able to fall completely asleep, Jack groaned and rolled to his side, curling inward as though in pain. It took Mac a moment to blink himself aware, but once he did, he realized immediately what was about to happen.

Launching himself from the cot, Mac scrambled to the shelves of canned food and grabbed the largest cooking pot available, sliding across the floor like he was stealing home and getting the pot into position just as Jack retched over the edge of the cot, body shaking as it fought to rid itself of the ketamine poison.

"Easy, man," Mac soothed, a hand on Jack's back. "It's okay, you're okay."

Jack retched again, nothing but bile coming up, and groaned in misery. As he caught his breath, leaning back onto the cot, Mac grabbed the canteen and rested it against Jack's mouth, exhaling in relief when the older agent rinsed out his mouth then drank without aid. As Jack lay back and closed his eyes, one arm draped across his forehead, Mac grabbed the one towel he found over by the pots and pans and then stepped outside into the storm.

Dumping the contents of the pot, he filled it with snow and used his glove to thoroughly clean it of filth before filling it with snow once more. He gathered more snow in a pocket of the towel and ducked back inside, shivering. Putting the pot on top of the cook stove, he used the snow-packed towel to clean Jack's face.

He flinched, startled, when his partner opened his eyes and stared at him, clarity and recognition present for the first time in hours.

"Mac?" Jack's voice was hoarse, raspy, as though he'd been screaming for hours.

"Hey," Mac smiled, his shoulders sag with relief.

"What…how…where…?" Jack started to rise up on his elbows, but stopped, his face going pale as he lay back with a groan and covered his eyes with his forearm.

"All excellent questions," Mac said, offering Jack more water.

As he watched his partner drink, he realized he couldn't remember the last time he'd taken in water—his cracked lips and wind-burned face evidence that it had been a while.

"How are you feeling?" Mac returned his own question before answering Jack's.

"Like hammered shit," Jack moaned, one hand gripping the side of the cot. "Last night was not worth it."

Mac chuffed. "You're not hungover, man."

"Well, I sure am something," Jack replied grumpily. He dropped his arm and turned his face toward the cook stove, then stared at where Mac was kneeling next to him. "Why do you look like you went ten rounds with a snow blower?"

Mac grinned. "Because I pretty much did."

Jack squinted. "I wanna sit up."

"You sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Jack groused. "You gonna help me or just sit over there and be smart?"

Mac pushed to his feet and leaned over, grasping one of Jack's arms and helping the man shift on the cot until he was able to push to a sitting position. As Mac straightened, his damaged ribs protested and he hissed reflexively, a hand going to his side. A glance down at Jack's expression told him the move had not been missed.

"I'm fine, Jack."

Jack leveled his gaze on Mac, the line between his brows calling the younger man out.

"I'm…mostly fine," Mac amended, stepping back and dropping heavily into the wooden chair across the small room.

Jack arched an eyebrow.

"Okay, I'll be fine when we get outta here. Happy?"

"Thrilled," Jack grumbled, then looked around. "Uh…where is…here exactly?"

"You were hit with a tranquilizer dart," Mac informed him. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Jack closed his eyes, then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Something about…wolves. And a treehouse?"

"You remember the mission?"

Jack rested his elbows on his knees, groaning as he held his aching head in the hammock of his palms. "All that's coming to me is Fifty Shades of Gray, and I know that can't be right."

Mac chuckled. "CIA Agent named Isaac Gray…went rogue…," Mac started, spacing out the facts to see if anything triggered Jack's memory. The ketamine amnesia was typically short-lived. "Has intel on— "

"Russians, right," Jack nodded. "Sent us in to talk the guy into coming back. I got it now. So, what's with Uncle Tom's Cabin?"

Mac sighed, blinking slowly as he stared at the fire inside the cook stove, recounting an abbreviated version of the last six hours. As predicted, Jack reacted angrily when he reached the part about falling down the hill because he'd gone after the Russian.

Mac let his partner have his over-protective tantrum. He was too tired to fight back.

"Dude, you look beat," Jack observed, once he'd calmed down.

"'m okay. We gotta radio the Phoenix," Mac said, surprised by the slur of his words. "This storm…there's no way Gray is out there in this and this is the only shelter 've found…."

"Fine," Jack nodded. "Where's the Sat phone?"

"Pack," Mac lifted his chin in the direction of his pack.

Jack pushed himself to his feet, thrusting one hand against the wall to catch his balance. Mac felt like he was moving underwater—he shifted to help his friend but before he could get to his feet, Jack had staggered in an uncoordinated gait to the pack and was on his knees, digging out the Sat phone.

"Hey…where's my pack?"

Mac leaned against the table, propping up his head on his hand. "Had to use it to make a travois," he yawned through the words. "Couldn't carry you."

"Yeah, 'cause you're like a hundred pounds soaking wet," Jack grumbled, pulling out the rest of the supplies from the pack, sighing with obvious relief when he found his Glock. "Where's my rifle?"

Mac frowned. "Shit, sorry. I had to use it to pull you. Left it outside with the wolf."

At that, Jack turned. "Wolf? What wolf?"

"The big one that was watchin' me," Mac replied, barely able to keep his eyes open. His whole body ached, his ribs beating their own unique tattoo, but even with that throbbing reminder of the trek he'd made, he was pretty sure he could sleep just fine right where he sat.

"Yeah, okay, bud," Jack muttered, then turned his back to Mac.

It took the younger agent a moment to realize that Jack was trying to connect to the Phoenix. It surprised him when Jack slumped a bit, cursing.

"What?" Mac asked, straightening up, suddenly more alert. "What's wrong?"

"Can't get a signal."

"On a Sat phone?"

Jack glanced over his shoulder. "Storm must be blocking the satellite signal."

Mac was on his feet before he registered standing. "I could use— "

"Hold it right there, bud," Jack broke in, raising one hand. "Storms don't last forever. Get some sleep and we'll call the Phoenix tomorrow."

"But, Jack, you were hit with a dart full of ketamine, and— "

"And I pretty much have the worst hangover of my life," Jack interrupted, rubbing his forehead. "No worries on falling down the k-hole for this Texas boy."

Mac frowned, swaying with fatigue, one hand grabbing the edge of the table for balance.

"But I'm okay," Jack continued, setting the Sat phone back in the pack and turning around. "And you're dead on your feet."

Mac paused, considering. "Tomorrow," he agreed, sinking back down to the chair.

"Take the cot," Jack ordered.

Mac shook his head. "No way—you've been unconscious for the last six hours and nearly froze to death out there. You're not sleeping on the floor."

Jack's eyebrows climbed to impressive heights on his forehead. "And you hauled someone twice your size through frozen tundra and then body slammed a boulder. You're not sleeping on the floor."

Mac sighed. He was pretty sore. "Think there's room for both of us?"

"We'll make room," Jack replied.

While Mac went to the cook stove and moved the pot of melted snow to the table to cool, Jack stood and made his way to the door, stepping outside to retrieve his rifle. He set it near the stove to thaw. After refilling their canteens with the snow water—and immediately drinking half of his, even if it was on the warm side—Mac blew out the lantern to conserve the fuel and added more logs to the fire.

With twin groans of exhaustion, they lay down back to back—Jack facing the fire, Mac the cabin wall at his insistence—and Mac felt his body tick down like a cooling engine. His muscles twitched, his eyes burned, his face stung, but for the first time since boarding that helicopter two days ago, he felt safe.

"Mac." Jack's voice startled him.

"Yeah?"

"If I told you…that I couldn't stop thinking about my horse, Whiskey, would that make sense to you?"

Mac swallowed. "Did Whiskey get tangled up in barbed wire?"

Jack was quiet a moment and Mac felt the older man's shoulders tense up against his back.

"I talked about him, didn't I?"

Mac nodded, knowing his partner could feel the motion.

"That's what I was afraid of."

The quiet was heavy with memory and sorrow.

"You okay, Jack?" Mac asked.

Jack exhaled slowly, as though he were counting the heartbeats inside the sound. "Not yet."

Mac was quiet for a moment. He could barely keep his eyes open, but…Jack needed him. There hadn't been a time since he met the man that Jack hadn't gone to great lengths to keep Mac in one piece—physically and emotionally.

"I'm not going anywhere, man."

"Yeah, I know," Jack's voice was soft, his acknowledgment somewhat reluctant.

Mac waited for his partner to say something else, but in that pause, exhaustion won and he fell into a restless sleep, dreams of snow and wolves and Jack wrapped up in barbed wire chasing him in the dark until he was woken by another shout. He opened his eyes, momentarily disoriented to see nothing but a wall of wood, until he felt something shake against his back.

Sitting up awkwardly, he twisted as much as his aching body would allow to find Jack gripping the edge of the cot, breath exhaling in pained gasps, as he body flinched and arched. Muscle spasms, Mac remembered. It looked like they weren't out of the woods yet.

"Easy, Jack," Mac soothed, his deep voice like ground glass against his dry throat. He scooted to the end of the cot to climb off rather than crawl over his partner. "It's the ketamine."

"I f-find who-whoever did this to m-me I'm gonna k-kill 'em."

Mac nodded in sympathetic agreement, lighting the gas lantern once more to examine the shelves of canned food, remedies and solutions skipping through his tired mind. He grabbed a half-used bottle of apple cider vinegar, then picked up the towel and pot he'd packed with snow earlier and headed for the door.

"Wh-were're you goin'?" Jack panted, raising his head slightly and wincing at the motion.

"I'll be right back," Mac assured him, then darted outside into the cold and dark.

Several hours had clearly passed while they'd been sleeping; the storm had lessened in intensity and the sky had started to clear in the east. He packed the towel with snow once more, then filled the pot and headed back inside. Jack had rolled to his back, but his hands were fisted at his side.

Mac set the pot on the stove, stoking the fire with more wood, then moved over to Jack.

"Where's the worst of it?" he asked.

"M-my leg," Jack panted, not even bothering to assume the tough-guy persona.

Mac nodded; folding the snow-packed towel into a cold compress, he wrapped it around Jack's thigh where he'd been hit with the dart, then moved across the room to find a tin coffee mug and fill it with snow from the pot. As soon as the water was heated, he poured some of the apple cider vinegar into it and returned to Jack.

"I need you to drink this," he said, helping his partner sit up enough he could get the mug to his lips.

"Gah," Jack jerked his head away. "Smells like rotten f-food, man."

"Probably not gonna taste much better, but it'll help with the muscle cramps," Mac told him.

Jack sipped the heated water until Mac was satisfied, then lay back. Mac grabbed his dried pack and put it against the wall as padding, then settled down to sit on the floor next to the bunk, his head near Jack's.

"This sucks so bad," Jack moaned. "What's the point of a tr-tranqualizer tr-trip wire?"

Mac sighed, resting his elbow on the cot and his head on his hand. "I'm guessing, based on the hunting blind nearby, he was after game that the wolves would chase through that pass and didn't want to deal with the wolves." He coughed into the crook of his arm, his chest feeling tight. "I don't know, man. Who knows what this guy's thinking."

A ripple went through Jack as he groaned, pressing against the cot again. "Talk t-to me, Mac."

"'bout what?" Mac pushed himself sluggishly to his feet and moved the pot of water from the cook stove before it began to boil.

Glancing down at Jack, he saw the muscle spasms shake the older man's legs and he sat on the edge of the cot. Adjusting the cold compress, he began to massage the rock-hard muscle in Jack's calf, grimacing in sympathy as Jack tried in vain to breathe through the pain.

"Anything," he whimpered.

"Well…," Mac's normally lithe mind was tempered with exhaustion. It was unusual to truly experience such a blank canvas of ideas. "You called for your dad a lot while you were out. Not sure why the ketamine made you hallucinate what happened to your horse, but you were pretty damn sure it was happening again. Guess your dad did a lot to help you then, huh?"

"Y-yeah," Jack nodded shakily, tears of tension and pain slipping from the corners of his eyes and finding their way to the greying hairs at his temple. Mac shifted his attempts to alleviate the cramp from one leg to the other as he felt the muscles release their tightness. "Pop was always exactly where I needed him…wh-when I needed him. That thing with Whiskey was…awful. Probably the w-worst moment of my young life."

"You know it wasn't your fault, right?" Mac asked quietly.

Jack's face folded into sorrow, his fisted hands starting to unclench. "Most of me knows it," he said, his breath beginning to even out. "But…sometimes my brain punches my heart…y'know what I mean?"

"Yeah," Mac nodded, slipping off the cot to resume his position next to Jack's head.

Jack took a slow, deep breath, letting it out on a four-count, visibly trying to relax his muscles. "You know…even with all these random clues and mystery surrounding him…you never really talk about your dad."

Mac nodded, though Jack couldn't see him. "It's hard to remember him," he confessed. "I don't know if what I remember is real, or just…what I want to be real."

"Yeah, I don't have many clear memories from before I was ten," Jack acknowledged. "Mostly what I remember is from seeing my mom's picture albums and such."

"I remember building models with him," Mac said, eyes drooping as Jack's body began to relax next to him. "I remember the look on his face when he told me Mom was gone. I remember…the way he smelled. Coffee and tobacco—like actual tobacco, not cigarettes. He had this way of sitting back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head and his eyes closed when he was really listening to me—like he was trying to paint a word picture on the back of his eyelids. I remember thinking we had the same hands." Mac tipped his head to the side, resting it on his folded arm. "But…I can't remember what his voice sounds like. And I don't remember his laugh." He coughed again, closing his eyes, his voice drifting. "And it doesn't really look like he wants me to anyway."

"You'll find him, kid," Jack tried to reassure him.

"Maybe," Mac muttered, adjusting his head on his arms. "But…sometimes I think we choose to believe lies to protect our hearts from the truth." Jack was quiet and Mac felt bad for bringing the mood so low. "I remember Harry, though," he offered.

"Yeah," Jack said softly. "He filled in those blanks, didn't he?"

"Mmmhmm," Mac agreed, lacking the energy to carry the conversation further.

Either Jack's muscle cramps eased, or he dealt with them silently because Mac didn't open his eyes again until several hours later, sunlight streaming in through the small window and spearing him in the eyes. He was surprised to find the Army blanket had somehow found its way around his shoulders. His muscles were painfully stiff from sitting on the floor, leaning against the cot, and his ribs screamed at him as he made his way to his feet.

Jack was asleep, arms wrapped around himself, the wet towel that had been a cold compress sitting in a wet pile on the floor. The fire had died down and Mac took care of that first, before he pulled on his coat to step outside, since there wasn't a bathroom in the ranger's cabin.

The snow was hip-deep at the front of the cabin; he had to wade through it to the side of the cabin where the drifts were lower. The quiet of the morning permeated everything, making him realize how accustomed he was to the back-beat of sound in Los Angeles. Noise infiltrated everything—from the constant rumble of traffic, to roar of air traffic, to the hum of power lines, it was never quiet. But here, the silence seemed to thrum against his ears, making him hold his breath in stark anticipation of the unknown as he looked around at the startlingly white, pristine landscape.

There were no footprints around or near the cabin—not even animal tracks. If Isaac Gray was still alive, he'd found some other cover during that storm. And Mac had no way of knowing where that could be until he contacted the Phoenix. Making his way slowly back inside, he grabbed the edge of the travois that stuck out from the snowbank and pulled it into the cabin behind him.

Jack groaned, rolling over on the cot, but didn't open his eyes. Mac decided to let him rest; there wasn't much he could do at this point anyway, and he had to still be feeling pretty rough from the ketamine. Shaking the snow from his boots and pant legs, he shrugged out of his coat and covered Jack with the Army blanket before checking their food options.

"What I wouldn't give for some of Bozer's pancakes right about now," Jack mumbled.

Mac grinned. "You'll have to make due with either, uh…hearty beef stew, hearty beef stew, or…oh! Maybe some hearty beef stew?"

"Beef stew beats MREs," Jack pointed out, pushing himself up to sit on the edge of the cot, looking for all the world like a recalcitrant teenager made to get up early on a Saturday morning.

Mac used the remaining pot and began heating up the stew. He watched out of the corner of his eyes as Jack found his boots and pulled them on with clumsy hands. He knew the lack of coordination had to be getting to his friend; the man could put four hostiles down with two bullets. Needing help to tie his boots was not something that would make him happy.

"I uh…gotta," Jack stood awkwardly, jerking his thumb over his shoulder. "Little boy's room thataway?"

Mac nodded. "Side of the cabin the snow is lower. Bring your coat, man."

"Right." Jack sighed, grabbing his coat where Mac had draped it over the woodpile to dry.

Mac dug out the Sat phone once more, trying for a signal while Jack was outside. Nothing but dead air. He began examining the device and frowned in frustration when he saw part of the housing was cracked. When the door opened once more, letting his partner back into the warmth of the cabin, he'd already pulled the phone apart and was trying to repair the damage done to it in his fall down the hill.

"I swear, bud," Jack said, stripping his coat off with a groan. "You haven't met a phone you won't break."

"It got damaged when I fell yesterday," Mac replied, looking up at Jack. "Whoa, Jack, you're awfully pale."

Jack nodded. "Yeah, this ketamine stuff's a bitch."

"You get sick again?"

"Unfortunately."

"Drink lots of water," Mac advised. "Can't afford for you to get dehydrated up here."

"Roger that," Jack sighed, draining a canteen in reply.

Mac reassembled the housing and tried the Sat phone again. Nothing but static. He sighed. If he could set up a satellite in one of the taller trees around the perimeter of the cabin, he could rig a connection strong enough to link up to the Phoenix and get an exfil, Gray or no Gray. He stood and began to scour the contents of the cabin.

"You looking for something?" Jack asked, pulling the heated stew from the stove.

Mac mumbled his idea as he gathered up what he could use for a satellite: a silver-based campfire frying pan, the trip wire from the travois, the wrappers from his last two sticks of gum, batteries and wiring from his small Maglite, and the flare cartridge from their flare gun. He was so focused on making sure he had everything he needed in the now-emptied back that he didn't see Jack's look of incredulity.

"And you're going to put this contraption where?"

Mac glanced up as he pulled the rest of the travois apart, breaking the sticks over his knees and constructing snow shoes out of the remains of Jack's pack. "One of the trees out there on the perimeter."

"You're in no shape to go climbing trees, Mac."

"I'm fine," Mac scoffed, his body buzzing with the adrenalin born of a mission. "Besides, it's not like we have a choice."

Jack huffed. "Fine, then. I'm coming with you."

Mac stood up, the snow shoes attached to his boots. "No, Jack. Look—this isn't me being macho or anything." He held up a hand when his partner opened his mouth to protest. "You're clearly still feeling the effects of the ketamine and I can move faster on my own."

"What about the wolves? Or that mysterious Russian?"

"Long as I stay away from their territory," Mac shrugged, "the wolves should leave me alone. Uh, I think. And if that Russian guy is out there, he's probably going to head to the cabin first, so it's better for you to stay here with all the weapons."

Jack paused, studying him. Mac lived four lifetimes in that pause.

"Take my sweatshirt," he said finally, pulling the heavy material over his head.

"Jack— " Mac started.

"Eh! I don't want to hear it. Your Tauntaun will freeze before you hit the first marker, so just…indulge me."

Mac huffed. "Fine."

He set down his pack and coat, grabbing Jack's sweatshirt and pulling it over his head. "It's way too big," he complained.

Jack grinned at him. "Gives you room to grow."

"Very funny."

Jack helped him gear up—leaving his TAC vest behind to save the weight—but stopped him just before he opened the door.

"Comms check?"

Mac looked down. "They stopped working yesterday," he confessed.

"So you're saying you go out there and I won't even be able to check in on you?" Jack's face was thunderous.

Mac licked his lips. "Tell you what. Give me two hours. If I can't get this handled in that time, you can come after me."

"How'm I gonna know which way you went?" Jack challenged.

"We are practically the only human beings up here," Mac grinned. "Follow the footprints."

Jack huffed, clearly not liking this one bit, but opened the door for Mac to exit. Mac refused to look back as he headed toward the tree line, simply raising his fist in the air as a salute and exhaling when he heard the cabin door shut behind him.

His breath tugged against his lungs and he felt his ribs contract. The few hours of sleep he'd gotten sitting up next to Jack's cot was not enough to repair the muscle exhaustion and in no time he was panting, desperate for breath.

Reaching the tree line, he searched for one that was tall enough to fix his make-shift satellite, with low enough branches he wouldn't have to stretch too far to climb. The perfect option made itself known just beyond his old friend, the snow-covered boulder. Detaching the snowshoes, Mac began to climb, forcing himself to ignore his trembling muscles and aching hands. He slipped twice, once hanging from one arm and stretching the bruised muscles along his ribs, his cry of pain echoing out across the snow-barren landscape.

When he was high enough, he balanced himself on the thickest branch he could find and pulled off his pack, hooking it on a mirroring branch. Making the satellite wasn't hard—it reminded him of the models he and his dad would build together when he was in grade school. He hadn't thought about that in years, but then the home movie he'd found at his dad's burned-down cabin had him flashing back…plus Jack's questions last night…and he could not get his father out of his head.

In minutes he'd created the make-shift satellite and was attaching the Sat phone, using the squelch knob to find a line that could connect him to the Phoenix. When Matty answered, Mac felt weak with relief.

"It's good to hear your voice," he confessed.

"It's good to hear you, too. We thought we'd hear from you yesterday," Matty said, and Mac could hear her trying to temper her worry with authority.

"We've run into some trouble," Mac reported. "Haven't located Gray and Jack got hit with a ketamine dart."

"What's Jack's condition?"

"He's stable—basically dealing with the worst hangover of his life," Mac said. "Any new intel on Gray?"

"Mac." He smiled, recognizing Riley's voice. "I can see your location on our satellite, but you haven't been showing up for the past 24 hours."

"Yeah, I…uh, I kinda fell down a hill and broke our Sat phone," Mac replied, wincing. "Had to rig up something to get through to you guys."

"Okay, so based on your location, Gray is less than a mile from you."

"Wait, what?" Mac drew his head back. "He's alive?"

"And moving your way," Riley reported.

"How are you able to see him?"

"He turned on his phone about twelve hours ago."

"Probably because of the storm," Mac mused. He cleared his throat, shifting on the branch as his ribs whimpered at him. "Okay, Matty?"

"Right here, Mac."

"Can you call in an exfil for us?"

"You okay, Mac?" Riley chimed in. "You don't sound so good."

"Just cold. And…tired," he reassured her. And hungry, he realized. In his haste to get the Sat phone working, he'd forgotten all about the hearty beef stew. "If Gray's a mile from us, I'm going to say we get him and get out of here."

"I can get someone there in twenty-four hours," Matty confirmed. "Same location as drop zone."

"Roger that," Mac confirmed. "And, uh…guys?"

"Right here, Mac."

"Next time? We use comms. The whole time."

He heard Matty take a breath.

"I don't care what the CIA protocol is," he added. "We work better as a team. Always have."

"You got it, Mac," Matty reassured him. "Now, get out of that tree and out of the cold."

"How'd you know I was in a tree?" Mac asked, grinning.

"I've been paying attention," she replied. "Phoenix out."

Mac chuckled, turning off the Sat phone and tucking it back into his pack. As he was reaching for the frying pan satellite dish, he heard something to his right—it sounded like a zipper or polyester fabric rubbing together. It was subtle, but in the silence around him, unmistakable. He shifted slightly on his branch and had roughly one second to register a tall figure in white camo standing on the rise of a nearby hill before something slammed into his side, knocking him off-balance.

He fell backwards, his flailing arms striking tree branches all the way down, until he landed in a deep snowbank with a quiet ooff of air. The impact of his body into the snow had him sinking far enough there were shallow walls of snow around him. Winded, he stared straight up into the tops of the swaying trees, the silence overtaking him once more.

Survival instinct overrode any battlefield precaution and Mac tried to pull in a breath, his panicked lungs forgetting to inflate. He blinked, the swaying treetops blurring, and finally, finally dragged in a reedy trickle of air. His bruised ribs seized, the muscles along those fragile bones tensing into a painful cramp.

He couldn't move; his whole body was stuck. Mentally, Mac screamed at his body to obey him, to pull in one more breath. He felt darkness encroaching, easing in from the sidelines like a substitute player at the end of the game.

He knew if he passed out, that was the end. He'd freeze to death before his time limit ended and Jack came to look for him. He forced himself to pull in another breath, trying to kick-start his lungs. His bruised ribs whimpered and the sound slipped up to escape his parted lips. There was no place on his body that wasn't in pain. Blinking back the blackness, he managed to move an arm out of the gravity-induced snow angel formation and felt along his side.

Protruding from his right flank was the shaft of a cross-bow bolt.

Touching it jarred the wounded flesh and he cried out, his voice thin, as if he was too far from it to give it weight. Air wheezed around the sound like it was being pulled into his lungs through a straw. It occurred to him that whoever shot him could still be around. He listened, trying to hear past the slam of his own pulse, but could pick up no tale-tell sounds of someone moving through deep snow or cocking a crossbow.

Rolling carefully to his bruised side, he managed to sit up slightly, slumped away from the bolt, finally able to gain control of his breathing. Another thought occurred to him: if whoever shot him wasn't still here, he could have followed Mac's snowshoe tracks, leading him directly to Jack.

His breathing sped up.

He wouldn't be able to move with the thing stuck in him, he knew that much. Swallowing the wet taste of bile from the back of his throat, Mac pulled off his gloves and wrapped his hands around the bolt. Taking a bracing breath, he pulled the bolt out in one straight tug.

"Ahhhh!" The shout sent nesting birds from their perch.

His whimpers were audible as he dropped the bolt, his shaking hands pressing over the hole in his coat. He knew there were next steps, action to be taken, but for the moment, all he could focus on was fighting back the gathering black at the edges of his vision.

Pain was a jealous thing.

It refused to allow him to feel anything else while it was present, taking over his senses and flooding his mind so that concentration was a monumental effort. MacGyver's advantage, however, was the fact that his mind was unlike anyone else's. It refused to be dominated.

After a minute of blinding pain, the cold began to numb his side. Mac forced himself up to his knees, thinking quickly about how he could bandage up the wound to get to Jack. He'd left his TAC vest back at the cabin and his pack was several impossible feet up a tree. Biting his lip to keep his helpless groan quiet, he tugged off his coat, Jack's sweatshirt, and his sweatshirt, pulling up his long-sleeved t-shirt to look at the hole.

It was just above his hip and, looking at the tip of the bolt, it didn't seem to have gone deep enough to hit anything vital. It was bleeding, but not profusely. Taking out his Swiss Army knife, he cut his sweatshirt into strips and put a pressure dressing on the wound, tying the sleeves around his narrow waist to keep it in place. Pulling Jack's sweatshirt back on, he reached for his coat when a smell hit him.

It was musky, wild. The same smell he'd picked up on when they thought Gray might be hiding in the natural caves. He looked up and around, feeling the blood draining from his face when he saw a thin—but enormous—brown bear lumbering along the ridge line he and Jack had traveled the day before.

"Oh, shit," he muttered, swallowing hard. His hands shook as he slowly, carefully lifted his coat from the snow and began to slide his arms into the sleeves, praying his movement didn't attracted attention.

No such luck.

He froze when the bear froze. The bear had to get down the hill and past the boulder to reach him. He still had time. But he'd lost his snow shoes and he was winded and wounded and wasn't going to be running anywhere very fast. His only hope was for the bear to not smell his blood, to move on.

As the big head swiveled in Mac's direction, he heard a howl pierce the cold of midday, a chill racing down his spine. The sound was close, very close. His breathing rapid from fear, Mac tried to push to his feet, his battered body not quite ready for the effort. He fell back to his knees once, looking up when he heard answering howls echo the first cry.

Just past the boulder, away from Mac but toward the bear, the same large grey wolf emerged from the tree line. It stared at Mac as before, judging, assessing. He forced himself to slow his breathing and stayed on his knees, not wanting to appear threatening in any way. A group of excited yips chimed in after the pack's haunting howl and suddenly the bear was lumbering away from Mac and the hill, wolves on its tail in cagey pursuit.

Mac scanned the snow around the boulder for sign of the grey wolf, and when he came up empty, he tried once more to gain his footing. Successful, he fastened his coat and made his way slowly through the knee- and hip-deep snow, back toward the cabin, the thought of having left Jack there alone, sick, and without backup driving him forward when exhaustion—and a forty-foot drop—enticed him to simply lay down where he was in the snow.

As he came upon the cabin, the sight that met his eyes had him reflexively reaching for his wounded side. Jack stood in the opened door of the cabin, his rifle at his shoulder, the barrel fixed on a figure on his knees in the snow, hands over his head. Mac made his way forward, eyes scanning the kneeling figure—white camo, no crossbow. This was either not the man who'd shot him, or he was hiding the gear.

"There you are," Jack said to him by way of greeting. "Meet Isaac Gray."

"Look, I just want to come inside and get warm," Gray said, his voice muffled through his ski mask. "I made it through last night in a snow fort, but I am out of supplies."

"Ain't that just too damn bad?" Jack returned, unrelenting, his eyes trained with lethal intent on the man in the snow. "What do you think, Mac?"

"Check him for a crossbow," Mac replied, his eyes hard as he stared at the shivering CIA agent.

"You heard my partner," Jack replied, not pausing to ask why. "Got yourself a crossbow in that gear, Legolas?"

"No," Gray shook his head tiredly.

"Well, someone just shot me out of a tree with one," Mac snapped. He ignored Jack's flinch at that news and was relieved when his partner didn't drop the aim of his rifle. "So, unless you have another explanation, there's a human-shaped dent in the snow back there that says different."

Gray shifted his focus to MacGyver. "Fine," he said, dropping his hands and causing tension to ripple through Jack as the former Delta tightened his grip on his rifle. "There are four FSB agents after me."

Jack moved slightly to the side, out of the doorway, reaching for Mac's shoulder and pulling the younger man closer in behind him.

"Yeah? And why is that?" he demanded, still not looking at Mac, though his entire body screamed that he wanted to.

"Because my father sent them."