Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

It was empty.

Jack stared at the dirty plastic for a few moments, but he just couldn't find the energy to be pissed. Hell, he couldn't even smile.

Of course he'd found the only ranger's station in walking distance, and the first aid kit was fucking empty.

That was the story of his life. Jack Wyatt Dalton, died in Turkey because the god damned Turkish Park Service, or whatever the fuck they called themselves, couldn't stock a god damned ranger's station with one fucking first aid kit.

Huh. He did still have enough energy to get mad.

Not real mad, though. Not super creative mad.

Dalton let the empty case fall, bracing his right hand on the dusty wooden table and raising grainy eyes back to the medicine cabinet. A mouse nest, looked like, and a rusty, single blade razor.

Jack pressed his lips together and considered it, but not really. No way was he using a rusty ol' razor blade to cut a bullet out of his thigh without a god-damned first aid kit on hand.

"All I wanted . . . was an aspirin," he muttered, but the cabinet didn't magically provide him any, and he didn't bother to slap the cabinet closed. He just let his chin drop to his chest.

"Help me out, man." He closed his eyes and kept his left arm rigidly still. "I'm dyin' out here."

He didn't know who he was talking to. Mac wasn't there. He had no coms. There was no radio, which had been his first hope. It had been looted ages ago. No electricity, no water. Not even a chair. Just a rickety old table and an empty first aid kit.

Maybe Mac could make something out of that, god love him, but he was the only one.

It was dark, and the temperature had been dropping rapidly. If he didn't get a fire going, he was dead.

Even if he did get a fire going, he was dead.

Jack forced his eyes open as his right knee started to buckle, and he shoved himself upright, looking to see if at least there was a stove.

There wasn't. There was a pipe in the wall, presumably where a stove once was. It was in the corner with the world's saddest rubber ducky.

Jack stared at the yellow blob for some time, but eventually came to the conclusion that it was actually there. He shuffled over to the corner, which was a good place to lean, and slowly slid down the wall.

Dying out there or in here was six of one, half a dozen of the other. At least he had a rubber ducky to talk to.

He found a comfortable place to put his head, and addressed his new friend. "Name's Jack. Mind if I join you?"

The duck didn't say anything, which he found disappointing in a remote kind of way.

"Don't s'ppose you got a satphone on ya?"

The duck didn't.

"How 'bout a beer?"

He figured if the rubber ducky had one, it should probably just drink it itself. It was curiously misshapen, and Jack dragged his right arm out of his lap, fumbling around until he'd finally picked up his little friend.

He stared at it a long time.

"You are not a duck," he told it.

The faded yellow flare gun had the decency not to respond. It was probably older than he was, and Jack struggled to pop it open one-handed. Eventually he just gave up. Wasn't like there was a flare in it.

And even if there was, wasn't like it'd work.

And even if it did, wasn't like it was going to do a lot of good inside a shitty ol' ranger's station. He'd have to get up and go outside.

. . . or not.

Jack stared at the wide, round barrel, still not quite far enough gone to point what might be a loaded firearm at his face. But a flare to the face might be better than getting found by one of the wolves out there. He had a feeling they were following him, not quite sure if he was predator or prey.

Pretty sure he knew which though.

Jack let the flare gun clatter back onto the floor, and wondered if he could just fall asleep despite the pain.

Unconscious is not the same as asleep, Jack, Mac quipped.

"Yes it is," he muttered, just to be contrary. Close enough, anyway.

Probably less scary than a flare to the face, anyway. It would probably be a shitty flare, and just take out an eye or something.

The gnawing pain in his gut swelled sharply, and Jack groaned, hugging his belly and trying to breathe through it.

Yeah. He'd been shot enough today. That wasn't going to work.

The pain eventually eased a little, and he uncurled himself, leaning his head back against the wall. He was right under one of the two grimy windows.

Mac would suggest that he break the glass and fire the flare from the floor. That way, he was in a building, away from the wolves, and if someone did see a flare in the area, they'd probably check out the ranger's station.

Mac was a determined little optimist most of the time.

Even when he knew it would hurt.

Jack sighed. "You serious, brother?"

Mac would not just be serious. He'd be earnest about it.

"Dude, I hope you're okay."

Mac would nod. Even if it was horseshit.

If you don't do something right now, Jack ol' boy, you're gonna die.

He thought about that long and hard. Then he grunted.

"Dammit," he growled, at no one in particular, and he picked up the flare gun. Raising his arm that high was going to hurt like hell. He tried to offset it by bracing his right foot, shoving himself up the wall just a little, and luckily the glass was just as shitty as everything else in the cabin and it shattered first try.

Before he lost his footing or his nerve, Jack shoved his right hand out the window, turning his thumb against the wooden frame of the windowpane so he'd be aimed reasonably skyward, and he pulled the trigger.

And damned if the thing didn't fire.

He didn't see where the flare ended up, or what color it was, or whether or not it just hit a tree and went out. He slid the few inches back to the floor, grimacing, and paid his dues for the movement.

Hell, unless whoever found him could airlift him to a Level I trauma center half an hour away it wouldn't make a damn difference. He knew why the pain was changing, getting worse. He was looking at massive internal injury.

Jack shook his head, just a little.

"I'm sorry, brother. Think I'm about to let you down."

Not that Mac didn't already think that. Hell, kid probably thought it was his fault somehow.

Ah, crap. And Riles. As soon as the Phoenix team only found three corpses, they'd expand the search. Riley would blame herself, for not finding him faster, for not getting their team to the right place in time –

"Oh, kiddo." He was too dehydrated to tear up, and too sore for the ragged sob that tried to rattle out of his throat. "I am so sorry to leave you again."

Bozer and Matty and Cage would take care of her. Take care of 'em both. Take care of Diane.

Probably a good thing Sarah was married. The corner of his mouth turned up, thinking about all the things that woman was gonna do to Batuhan Aydin over this.

And Matty. Jesus, she was gonna be pissed.

They'd get Mac out.

They had to.

Yeah.

"Hey."

Jack tried to focus half-opened eyes, not quite sure when they'd closed. A silhouette was standing in the twilight of the doorframe, and as he watched, it stepped inside and pulled off a peaked aviator's cap.

And Jack smiled.

"Hey dad."

-M-

She didn't often sit at the desk. One, because of her stature; there was just no elegant way to dismount an office chair whose seat was at your armpit. Two, because it made it very hard to not be still, and if there was one thing she didn't like, it was being still.

Her mother called it 'the wiggles'. Matilda called it 'get the fuck out of my way and do your damn job.'

There was no hope of sitting at that desk anytime in the near future.

"Director Webber, it's out of our hands –"

"Oh?" She cocked her head to the side. "Foreign affairs are no longer under the purview of the State Department?"

Director Bosch had obviously had a shower and a nap since they'd last spoken, and gracefully pretended she hadn't heard. "A military aircraft went down in a national park. Of course the Turkish authorities are going to take lead in the investigation."

Matty rolled her eyes. "And I'm not disputing that. What I am disputing is the fact that we don't have a single asset on the ground that could tag along? I had an agent on that bird, and you don't even know if they've found any bodies yet?"

The director of the CIA was in another window, thumbing through a folder on the matter, but when she didn't immediately reply, Matilda pursed her lips and nodded.

"I see. So a US ambassador and his family are kidnapped and executed by Turkish rebels, and you're telling me that no one thinks it's strange that there's not so much as a Marine to escort our diplomats home?"

Director Bosch sighed. "You're not asking for a military escort. You're asking for a full recon effort. We can't create the appearance of taking sides here. Erdogan's government is advising not going public until we have to, to avoid unnecessarily inflaming tensions."

"Oh, you're not "appearing" to take a side." She used air quotes. "You have overtly taken a side."

The CIA director raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment, and Bosch's expression went frosty. "Just what are you insinuating?"

Maddie allowed her disbelief to be written all over her face. "Oh, Director, I'm not insinuating anything."

There was a quiet knock on her door, and Matty muted the screens with a loud sigh. "What."

There was no immediate answer, and she turned to glare over her shoulder. It was an analyst, a dark-haired one. She really needed to start remembering their names. The woman opened her mouth, but then closed it and took a tentative step into the office.

Matty snapped her fingers. "Today."

"Oh – yes." The kid – she couldn't have been more than twenty, Matty made yet another mental note to take a personal look into their recruiters – stepped forward smartly, trying to watch the women on the screen without appearing to be looking at them. "You asked us to flag if Jack Dalton or Angus MacGyver's aliases appeared on social media."

Matty waited a beat, then cocked her head to the other side, and the analyst cleared her throat. "Uh, yes. We found a posting on a Turkish website sympathetic to the Peace at Home Council."

She held out a tablet almost apologetically, and Matty took it impatiently, noticing in her peripheral vision that her colleagues were also being distracted by their own people.

The site was in Turkish, which she hadn't brushed up on, but a picture told a thousand words. Four of them, in this case, with their names spelled out in English.

The name she'd asked to be flagged was highlighted in yellow. Ethan Darby, Photographer/Videographer.

Matty carefully schooled her features. It wasn't like she hadn't seen this image before. She'd actually seen it being taken.

"I take it they're celebrating?"

The analyst licked her bottom lip. "Uh, yes ma'am. Anton Chevalier was widely believed to have aided Erdogan in retaining power and identifying coup sympathizers in the days and weeks after the failed attempt."

She scrolled quickly through the rest of the site. "What do you mean, widely?"

"Oh – only within the rebel community." The analyst paused. "And the nation's youth communities."

. . . and there it was.

Matilda took a deep breath, holding it a moment before letting it go. "Thank you. Oh, and Lisa?"

"Liz," she corrected with a smile.

"Liz. Make sure that these images – one in particular – are available only to staff and analysts working directly on this op. They are not to be shared with anyone else. I expect you to see to it personally."

The analyst nodded, halting. "Yes, director."

Matty gave her a warning look, then turned and tapped the mute button on the codec. Her compatriots were also back on camera, and Director Bosch looked a little green.

"I presume you all heard the same news I did? That the Gulan are publicly taking credit for the assassination of a US diplomatic family and a US journalist?" She waved the tablet.

Short nods.

"Excellent." Matty discarded the tablet onto her desk and clasped her fingers. "So now that it's public knowledge, and Erdogan can no longer squash it, can we please get on with involving ourselves in the investigation?"

Director Bosch accepted another piece of paper, scanning it a moment. Her lips pulled back in a tight smile that didn't touch her eyes.

"The Secretary thanks you for your assistance, Director Webber, and extends his sincere sympathy for the loss of your agent. At this time, he is advising you to stand down and we will be turning the matter over to NATO. Commander Walbright will be overseeing the 16th Division out of the Sea of Marmara." She raised her eyes from the letter. "They'll retrieve your agent. Both of them."

Matty waited a beat, then turned and stalked back to the videoconference codec. "They better," she snapped, and then she cut the connection.

Then she relaxed a moment, gathering her thoughts.

"Well?"

A thin agent in a beige pants suit stood from the beige couch. Exactly how long she'd been there, Matty truly didn't know. And that was saying something.

Christ, she needed sleep.

"Well," the blonde replied thoughtfully, "I think it's not a good day to be named Samantha."

Matty cracked a smile. It might have been genuine. "The State Department will be hands off to avoid further alienating the Turkish youth. We've already got enough enmity in the region."

The one Samantha she was actually willing to tolerate at the moment returned her smile. "Make them believe Chevalier was acting on his own, or at least not with the State Department's approval." She turned that over in her quiet way. "Was he?"

"Don't ask." Matty turned back to her desk, trying not to remember saying the exact same thing to an agent standing right where Cage was standing, not two days ago.

But since she was following the script so well –

"Put together a team. At least six agents, as many spec ops as you can. Oh, and take Bozer. Americans will be a little too obvious right now." She didn't think Wilt would bat an eye, it was putting him that much closer to the search for MacGyver. "I'm setting you up in eastern Greece."

They'd be close enough to the NATO and UN installations there, and right on the border with Bulgaria and Turkey. That was within a two hour flight of everything they had on Batuhan Aydin. And, it technically wasn't violating the Secretary's instructions. Mac and Jack's op had had nothing to do with Greece.

"What about Riley?"

Matty shook her head, not bothering to take her eyes off the world map. "Ms. Davis needs to take some time."

Time that she wasn't taking. Matty had no doubt the hacker was down with the other analysts as they spoke, poring over data. Probably trying to access the Turkish investigation. And she was good, but she couldn't hack pen and paper. Right now, Matty's plan was to let the girl exhaust herself and then make an agent take her home and sit on her.

Cage was silent a moment. "You know you're putting Bozer in an uncomfortable position."

Matty glanced over her shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "Bozer's a big boy now. He better get used to it."

The blonde smiled, a little sadly. "Riley won't be happy with you."

That was the understatement of the year.

"And what about you?" The same soft, probing voice. "You knew Jack at least as long as Riley did. When will you take some time?"

Matty very, very carefully didn't over-analyze that question. She'd hired the ex-SASR agent, she'd brought her in for this specific skillset and it was frankly childish to believe that skillset wouldn't be used on her. And she hated that her first instinct was to assume her response would be used to manipulate her, as opposed to helping her.

Jack Dalton was dead. His partner was either dead or still in Aydin's hands. There was only one way Samantha Cage could help her.

Matilda picked up the forgotten tablet, closing the offending website.

"When the job's done," she answered, matter-of-factly. "And let me be perfectly clear. I don't care what you have to do. I don't care whose neck you have to choke. You bring our boys home."

Agent Cage inclined her head. "I will."

-M-

He was moving through the cargo bay with a clipboard, looking so focused and absorbed she almost hated to interrupt him.

"Are you avoiding me?"

Bozer, to his credit, only flinched, rather than actually jumping off the ground. It was a military plane, more of a cargo jet than their usual Jetstream, so she supposed he wasn't as keyed up about noises.

He flashed her a quick, guilty grin. "Who, me?"

Cage didn't let him off the hook, but made sure her approach looked casual, and he showed her the clipboard – a classic redirect. "Well, that and making sure I got enough stuff. Seven actors can go through a lot of makeup."

She raised her eyebrows. "They're agents, Bozer, not actors."

He shrugged a shoulder, still grinning. "When they're in my makeup, they're actors. Can't be yourself if you look like someone else."

Not for the first time, Samantha Cage really stopped and looked at him. She liked Bozer. He was very forthright, and normally very honest. While some – even her, at first – passed that off as being simple, she was beginning to fully appreciate the complexities of Mac's roommate.

There was a reason someone like Angus MacGyver would choose this person, particularly when he had been young and vulnerable. It wasn't that Wilt Bozer was a comfort from his childhood days.

No. Bozer was far more than that.

"That's a very astute observation," she complimented him, and his eyebrows bunched together, even as the smile didn't fade.

"Wait, I'm sorry. Did you just . . . naw, I musta heard wrong. Was that a compliment, Cage?"

She chuckled, letting her fingers trace along one of the tethered, hard-walled black crates that he'd already inventoried. "Does it happen so rarely?"

His easy grin faltered just a little before he recovered, turning back to his clipboard as an excuse to avert his eyes.

Oh yes. Bozer was definitely hiding something.

He still continued the game, very gallantly. "For my cooking, no. You're pretty good about that." He scanned the list, pen hovering in the air. His hands were steady, and his eyes were actually reading the lines of the spreadsheet. She made a mental note; his skills were improving.

". . . but about spy stuff?" He checked a box, his broad grin returning. "Not so much. You gave me one about the dress. And the contacts were kind of a backhanded compliment, but I'll take it."

Right. The casino op.

"The stitching really was very good," she repeated her comment from that day in the lab.

"Yeah, and the contact was a good fit." Bozer clicked his pen closed, sliding it onto the clipboard's aluminum clip. Then he met her eyes, and there was triumph in his expression. "Come on, Cage. You had to know I was gonna notice."

She played the innocent card, just slightly raising her eyebrows to express interest, and he scoffed, gesturing at the cargo area at large. "We really gonna play that?"

She leaned against a crate, crossing her arms loosely. "I know you're not taking an inventory, if that's what you mean. You would have done that before we left, not an hour after."

He pointed the clipboard at her. "Exactly. And I did. Seven subjects, seven cases."

Bozer was still watching her, plainly thinking he had caught her at something, and she took a quick visual count.

Nine wheeled black makeup cases, including the one she was leaning against.

"Ah? Ah? So you gonna tell me what you're smuggling? Are they rocket launchers? No, wait - grenade bandoliers." His gaze flickered to the bottom right corner of his eye, accessing his creative centers. "It would have to be something Matty thought was overkill . . ."

Cage didn't change her expression or her position. These cases would have come in under the lab authorization. There were only two agents she'd picked that had lab clearance, and she didn't know either of them well enough to know what equipment they'd consider questionable enough to have to be brought along covertly.

The intel on the Turkey job had been grossly incomplete. She'd heard enough of Weber's conversation to know that Matty had taken it personally, so the gap in intelligence hadn't come from her.

Was she sending along a few care packages in case the recovery went sideways?

"They're not mine," she said aloud, interrupting Bozer's increasingly fantastic imagination.

He stopped, then gave her a very skeptical look. "And I'm supposed to believe that?"

She leaned off the crate, glancing at the stenciled ID numbers. "Believe what you like. Which two aren't yours?"

Bozer crossed his arms, then had to adjust for the clipboard he'd just shoved into his armpit. "Like you don't know."

Cage ignored him for a moment. The cases had different configurations, as they were multi-use, but seven of the cases had two separate latches, one at the top and one on a side, indicating at least two separate compartments.

Two of them did not, indicating one larger compartment. They were still makeup cases, but they'd be for very large items, such as full masks. She didn't think Bozer had felt the need to go that far for their disguises.

She tucked her cardigan behind her holster, just in case, and Bozer's arms slipped back down to his sides.

". . . wait . . . really?"

He was standing right in front of the closest single compartment case, and he jumped to the side as he followed her gaze. "Really?"

"Really, Bozer." She jerked her head and he got the picture, stepping further back. The case wasn't moving, nor did it sound like it was ticking, but she was still careful as she inspected the latch. It wasn't locked, and it was well greased. It flipped open very easily, and she gave Bozer a warning look before she cracked it open.

Nothing happened.

She opened it further, seeing only black inside, and then the cargo bay lights fell on a grey cotton hoodie, and long eyelashes resting on pale cheeks.

Cage flipped the case open all the way, but Riley Davis didn't stir.

Bozer had peered over the edge, and his body language assured her that he was truly as surprised as she was. "Holy . . . Riley!"

The young woman was folded up semi-comfortably in the case, with her laptop bag beside her and a small metal cannister with a breathing mask attached. Her eyes were still closed, and there was a light sheen of sweat on her face.

Bozer made the same assumption she did. He almost climbed into the case, grabbing Riley's shoulders and shaking her frantically. "Riley!"

The woman came around with a sleepy jerk, eyes wide, before she started swatting at Bozer. "Jesus, dude, what the hell?! Take it easy!"

"Riley! Shit, are you okay?" Cage could see immediately that she was. Lips were a good color- her fingernails were electric blue, but that was lacquer – and now that Bozer had half pulled her out of the case she was moving fine, just a little stiff.

"- you insane?! You could have suffocated in there! What the hell were you thinking-"

"Oh my god, dude, pull it together," she shot back, sitting on the edge of the case before swinging her legs over. "It's fine. Not like these things are airtight."

Bozer looked like he wanted to shove her back into the case. "Are you kidding me? What if we had strapped it down? Huh? How did you think you were ever getting out of there if we hadn't found you?"

Riley got her footing on the cargo bay floor and smirked at him, pulling a bobby pin out of her more-down-than-up-do. "How do you think."

Now that his surprise and relief had had time to be expressed, Bozer went right into anger. "Oh, I know you are not telling me my boy told you that was a good idea-"

"It would have fit easily into the seam," Cage murmured, reminding them both that she was there. "She greased the latch, Bozer. She could have opened the crate whenever she wanted."

Riley's smirk was triumphant, but her eyes were apprehensive as she glanced towards Cage, and she didn't maintain contact long. "You hang around Mac, you learn a thing or two."

Bozer wrapped an arm around his chest, collapsing against the nearest case. "Baby girl, you about scared ten years off me! Is that what you're learning from Mac? 'Cause if it is, you need to stop taking lessons!" He rubbed his short-cropped hair vigorously in an attempt to expend some of the adrenaline that was no doubt in his system. "What were you doing in there anyway? Havin' a nice little nap?"

Riley ducked back into the case to grab her bag. "Yeah, actually, I was. I just worked a 30 hour shift, remember?"

She shouldered the bag, keeping her head up and her back straight, trying to project confidence. Cage watched her gather herself, then turn to face her just like she might a foe.

"And unless my watch is wrong, it's too late to turn this thing around."

Cage stifled a laugh, keeping her features smooth. "We've already wasted too much time," she said instead. "We're not going back."

Riley interpreted that as agreement and started to walk past her. "Great. I'll just find a place to set up my stuff."

Samantha waited until she was next to her before catching her left arm, just above the elbow, effortlessly bringing the hacker to a sudden stop. "That's not what I said."

Riley tried to shake her off, and Cage tightened her grip warningly. "This is my op, Ms. Davis, and my team." When she had the younger woman's undivided attention, she loosened her hold. She found herself a little surprised to find that while Riley was tense, she wasn't shaking.

"You were not selected for this op for a reason."

The younger woman glared at her, meeting her gaze head on. "I get it. You think I'm a liability, that I'm 'emotionally compromised'." Her tone was dry and sarcastic. "But the fact is, there's things I can't do from Phoenix that I can do on the ground, and if these people are really that dangerous, Mac needs all the help he can get."

Cage didn't immediately reply, and Riley took the silence as a win. "If it's safe enough for Bozer, it's safe enough for me."

Wilt, who had been quietly supportive this whole time, gave Riley a sideways look.

Samantha felt herself smile. She couldn't help it. "It's not safe for Bozer either."

His side-eye slid to her.

"Any agent that stays at our safehouse is no less a target than any agent who goes out to follow leads. I hand selected the agent that will keep Bozer here alive, and I don't have a spare for you."

She let them both chew on that a moment. It hadn't been her intention to let Bozer in on that detail, since he was a bit high-strung, but she needed him in her court if she was going to win this.

"Since you seem so well informed, I'm sure I don't need to tell you that we are trying to infiltrate and dismantle a special forces team that regularly spanks Navy SEALs during Allied war games. If and when we find them, they will not be wearing uniforms. They will not rely on gadgets and coms. And they will not hesitate to kill anyone they feel is a threat to their mission."

She looked between them, once again struck by how young they were. Riley was simply the correct skill set in a body that was five years too young. Bozer was a total accident who should never be let out of the lab. Neither one was stupid by any stretch. They simply lacked the life experience necessary to comprehend the consequences they were facing.

"Riley, I know you want to help save Mac. And you want revenge, for what happened to Jack." She didn't miss the micro-expression that crossed the younger woman's face at that comment. "But this mission is too dangerous. When we land, you're getting on the next plane back to Los Angeles. That's an order," she added when the other woman started to protest.

Riley finally dropped her eyes, sucking on her bottom lip before her head started to shake. It was slight at first, but then she decided she meant it.

"No way," she said, and she threw up her hands palm outward, trying to put space between them. "And even if you do put me on that plane, I will turn right around and come back. You can't stop me."

Though she was avoiding eye contact, her voice was solidly resolute, and Cage took a mental step back. It wasn't rage that was driving her. This wasn't about wanting to pull a trigger, wanting to hurt someone.

"If Mac is alive, we'll find him. I promise you that."

Riley just nodded, licking her lips, and then she looked up, wearing a grim smile.

"Yeah. That's the problem."

Bozer's eyebrows shot for his hairline, and Cage was content to let him ask the question.

"Wait . . . what? You . . . don't want to find Mac?"

She turned to him, using the motion unconsciously to try to put more space between herself and both of them.

"Of course I want to find Mac! Just . . . just not only."

Of course. The extreme measures to get herself on board, the denial and protective impulse in her micro-expression . . .

Samantha closed her eyes briefly. "I'm sorry. About Jack."

The grim smile was pinched. "Yeah, well, don't be, because he's not dead. Not yet."

Bozer came to lean on the case beside Riley, his hand straying towards hers. "Riles . . . you were there. You saw what we saw."

She yanked herself away from him like she'd been stung. "Yeah, so were you. We saw exactly what we were supposed to see."

Cage simply held up a hand, before defensiveness shut down any path forward. "What did you see, Riley?"

The younger woman glared at her, but her eyes then shifted sightlessly to her left. Accessing memory centers, not creative ones. "I saw . . . I saw what looked like an execution. I saw some kind of liquid used, then we had intermission, and then we couldn't see a damn thing." Her eyes refocused.

"Come on, Cage. Don't you think it's weird that the State Department can't even confirm they found bodies?"

Samantha hesitated. Denial could be a very strong emotion, and at this point even physical evidence might not be enough to convince Riley. She would get absolutely nowhere trying to 'prove' anything. And frankly, she couldn't, because the hacker was right.

It had been almost six hours since the Turkish authorities had been notified, and satellite images had shown their teams setting up lights and tents at the camp site. There was no way the wreckage of that helicopter had not been located and searched. And there was no reason she could think of for the Turkish government to withhold that from the State Department. Particularly since it seemed the State Department was at least tacitly in support of the current regime.

Which would lead her to believe the State Department was withholding the information from Matilda. From them.

And the only reason to withhold the information would be if the information they had didn't agree with the narrative they wanted to tell.

They wanted Phoenix to back off until they had wrapped the whole situation in a bow. So if the information wouldn't lead the Phoenix team to back off, it would likely be actual confirmation that at least one of their agents was still alive.

But whether that was Dalton or MacGyver, she had no way to know. Her money was on Mac surviving the crash, which would be setting Riley up for a crushing blow if she allowed this line of investigation to continue.

"Yeah, I thought so." Riley shifted the bag on her shoulder. "There's something off about this, and you know it."

"Okay," Samantha said slowly. "Let's say you're right. Let's say it was staged, and the Chevaliers and Jack are alive and well." She carefully tempered her tone at the hope in Riley's eyes. "The covered truck would have had to be used to take them out of camp. We lost it somewhere in the park. If you can find evidence of that truck, or evidence that they're on that truck, or any other evidence of their current whereabouts, by the time we land . . . I'll listen."

Convincing the young woman that Jack was really dead wasn't possible. The only person who could change Riley's belief was Riley herself.

And any information she gleaned in her search for that evidence, whether it existed or not, was one step closer to finding MacGyver.

Something like a real smile started growing on the young woman's face. "Yeah?"

Cage nodded. "Yeah."

-M-

There was a soft knock on the door, and it opened to reveal Kenan. Aydin gave him a quick nod and indicated the phone. His lieutenant returned the nod, silently taking a seat near the door.

The meeting droned on, as all committee meetings had a tendency to do, but he kept absolute focus on the words, the sounds in the background, a cup of tea being set down, papers shifting.

The voice he was expecting said nothing, and when at last all comments were called for, the meeting was adjourned.

Batuhan Aydin waited until the conference line indicated other calls were disconnecting, then disconnected his also.

"So, no news?"

Aydin didn't smile often, but when he did, it was always in genuine pleasure. "Only a skeptic like you could listen to our government talk for so long and believe nothing was said."

For his part, Kenan just shrugged, standing promptly as Aydin abandoned the desk, stiffly grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair. The office lighting was soft, easy on the eyes, but in the hallway the lighting was bright and fluorescent. He let his eyes adjust as they walked, and when they headed down the main staircase, the shadows made it look as if the corner of Kenan's bottom lip was swollen.

Aydin gestured. "From the crash?"

"Eh?" Kenan brought up a hand, gingerly prodding his face as they took the next left. "Oh, no. This is new. It'll be gone by morning."

"This was the analyst?" Aydin couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. "The American did this?"

Kenan gave him a droll look. "He's quicker than he looks."

"Ayi," he murmured, shaking his head. "Youth and spirit. I admire it."

His lieutenant just grunted.

"I'll be heading back to the city tonight. Did you give them my instructions?"

There was a hesitation, then a single nod.

Aydin gave his lieutenant a look. ". . . but you disagree."

They took the following left, descending a stone staircase into the old wing. His lieutenant waited until they passed the servant's kitchen to respond.

"I am not convinced he has the information we need."

"Oh, so he's been cooperative?"

In response, Kenan smiled. In Aydin's experience, his lieutenant only smiled when he, also, experienced real pleasure.

"Not yet." Kenan stepped forward to rap sharply on the door, and after a beat, the heavy old lock clanked, and the door was drawn open. They continued through.

"Is your concern with the target or the timetable?"

"Both." Kenan stopped them, then, about twenty feet from the end of the hall. "I think the information's dated, and I don't think we should commit any troops until we're sure we'll get the results we need."

The colonel considered that a moment. "I trust you to use your best judgement."

Kenan drew himself up stiffly and saluted. Then he turned on his heels and strode back the way they'd come.

Aydin continued to the other end of the sandstone hallway, and knocked twice. The old wooden door opened without a sound, and he stepped into another well-lit room.

The analyst was tucked in the far corner, his breaths coming in soft shudders from the shivers wracking his scrawny frame, and Aydin looked him up and down. The American met his gaze unflinchingly, eyes bright blue and stubborn behind long blond bangs.

Aydin studied the young man. Then he turned his head and addressed the sergeant behind him.

"Where is his shirt?"

Hakan didn't drop from parade rest. Unlike the lieutenant, he had not earned that right. "We took it away, sir."

Aydin almost laughed. "Yes, I see that. Was there a reason, besides making him uncomfortable?"

The sergeant hesitated. "He used it to attack Lieutenant Yavuz, sir."

To a civilian, it might have sounded ridiculous. Kenan Yavuz was the analyst's better in strength, height, weight, and training. And he knew for a fact that Kenan knew at least seven ways to kill a man with a shirt.

That this analyst knew one of those methods, and had thought he could successfully execute such an attack – that was interesting.

"It is very cold here in the ground, yes?" he said, switching to English. "Surprising for a warm climate."

The American didn't respond, he just sat huddled in the corner, knees drawn up to his chest in an obvious attempt to conserve heat. His arms were tucked between his chest and his legs, hands in his armpits, and the abrasions from the restraints were an angry red.

The colonel merely nodded to himself, shrugging into his jacket and giving no hint of stiffness. He didn't miss the way the American's eyes tracked his every move. "I always need a coat. Even a man as big as me!"

At least the young man still had his boots. The floor could be unforgivingly cold on the feet.

"My men tell me you do not wish to talk. Is this true?"

Nothing but the sound of shivering breath.

Aydin threw his arms wide. "Come now, my American friend! You were so pleasant yesterday! What has happened?" He indicated the man's left side, and without a shirt the bruising was prominent on his pale skin. "Are you in pain?"

The American took a slightly deeper breath, and Aydin was hopeful it was to speak. Instead the young man sneezed.

He couldn't help it. He burst out laughing. "There is much dust here, yes. I am sorry for this. And also for your . . . accommodations, I think you say. You see, in order to make one comfortable, one needs money. Is it not the same in America?"

He gestured to the room, which was part of the old cellar. It was a place the servants used to store root vegetables, and why there was a pipe that brought in water, and a drain in the floor for it to leave. Many summers he had spent in a room very like this one, enjoying the coolness as he washed vegetables for their kapuska.

"I had money. My family has been in the military for four generations. It is unusual for military men to make lots of money. That is not why one should serve." He walked over to the pipe, noting that his men had removed the valve head. It could still be turned, but it would be difficult.

"So the money was my mother's, you see. She is dead now, ten years. She was a good woman. She would like you, American. She would say, feed him! Feed the sican American!"

She would probably have washed his mouth with soap for using that word at the dinner table, but that was neither here nor there.

"But she is gone, and the money is gone. Where did it go, you say? Erdogan took it." He fixed the American with a stern look, but the analyst hadn't budged, just watching him. "All assets frozen. Colder than this room, yes! And so we have had to make do with less."

He put his hands in his pockets, rolling his head on his shoulders in a comfortable stretch. "Do you know how much a helicopter costs, my American friend?"

The analyst smirked.

Aydin smiled broadly. Kenan was right. This one had spirit. "Ah, I see that you do! Quite a lot of money, yes. And yet today we have one less helicopter. For that reason, I am afraid you do not have a bed. Also not a blanket. I do not know if even we can buy food for you." He nodded slowly. "But I remember, I think, that you said you have money. Did you say that, American?"

The smirk had settled into something challenging and defiant. This was not the analyst's first interrogation, and Aydin studied him with new eyes.

"Perhaps now would be a good time to remember where that money was, yes? It could buy you many things. Comforts."

He gave the analyst ample time to consider the offer. Now that he had placed the ask, his men would focus their interrogation efforts on that end. The young man would spend so much energy trying to protect that secret – that he had no money, because he was not a journalist - that he would let others slip.

However, if this American had received enough training, such a simple deception might not be enough.

It was going to be interesting, to see how far Kenan could get with him in a week. The colonel heaved a large sigh.

"Well, if you cannot remember, do not fear. We are not so poor that we do not have water. You may have all that you want."

He waited, just a moment, watching those blue eyes. They never faltered, though it was clear he understood exactly what was about to happen.

Interesting indeed.

Aydin turned and walked back to the door, nodding to Hakan.

-M-

You guys seem to really dig this. Yay! I hope I live up to your expectations!

I realized when I was about to finish this chapter that I had yet again done pretty much nothing to resolve the original cliffie, so this chapter is a little later, and extra long, so that I could include that last part with Mac. Only because you guilted me into it!

I'll go back at some point and fix the missing fifth crate mistake from Chapter 2. (Jack was in crate number four, and should have rolled right into another box on fire. Whoops.) But they say NaNo is about writing, not editing, so I'll hold that til the end. Anyone spot any other issues?

Also – I kinda had some of this written earlier (it's NaNo, I started on the 1st), but I've almost caught up with what I already had written, so updates might come out a bit slower. Just setting expectations.