Again, SO sorry for the wait, and I truly appreciate your patience! Finding the time to write has been a huge struggle lately... though I'm chugging along slowly but surely. Hopefully this installment is worth the wait, so as always, enjoy! Love you all!
Chapter Seven
They dosed me again.
Mac's first coherent thought as he regained awareness was, impressively enough, entirely accurate. Fragmented memories of Manuel's knockout blow flickered across his consciousness, competing with the trace signs that pointed to yet another amateur drug cocktail.
His jaw pulsed, silent agony searing the side of his face as his teeth clenched tighter. Yeah... the punch was definitely what put him under.
But the cold, sluggish sensation as his fingers uselessly worked at the plastic ties biting his wrists confirmed his initial diagnosis - he'd definitely been drugged. Post-punch, apparently. And being unable to determine when the dose was administered, much less the amount or type of drug, Mac had absolutely no idea how long he'd been out.
Come to think of it, time was a warped concept after all the hours he'd spent unconscious since being attacked behind that bar in Los Angeles. He could easily have been gone for a day, two, three... a week, even. It was anyone's guess at this point.
Knowing the question would likely elicit laughter and abuse rather than a real answer, Mac swallowed around his dry, swollen tongue, willing his voice to be strong and clear.
"What day is it?"
The question admitted helplessness and confusion, he knew. But in his numb, half dazed state, Mac hardly cared.
As expected, a chuckle sounded from behind him. Nuances in timbre and pitch distinguished the laugh from Manuel's or Santiago's; this one was deeper, rougher.
Damn. I was out long enough for El Noche to make it all the way back to whatever hellhole he calls home. Despite hours of mental preparation and anticipation, the familiar rasp of Sancola's laugh still managed to twist Mac's insides and kick his heart into high gear.
"MacGyver." The voice was slow and careful, pronouncing the name with a note of satisfaction. "Today? Today may very well be your last."
"Last what?" Mac grumbled, gritting his teeth against the growing ache at his temples. "The last time I'll have to listen to your cliché threats before Jack tears you limb from limb?"
The hand on his shoulder sent a jolt of ice down Mac's spine; the touch was uncomfortably light, dripping with mock affection. Sancola shifted at his back, leisurely circling as his fingers traced across the younger man's shoulders. The drug lord beamed downward with cold satisfaction as his hand came to rest on his prisoner's neck, feeling the tension as his thumb brushed across the American's jaw. "Don't waste your breath on pathetic insults, pequeño espía. Save it for your screams later."
Something rumbled in the back of Mac's throat, his head jerking left to shake the calloused hand. "Go to hell."
Taking a step back, El Noche laughed, as Mac halfway expected him to. "I'll give you credit, amigo. You sound a great deal tougher than you look."
"Well, looks can be deceiving, pendejo." Mac could only hope his expression matched the ferocity of his tone. Brows drawn and mouth set defiantly, the Phoenix agent mustered an impressive glare despite the blood and bruises that littered his visage.
"Young people and their language. Gracia divina." Sancola tutted lightly, crossing to the metal table, newly stocked with a variety of well-worn tools. Light glinted from a large ruby on his left hand as El Noche traced a finger along the edge of the table. Regarding each item with careful consideration, he took a crowbar, weighing it thoughtfully before resting the long piece of metal casually over his shoulder. "My men tell me you were difficult. Attempting to deny our hospitality, refusing to answer a few simple questions..."
Mac breathed deeply, swallowing the lump that rose in his throat before shrugging the accusations off with false nonchalance. "I felt that I'd overstayed my welcome. Can't blame me for trying to be a considerate guest."
"Oh, Señor MacGyver... there's much to do before your stay here comes to an end."
"I wouldn't dream of imposing."
"Imposing?" A grimy, whitish grin peeked out from under Sancola's mustache, dark eyes glinting with hungry elation. "I assure you, nothing could bring me more pleasure."
The words sent a chill down Mac's spine, drawing a shudder from his aching shoulders. "I'm sure. Since I can't imagine you're getting it anywhere else." His heart skipped when something flashed in El Noche's eyes, drawing the older man a step closer even as Mac continued, "You know, with the whole mustache thing and all-"
Fire stung the side of his face, head whipping sharply right with the force of Sancola's backhanded blow. Wet, sluggish warmth trickled down his cheek, a fresh gash marking where the cartel kingpin's ring had struck.
"I have missed your wit, MacGyver. Truly, I have." Sancola brushed his hand across the linen of his trousers, ensuring that the stone on his finger was clear of blood and dirt.
A curt laugh brushed over his swollen lips; Mac dropped his gaze, eyeing the empty chairs behind Sancola. "Seems your buddies don't share your appreciation. Guess I hurt their feelings."
"Don't worry about that, amigo, they'll be back." The older man swung his weapon leisurely back and forth as he spoke, tracing a line in the dirt coating the cell floor. "Manuel is eager to have another turn with you."
"Can't say the feeling is mutual."
Sancola was silent for a long moment, head cocked thoughtfully. "You are awfully bold, señor. I'm sure you call it bravery." The crowbar eased under Mac's chin, tipping his head up so deep brown met icy blue once more. "But I call it foolishness. You would be wise to watch your tongue with me... especially if you want to keep it."
"Bite me."
Lips pursing thoughtfully behind his mustache, Sancola regarded his prisoner with a carefully indecipherable expression. Silence stretched thin, tension mounting with the growing lump in Mac's throat.
"Does pain get you off, MacGyver?"
The question sounded earnest, edged with curiosity.
"Not afraid to ask the personal questions, are you?" Doing his best to avoid the gash splitting his lower lip, Mac replied, "Seeing guys like you behind bars... that's what gets me off, son of a-"
Whipping through the air, a blurred arc was all the warning given before metal collided with Mac's shin.
A raw, animalistic cry tore from his throat before the pain truly registered, shooting up his leg like a white-hot bolt of lightning.
Jack hated the waiting game.
He hated the way his stomach tied itself in knots.
He hated the rock sitting in his gut like an anchor, and he hated the way every notification from his cell phone propelled his heart to his throat.
The drive back was torturous. Every mile marker on the long stretch of interstate bringing him back to Los Angeles was a reminder of the growing distance between the two partners.
'You know they'll kill me anyway, there's still time to catch up with-'
Mac's last words to him had ended in a sharp cry that struck Jack like a knife to his chest. The muffled sound of flesh on flesh echoed in his mind, replaying like a broken record as Jack glared ahead, knuckles growing whiter by the mile as he gripped the steering wheel.
But what hurt worse than his partner's pained cry was knowing that the kid was absolutely right. If Murdoc wasn't in time, Mac was a dead man.
Sharp vibrations at his side caught Jack's eye, and a cold, sinking feeling settled in his stomach before he read the name. Matty. Relief mingled with disappointment as he answered the call with the swipe of his finger.
"Matty?"
"Jack. What's your ETA?"
Jack glanced at the upcoming mile marker, mentally figuring the distance. "I'm about an hour out, traffic willing. What's goin' on?"
"I just got off the phone with Oversight." Matty's tone was grave, heavy with concern for both the agent whose life was on the line, and the one whose job could be on the line if everything went south.
"He's pissed?"
"Very."
Jack sucked in a deep breath, thumb tapping the wheel restlessly. "Sometimes I think Oversight don't give a rat's ass what happens to the best damn agent he's got, Matty."
Matty's tone softened almost imperceptibly as she sensed Jack's tense agitation. "He cares about every one of his agents, Jack, but it's his job to keep the bad guys behind bars. And two maximum threats for one Phoenix agent isn't a morally responsible trade-off from his point of view."
"And he's the top of the damn totem pole so we should all abide by his moral compass?"
"Jack." The name carried a warning edge, urging Jack to tread carefully. "I can turn a blind eye, but my job is to follow Oversight's directive regardless of how I may or may not personally feel. And if this ends with both Sancola and Murdoc free and clear, regardless of Mac's condition, I can't back you up."
"Understood. But we've taken every precaution so this thing doesn't derail, Matty. Have a little faith."
Jack's confident reply was for his own reassurance just as much as Matty's. They'd covered all the bases; Murdoc was the best of the best, he couldn't lose track of Sancola if he tried. And knowing Murdoc as well as Jack did, he knew the assassin would be tempted to run once his job was done. Jack could only hope his solemn promise to make Cassian disappear permanently in Phoenix witness protection was enough to keep Murdoc in line.
Have a little faith, Dalton.
"I have faith in you, Jack. But even if you pull this off, you're still facing a formal reprimand. Possibly a suspension. Even reassignment, if Oversight doesn't cool down by the time Mac is home."
The idea of reassignment tore Jack to pieces, but it was worth it if it brought his brother home. "And on the off-chance this doesn't work out?" The ex-Delta hesitated to ask, but curiosity got the better of him.
Matty was silent for a beat; when she spoke again, she'd adopted a note of determination. "I guess we'll just have to make sure that doesn't happen."
Again, thanks a million for your patience... thoughts so far?