Murdoc smiled grimly at the image on one of the monitors of the familiar brown jeep approaching the factory. "It's about time you got here, MacGyver."
"What did you say?" Becky never considered herself brave, but she wanted to know all of what he was planning to do, just so she might have an idea of somehow wrecking part of his plan.
Every little bit helps, as her parents used to say.
"It seems your uncle has finally decided to join our little party. Now, would you like to watch him try to solve my obstacle course and die horribly in the attempt, or would you prefer I save your precious feelings by leaving the video monitors off?"
"You're a monster."
"You're quite welcome, Miss Grahme."
A huge, broken-down building loomed through the jeep's windshield.
"Beautiful. He could have God-knows-what waiting in there for you, MacGyver. That factory's as big as a castle," Pete said as they crossed the bridge spanning the river.
"Yeah, just the creepy kind of place Murdoc would use for something like this," Jack added. "If I wasn't sure that's where he was keeping your niece I wouldn't touch it with a ten-foot pole, Mac."
"Guys, it doesn't matter to me what he has in there. Nothing will keep me from Becky. Nothing. No twisted trap of Murdoc's gonna stop me from finding her and getting her outta there."
Mac parked the jeep at a safe distance from the building, then hurried towards the entrance, with his friends close behind. They only paused when they came to an old movie poster attached to a fence nearby, which advertised the world premiere of Casablanca.
Odd place to find such a thing, but its very presence showed they were at the right location.
"Movie posters! Could be worth some money," Jack said. Mac shared a long-suffering glance with Pete as yet another distracting get-rich-quick scheme obviously played around in his mind. "What's that stamped on it?"
"Admit one. He knew I wouldn't come by myself. You guys get out of here. Go get the cops." He watched them return to the jeep, then took a deep breath and went inside.
He'd fight Murdoc to the death, to ensure Becky's safety. No doubt about it.
MacGyver found himself in some sort of reception area; immediately multiple doors opened, each one offering a different entry into the assassin's feindish maze. A baseball and Becky's favorite purple hair scrunchy lay in the center of the room.
Three strikes and she's out.
But what, exactly, would he consider a strike? Murdoc must be able to watch him somehow, most likely through security cameras. Guess he'll just have to see what happens.
Mac looked at his watch. Forty-five minutes to find Becky and get her out. He picked up the hair scrunchy, touching it briefly with his lips.
See you soon, sweetheart.
Then he tucked it and the baseball within his leather jacket, choosing a door at random.
Time to get to work.
After several twists and turns he discovered a maze of laser beams stretching horizontally across his path. Never thought in his wildest dreams he would be glad to see one of Murdoc's traps, but it meant he was on the right track. He stepped closer for a better look.
Lasers. Not terribly creative, but definitely hard to get through without tripping something if he wasn't careful. No mirror shards in his pocket this time to disable them, either, like when he rescued those scientists in the underground bunker. But with the right kind of powdery substance...
Then he noticed a door labeled "Mixing." Perfect. Maybe some flour or baking powder had been left behind.
He snatched up a moth-eaten bag from the floor, white powder spilling all over his pants and jacket. Oh well. A little flour never hurt anybody, right?
Back to the lasers. He approached the beams and, very slowly and very carefully, began throwing handfuls of flour into the air, stepping above or below as needed. Finally there were only three more to go- he was almost through.
As he grabbed another handful of flour there was a tickling sensation in his nose. He tried to hold it in until he got past the lasers, but it was no use. He sneezed, dropping the bag of flour in the process.
It hit the floor, setting off two of the remaining lasers. Nothing happened at first, and MacGyver thought hopefully that maybe Murdoc was just trying to scare him on that one.
Suddenly there was a flash of silver; he hit the floor as an enormous dough cutter swung out from the wall, narrowly missing his head.
He would have lost his scalp if he had been standing up, he realized. Literally. Murdoc's typically sick sense of humor, industrial strength.
Mac took a deep breath. His heart was racing a million miles a minute, but there was no time to think about himself. An innocent girl, his girl, might die if he didn't find her soon.
He kept walking, blindly guessing which way to go, relying only on gut instinct.
After turning more random corners, he encountered a second obstacle.
An automatic transfer pump. But instead of conveying batter, filling or icing between receptacles, the machine instead siphoned up what looked like battery acid from a container and hurled it around with the force of a catapult, judging by the smoking stains surrounding him.
MacGyver looked up at the blinking red light of the security camera; beside it was a sensor with wires trailing from it down to the pump. So Murdoc was controlling it remotely, viewing his progress through the camera.
Shivers ran down his spine. Being watched by the assassin gave him the creeps, knowing how scared he really was.
He had never hated the man before so much in his life. What right did the assassin have, to use his niece as a pawn in one of his twisted, sadistic games?
"Hope you're getting an eyeful, Murdoc," he snapped. "Just you wait 'til I find you and put you away for good. No one harms my princess and gets away with it!"
Venting over, Mac turned his mind back to the problem at hand. He reckoned there were three solutions, maybe four. One, find something to neutralize the chemical, render it harmless. Two, get past the spraying acid to the wires and cut them, stopping the machine. Three, bind up the lever that controlled the transfer. Four, disable the sensor.
Time to consider his options.
He could retrace his steps to where he found the flour, for baking soda would neutralize the acid. But that would take too much time, and he honestly could not recall every twist and turn he had made so far. So the first idea was out.
Unfortunately the wires from the sensor were on the other side of the machine, far away from his reach. Based on how far and fast the acid was being thrown he would have a heck of a time dodging the spray long enough to get past and cut the wires without getting covered in the toxic stuff. Number two was, therefore, also out.
The remaining two options, Mac realized, might be more effective together. But he needed a way to bind the lever, as well as something to throw at the sensor. Frowning in thought he absently stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket, eyebrows raising when he found two items in particular.
Of course. The baseball to disable the sensor, the hair scrunchy to bind afterwards? Might as well give it a shot.
He shifted his fingers around the ball, just like Harry taught him long ago. Carefully aiming it while keeping an eye on the machine's movements; he had to time it so the sensor was disabled before the pump's lever tripped and discharged the acid.
When it was time Mac threw the baseball, knocking the sensor out of commission, then quickly wrapped the scrunchy around the lever, hooking a loop around a nearby stationary handle. There was just enough time while the machine was struggling to complete its cycle for him to hurry past.
He was well out of range before the scrunchy's elastic finally snapped apart; the resulting force of its throw was violent enough to overbalance the machine, causing it to topple over with a loud crash.
The floor smoked and sizzled as the acid splattered and oozed across the hallway. Right where he'd been standing, not more than a few minutes ago.
Mac shook his head as he resumed his search, smiling ruefully.
Guess he'll have to buy Becky a new hair scrunchy sometime soon, unless she decided to have a shorter haircut for the summer.
"How long has MacGyver been inside, Pete?"
"About five minutes since you last asked me that, Jack. Which means half an hour ago." Pete looked at his watch, then picked up the jeep's phone. "I'm calling for police backup."
"Better call the fire department too, knowing Murdoc's preference for explosives," Jack added, glancing at his own watch. "I sure hope Mac finds Becky soon. He doesn't have much time left, and it's a pretty big place."
"That's what I'm afraid of."
Finally MacGyver encountered the third obstacle.
A set of bars, almost like a prison door, running vertically the length of the hallway.
As he walked closer he noted a keypad set into the wall to his left; obviously there was some kind of code to be entered before the bars would lift.
A second set of bars suddenly shot down from slots in the ceiling behind him, not more than two feet away. Sandwiching him between them, with just enough space to reach the keypad.
He was trapped, with no way to escape unless he started entering numbers. But which ones?
Mac shook his head, impressed despite himself at the assassin's thoroughness. Murdoc really had him here. But he had to get through, there was no other choice; heaven only knew what might happen- to Becky or to himself- if he failed.
He racked his brain for appropriate number codes, knowing the assassin's tendency for drama and symbolism in his traps. The display was set for six digits, entered two at a time; for some reason their spacing made him think of calendar dates. Month, day, year.
Well, why not start with the obvious?
He tried his own birthday first, just for the simple fact that it was something to do with him: 01-23-51. A buzzing sound came from the intercom.
"Strike one, MacGyver," Murdoc said gleefully. "You have two more chances, or the next bullet might not miss her forehead."
Mac winced, hearing Becky cry out at the sharp crack of the gun.
"Miss Grahme, if you insist on screaming, please wait until I turn off the speaker. You'll only make him more nervous than he already is. And nervousness causes people to make errors," Murdoc sneered.
Becky glared at him. "Uncle Mac won't mess up! He'll get here! He'll rescue me, then put you away where you won't be able to hurt anyone ever again!"
"Your eternal optimism is touching, my dear, but I seriously doubt that. And don't contradict me again. This is the one time your hero will not come out on top. I guarantee it."
MacGyver entered the second set of numbers he could think of- the date that he first ran into Murdoc and met Pete- hoping this would be the code that lifted the bars: 03-02-80.
Another buzz. "Strike two. You don't listen very well, do you? You have one last chance, or I kill her."
"No you won't," Becky insisted. "I'm worth too much to you."
"Oh, you aren't worth anything to me. The only thing I'm after is to see MacGyver suffer. And believe me, he will suffer, with you dead or alive." With those words, he cocked the gun and left the room.
She wished she could wake up and know it was all just a terrible nightmare.
Yet all she could do was pray to any available deity that her uncle would as always do the impossible and succeed.
Becky didn't want to die, but not for a selfish reason. Her uncle would truly be all alone in the world then, and she couldn't do that to him. She loved him far too much to ever hurt him that way.
Even shackled as she was- as weak and harmless as he was making her feel at that moment- Becky vowed that no matter what else the assassin did to her, she would survive.
And wondered what could be done to put Murdoc away for a very long time.
Please, Uncle Mac. Please come and get me. Let's be rid of him once and for all.
