Here's the next chapter. I hope you all enjoy it and please tell me what you think. Thank you to everyone who has been leaving reviews, I really appreciate the feedback and it's super encouraging to read your opinions on the chapters and my writing :) Keep it up please! Also, a side-note: I am, by no means, an expert when it comes to stab wounds (or any sort of wounds for that matter) and so please forgive me if this chapter is a bit unrealistic when it comes to Mac's wound and how he treats it. My knowledge in this area does not reach beyond grade 11 biology and google, so it might not be accurate. :( Hope you enjoy regardless!

Chapter 7

Mac was feeling woozy.

Blood now covered the whole front of his shirt. And although it looked a lot worse than it probably was, he knew he had to stop the bleeding soon. Gabel had done enough damage with the knife that would result in the wound getting infected or worse if he didn't get medical help soon.

They had made it down to the lower levels now, and Mac was being escorted via van by two of Gabel's men to a dingy motel on the far side of town where Mac had claimed he was currently staying. Avery was still safe; tucked inside the air conditioning shaft until Jack came and got her. As for Jack and the Phoenix team, Mac had been able to convince Gabel that they were all his men; operating under his orders. Jack had very hesitantly obeyed Mac when Mac had ordered him to stand down. Gabel's men had also complied very unwillingly when orders were given to allow Mac's men leave the building in peace.

Jack had given Mac a horrified glance of concern when he had seen the blood on his partner's shirt, but he hadn't given away Mac's bluff. Mac was grateful for it, but right now he was almost wishing Jack had simply opened fire on Gabel. He was feeling sicker and sicker by the second, and at this point, he was wishing he was in a hospital and Gabel was dead. Of course, both he and Jack knew that if they killed Gabel they'd have to face the CIA and that was one thing they best kept off their list of dumb things to do.

Mac closed his eyes and took a breath. He was beginning to feel cold and clammy and he was near exhaustion. He should've been in bed hours ago and he knew the chances of sleep were now very slim. It would have been nice to get a good night's sleep before the operation, but obviously, that option had just been thrown out the window.

He pulled his hand away from the wound in his shoulder, wincing as the short release of pressure caused the wound to sizzle in pain. His hand was already covered in a thin coat of sticky, warm blood.

"We're going to have to stop at a hospital or clinic so I can get this treated," Mac announced, eyeing the blood with a tight grimace on his face.

The driver, a tall lanky man with a mop of blond hair and still visible acne scars, snorted. "Our orders were to bring you straight to your motel room. No stops," He sneered.

Mac didn't reply, instead, he ground his jaw in frustration. He couldn't be expecting treatment to be much better from Gabel. The man was probably hoping that he'd bleed out before they made it to their destination.

Mac ran his tongue over his dry lips, suddenly wishing he had picked a motel that was closer to the Phoenix Foundation. The drive alone would be another 15 minutes and they'd already been driving for 20.

The time went agonizingly slow. Mac attempted to keep pressure on the wound, but he couldn't help but nod off a few times before the vehicle came to a stop in front of the motel. He was angry with himself for being so tired; he had to alert and ready in situations like these. He couldn't risk being caught off guard. On the other hand, it was difficult to not be caught off guard when he had been bleeding from a stab wound for over 35 minutes.

"You're going to have to book the room. I can't go in looking like this," Mac mumbled to Gabel's men.

This time, the man in the back, a short plump guy who was probably in his late 40s, replied. "I thought you said you had a room here," He barked angrily.

Mac let out a long sigh, leaning his head against the headrest. "I like to switch up my locations from time to time. Plus, this wouldn't be such a hassle if your boss didn't shove a knife in my shoulder."

"You better watch your mouth hot-shot. It's that kind of tone that got that knife shoved in you in the first place," the blond snapped, jabbing an accusing finger at Mac.

"Just go book a room, Ethan," the older man snarled.

Ethan grumbled something under his breath before slipping out of the vehicle and heading towards the lobby entrance. The older man kept his eyes trained on Mac, fingering his gun ominously. Mac tried to ignore him and keep his focus on his wound. He slouched awkwardly in the passenger's seat, and he hardly felt like he had the motivation to sit up. He would sleep here if he had a choice.

A few minutes passed before Mac saw Ethan making his way back towards the vehicle, swinging a set of keys from his fingers. The older man grunted, ordering Mac to get out of the vehicle and Mac did so sluggishly. He followed Ethan, hand across his chest and clutching his shoulder while blinking periodically to ward off the exhaustion that was clouding his mind.

Ethan shoved the key into the lock, jiggling it slightly before pushing the door open and flicking on the lights. The room itself was pathetic; stained pink curtains that clashed with the green wallpaper plastered on the walls and a small dingy bed lined with rumpled sheets and a thin comforter. However, there was a reason Mac had picked this motel; it wasn't near any busy areas of the city and so they'd attract little attention if something happened. There was also a small kitchenette built in the room that he grimly realized he was going to need.

The three men shuffled into the room, Gabel's men stood by the door while Mac made his way into the bathroom, stripping the shower of the plastic curtain and dragging it slowly into the kitchen. He laid it out on the floor as neatly as he could.

"What the hell you doing?" The older man demanded.

"Well, I've got to do something about this wound, and I'd rather not get blood on the floor. Somehow I don't think the motel maids would take to a bloodstained floor too well," Mac responded sarcastically.

The older man snorted but didn't say more. Instead, he bent over the nightstand and unplugged the phone, then cut the wires so that Mac wouldn't be able to use it to contact anyone.

"I can't stand this much blood," he murmured. He tossed the broken phone on the bed, then dragged Ethan outside.

"Don't do anything stupid," Ethan ordered before the older man slammed the door.

Mac was secretly grateful the men had gone outside. He didn't want an audience for what he was about to do. Mac pulled a knife from the cutlery drawer and placed it on the stove element, turning the element on as hot as it would go. Then he grabbed a dish towel and wrapped it around the handle of the knife while leaving another dishtowel on the counter. Slowly and painfully he stripped off his shirt and threw it on the floor, then he dragged a chair from the table and placed it near the stove.

Mac examined the wound thoroughly, cringing at what he saw. Gabel had done a lot more damage than Mac had originally thought. The wound was much deeper and wider than what should have been expected from a small swiss army knife. However, Gabel was a born killer; he knew how to inflict pain and cause injury using the smallest of tools.

Mac leaned over the sink awkwardly, positioning his shoulder so that it would be under the run of water once he turned the tap on. Slowly, he turned the knob, and a stream of warm water poured on the wound. Pain lanced through his body and Mac felt his knees buckle. He stumbled to his left but managed to grab hold of the cupboard handle with a bloody right hand. He closed his eyes, then took a deep breath to calm himself.

Bloody water gurgled down the drain and Mac glanced back at his wound; it was fairly clean. Taking another deep breath, Mac ducked his shoulder back under the water, jerking away when he was sure the wound was washed well. Clumsily, he knocked the tap shut and rounded the chair, plopping down tiredly. Sweat was already dripping down his face and neck. He could taste the saltiness in his mouth when he licked his chapped lips. Mac was hardly sure he had it in him to do what he had to do next. But he had to stop the bleeding and he knew a hospital or any sort of medical supplies were out the question. The wound was too large to leave open and he didn't have anything to use as stitches.

He only had one option left: he had to cauterize the wound.

Mac gingerly picked the knife up from the stove. He could feel the heat radiating through the towel that was wrapped around the handle and he was already having a hard time controlling his breathing just thinking about what he had to do next. He stuffed the extra dishtowel in his mouth and bit down, then began to mentally count down from 5. Once he hit 1, Mac took another large breath, then pressed the hot knife on the wound. He forced himself to count to 2; he had to cauterize the wound in small intervals or else he would risk damaging the tissue further. As soon as he reached 2, Mac pulled the knife away and doubled over, taking in muffled gasps of air through the dish towel. He clenched his jaw and groaned, knowing he'd have to repeat the process 5 or 6 times before the wound would stop bleeding entirely.

By the third time, Mac had tears running down his face and his hair was soaked in sweat. By the fourth time, he was barely able to hold the knife to his flesh for more than a second before he pulled away, nearly screaming. By the sixth time, his hands were shaking so violently he doubted he would have been able to repeat the process again if he had to. Thankfully, the wound was no longer bleeding. The skin surrounding it was dark and shriveled; smelling of burnt flesh and blood. But Mac was satisfied.

Mac slumped back into the chair, cradling his injured arm against his body. A quick glance at the clock showed him it was already 2:00 in the morning. He wondered how long he'd have to stay at the motel before Gabel contacted him. Would it be a day? A week? Or would he call right after he was convinced that the room full of evidence had been successfully destroyed?

Mac almost wanted to laugh. He'd been surprised that that bluff had worked; Gabel had to know that all the evidence the secret services had on him hadn't been stuffed into one single room. But then, maybe he did. Gabel was a madman, hellbent on killing a girl whom he blamed for the casualties he'd suffered. A girl whom he'd employed. A girl who was the daughter of an esteemed CIA agent. Gabel had to be out of his right mind.

Suddenly Mac wondered how Phoenix was going to convince Gabel that the evidence had been destroyed. He'd given orders to Jack, as part of the bluff, that the whole room had to be demolished; but he hadn't actually specified how. He just hoped that they'd stage something big enough to satisfy Gabel and convince him to keep up his end of his deal; letting Avery's father go.

Slowly, Mac pushed himself off the chair and began to clean up. It was a slow, agonizing process and he nearly passed out from exhaustion several times before he was convinced that he'd scrubbed all the bloodstains off the counters and the chair. Then he dragged the shower curtain back to the bathroom and hung it up- another tiring task. Since he only had one good arm to use, the process took far too long. By the time he had finished it was already 3 in the morning. Finally, he washed up as best he could without aggravating his wound and stripped down to his underwear and hopped in bed.

As much as he didn't feel comfortable sleeping while two of Gabel's men were keeping watch, Mac knew he needed the sleep more than anything. The last thing he needed was to be drowsy when Gabel decided to show up. He'd just have to hope that the men outside didn't get any bright ideas while he was sleeping. On the other hand, Mac was a light sleeper, and he figured he'd have enough time to react if the men did decide to do something.

Mac closed his eyes, allowing the exhaustion to finally take over. He didn't know how long he had been sleeping before there was pounding at the door. He bolted upright in his bed, all too quickly for his injured shoulder that screamed in protest. As quickly as he could, he threw on a pair of pants, then ran to answer the rattling door. Where were Ethan and his partner? They hadn't left, had they?

Mac opened the door and was met with the barrel of a gun pointed straight at his chest. He threw his hands up in surrender as Gabel waltzed into the room, pushing a man whose wrists were bound in front of him with zip ties. Gabel pulled the gun away from Mac's chest and pointed it at the hostage's head, then clicked the safety off. The man slowly looked up. His face was bloodied and bruised, but it looked a lot worse than it really was. Most of the blood had come from a small gash on the man's forehead and a split lip. As for the bruises, they were small and hardly swollen; signs that he hadn't been beaten too severely. However, Gabel was now pointing a gun at his head. The man locked eyes with Mac and a look of total fear crossed the man's face.

But the hostage wasn't just any man; it was Avery's father.