Chapter 3

AFGHANISTAN, KANDAHAR PROVINCE, 2011

"What do you mean they said no?" Ian asked, stunned.

MacInerney didn't meet his eyes, just stared at the floor, clearly as upset as Ian. "Two squads searched the bazaar and the surrounding streets, they didn't find anything. If Adam's still alive—and Command doesn't think he is—then he's either stashed in someone's basement or being held far outside the village and they don't have sufficient forces to go hunting door to door for one man."

Ian processed that. "Wait…they think he's dead, but even if he isn't, it doesn't matter because they don't have time to look for him?"

"Insurgents are all over the province. The division is spread too thin as it is," MacInerney explained half-heartedly. "If they get a ransom demand or some kind of evidence that they can act on, then maybe…but until then, he's officially MIA."

"You can't be serious."

"It's not my call, man. The Major's made her decision."

"This is insane!"

"Ian—"

"No! That's my friend they're writing off out there," Ian shouted, standing and gathering his gear.

MacInerney frowned. "What are you doing?"

"What the hell do you think? I'm going to go look for Adam."

Ian brushed past him, but MacInerney grabbed his arm. "No, you're not."

Jerking his arm free, Ian spun on him angrily. "Last I checked, he was your friend, too, or did I read that wrong, Sergeant?"

MacInerney bristled for a split second, but then shook his head. "You didn't let me finish. No, you're not…going alone."

Ian blinked. MacInerney smiled faintly, apparently enjoying winning one of their arguments for once. "Phillips is still in the hospital, but Doyle's patched up enough to drive, at least. He's going to meet us at the motor pool."

MAC MAC MAC

LOS ANGELES

PRESENT DAY

MacGyver leaned against the door to the guest bathroom with his arms folded, watching Riley unpack toiletries from her overnight bag. She had a lot of handheld mirrors. He wasn't sure how many was normal or abnormal for one person—he thought he had one, unless that was Bozer's…he couldn't remember—but it just seemed like per capita Riley had more than the usual amount of handheld mirrors available at any given time and she kept leaving one at his house and just bringing another—

"What are you overthinking back there, Mac?" Riley asked, smiling knowingly as she watched him in the wall mirror.

Her smile made him smile. He deflected. "Just thinking that you could save a lot of time packing and unpacking if you just moved back in with me."

She lifted an eyebrow. "I thought we were going slow?"

He shrugged. "You lived here for almost a year after you lost your place. Nothing we haven't done before."

"That was as a houseguest," she corrected. "The last time a girlfriend moved in here you had some…territorial issues."

"I have a lot of issues, I'm finding out about as I get older."

She gave him a teasing look, stepping over and running her arms under his. "Yeah, as you progress into your cranky thirties."

"Get off my lawn," Mac murmured, leaning in to kiss her. He pressed his forehead against hers. "Thanks for— Well, thanks."

Thanks for cheering me up? Thanks for being here? Thanks for staying? All of the above?

"We're almost there," she replied gently. "You won't have to talk to him much longer. One more day. I don't like you sitting in that room alone with him, anyway, especially unarmed."

Mac was somewhat surprised to hear Riley talk like that. Like him, she wasn't keen on using firearms unless she had to. Trying to lighten the moment, he smiled. "Who says I'm not armed?"

He reached into the cuffs of his shirt sleeves and pulled out a pair of paperclips.

Riley laughed. "Well, that does make me feel better."

"But, yeah, the sooner we get Ian back into an FBI cell, the happier we'll all be," he agreed, placing the paperclips back in their hiding places in the button holes.

"Can we not refer to him by his first name? It makes him…I don't know, it makes him sound like someone we met in college, or something, instead of the monster that he is."

"He wasn't always a monster," Mac replied quietly. At her look. "I know, I know, I've been reading his file too much."

Riley sighed. "Whatever he was, Mac, he's a violent criminal now. Don't let your own doubts convince you otherwise."

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right." He was getting too close to all of it. He read the records, and mentally he kept putting himself and Jack in that scenario. It was too easy to—

A thud and a clink from the back deck, near the fire pit, drew his attention. Mac turned and looked out the door toward the source. When he saw it, he spun and pushed Riley to the bathroom floor.

"Get down!"

He dropped on top of her to shield her from the stun grenade.

MAC MAC MAC

AFGHANISTAN, KANDAHAR PROVINCE, 2011

It took most of the day, but they managed to track down Javan, the interpreter that led them into the ambush. He was the only real lead they had. He was hiding in the back of a small store owned by his uncle. It only took some well-placed bribes and a little intimidation to get a few of his friends to give him up.

They tied his hands and brought him to an abandoned, burned out house they'd passed while on patrol a few days earlier. The fighting had razed much of the area around that road, so there weren't any other people for a few miles in any direction.

Unfortunately, Javan wasn't interested in helping them.

MacInerney joined Ian and Doyle outside the front door, sighing. "I don't know what else to do. Shouting, threatening, bribing…he's not talking. He knows where Adam was taken, I'm sure of it."

"What the hell are we going to do?" Doyle asked, cradling his injured arm.

Ian was pacing just a few feet away. The other two were watching him, and he wasn't sure why. He had no idea what to do. All he could think about was his best friend in the hands of those murderous animals. He stopped pacing. The answer came to him, completely unexpectedly.

He popped open the chin strap on his helmet and pulled it off, shaking the sweat out of his blond hair. Thrusting the helmet at Doyle, he drew his sidearm and walked over to the Humvee to grab his medical pack out of the back seat.

"Where are you going?" Doyle asked as he marched back to the house.

Ian met MacInerney's eyes briefly, then Doyle's. "Stay out here. No matter what."

His friends glanced at each other uncertainly, but didn't argue with him. Ian opened the door and entered the house. It was gloomy inside, the sunlight blocked by boards over the windows, but the late afternoon sun had still turned the inside into an oven.

Ian hated Afghanistan.

Javan was tied to an old chair in the center of one of the empty bedrooms. MacInerney had gagged him before exiting. Ian walked over and dropped his medical pack on the remains of a bedframe. He held his sidearm loosely at his side as he reached over and plucked the cloth out of the younger man's mouth. He struggled to keep his voice steady. "Hello, Javan. Do you remember me?"

The kid nodded slowly. "You're the doctor."

"That's right." Ian nodded, watching the kid. He didn't seem aggressive or resentful or hateful, just resigned. "Javan, my best friend was taken, and you know where he is—"

"I already told—!"

Ian clamped his free hand tightly over Javan's mouth to silence him. "I'm talking to you, Javan. Don't interrupt me again. My friend is out there, and I want him back. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Javan didn't move and didn't answer. Ian felt cold tendrils of…something, winding through his chest cavity. His breathing evened out. What he would have to do was becoming clear to him. He had no choice. Ian raised his other hand and pressed the muzzle of his weapon into Javan's forehead, just above the superciliary arch. "I asked you if you understood."

The kid's eyes widened, and he nodded cautiously.

Ian nodded back. He removed his hand from Javan's mouth, but kept the gun in place. "You know the people that attacked us, and you know where they are. I want you to tell me. Right now."

"I can't…."

The only images running through Ian's brain were Adam's face, and the videos he'd seen of other Americans taken, both there and in places like Iraq. Videos of people tied up, beaten, decapitated…. The images ran together, and they didn't mix well.

He didn't consciously move, but in an oddly detached manner, he watched the M9 turn sideways in his hand and belt Javan across the face. When the kid turned his head back, with a shocked expression, Ian leveled the firearm at him, just inches from his left eye socket. "Tell me where my friend was taken, and you can go home. I won't stop you. I don't care what you did or why. Just tell me where my friend is, so I can go get him."

Javan shook his head. "I can't tell you anything."

Ian stepped back and squeezed his eyes shut, clutching the M9 so tight that his hand hurt, tapping the barrel against his forehead as he began to pace in frustration. He didn't want to do this….

He saw Adam's face again, and remembered the day he first met him, nearly five years earlier. Ian hadn't had many friends in his life. Most people in school had resented his intelligence. He was the unpopular kid who was always ruining the curve for everyone else. He'd been small for his age, not sprouting until college, and only filling out his wiry frame after joining the Army.

Adam was the first person who'd accepted him, and befriended him, almost on sight. They'd been assigned adjacent bunks in the barracks, and had been the only ones so far from home that weekend liberty was spent on base. They'd been united in their dislike for their bullying drill instructor. They kept in touch almost daily in the service until finally landing in the same unit.

Now, Adam was most likely going to die because the insignificant little man sitting in front of him didn't want to cooperate. He was protecting the murderers who'd gunned down Anderson and Torres and the others, who didn't even care about this god-forsaken country or the poor bastards who lived here, they just wanted to kill American soldiers. He was protecting the men who were going to murder his best friend…if they hadn't already.

He opened his eyes, shifted his gaze back to Javan, then down to the kid's hand, pressed flat against the wooden armrest. He nodded, more to himself than Javan, and chewed his lower lip. That was where he would start. "Do you know how many bones there are in your hand, Javan?"

The kid just looked at him in confusion. Ian stepped closer, looking him in the eyes. "Twenty seven. Twenty seven fragile bones."

MAC MAC MAC

LOS ANGELES

PRESENT DAY

MacGyver rolled off Riley, coughing. Someone had tossed in a smoke grenade along with the stun grenade. The house was quickly filling with a thick gray haze. He closed the bathroom door to keep out most of it.

"Was that a flashbang?" Riley choked out, rising to her knees.

"Yeah," Mac replied, fumbling to get his phone out of his pocket. "I think there was something wrong with the fuse. They're supposed to go off on impact to prevent us from getting to cover."

"So, we were lucky, is what you're saying?"

He nodded. "Yeah, but I don't think that's going to hold." He frowned at his cell. "No signal. I think it's being jammed."

That revelation was punctuated by the distant sound of something bashing in the front door.

Riley looked at him grimly. "Ian at the Phoenix, and now someone raids your house? That's no coincidence, Mac."

"Agreed," Mac stood and rushed to the sink, grabbing two hand towels from the cabinet beneath and running cold water over them.

Smoke is a dispersion of solid particulates in air, so a good way to keep breathing is to use a wet towel as a particulates filter. Folded two or four times, it will help to retain the suspended solids, at least long enough to get to safety. Or repel a home invasion, depending on the circumstances.

He handed Riley one of the makeshift air filters, then tied one over his mouth and nose. "Come on, I'm going to get you to the escape hatch. Head to the Henderson's, they still have a landline—"

"Uh-uh, no way," Riley protested. "We're going together. I'm not leaving you—"

He grasped her by the shoulders. "Riles! I'll be right behind you, but you have to warn Matty. If this is about Ian, she has to lock down the Phoenix before they come for him."

"What are you going to do?"

Mac shrugged. "Slow them down."

MAC MAC MAC

Fortunately, the secret escape hatch he'd installed after Murdoc entered his life was close to the guest bathroom, and it only took a few seconds for Mac to guide Riley to it, even in the smoke filled air. She hesitated to leave, but he urged her to do so. Once she was through, he closed the hatch flush with the closet wall and moved out into the shadows of the hallway.

He caught a glimpse of one of the intruders, moving in from one of the side rooms. From the silhouette, Mac determined that he was wearing night vision goggles, obviously whoever they were, they were prepared to operate in the smoky darkness inside the house.

Quickly doing an inventory in his head, Mac glanced around the area, picking out possible items that could be of use. An idea formed, and he silently headed back toward the guest room, careful to stick to the shadows and avoid being backlit by any windows.

His home invaders were being cautious. From the sounds, they were still in the front area of the house, which likely meant they had the back door covered to prevent his most likely escape route. It didn't matter, since he wasn't headed for the exit. Mac entered the guest bedroom and moved to the east corner, where he and Riley had stored some long term projects. He gathered up some supplies, starting with a length of rope.

Yes, I keep coils of rope in my house. You never know when it'll come in handy. One of the most ancient weapons in existence is the sling. Ever since prehistoric times, it's a quick and easy way to hurl heavy objects at your enemies. All you need is a length of rope, a scrap of old leather or heavy fabric, and a selection of rocks—in this case, from a gardening project planned with your girlfriend months ago, that neither of you ever had time to actually start. Tie a stopper knot in one end and a bowline in the other, use the leather to form a cup, load a good sized stone…and you have one of the world's oldest means of self-defense.

Mac finished the makeshift sling with seconds to spare. He heard a creak in the floorboards of the hall, just outside the door. He retreated to the opposite corner, away from the windows and at an angle where he would see his attacker first. He spun up the sling, getting four good revolutions in before the intruder stepped through the doorway. He let fly with the rock as soon as he saw the man come into view.

The hurtling stone slammed into the man's face, shattering his night-vision goggles and sending him to the floor with a yelp. Mac advanced on him before he could recover, nailing him with a right hook that downed him for good.

Ideally, he would take time to tie the man up and secure him somewhere in the room, but he meant what he'd told Riley: he had no intention of facing off against all of them alone, he just needed to keep them busy in the house while she slipped out under the cover of darkness. He pocketed a few more stones and moved back into the hallway.

Mac froze when he heard someone bashing in the back door. His satisfaction at being right about their strategy warred with his concern over his future house repair bills.

Silently, he made his way toward the opposite end of the house. If he could take out one or two more, then he could make for the hatch and join Riley outside. As he approached the kitchen, he saw another man silhouetted against the front windows, moving toward the main hallway and the deck. He'd see Mac coming immediately, so a distraction was necessary.

Quickly calculating a few angles, Mac spun up his sling and aimed for the decorative beer bottles lining the shelf over the kitchen sink. He hoped his aim was good as the rock left the leather cup and rocketed across the room. It smashed into the shelf, shattering two of the bottles.

The armed man turned and ran toward the kitchen, looking for the source of the sound. Mac raced in from behind, sweeping the man's leg and driving him into the kitchen counter. He rearranged his sling to use as a choker, and moved to bring it around the man's neck, simultaneously cataloging the necessary ingredients in the cabinets that he could use for a flour bomb.

Mac sensed rather than heard another intruder behind him, but before he could react, a hand grabbed him by his shirt collar, and he felt a sharp prick in the side of his neck. The man he'd downed in the kitchen rose and grabbed Mac's arms, keeping him from resisting.

Whatever was in the needle acted fast, and the room began spinning. Moments later, everything went black.

TBC