Mac's voice-over:
If there's anything that I hate more than feeling vulnerable, it's admitting that I'm vulnerable. And nothing makes you feel more vulnerable than being laid out flat in a hospital unable to remember how you got there.

This wasn't the first time I've woken up in a hospital. There's always a moment of confusion, and of panic, when I open my eyes and find myself in a strange place, surrounded by strange people. It only took a few seconds for me to realize where I was and that I was safe. Unfortunately, the adrenaline that coursed through me counteracted whatever painkillers I'd been given. Let's just say it was the least amount of fun I've had since ... well ... since ever.

There were many more flashes of awareness, some probably no more than dreams of waking. I remember voices mostly; urgent, soothing, plaintive. They kept bringing me back from the distant place I was hiding in, hiding from pain and memory. I clung to those voices, using them to navigate my way through a red-black sea of darkness.

Weapon of Opportunity
Part Eight: Never Say Die

I lived. There were moments when I wasn't sure I wanted to – that I deserved to – but there was never a time, after I first opened my eyes and knew I wasn't dead, that I doubted that I'd recover. As much as I hurt, there were some discomforts that were worse than what I was feeling beneath my bandages. Mahey was gone. I was going to be out of it for a long time, but he was out of it forever. It didn't seem fair... that I should live when he did not. Shouldn't there be enough luck in the world to go around?

On top of my injuries and my guilt, there was an almost unendurable lack of information. My doctor was adamant that I was not to be 'burdened' with any stressful news. When I was able, I told him that I was more stressed by not knowing, but he was hard about it. "Absolutely not!" was his last word on the matter. If I wanted any visitors at all, I had to let go of my curiosity.

It was hard to bear at first, but I came to understand it and soon, to appreciate it. I hadn't been this badly hurt for a long time. The blast of the explosion had broken a handful of ribs and poked a hole in one of my lungs. The doctor had dug a chunk of metal about four inches long out of the meaty part of my thigh, too. Believe me, I had plenty of time to lay back and think about being crippled for the rest of my life. It was sobering enough to convince me to try to be a good boy and give in to the doctor's orders.

Memories of the explosion were coming back to haunt me. I had really hoped that somehow Mahey had survived, but I could see it in Pete's face the first day that he was allowed to visit me. He couldn't talk about it ... but he didn't have to. He told me not to blame myself, but I couldn't help thinking that, if Mahey had been following police protocol, he never would've followed me to that office and he wouldn't have been killed by a bomb that had been meant for me. My head said that it wasn't my fault, but my heart wasn't listening.

The burden of Mahey's death and the pain of healing was all the stress I could endure – and it was almost too much. I stopped fighting with the people who were trying to help me and learned to rest.

It was hard ... harder than anything I'd been through before, but I was getting steadily better. My leg was responding well to physical therapy; in fact, I was on very good terms with the head therapist. Laurel was a friendly woman, in her late fifties but with a youthful outlook. She reminded me of my grandmother – a firm hand and a caring heart. She bullied and cajoled me through the most difficult days, and as my prognosis improved, my wounded spirit began to heal as well.

Two weeks later, I was looking forward to going home soon and the prospect of getting back to work. A part of my mind was still numb – still hungry to finish that deadly puzzle – but I had gotten good at ignoring it. Right now, I had to contend with long hours of boredom and being cooped up in one place all day with a security guard posted nearby. I was starting to feel more like a prisoner than a patient.

I'd been taught to make the best out of bad situations, so that's what I tried to do. I started to enjoy life again. That's a lot easier to do when you've got friends around.

Mac was sitting up in his bed playing cards and talking on the phone when Pete stepped into his hospital room. Seated next to the bed, cards fanned out in their hands, were Laurel Simpson, the hospital's head of Physical Therapy, and David Johannes, one of the Phoenix Foundation's security personnel. David stood up nervously when the Director of Field Operations walked in, but Mac waved at him to sit back down.

"Uh-uh, Davy," Mac said, pointing with his chin at the chair. "You aren't going anywhere until we finish this hand. Grab some vinyl, bud." Mac switched the phone to his other ear and gestured for Pete to come in. "Yeah, Jack, I'm here ... no, I'm fine ... I swear I'm fine ... you don't have to do that ... well, when you get back into town, then come and see me ... no, I don't need anything. Pete's taking good care of me ..." Mac looked up and winked at Pete. "Yeah, he's here now ... I will ... yeah. Bye." He leaned over to hang up the phone, wincing a little as he stretched his half-healed ribs.

Pete intercepted his movement, taking the handset and setting it in its cradle. "Dalton?"

"Yeah. He finally listened to his messages. He says he's been flying some cargo around the Keys, so he's been out of touch." Mac speculatively eyed the leather satchel that Pete had set on the floor. "Does this mean that I have to leave soon?"

Pete raised his eyebrows, surprised, "I thought that you'd welcome the news that the doctor was finally going to clear you to go home!"

"Well, yeah ... kinda," Mac pulled up his good leg and wrapped his arms around his knee. "I've gotten so comfortable around here in the last two weeks ... it's like being on vacation!"

"If that's the way you feel," Laurel laughed, "I've been taking it too easy on you."

"Easy!" MacGyver sputtered in protest, "Pete, don't listen to her – the woman is a sadist! On second thought, I'm begging you – get me out of here!"

"Only if the doctor gives you the green light." Pete picked up the bag and set it on the table beside Mac's bed. "As an act of sheer optimism, I brought you some traveling clothes. And ... this." Pete had been keeping one hand behind his back. Now he brought it around to show what he had been hiding.

"You're kidding," Mac said, taking the thing into his hands. "A cane? What am I ... an old man?"

"It was my idea," Laurel said, craning her neck around to look at Mac's cards while he was distracted. "That leg isn't ready to hold you up without some support."

Mac jerked his cards away from her eyes, shielding them against his chest. "Hey! No fair peeking!"

Pete chuckled. It was nice to see Mac in good spirits after such a long and difficult recovery. "We figured you'd prefer a cane to a wheelchair. I bought the nicest one I could find. I'll have you know that is genuine hand-polished imported blackthorn."

"I'm grateful, Pete, really, but I – I don't need it. I've been doing all right in my PT – I think I can hobble around well enough without."

Laurel sat back in mock disgust. "It's for my own good, MacGyver. Honestly, as much as we're going to miss you around here – you being such a generously bad poker player and all – I don't want to see you in my Physical Therapy lab again!"

Mac tilted his head toward Pete and mouthed the words, "She wants me." He laid down his cards then. "Full house."

David and Laurel both threw down their cards in frustration. Laurel stood up and put her hands on her hips. She gave Mac a withering look. "Yes, I want you, mister ... I want you to fix my treadmill the same way you did the stationary bike!" She looked at Pete and said, "Have you any idea what this man can do with a some surgical tape and a key from a sardine can?"

Pete smiled and nodded. "Yes. Yes, I do."

Laurel shook her finger in Mac's face. "You can come back for that ... but you'd better be using that cane, or I'll use it on you!" She reached out and tousled his hair before she walked out of the room.

"Yes, ma'am!" Mac looked appealingly toward David. "Hey. Can you protect me from her?"

David laughed. "That's my job. And I'd best get to it. It's time to begin my shift." He stood up. "Mr. Thornton, MacGyver, I'll be right outside if you need anything." He put on his cap and gave Pete a two-finger salute. He stopped at the door and turned back, pointing at the winnings pile. "Double or nothing? Tomorrow?"

"You're on, Dave," Mac answered with a wave. "... if I'm still here," he added with cautious hope.

Pete folded his arms and smiled. "Corrupting the staff and distracting the guards ... Mac, you're definitely getting back into your form!"

"Thanks, Pete," Mac grinned at him. He began to gather together the cards and his winnings, which consisted of foil-wrapped candies and miniature chocolate bars. "You want one? The dark chocolates are worth 50."

Pete accepted the sweet, but didn't eat it. "Thanks. By the way, have you heard from your grandfather?" He casually began gathering up the abandoned coffee cups and candy wrappers scattered around the room.

"I talked to Harry last night. He offered to come down for a while but I told him to wait for a few weeks." Pete cocked his head at Mac, who looked uncomfortable and began to fidget with his cane. "If he's going to come all this way for a visit, I want to be able to spend quality time with him." Pete leveled his stare at Mac until he added softly, "I don't want him to see me like this."

"He cares about you, Mac. We all do."

Mac nodded. It was time to change the subject. "So ... the doctor told you I might be released soon? He hasn't said as much to me yet." Mac pointed the cane in Pete's direction, squinting down the length of the polished black wood. "You know something and you're not telling." Mac had forced himself out of the habit of asking questions, but he hadn't lost his desire to know.

"Well, in addition to suggesting the possibility of allowing you to go home, the Doctor has finally given me permission to tell you more about what's been going on with our manhunt."

Mac tossed the cane aside and leaned back against the headboard. "The doctor said you could talk? So talk! You have my undivided attention!"

"I got a visit from Lt. Murphy," Pete said. "Do you remember her?"

"Yes ... Kate Murphy, the 'Tank Lady'," Mac said with a laugh.

"Right. She said to send you her best wishes for a speedy recovery, and to give you this as a get-well present." He opened the bag he had brought and pulled out a folder. "One of the security people out at the Alameda State Hospital contacted her. Apparently, someone answering Dennis Winder's description tried to get onto the secure ward on the same day you were injured."

The crease in Mac's forehead deepened as he frowned. "That's interesting. But why would they call Kate about that? I thought she was in charge of Vice and Narcotics."

"She is. But she asked the ward to notify her whenever there was any activity around Dr. Zito."

"What?"

"That's right. Winder was trying to get in to talk to him. The duty nurse refused to permit him to enter and called security. He got away, but they have his description and footage of him on the surveillance cameras."

"Remind me to send that duty nurse a present." Mac covered his face with his hands.

Dr. Zito. How I hoped never to hear that man's name again ...

Pete continued his tale, "One of the orderlies admitted that he allowed a man matching Winder's description to visit Dr. Zito about six months ago. At that time, he had falsified documents that identified him as a representative of Zito's legal counsel. I think it's reasonable to assume Zito has been using Winder the same way he manipulated Eric Cross. Only this time, his target was you instead of Murphy."

"Where that man is concerned, reason and logic go right out of the window." Mac exhaled despondently. "You know, it amazes me how a man who's incarcerated in a high security facility can still manage to do so much damage in the outside world! Can you imagine what could happen if he was at large?"

"I don't have to imagine ... I've seen his file," Pete answered grimly. "The day they manage to prove his competence, he'll be standing trial for murder."

"And has there been any sign of Winder since this?" Mac asked, leafing through the file. As his eyes flew over the text and the pictures—memorizing everything, comparing, analyzing—he felt as if a part of himself that had been asleep was waking up at last.

"Not hide nor hair. It's like he's fallen off of the face of the earth. If he's smart, he'll get lost and stay lost. He's won a place on the FBI's Most Wanted list, along with other nationwide law enforcement popularity contests." Pete spoke with unusual heat. Mac noticed then how tired his friend looked. There was no question that Pete had been working hard to find this man, and his frustration at failing to bring him to justice was starting to show through.

Mac clapped Pete on the back. "We've probably seen the last of him around here, Pete. Don't worry. Someone – somewhere – is going to catch up with him."

And I honestly hoped that it wouldn't be me or Pete that caught up with him first. So much death, so many innocent victims ... the thought of facing Dennis Winder filled my heart with anger and hate, and there's no blacker feeling than that. A part of me wanted to do something to make sure he never hurt anyone again.

There's a part of myself that I'm not proud of ... a corner of my heart that's hot and dark and wrathful. It contradicts everything I've learned and try to believe ... sometimes it makes me feel as if I'm just pretending to be a decent person.

In that isolated, tightly-restrained part of my brain ... I wanted revenge; cold and simple.

And that's just another kind of trap that can blow up in your face.

MacGyver was grateful for the support of the cane by the time he had limped from Pete's car to the door of his houseboat. Solicitous, but careful not to appear coddling, Pete let Mac unlock the front door and open it for himself.

Mac walked inside and looked around. It was good to be home again. Everything was right where he had left it, except the dirty dishes he hadn't gotten around to washing before he left more than two weeks ago. Someone – Pete being the most likely suspect – had tidied up while he'd been in the hospital. There was a basket of fresh fruit on the counter and none of the houseplants were dead.

Mac turned around and smiled at Pete. "Home, sweet home."

Pete had carried in Mac's travel bag; he set it down next to the stairs. "I took the liberty of having the Foundation's bomb squad come down and sweep the house. They checked out the entire area, in fact." Mac didn't respond, but Pete could tell he was a little uncomfortable at this news. "Mac, the police had their unit down here the day after the explosion. And I figured that our boys could use some practice."

Mac sighed. "Don't get me wrong, Pete; I'm grateful. I just don't want you to get into trouble for using Phoenix resources for personal reasons ..."

"Personal – hell!" Pete responded swiftly. "Winder is still at large! The police are going over every clue they have, and they're calling in markers from everyone, including the Phoenix Foundation. They want to find this guy before he ..."

"Finishes the job?" Mac eased himself down on the couch. Another, longer sigh escaped him. "There's nothing like the feeling you get when you know that your name is on some homicidal maniac's to-do list!" His head fell back against the cushions, and he rubbed his face as if he could wipe away his weariness. "I'm beat, Pete. I think I'll take a nap right here."

"Are you sure you're going to be okay all alone?" Pete couldn't stop himself from offering, "I could stay ..."

"No – I mean ... you don't have to do that. The police are probably still watching the place and if I know you, that guy who's 'walked' his German Shepherd past my house twice in the past five minutes has trained his dog to sniff out explosives." Pete ducked his head and smiled. "I thought so. Now, go on. I'll be just fine."

Pete paused at the doorway, "I'm just a phone call away ..."

"... if I need you. I know, Pete. Thanks."

Pete walked slowly to his car, feeling both relief and new anxiety. Relief, now that MacGyver was recovering and back home again ... and anxiety for the same reasons. Everything that could be done, had been done, and yet it didn't seem to be enough. Where was Winder? Would he come back to try to kill Mac again?

Pete climbed inside his car and pulled the door shut. He could see Mac's houseboat from where he sat. He put his keys into the ignition, but he didn't turn the engine over. He checked his cellular phone to make sure that the battery was fully charged. Then he merely sat there, watching.

If that was all he could do to help his friend, then that was what Pete would do. For as long as was necessary.