Chapter 19

Mac froze for a fraction of a second, but forced himself to continue eating normally. If he was honest with himself, he was having trouble reconciling this nice, average, suburban home and family as being related to a notorious crime boss, overseeing the smuggling of hundreds of weapons to rebel armies in the Philippines. Maybe he had made a mistake.

"I'm looking for Robert Foster Green," he said carefully, taking another bite of salad.

"That's my older brother," said Mr. Green in a tone that proved impossible to read. "What do you want with him?"

"I just want to ask him a few questions," Mac said vaguely.

"You a cop?" asked Mr. Green suspiciously.

"Dad! A blind cop?" Alex put in.

"Not exactly," MacGyver answered, thinking that police work would probably be easier than what he did.

"Because if you're a cop, I'd help you," Mr. Green went on. "My brother's been into shady dealings way too long."

I bet you don't know the half of it, thought MacGyver. Still, he warned himself, the man could be helping his brother set a trap. He couldn't afford to let his guard down.

"Do you know where I can find him?" Mac asked, but any answer Mr. Green might have given was cut off by the ringing of the telephone.

"Honestly," grumbled Mrs. Green under her breath. "Why do they always have to call at dinner time?" She rose to answer the phone, which hung on the wall between the dining room and kitchen.

"Mr. MacGyver?" she said, once she had greeted the caller and listened for a few moments, "it's for you."

"Thanks," Mac said, rising, wiping his mouth and setting the napkin on the table next to his plate. He reached for the phone and she placed the receiver in his hand.

"Hello?" Mac said into it, edging his way into the kitchen.

"Mac! You made it!" Pete sounded rushed.

"What's up?" Mac asked.

"I needed to let you know we think the shipment of weapons is still in port but due to be loaded soon, possibly even tonight." Pete paused, as though looking through notes.

"Here?" Mac asked. "I mean they think… from Portland?"

"That's the theory," Pete stated. "We can't prove it until we find the guns. Mac, you're the only one up there. We have to find those guns before they're loaded on a ship and sent off to the Philippines!"

"I'll do what I can," Mac said in a no-promises tone. Hanging up the phone, he turned back to the family at the table, who had fallen silent while he was on the phone.

"What is it, Mac?" Alex asked as Mac slid back into his chair.

"Were you serious about offering to help me find your brother?" he asked, facing Mr. Green.

"Well, yes, I suppose so," Mr. Green answered after a pause in which Mac suspected that silent eye-contact communication was happening across the table.

"I'll help," Alex added, a bit too eagerly, and another silence crackled across the table.

Mac decided to take a risk. "I'm looking for a shipment of illegal weapons we think your brother is smuggling out of the country. Tonight," he added. He heard a small gasp from Mrs. Green.

"How are you going to find them? The dockyards are huge." Alex asked.

Mac stood. "I have an idea," he said, holding up a hand. "Do you have any machine oil, and maybe some leftover bacon?"

"I have some hot dogs," Mrs. Green replied.

"That will work," Mac told her. "Alex, can you show me where the back yard is? The girls can help with this too."

Excited chatter erupted from the twins who unselfconsciously grabbed Mac's hands and led him toward the sliding door to the back yard. There was a concrete step down and then grass. Pick bounded up to Mac and nose his hand affectionately, sniffing at the package of hot dogs he held.

"Not yet, Buddy," Mac told him. Alex's black lab, Hercules also came to see what was going on.

Mr. Green came through the door from the garage, carrying a small metal can of machine oil. Mac thanked him, taking a sniff of the can.

"Should work," Mac said. "Ok, here's what we're going to do: we're going to turn Puck and Hercules into weapon-sniffing dogs."

"I'm not sure the guide dog school will like this much," muttered Alex under his breath, but Mac ignored him.

"One at a time, you kids will take the can of machine oil, which is similar in smell to gun oil, and hide it somewhere in the yard. Then, we'll teach the dogs to find it, using these as a reward," Mac instructed, holding up the hot dogs.

He took the can of machine oil and held it out to both dogs to sniff, giving them a small piece of hot dog once they had sniffed it. Then, he handed the can to one of the twins and called the dogs back to distract them from following her.

"Okay!" she called, running back across the grass.

Mac and Alex leashed the dogs and began walking with them around the yard. They didn't use the guide harnesses since the dogs were trained not to sniff at things while harnessed for guiding.

"Tell us when they find it," Mac called to Abbie. "They just did!" she announced, squealing with delight, and Mac fed them another morsel of hot dog as a reward.

"Okay, your turn," Mac said to Alicia, and she grabbed the can and ran back across the yard, giggling.

Taking turns, the twins hid the can of oil over and over, and soon the dogs were leading Mac and Alex straight to it.

"We need to try it a few times where they can't see the girls hide it," Alex commented, and Mac agreed. They stepped into the garage with the dogs and waited until the girls had hidden the can, then began working the dogs around the yard. They both found the can quickly and enjoyed the bit of treat that Mac gave them.

"I think we're ready," Mac said, and the twins cheered and hugged the dogs.

"Which port do you think he's most likely to use?" Mac asked Mr. Green.

"Well, let's see," said Mr. Green thoughtfully. "Marine Terminal 6 is the only big, deep-draft port where they do container shipping. My guess is that it'll be there."

"How far is that from here?" Mac asked.

"Probably about half an hour, depending on traffic," replied Mr. Green. "I'll get the car."

Mac stepped back inside briefly to call Pete and have him notify the dockside security of their plans, as well as the local FBI. Then, he joined Alex and Mr. Green with the dogs in their family station wagon.

The drive was a quiet one, since neither Mr. Green nor Alex seemed inclined to talk. Leaning his chin on his hand, Mac gazed out the window at the garden of blurred city lights that passed by their car in the twilight evening. They arrived at the pier, and Mac unharnessed Puck, just keeping him leashed. Alex did the same with Hercules, and they began walking up and down the rows of shipping containers with the dogs. The security team, alerted by Pete, stood ready to help.

Soon, the dogs began to show intense interest in a particular container, and the dockside security detail moved in to open and search it.

"No luck," the captain said to Mac once they had finished the search. "A shipment of sewing machines headed for New Zealand. Legal ones," he added wryly.

"We'll keep trying," Mac said firmly.

The air grew chilly around them, and the garish lights flooding the dock yard glared through the scars on Mac's tired eyes. He wearily followed Puck up and down through the aisles created by neatly organized metal boxes. Puck seemed eager to continue his new job and with the businesslike air that only a German Shepherd can convey led Mac back and forth, sniffing busily. They were alone at the moment, since the group of people had gathered in another aisle.

Puck stopped and began sniffing eagerly at a container that Mac could see was a dingy blue.

As he walked along its edge, sniffing eagerly, a gunshot rang out, and a bullet pinged into the metal just to Mac's left. Startled, he crouched, unconsciously shielding Puck with his body. Another bullet hit just over his head.

"C'mon, Buddy, we need to get outta here," he said in a low voice to Puck, shaking the leash. Puck, although sensing his alarm, and confused by it, was reluctant to leave his newly discovered treasure.

Mac started to run anyway, pulling the dog with him, and soon Puck gave up on his gun-sniffing job to resume guide-dog duty. He loped out next to Mac, keeping his leash taut and gently pulling Mac through the maze of metal that towered around them. A bullet whizzed past them, but the distance between the sound of the gunshot and the bullet had widened.

Mac strained to listen for the voices of the others. His first thought was keeping them safe, especially Alex and his father.

He ducked down next to an end of a row, shielding himself from the gunshots. It didn't appear that the shooter had followed him, but had stayed to guard the blue container. He also realized that in his haste to escape being shot, he hadn't paid enough attention to the twists and turns, and he wasn't sure where it was.

Angrily, he balled his fists, setting them against his forehead, concentrating on replaying the scene.

The shots had come from high up. Someone was on top of the next row of containers. He imagined Frank or someone camped up there in a lawn chair, ready to scare away anyone who showed too much interest in the blue container.

He replayed in his mind the route he and Puck had taken when fleeing from the bullets. The third shot had come straight down the row, so they must have inadvertently doubled back into the shooter's view. If this was the case, he was just down the aisle from the shooter.

The end of the shipping container that he leaned against was loose, and he gently reached up to undo the latch all the way. The end doors swung open and he reached inside to find out what it contained.

His roughened fingertips snagged on bolts of smooth fabric, and he recognized the texture of silk. This gave him an idea.

He pulled out one of the bolts of fabric and began wrapping the smooth, soft material around Puck's body. He wound folds of it across the dog's chest and around his neck and ended with a flamboyant bow on the back of Puck's neck. Puck patiently stood for his fitting. When he was done with the dog, he wrapped his own torso similarly in layers of silk.

"I read somewhere," Mac explained to the dog, "that layers of silk stop bullets. So I'm making you a bullet-proof vest. I need you to be a distraction for me, okay?"

In answer, the silk-swaddled dog gave his face a swipe with his long tongue.

"Go find the guns," Mac whispered, unhooking Puck's leash and giving him a little shove. Puck circled back to Mac, whining softly.

Mac took one of the hotdog pieces out of his jacket pocket and showed it to the dog.

"Go find it!" he said encouragingly, and the dog obediently trotted off down the row of containers.

Sure hope this works, Mac thought, his conscience pricking him at the feeling of sending the dog into danger. It made him even more determined to do his part quickly.

As soon as the dog left, Mac ducked across the aisle, past the next row and began feeling his way along the row of containers toward the back side of the shooter. His hands scanned each surface as he passed box after box, and at last they found what they sought: a metal ladder. As quietly and quickly as he could, he scrambled up to the top of the row of boxes.

Staying low, he made his way along the top, his senses trained on what his fingers and feet were telling him about edges and seams.

He knew he must be close, and he crouched in the shadows, waiting. A man's voice muttered "what the…?" so near him, Mac jumped slightly with surprise. Before the man had a chance to shoot at Puck, Mac tackled him, throwing all his weight into the momentum designed to knock the man sideways. Because he had the element of surprise on his side, Mac initially had the advantage.

The lawn chair of his imagination didn't materialize; instead the man had been kneeling on the cold metal. Mac's right hand touched the pistol, and as quickly as thinking, he twisted it out of the man's hands and tossed it as far as he could off the top of the container.

"You!?" the man said incredulously, and Mac smiled grimly. His guess about Frank had been right.

"Hello, Frank," he said with satisfaction as he gave the man a right hook that sent him sprawling.

Frank was shorter than Mac but he recovered surprisingly quickly. He twisted out from under Mac's grip and returned his own punch into Mac's jaw, hard enough that Mac saw stars for a moment.

Frank scrambled back out of reach, and Mac felt a moment of panic. Without a touch connection with his enemy, he was at a significant disadvantage.

However, in his haste to get away from Mac, Frank failed to watch where he was going and he backed to the edge of the top of the shipping container. His foot caught on a seam and he toppled with a shriek over the side and onto the concrete below. It wasn't a huge fall, maybe eight feet, but Mac didn't hear him get up again.

Mac traced the top of the container back to the other side and dropped over the edge, dangling for a brief, heart-stopping moment in space before he dropped to the concrete floor himself.

Puck approached him with a joyous whine and wriggle, and he briefly fondled the dog's head. Taking the leash out of his pocket, he snapped it back onto Puck's collar. When he did, Puck took it as his cue to show Mac the blue container again. Mac laughed and gave him the piece of hot dog Puck had earned.

"Good boy," Mac said.