Jack had very little memory of how he'd gotten here … Wherever the Hell here was.
He'd been waiting with Ri for Mac to get out of surgery, and Sully had done them a solid and come out and let them know what was taking so long.
Of course hearing your best friend was being kept in the OR because someone thought his tonsils looked bad enough that it could be cancer was not exactly what he'd have called good news. But at the 2 hour mark Jack had started being worried about hemorrhaging, anesthesia going bad, all kinds of stuff.
Riley had been reassuring, even in her own worry, but that hadn't stopped him from pacing the waiting room. He was damn near ready to jump out of his skin when his phone rang.
"Dalton, I need you at the office."
Goddamn Oversight anyway. He'd cussed him out some, but in the end he'd stomped out of the waiting room after assuring Riley he wouldn't be long. He wasn't going on any mission, at least not until Mac was out of surgery and Jack knew he was doing okay. It might just take some cussing in person was all.
He'd been standing next to his car in the parking garage, fishing his keys out of his pocket when the chilling voice Mac had been getting increasingly paranoid about spoke right in his ear. "Well, hello, Jack."
Jack managed to half spin and catch sight of the syringe before Murdoc sunk it into his neck.
The world spun wildly and he fell, even as he lost consciousness bracing for striking against the pavement. But he hadn't hit it. Murdoc had slid a wheelchair right under him.
He'd sensed moving after that for a few minutes, then everything went black.
He woke up in this grubby little room, on the dirty mattress of a small cot, with one foot chained to the bed frame, and a headache that made the worst of his college hangovers seem like a walk in the park.
There was little else in the room, but a flat of plastic bottles of water with "Drink Me" in a creepily perfect script, and a rusty bucket in the corner for equally obvious purposes, minus an Alice in Wonderland label. The chain let him get as far as the bucket, but nowhere near the heavy metal door with no handle on the inside.
He'd yelled for attention at first, but all it got him was a bigger headache and throbbing in the bruise on his neck. No Murdoc, no nothing.
So, he'd sipped on one of the bottled waters and stretched back out on the filthy cot, waiting for his headache to abate enough to think straight.
It slowly occurred to him that whether he remembered it or not, he'd exchanged blows with someone. His knuckles were bruised and bloodied and if he'd had a mirror he'd have bet good money he had a black eye, not to mention various other aches and pains that made themselves known as he lay there taking careful breaths so as not to have to acknowledge that he was also kind of nauseous. The more he thought about it, the more he realized 'kinda' was a Mac level understatement.
There was a small high window that let him know it was late afternoon, or at least he guessed it was. The window appeared as dirty as the rest of the room.
He concentrated intensely on pinning down sluggish memories and figuring out which were just nightmares.
Mac was okay. Sully had come back out and told them initial pathology was clean before he left to give Oversight a piece of his mind.
Which was awesome.
But he was absolutely sure it was Murdoc who had dropped him in the parking lot.
He was also pretty sure Murdoc had taken him to the warehouse he'd held Mac captive. Jack wasn't a hundred percent clear on that memory but he had a scab and a huge sore bruise on his arm he was pretty sure came from Murdoc tearing his flesh with a bent IV needle.
He drew some satisfaction from the vague memory that part of his current headache was from head butting Captain CooCoo for Cocoa Puffs and not just a drug hangover.
There was something else … he'd gotten loose and someone had … something … gassed him, maybe? But he couldn't extract it from confusing memories and dreams about work.
He got himself defiantly upright when he heard a key in the heavy lock outside his door. Then he decided sitting wasn't good enough. He tamped down the urge to be sick and got to his feet.
Two large men strode through the door first. Then, came Murdoc, confirming Jack's hazy memories. He was about to open his mouth and see if he could goad any of them close enough for another satisfying head but, but the parade of bad guys wasn't over.
Oversight's former partner, and one of Interpol's most wanted, entered the room, a smug smile plastered all over his broad, florid face.
Jack tensed, like a wildcat ready to spring onto its prey, but the two goons who entered first, kept themselves just enough in his way that he knew there was no point.
Instead he made himself smirk, "Well, howdy. I don't think you and I have had the pleasure of a formal introduction. You must be Jonah Walsh. That is if your Wanted photo does those chubby cheeks proper justice."
"And you're Jack Dalton. Mini Mac's guard dog."
"Nah. That's not who I am."
"Really, because my associate here says that's exactly who you are."
"Jack Wyatt Dalton," Murdoc smirked. "In full Neanderthal glory."
Jack was pleased to note an angry looking egg on Murdoc's forehead. He'd gotten him good. So that part hadn't been a dream.
"We'll, sure, that's my name. Any idiot could've checked my driver's license for that. And y'all took my wallet, so gettin' the name right don't impress me much. I meant I'm nobody's guard dog. Who I am is the guy who's gonna make you sorry you decided to meet me in person, insteada just loanin' me a beat ass truck."
Walsh shook his head. "Man, you were right, Murdoc. This one thinks he's an action hero."
"A regular John McClane," Murdoc agreed.
"Too bad he hasn't figured out that he's no hero. He's just a Guinea pig that's gonna be worth another science fair trophy for his little buddy. Once we get him here."
"You leave Mac outta your shit with his father. And with me."
"Fraid I can't do that, Dalton. He's my ticket. And he's already on his way."
He knew Walsh was trying to bait him into lunging at him. But Jack hadn't forgotten the shackle on his ankle and that all it would do was land him on his face. And that wouldn't get him anywhere. If they really had Mac coming here, which if he knew they had Jack, the reckless little shit was probably practically on their doorstep already, Jack had to keep his cool and think their way out of this. Because Mac was in no condition to be dealing with a mission. He belonged home, on his couch, being fed ice cream in front of the TV.
So, instead of trying to get his hands on any of them, Jack flashed a tight, deadly smile. "I look forward to helping him bust apart your operation again then. One beaker at a time."
Walsh chuckled coldly. "Oh, I imagine you'll be more careful with my lab equipment this time."
"And why's that?" Jack asked, outwardly indifferent, but with a sinking in his stomach, because he'd already sussed out the answer.
"Because you just became part of it."
Walsh made a show of filling a syringe.
A big one. At least from Jack's point of view.
"Hold him," Walsh said to the two goons flanking him, as though the shackle around his ankle would have let him go anywhere anyway.
They shoved him against the wall by his neck, making him gasp and choke, in a way that told him if he struggled he'd wind up dead from a broken hyoid. As it was his eyes watered so bad he couldn't tell what else was going on.
The sharp smell of alcohol, the jab of a needle.
Then whatever the hell had been in the barrel of the syringe seared through his veins.
Liquid fire.
Acid.
Death.
He screamed himself hoarse, thrashing to free himself, unable to help it.
When he came back to himself he was on his back on the cot, drenched in sweat. Walsh stood over him, and Murdoc leered down over his partner's shoulder.
"What the hell was that?" Jack rasped.
"Insurance," Walsh replied, and he turned and walked out of the room.
Murdoc lingered. "Oh, Jacky boy. You are not going to like cashing in this policy."
"What was it?" Jack asked again, voice finding some strength as the pain passed.
"Guess."
"Oh … No."
"Oh, yes." Murdoc grinned. "Just the latest iteration, of course."
"KX7."
"Exactly."
"Son of a bitch figured it out."
'Not even a little, Jack," Murdoc tittered. "It'll just kill you slower."
"Why…?"
"Well, how else are we going to ensure your partner plays ball?" Murdoc smiled even more broadly. He'll have to fix the formula to save you."
"That son of a bitch."
"It was my idea, in case you were wondering."
"Okay then. You son of a bitch."
"And then some."
Jack forced himself up on his elbows. "If I'm dyin' anyway, I've got somethin' I want to make perfectly clear."
"And what might that be?"
"If you quote Bruce Willis ever again, I'm going to find a way to throw you off Fox Plaza."
"Is there a particular reason for—"
"It's where Hans Gruber ate pavement. They just called it Nakatomi for the movie. And damned if I wouldn't like to see—" Jack gasped at the sudden, stabbing pain in his chest.
"Better take it easy, Jack," Murdoc leered. "Those beats are numbered. Can't have you using them up before the Boy Wonder even gets here."
Jack squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, and heard the door close with a thud as Murdoc left.
The room started to spin and he groaned, easing himself back down to flat.
Now he was all alone with the sick certainty that he was going to die and that Mac would be joining him unless all of a sudden after better than a decade of Murphy's Law their luck changed.
Then he heard his partner's voice in his head, "You're forgetting Mac's Law."
"Well, Jack's Law is that Murphy was a fucking optimist," he murmured out loud.
"Mac's Law, since you need to be reminded, is it's not over until I've run out of ways to improvise."
"And how will we know when that is?" Jack asked, not particularly caring that this was delirium setting in.
"We won't. Because I'm never done. So don't you quit on me now."
"I'm tryin' Mac."
"There is only do or do not. There is no try."
"You can quote Star Wars at me even when you're imaginary."
"Damn right. Hang in there, pal. I'm on my way."
Jack sunk into a fitful fevered sleep, hoping he'd wake up again and see his partner improvise them a way out that wasn't imaginary.