Sear

by Haven126

MacGyver's EOD unit is unexpectedly assigned SERE training, and while Jack struggles to keep himself occupied, Mac discovers how lethal realistic training simulations can become.

4. Chapter 4

Standard disclaimers apply. I don't own any of these characters, please don't sue.

-M-

0946 HOURS, FRIDAY, CIRCLING THE TRIPLE CANOPY INSTALLATION

Jack was finalizing his plan to commandeer the helo by the time they finally got the call and the pilot laid on the pitch. As a unit, they all made eye contact, and then he and the other seven overwatch started systematically checking their gear.

Beside him, the only man holding a tablet rather than a rifle seemed content to watch. Jack was studiously ignoring him, until a voice in his helmet made that impossible.

"Remember, operators on the ground are in command. We're just reinforcements here."

"Yeah? Who're you reinforcing?" Ballinger was sitting across from Jack on the opposite bench, and he paused in the inspection of his sidearm to glare off to Jack's right side. "The analyst we don't got?"

Jack smirked and also pulled his own sidearm. Odds were, if they got into a firefight it'd be in close quarters, down in those tunnels. It was why he'd grabbed an M4 instead of his Barrett. Shorter, better for cornering, but the pistol would be his go-to if someone grabbed his rifle barrel.

Brandon Gates let the angry comment slide by like it hadn't happened. Not his first rodeo either. "Remember that you are engaging American civilians. Lethal force is authorized only as a last resort."

Dalton glanced over at Molina, who was as sphinx-faced as ever, but the former Ranger half-lidded his eyes when he realized Jack was watching him. It was his equivalent of rolling them. Until he had Robinson in hand, lethal force was absolutely on the table. Damn the whatever intelligence agency Brandon was working for now, and damn their sit and wait approach.

Jack could relate. He also triple checked that his second and third spare mags were exactly where he expected them to be.

He lucked out; their approach had him on the correct side of the bird to see another Blackhawk already down, rotors still spun up, and he felt a twinge of – something. It wasn't quite regret.

Not my job anymore.

No need to fast rope since the operators had already cleared their team to land; Jack waited impatiently for the pilot to touch sand before he flipped off the helo's helmet, threw the 'hawk's door open and hustled off the bird. The installation hadn't changed much in the past few years; a new outbuilding, but the two main buildings plus the old barracks were right where they were supposed to be. No sign of anyone, contractor or operator.

Jack focused on the main building, putting a hand on the rifle slung over his chest and stuffing his radio earpiece into his ear in time to hear most of the transmission.

"-abre Actual, welcome to the party, Snakebite. Surface is clear. Proceed to rally point. Out."

The feeling of not-quite-regret gave a warm throb, and Jack smirked to himself as he gave his fellow overwatch a sharp nod and led the way towards the main building.

Before it became civilian-owned, the old forward operating base had seen quite a lot of action. As a result, the Army Corps of Engineers had designed and left generally intact a series of underground tunnels that allowed for complete cover of movement to all major areas of the base. Those tunnels ran at varying depths to allow for air exchange without the need for generator-powered fans, and there were multiple entry points.

Most of them were too deep for even ground-penetrating infrared. But thanks to the UAV, they already knew who was up top and the operators had obviously already handled any hostile forces. Which probably meant their boys were still down in the tunnels. Everyone expected desert SERE training to be more of the same punishing heat they dealt with every day of the year. So Trip Canopy shook it up, found a way to freeze your nuts off for a couple days before throwing you back into the sun. Just enough that you were glad to be hot again.

Until you weren't.

Jack also knew most of the tunnels were on camera, and the rally point was the main ops building that contained the security operations center – the SOC. Even if he and the rest of Snakebite were just support on this op, that was right where he wanted to be. The operators in command of this circus said rally, he'd rally.

For now.

On light feet he led the snipers and their covert intelligence tag-along up to the main building, still adhering to basic clearing tactics even knowing the surface had been secured. They proceeded through the main door to find a line of men on their knees in the broad corridor, hands behind their heads with fingers interlaced, while a damn near seven foot tall blond Viking was in the process of relieving them of any interesting objects that might be on their persons.

He clocked them but didn't stop working, and a far more reasonably sized, dusty-looking brown-haired soldier kept a sidearm at ready position, not looking up at all.

He did, however, greet them. "C'mon in, gents, you're right on time."

Jack and his group filed in, and Dalton was content to stay near the back, eyeing the contractors already in custody.

There were seven of them in all; the one closest to him was definitely working on a shiner, and it was brand-spanking new, not even fully swollen yet. Those playing Al Qaeda had had their headscarves removed, and Jack watched Gates walk the line with his tablet, linking faces to the identities of known Triple Canopy employees and sending the data back to the TOC.

Footsteps came from a side room, resolving into another dust-covered soldier in desert digital camo. He was about Jack's height and build, dark hair cut short, and like the other two operators, he didn't give the overwatch snipers more than a passing glance. He did, however, snap in fingers impatiently at Gates who turned, and after a moment of surprise, handed over the tablet.

"You wanna tell me what this is about?" a sandy-haired contractor asked calmly, eyes flicking between Gates and this new operator.

He didn't answer. He flipped through the tablet, apparently confirming for himself who was in front of him. When he finally spoke, his voice was gravelly, the Texas accent heavy. "Gotta say, Duke. I expected better outta Trip Canopy."

. . . holy shit, was that old tanned guy really Duke Fischer? Jack hadn't laid eyes on the man in years.

"You're eight hours early, and they're all downstairs. Try again."

"Used to be you were the contractors who at least kinda had their shit together," the operator continued, like Duke hadn't spoken. "Sorta felt like I could almost trust you to get the grunt work done." He looked over the edge of the tablet, down at the man kneeling in front of him. "You know where Bowman is right now?"

Duke's eyebrows shot up, and he even glanced down the men lined up on their knees beside him. "Downstairs. What the fuck is this about?"

All three of the operators exchanged a glance, and out of the corner of his eye, Jack saw Javier give him a side-eye. They did have the real John Bowman, didn't they? Not some look-alike? Because if it was an imposter just parading around pretending to be an authorized military contractor, their threat pool just exploded into an ocean -

But Brandon Gates didn't look concerned in the slightest. After glancing at him, the dark-haired operator sighed, and flipped the tablet around. "Is this John Bowman?"

Duke barely gave the tablet a glance. "Yes."

"And he's downstairs, you say?"

"Yes." Duke didn't even try to mask his impatience.

The dark-haired operator in front of him flashed him a wide grin. "Why don't you point him out to me, then."

The Viking behind Duke pulled him to his feet, which it was clear Duke did not appreciate – and he really shoulda, his knees had to be at least as shot as Jack's own – and gave him a helpful shove in the correct direction.

Jack didn't hesitate to follow.

The moment he moved, the other two operators glanced his way. To their credit, neither did a double-take. The Viking's eyebrows raised fractionally; his companion looked momentarily dismayed.

The lead operator had eyes only for the contractor in front of him. "Don't need any lookie-loos, Snakebite."

"Won't make a peep, promise," Jack assured the man, and though he never got his eyes, he got a smile.

"Fine, but you ain't gonna like what you're about to see."

Gates glanced between the two of them, but didn't say a word, and Jack followed as the lead operator propelled Duke down a short hallway towards an unassuming door. Dalton was not at all surprised to see a fourth man in desert camo half-visible in a very comfortable-looking high-backed gaming chair. In front of him was a veritable wall of monitors, each subsected into six camera views, not at all unlike the TOC back at Bagram.

Maybe even the same software.

He actually did turn around when he heard people behind him, already taking a preparatory breath to speak, but when he saw them, he paused, mouth still open, as his gaze flicked between them all.

Jack gave him a broad grin and said nothing.

The African-American soldier then took it all in stride, and focused on his teammate. "I got three more Canopy guys downstairs, eyes on six of ours."

All five of them turned to the monitors, and the operator holding Duke prevented him from taking a step around the seated man. "View from here's just fine."

"For the love of Pete –"

"Not lookin' for Pete," the man at his elbow reminded him. "We're lookin' for John. Stay on target."

Duke all but rolled his eyes, scanning the camera feeds. Jack did the same. He'd said six of theirs – meaning two of the EOD techs weren't on camera.

And the EOD techs were pretty easy to pick out – they were the ones half-dressed or less. There were two men crammed into what looked exactly like a line of gym lockers, it was impossible to tell much besides skin color and height. Both were white, and generally the same height and build.

There was a guy in interrogation, a tech Jack recognized but couldn't name. Not one of Smiley's. The Trip Canopy contractor sitting across the table from him didn't look anything like Bowman. Jack picked out Zimmerman immediately; he was getting introduced to stress positions in solitary, balancing hooded but otherwise in his birthday suit on a little box about fifteen inches off the ground. Gutiérrez and that weird little Italian tech were in the waterboarding room, one watching the other getting walled by the other two Triple Canopy instructors in headscarves.

That was the feed Duke was watching, eyes narrowed.

The operator holding him gave him a shake. "One of those guys Bowman?"

The Triple Canopy director gave a short, sharp shake of his head. "No." Jack didn't miss the way Brandon kept his eyes on Duke, not the cameras, as the man answered them.

And there were plenty of other feeds to watch; the tunnel hallways and interrogation rooms, the barracks, medical, business offices, the perimeter fence-line – even a view of the hallway outside, with the Triple Canopy men they'd already arrested lined up nice and neat.

And that was it. Nothing out of place. No bodies, no grisly murder scenes, not so much as an overturned chair. Just business as usual. As far as Jack could tell, everything happening to those techs was by the book.

At least, to the six techs he could see.

Dalton's gut clenched just a little tighter, and he started searching the footage again, this time looking for any kind of movement he might have missed.

Sabre Actual wasn't that patient. "Who are they?"

"Robert Puckett and Sam Malik." Jack watched Duke shift his focus to the video feed of the motor pool area.

Probably looking for Bowman's truck. Like he really didn't know where his wayward employee might be.

Jack couldn't help himself. "You're tryin'a tell me you lost an employee and two students?"

Duke turned on him – as much as the other operator would let him. "You know damn well there's plenty of real estate not under video surveillance. Now is one of you gonna tell me what's going on here?"

The impatience looked real. Like Duke really didn't know why they'd just landed on his base and crashed the training. Like he really didn't know where Bowman was, or what he'd tried to do.

Just like you'd expect from a man who was paid millions of dollars to teach US soldiers to do exactly that.

The African-American operator swiveled in his chair. "These feeds are real time – I'm gonna need the system password to start lookin' through the recordings."

"It's Sierra Hotel Hotel Bravo Bravo Yankee Tango Tango Papa." Duke rattled it off without a trace of hesitation.

Gotcha. "You just gonna pony up the password, just like that?" He turned to both members of Sabre. "Real accommodating of him, doncha think, boys? Whaddaya bet it triggers a data wipe?"

Duke glared over his shoulder. "We're on the same side, aren't we, boys?"

Jack bared his teeth. "Ooo, I ain't too sure about that just yet."

"Settle down, Snakebite." That Gates called him that in front of Duke was telling; he didn't want to give away the relationship between Jack and the other Delta in the room. "But the man's got a point. Think it through, you sure about that password?"

"Should have held back, but you throwed the punch," Duke sounded like he was reciting something. "Bombs Over Bagdad."

It meant nothing to Jack. The Delta operator sitting in the chair, however, tilted his head. "OutKast lyrics, huh?"

"May I?"

The operator raised an eyebrow, but at a nod from his lead, hopped up from the chair and presented it to their intelligence liaison in the style of Vanna White. Gates didn't say anything about it; he sat down and plugged in a USB thumb drive that had appeared from apparently thin air, then waited a three count before trying the password.

There was no explosion, nor did a claxon or any scary lights start going off. Two more monitors came to life, and Gates scanned the screens, then started typing.

Jack gave Duke another evaluatory look, and the civilian contractor glared back. "Song lyrics make the best passwords. Easy to remember, and can't be cracked with anything other than brute force." Then he turned his glare over his other shoulder. "When we get this sorted out, your command and I are gonna have a long talk. Where's Bowman?"

"Where are my missing men?" the operator countered. "We issued you eight techs. I only see six."

Mac could be either of the guys crammed in the lockers, but there was an EOD tech Jack knew he didn't see. "Robinson's not on cams."

Duke glanced back at the monitors. "Might be in time out. You click that bullhorn icon right there, you'll be able to ping my guys. They'll wrap up and come topside."

"Or warn 'em you're made," Jack disagreed. Duke again turned on him, and his anger looked quite real.

"What exactly are you accusing me of? And how many times are you going to make me ask!"

"I don't answer to you," the head of Sabre team told him bluntly. "As a representative of the United States Armed Forces I am assuming command of this installation and as soon as we have arrested the remaining civilians and recovered all US military personnel, you're gonna get that long talk you want with my command." With that he hauled Duke back out the door.

The last remaining Delta in the room looked between Jack and Gates. "So this is about more than just an intel leak, huh."

"Hope not," Jack replied, taking up position right behind the chair. "Is this all their camera angles, or just the highlight reel?"

"Wouldn't you rather be looking for your tech, Dalton?" came the acerbic reply. "I know what I'm doing."

"I can look for him right here," Jack shot back. "Now pull up the rest of the goddamn views."

Gates heaved a sigh, then started typing. The wall of screens flickered and changed, revealing more of the base. This time the majority of the video was the overground complex, including views of the campus from the fence pointed in, and more of the administrative and classroom area. It all looked empty, save two still-idling Blackhawks.

No missing EOD techs. No unaccounted for contractors. And no evidence of explosions, recent fire damage, or half-dismantled coffee makers.

"Thought you told the CIA to kiss your backside," a voice drawled from behind them, and then the leader of Sabre team gave Jack a shove on the back that sent him stumbling a couple steps.

"I did. Not a Company man anymore. Neither of us are." Not that it would get Brandon any brownie points. "Guys, meet Gates. Gates, meet my team."

"Whose team?" The voice was sharp, but the accent was exactly the same.

"This is Boxer and Duncan." Dunc waved his wrist in a circle a few times before making a theatrical bow. "The big guy's Coop, team medic out there's Pete. Now that we're all friends, how's about we clear those tunnels and find our missing men."

"Day late and dollar short, Wyatt. Like usual." Boxer got on the radio as Gates swapped the video feeds back to their original display. "TOC, Sabre Actual. Deploying reinforcements to complete clear of facility. Over." Then he let go of the button. "TOC said intel leak; what'd they get?"

"That's classifi-"

"Not much yet, besides some military equipment that keeps fallin' offa Bagram's trucks," Jack drawled right over Gates, watching Coop splitting the overwatch snipers into teams of three. "They were after future base deployments."

In the seat, Brandon gave a huff of frustration. "I really don't miss working with you, Dalton."

Boxer grunted. "Same." Then he turned back to Jack. "So just plain ol' corporate espionage. Tryin' to game the contracts."

"Seems like."

Coop seemed happy with the groups and issued their orders, and Jack watched his guys proceed to their assigned entry points.

"Snakebite, Sabre Actual. We got eyes on; you're clear to proceed, over." Boxer let go of the button and continued talking without missing a beat. "Unless it's nukes falling off those Chair Force trucks, doesn't seem like this'd warrant your involvement. Why'd whatever alphabet agency bring you in?" Before Gates – or Jack - could even take a breath to answer, Boxer continued in a more aggrieved tone, "Please tell me this does not involve Carl's Junior."

God I wish. "I'll let you know as soon as we get eyes on him."

Boxer gave him an incredulous look. "Shit Wyatt, that kid's gotten you into more trouble than two rotations with Delta!"

"Tell me about it." There was really no discernable difference watching the three man overwatch teams take position than there would have been if it was him, Dunc, and Boxer. It didn't look like the remaining Trip Canopy contractors had any idea what was happening topside. "He's also gotten me out of it. He's the one who tipped us off to the leak."

Gates threw his hands in the air. "Christ, Jack!"

Boxer ignored him. "Damn. You think they're targeting him?"

Jack gave a tense shrug. "If he's not one of the guys stuffed in those lockers, then yeah, maybe. Because him and Robinson are tight, and that guy's hard to miss – damn near Dunc's size."

Duncan, who had been quietly watching the monitors, gave a loud snort of disagreement. "Not hardly. I think that's the guy we watched help MacGyver blast your ass outta couple thousand tons of concrete, and I got fifty pound of muscle on him, easy."

Gates' head tilted, just a little, and Jack couldn't help a little smirk. Don't know everything, huh.

But his smile faded quickly. If Trip Canopy had done something to Mac, and Robinson saw it go down, Jack could definitely see the older man intervening. His eyes automatically sought out Javier Molina on the screens, even as Coop gave the breach order in his ear.

And the Triple Canopy contractors were clearly not expecting it.

The two guys walling Gutiérrez could have been a problem – they at least reacted when the door burst open and put the tech in front of them as a shield, but that little Italian guy named after the famous ball player popped out of his chair like EOD-in-a-box and plowed right into them. The guy doing the interrogation was sitting with his back to the door so he never had a chance.

It was Javier and Peterson who ended up in the 'locker room,' and after giving the doors a once-over, they simply opened them. No locks. Duncan blinked, then leaned in towards the screens as the blindfolded men were extricated and the hoods pulled off.

"Okay . . . are they actually twins?"

"Yeah," Jack confirmed, unable to keep the disappointment out of his voice. It was the Smiths.

Confirming what the pit in his gut already knew; that the two missing men were Mac and Charlie.

Boxer grabbed his radio. "Snakebite Snakebite, this is Sabre Actual. We only have eyes on six, repeat six assets. Clear the tunnels and find me those two missing techs, over." Then he glanced at the tablet he'd acquired from Gates. "We sure about this intel?"

Gates wasn't always that forthcoming, but he was a good analyst. If he'd given them a list of the contractors that were supposed to be at the facility, Jack was reasonably sure it was correct. "'Fraid so. Saw you had to explain the situation to at least one of 'em. Anyone go for a weapon, try to use lethal force?"

"No." Boxer was scrolling through the list. "These guys are fuckin' oblivious. If they're dirty, they're playin' it off."

Jack was uneasily coming to the same conclusion as room after room was cleared. "Okay, maybe it's compartmentalized. Maybe Duke doesn't know what his right hand's up to."

The gaming chair creaked as Brandon shifted. "If it's just one or two of them, that's worse."

Boxer jerked his head to the hallway. "Dunc, back up the doc and see if Duke's sweatin' yet."

If only a few of the contractors were dirty, it meant they were hiding it from their pals - maybe even their boss. Which meant there was more to gain from making the problem go away quietly than holding onto a hostage and negotiating.

Jesus. They'd had Mac almost three days. He could be toes up in the sand a hundred miles away by now. Or shoved out of Bowman's truck on the way to base this morning with a pair of bullets in his skull.

No way to know without a body. Preferably with its blood pumper still workin' away. Jack stepped back from the monitors to give Duncan room to go back up his teammate. "Bowman made a phone call this morning before he left. We think to the base. Left him plenty'a time to give any partners in crime a head's up, and to clean up here."

"Agreed, I'll start at 0500 and work my way back." Brandon focused on the smaller monitors.

Boxer took a deep, slow breath. "Now that we've got the facility, think Bowman will come clean?"

He had nothing to gain by admitting to attempted murder, and everything to gain if Mac – and any witnesses – couldn't live to provide evidence. Bowman knew what he'd been asked to smuggle. He wasn't gonna say a damn thing. "Not in time," Jack said shortly, watching as Yapp, Estes, and Quinn paused outside a well-fortified door. When they breached, Jack tracked them to another camera, showing him what looked like concrete cylinders, three of 'em, along the wall with small, highly reinforced stove doors with grates.

Passive ventilation. Sealable in case of gas attack, but otherwise a pipe right up to the surface, large enough for a man to stand in.

Though the cameras were silent, it was clear they were hearing something, and Jack almost held his breath as one of the operators fumbled with the door, then threw it open to expose bright sunlight and sweat-stained man jammies. A trembling foot popped out of the door, then a hand snaked out and held onto the top of the little doorframe for dear life, and Jack felt almost guilty for swearing under his breath when the skin tone told him they'd just found Charlie Robinson.

In what Duke called 'time out.' A tube too narrow to sit, and this time of day, the sun was beating down right onto the top of your skull. Punishment for bad behavior. Exactly the kind of place Jack had more-than-half-expected Mac was going to end up on day one.

Estes and Quinn immediately got to work on the other doors, but the only thing in the remaining two pipes was sand and sunlight.

"Shit," Boxer muttered.

"Nah, this is good," and Jack wasn't sure who he was trying to convince. "He might know something. Hell, any of 'em could have heard somethin'."

"Agreed." Boxer tapped his chest. "Snakebite, Sabre Actual. Once sweep is complete, return the assets to the rally point. Over." He then turned and gave Jack a bracing look. "We'll find him."

And there was more than one way to do that.

Jack stalked back out into the main corridor, where Duke had been returned to the line of his men, still on their knees and now all in military-grade ziptie restraints. Dalton didn't bother with any of the others; he focused on Fischer.

"Where's MacGyver?"

Duke stared forward into the middle distance, and said nothing.

Jack put real effort into not grinding his teeth. "I ain't gonna ask this nicely again."

"Didn't you get the memo? Asking nicely doesn't get you anything," Duke replied flatly, not looking up. "We've cooperated enough. You want information? Start giving it."

No sweat. "Give me a current location on Specialist Angus MacGyver and I won't break bones," he growled menacingly. "There, y'got some information. Now answer the goddamn question."

"Couldn't find anything incriminating on our network, huh?" Duke addressed Dalton's belt. "So the plan now's to make up some story about a training accident to buy you some time?"

Dalton took a step forward – just one – and a firm hand grabbed his right shoulder from behind. "Jack-"

"Pete," he shot back, warning lacing his voice, and the soldier behind him loosened his hold – but didn't fully release him.

"Not in front of the kids."

Sure enough, Ballinger and Peterson were coming in, leading a visibly dazed Gutiérrez and the little Italian tech. The medic still holding Jack's right shoulder hesitated.

"If I let go and check those guys over, you gonna behave?"

"That'll depend on him."

"Dalton, that's enough." Boxer joined him on his left. "Doc, take care of the techs. Find out the last time any of 'em saw MacGyver." Then he, too, focused on Duke. "And you better hope like hell there was no 'training accident.' I'd hate to have some kinda 'transpo accident' taking you back to Bagram."

"What the fuck is your problem?" a darkly complected contractor snarled, and both Dalton and Boxer's glares swiveled to him. He wasn't fazed. "We-"

"Shut it," Duke barked, finally looking down the line of his men. "Wait for the lawyer."

"You think a lawyer's gonna get you outta this?" Boxer barked a laugh. "Anyone who knows the whereabouts of Specialist MacGyver better speak up, because if we find him in worse condition than he was when we gave him to you you're all gonna be charged as accomplices."

". . . Hollywood's MIA?"

It was the little Italian tech – Jack was still wracking his brain for a name when the guy continued. "Last time I saw him was the lockers. We all got taken out one at a time for interrogation."

Boxer snapped his fingers and pointed. "Tell it to the guy in there. Go."

Jack didn't wanna wait that long. "When was that?

The tech accepted a bottle of water from the medic and cracked the seal in the same motion. "Uh . . . last . . . night?" he ventured, then started chugging.

"Easy, pal, slow and steady or you're gonna hurl." Pete handed off another bottle to Gutiérrez, who accepted it much slower, like he wasn't quite sure what he should do with it. He didn't open it, instead blinking at the men in the corridor in confusion.

Boxer sighed. "Doc-"

"Yep," Pete replied easily. "C'mere, specialist, why don't you have a seat."

The other techs were in varying states of exhausted and disoriented, but none of them were seriously hurt, and in short order the other five – and their overwatches – returned to the building and were lined up sitting against the wall. Everyone had the same story. No one had seen or heard from Mac since the lockers the night before.

Camera footage corroborated. One of the headscarf guys playing Al Qaeda had pulled Mac out of his locker and they followed his progress on the screen into one of the interrogation rooms.

Duke Fischer was the interrogator.

"That son of a- !"

"Hold up, Wyatt," and Boxer leaned closer to the screen. "Got audio on that?"

"We're not that lucky," Gates admitted grimly. "Best I can do is read lips."

Mac didn't look great. He had some vivid bruising on his bare chest that didn't line up with the usual training techniques, and Jack wondered briefly if he'd been thrown down or tripped outside onto some rocks. It was clear he was exhausted. But even there on the small screen, his blue eyes were sharp as he interacted with Duke.

Duke gave him the old carrot and stick routine with the thermos, but fairly early into the interrogation he simply got up and left. It was clear he was making an offer before going to get the stick, but apparently Mac didn't take him up on it.

John Bowman slid into the interrogator's seat as Duke left.

Jack's hand gripped the shoulder of the gaming chair so hard the plastic cracked, and Gates shot Jack a look over his shoulder. "We flew a pair of interrogators in to Bagram, if Bowman gives anything up we'll know immediately."

Less than a minute into the interrogation, the video feed simply stopped.

Brandon raised his hands a few inches off the keyboard. ". . . fuck."

"Get it back," Boxer demanded.

"Working on it."

"Work faster."

"There is no more file," Gates growled at them. "Next record starts twenty minutes later, at oh five oh eight."

The next video showed an empty interrogation room. No thermos. No Bowman.

No Mac.

"Well he didn't just disappear," Jack snapped. "Go back to the hallway."

Gates was already scrolling to the correct file, and they watched Mac being marched into the room. Headscarf Guy, nondescript in his beige scarf and matching man jammies, never turned, and his face hadn't been caught on the interrogation room camera, but it wasn't Bowman, and it wasn't Duke.

"We got a visual on that third guy comin' out?"

Brandon fast forwarded, watching the clock in the upper corner. At 0455 the door opened and Bowman exited.

Mac didn't.

Gates pulled up the next camera before Jack made a noise to the negative. "Don't care about Bowman. He got in his truck and drove out to Bagram. It's an hour by vehicle, he hit the base at oh six hundred. Not like we don't know the number he called on the way. Stay on Mac."

Less than a minute later a hooded MacGyver – the bruised chest was unmistakable - was dragged out of the room, and disappointingly, Headscarf Guy was still covered.

Gates manipulated the cameras, showing them the hallway that led back to the locker room, but that wasn't the direction Headscarf Guy took. He and Mac passed under a camera and never reappeared.

They scanned the feeds, but the next person to come down a hallway was another hooded prisoner, and their chest, while pasty white, was unmarked.

Jack and Boxer exchanged a look, and as a single unit moved for the door.

This time Boxer parked himself in front of Duke. "You started an interview with Specialist MacGyver just before oh five hundred, then turned it over to Bowman. Who else was in the room?"

Jack, meanwhile, walked the line of men, glowering at each of them and frequently receiving a glare in return, before passing the guy on the end and circling behind him. Several of them were playing the part of Al Qaeda, and two of them were wearing beige headscarves that had been tugged down around their necks.

"Answer me or we'll add obstruction to the charges."

"Well, at least then I'll know one of them," Duke replied glibly, and Boxer heaved an exaggerated sigh.

The first guy with a beige scarf was wearing a green vest – definitely not him. The second guy had two fingers wrapped together, like one was broken. Everyone else was dressed openly as themselves – Trip Canopy polo shirts and digicam tac pants. Jack stalked along the line until a glint of metal caught his eye, under the olive drab zipties.

"Head's up," Jack barked, turning to the line of slouching EOD techs flanked by their overwatch. Every single one of them was awake and watching, and Jack gave them a toothy grin. "The bad guys can change up their threads pretty easy. What they can't change up is their footwear, their belts," and then he leaned down and grabbed the wrists of the man in front of him, forcing them upwards painfully, "and their hardware, like watches."

The guy he'd just put into an armlock grunted out a hiss of pain. "You – like it?" he ground out, forehead almost touching the floor to avoid having his arms popped out of socket. "Was a gift from your mom."

Jack chuckled, a sound with little humor. "You took MacGyver outta that interrogation room. Where'd you put him."

The man didn't respond, so Jack lifted his restrained wrists a couple inches higher. He got another grunt for his trouble.

"Speak up, didn't catch that."

"I said time out!" the contractor snapped, clearly trying to breathe around the discomfort he was in. "Left him in time out."

"No you didn't," Boxer contradicted him flatly. "We checked there."

"Don't know what to - tell you," the guy ground out, and Jack lowered his wrists a few inches; no point in bending the guy into a pretzel if it resulted in him not being able to talk. "Guess Houdini got himself out."

Jack saw Boxer gesture Dunc back into the SOC – to have Gates check the footage. "Houdini, huh?"

"Mac figured out they were gonna skip day two of classroom." This voice was not strained, and Jack glanced up in surprise to see it was Robinson who answered. He was already climbing to his feet, empty water bottle on the tile floor in front of him. "Rigged up a flash bang so some of us could practice evasion." Charlie's eyes cut to Duke. "Professor here didn't appreciate it."

"Actually, it was good initiative." Duke ignored the operator standing in front of him, but gave the EODs a considering look. "And let me save us all the hysterics – I shot him. In the vest. That I personally checked for integrity. It was part of the narrative of the training."

The bruising on Mac's chest.

Jack turned to the contractor incredulously. "You used live rounds?!"

"I just said we checked his equipment," Duke repeated flatly. "We always use live rounds for that part. Blanks have a different smell."

"You usually shoot one of your own!" Jack actually released the guy he was holding to stalk towards Duke. Whatever he planned to do was cut off by Duncan reappearing.

"Boss, there's a buncha missing time for the camera outside the ventilation room. Got nothing showing our boy goin' in or comin' out."

"We don't always use time out, so that camera is activated manually."

Boxer glared down at the Triple Canopy director. "Now you wanna talk?"

"Now I actually believe we legitimately might have a missing man," Duke shot back. "No one else checked out a vehicle and they're all in the motor pool, except John's truck, so he can't have left the compound. We've never had anyone manage to scale one of the ventilation shafts, but if anyone could . . . get on the PA and tell him you crashed the training."

"Pretty sure the two Blackhawks did that," Jack growled, but Duncan glanced at Box, then jogged back to the SOC.

Crawling up a concrete tunnel blindfolded with his hands tied behind his back kinda did sound like Mac . . . but if he'd gotten away, and he didn't acquire himself some wheels, then Duke was right, he should still be on campus somewhere, and he damn well shoulda heard the birds comin' in. Even if he didn't know what was going on, he should have been watching.

It didn't take Dunc long to find the intercom.

"Attention – all staff and trainees on the Triple Canopy campus. Training has been suspended. I repeat, training has been suspended. Specialist Angus MacGyver, proceed immediately to the main campus building. Carl's Junior, that means you."

"He really hates that nickname," one of the twins muttered.

"At least he'll know Dalton's here," Charlie replied, crossing the corridor to where Molina was casually watching the line of contractors. "I'm good, man. Gimme some footwear and I can join the search party."

"Let's not anyone go anywhere until we see if he turns up." Box turned to look at the medic, and Pete gave him a somewhat blank look before he caught on.

"They're all cleared to fly back. Nothing sleep and a couple days of bland food won't cure," he assured the man, and Box dipped his chin.

"Right. We only need one bird, so you seven, get prepped for evac. We'll move Trip by ground." The operator was already reaching for his radio when several of the techs began struggled to their feet.

"Hell no," Zimmerman announced, followed belatedly with a "sir."

"What Z said," one of the twins agreed.

Boxer was unmoved. "This is the US Army, not a high school debate team. You're compromised assets, and you're goin' back to base."

"Mac wouldn't," Charlie disagreed, somehow managing to make it sound like he hadn't just refused a direct order from a very intimidating superior officer. "It's a big campus and damn hot out there. We can help."

Boxer gave him a flat look, prompting Charlie to glance at his overwatch. Molina gave him the same look the Delta operator was.

". . . gotta say, they spend all their time walkin' around in the sun," he finally drawled, and Charlie relaxed, just a little. "Sharp eyes. We could use 'em."

The Delta transferred the look to the former Ranger, who shrugged.

Honestly, Jack was willing to accept all the help he could get. Robinson wasn't wrong; big campus, and a lot of it wasn't on camera. He tapped his radio. "Sabre Four, you got anything?"

The response from Duncan was immediate. "Negative, Snakebite. If he's out there he's staying put."

Jack turned to face Boxer. "He sees his guys actually out lookin' for him, he'll turn up."

If he was able. And if he wasn't, they'd still need all hands on deck to find him and bring him home.

Not leavin' you out here, brother. That's a Jack Dalton promise.

"Yeah, command, we got seven of 'em but I let 'em wander around campus like a buncha lost sheep and a couple of 'em tripped over an IED," the other Texan drawled. "Really, Dalton? You wanna have that conversation?"

"Only one in this room that's tripped over an IED is the guy you're talking to." It was the little Italian guy. Alonzo? Riviera? Jack almost asked him his name.

Almost.

Instead, a snort of laughter from the Delta team medic had Jack shooting Pete a dirty look. "Shut it." Then he turned back to the man that had once been his second in command. "Box, he's not wrong. If anybody here's gonna spot a booby trap, it's them."

"Wyatt, they're not in deployable condition-"

"We'll keep 'em safe." Ballinger casually checked the chamber of his sidearm. "Sides, place is empty, yeah? What's the intel say?"

Gates was still in the SOC – probably looking for his evidence now that the search for MacGyver was going manual. Jack answered for him. "Intel said eleven contractors in country, we got ten here plus Bowman."

Ballinger turned back to Boxer with a look that said it all.

The Delta gave the room a hard stare, finally settling on Duke, who actually looked up at him. "You wire the place?"

Duke thought about his answer longer than Jack was comfortable with. "Nothing lethal," he finally settled on. "Most of it within a hundred yards of the perimeter."

"What happens to them is gonna happen to you," Boxer said, before Jack could, and he clocked a couple of the techs shifting uneasily at the quiet menace in the Delta's tone. "You sure about that?"

"Positive," Duke confirmed darkly. "Put me in the SOC and I'll walk your boys around it. Better yet, let my guys show 'em."

Boxer gave him about ten more seconds to think it through, then jerked his chin, and the team medic appeared like magic and helped Duke to his feet. "Fine. Pair up, except you, Raggedy Andy," and he pointed at only still-seated tech, Gutiérrez. "You keep your ass parked right where it is. Doc, keep an eye on him and be prepared to receive casualties."

Then he addressed the hallway at large. "Gimme a rose compass sector search. Stay a hundred yards off the fence, and check in every ten. Anyone sees anything at all, you radio it in. Copy?"

There was a series of affirms, then Boxer grabbed Duke by the bicep. "Where's their footwear?"

"Lockers in the barracks," the man replied without hesitation.

"Raggedy Andy's overwatch, do me a solid. Coop," and he glanced at the Viking even as Quinn double-timed it back out the door, "watch Dalton's six. The rest of you, soon as you're equipped, move out."

Jack didn't wait. He checked his own sidearm for good measure and was the first one out the door after Quinn. The other overwatch was jogging to the barracks, meaning Jack got to choose any direction he wanted.

He surveyed the base, then headed towards what was meant to be the 'yard' where trainees would be expected to do hard labor in the sun. Beyond it was a graveyard full of shipping containers, and not a lot of cameras.

There was shade and cover. If Mac was smart, he'd use both those things to his advantage.

"Think he's still here?"

Wasn't that the million dollar question. "Yeah. Bowman didn't have a lotta time to go off-roadin'." Then he grabbed his radio. "Sabre Four, Snakebite One One. Confirm no vehicles left between oh five hundred and now, over." Just because none got checked out and they were all currently accounted for didn't mean one hadn't snuck off base only to return less one EOD technician.

Dunc didn't let him down. "Snakebite One One, good copy. Confirmed, no vehicles left via main or side gates since oh five hundred, over."

Of course he'd already thought of that. Or else Brandon did.

Jack glanced over his shoulder – and up. "So yeah. He's here."

Coop nodded in that easygoing way of his. "Then we'll find him." He, too, was studying the container farm. "If he got himself out, where's he most likely to go?"

"If he ever listened to a damn word I've ever said? He got himself some distance and a safe position to watch for activity. If no one sounded the alarm," and Jack turned, then, eyeing the nearby barracks, "he'd wanna get somewhere cool, hydrate, and come up with some hare-brained scheme to bust his buddies out."

"Knew I liked that kid."

Jack couldn't help a sudden grin. "He'd'a fit right in with us. Coulda really used a dedicated EOD like him back in the day."

"Hey, for some of us that day's not so far back," Coop protested lightly. "Is this weird? It should prolly be weird."

"Nah." Jack grabbed his radio. "Snakebite One Five, Snakebite One One. Make sure Mac's not hidin' in the toilet tank or somethin' in the barracks, over." The barracks were well covered by the cameras, and easily in earshot of the PA. If Mac was in there, he should have already popped out.

Unless, of course, he was trussed up under the latrine, waiting for Bowman to get back and finish him off.

Or worse.

"Snakebite One One, Snakebite One Five, good copy, over."

Which left him and Coop a lot of ground to cover. The much taller operator frowned, still surveying the thousands of square feet of shipping container farm. "Fewer cameras out here, decent cover, but the shade's gettin' scarce. If he didn't get himself out, this is where'd I'd stash him."

Plenty of prison cells, no visitors. Jack uneasily agreed with his former teammate.

"How you wanna do this, boss?"

"Not your boss, Coop," Jack told him. Not anymore. Now he only had one job. "Let's start a parallel track from the south."

Coop snorted. Loudly. "Sure, not the boss." He did, however, break off and take the other side of the container they were approaching.

"Yo, Mac!" Jack called, using the butt of his sidearm to bang on the container. "Let's go! Hustle up!"

No padlock on the container, and Jack threw open the door, grabbing a tactical light to shine into the crate.

Empty, and hot as an oven.

"You better be holed up in the latrine, hoss," Jack murmured to the empty space, and backed out, leaving the door open to keep track of which containers they'd checked.

The second and third were the same. The first ten minute radio check came and went; no sign of him. Coop's somehow still pale-under-the-tan Nordic complexion was turning rosy as he wrenched open the door of the fourth. He shone a tac light into the space, his frown deepening. "Jack, this is taking too long."

The operator wasn't wrong. If Mac was out here, he wasn't answering, and they were making plenty of noise. And if he was inside one of these shipping crates, if Coop was right and someone truly had stashed him somewhere out here, he was in deep trouble.

Dalton cupped his hands around his mouth. "Mac! Answer me, buddy! You out here?!"

Both operators then froze absolutely still, and just listened.

There was no wind to speak of, no whisper of hissing sand to cover up the slightest shuffle of a trussed-up prisoner. The metal around them was cracking and popping in the sun, but not in any way rhythmically. Faintly, back towards the administration buildings, someone shouted, and someone answered.

Jack scanned the aisle of containers, and saw nothing. No disturbed sand where someone was dragged against their will. No padlocks or chains on any of the containers. No shadow below a container, indicating a cool place had been dug out.

After five full breaths, Jack paced restlessly to the next aisle, Coop on his heels.

"Mac!" the operator bellowed, his voice slapping between containers, and again, both men stood stock still.

The echo of Coop's shout died. The container nearest Jack let out a loud pop, and he grabbed the double doors and wrenched them open.

This one wasn't empty. It contained shipping barrels, and had to be at least a hundred and twenty degrees. Jack cleared it anyway.

The barrels were all open and empty. None contained a scrawny blond know-it-all, living or dead.

Sweat trickled into his eye, and Jack took a swipe at his face, taking a second to glare at the sun. It was already pretty high and it wasn't even eleven hundred. A flicker of motion about thirty yards out got his attention; a scrap of fabric caught at the top of a container door twitched anemically in the almost nonexistence breeze.

That was it. No sign of a struggle. No sign of a lock or of recent use. This aisle was as empty as the last.

The once-bright blue fabric gave another little flicker, and Jack's brain automatically tried to calculate the wind direction when he realized two things in rapid succession.

That strip of fabric was exactly where he'd place a wind indicator if he intended to use the shipping crates as a shooting alley.

There was no wind direction to indicate, because there was no wind.

Jack started towards it first at a walk, then a jog. Coop was by his side in only a few strides.

"That one's marked. Think Trip's usin' it for somethin'." He raised his voice. "Mac! You hear me, bud?!"

The crate was a little more beat up than most, the door was bent all to hell at the top and bottom. It screeched in complaint as Jack tugged on the handle, and then Coop reached over him to help pry it fully open.

They didn't need a tac light to see that this crate was not empty. A mostly-naked body was lying in a heap almost on top of the doorframe, pressed up as close to that dent in the bottom as it could get.

"Mac!"

Dalton rolled him unresisting onto his back. MacGyver's skin was mottled red, hot and dry to the touch, and there was a little foam around his cracked lips. His eyes were closed. But he was still breathing, fast and shallow, and there was a rapid flicker of a pulse under Jack's searching fingers.

No blood. No sign of any bullet holes or gaping stab wounds. His pants were shredded and there was messily braided fabric half-wound around his hands, stained that same blue, but the fingers themselves didn't seem broken or injured. Yet under his hand, Jack felt a tremor work its way up Mac's tense, bruised chest, and his rapid breathing faltered.

"You're okay, brother, I gotchu," Jack soothed, supporting his head and jaw – and then he caught sight of the pale body of a scorpion just beyond Mac's shoulder. Smashed and very clearly dead.

"Sabre Three, Sabre Two. We found MacGyver in a shipping crate, heat casualty, nonresponsive. Advise, over." Coop's voice was steady and urgent. Mac's pulse was racing, and every sharp, shallow breath seemed to be a struggle.

Heatstroke. Severe. They had to cool him down pronto, but moving him could trigger a heart attack, or heart failure altogether. Add to that a possible scorpion sting -

The radio was only quiet for a second. "Get him back here right now."

Pete didn't have to say it twice. Coop put an enormous hand on Jack's shoulder, literally moving him out of the way before scooping Mac up like he weighed nothing, and then the giant operator turned and ran flat out for the main building.

Even carrying nothing but his own guilt and fear, Jack wasn't quite able to keep pace with the significantly taller operator, and by the time he cleared the door to the main admin building, Coop was already laying Mac down on the tile floor. In that moment he looked every inch the barely twenty he actually was, dwarfed by the operator gently supporting his head just the way Jack had, and then Pete slid to his knees beside MacGyver with an armful of water bottles.

Two of them were folded into Mac's armpits, and the medic shoved two more straight down the front of Mac's shredded pants, on either side of his groin. He placed a fifth very carefully beneath Mac's neck, and then popped the cap on the sixth and poured it slowly over Mac's torso.

Outside of uncoordinated twitches, MacGyver didn't respond at all.

"We gotta stop meeting like this," Pete joked to his patient in his ever-calm voice, even as Jack felt like screaming. As soon as the water bottle was emptied, the medic dropped it and glanced down the hallway. "Today, guys!"

One of the EOD techs hurried out of one of the side rooms, carrying more water and a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and it was the second that the medic grabbed first, uncapped, and started carefully pouring over his patient's scalp, guarding Mac's eyes as he did so.

"Uh, doc, didn't see a headwound -"

"Isopropyl alcohol evaporates faster than water," Pete murmured, like he was telling Mac and not Coop. "Takes more heat with it. Any indication he vomited?"

Jack finally found his voice. "Not much." Probably didn't even have water in his stomach to throw up -

"Good, less chance he got any in his lungs."

"Mighta gotten stung by a scorpion. Light-colored, not sure what kind."

The medic accepted that information with a nod, not stopping what he was doing for even a moment. And getting doused with water in the middle of the hallway didn't seem like the quickest way to cool him off. "Shouldn't we get him into a shower or somethin'?" Surely there were enough of them to keep him from drowning -

Pete shook his head, but it was one of the still-bound contractors that spoke up. "The cold tap up here's basically bathwater, it's not gonna help. We got the waterboarding tank downstairs, though –"

The medic shook his head again, tossing the empty bottle of alcohol and reaching for the bottled water – refrigerated, Jack realized.

"Moving him once was risky enough. He's close to cardiac arrest. I really need that cooling blanket," Pete added, still calmly. "Jack, go see what the holdup is?"

He started down the hallway before he realized he had no idea where the infirmary was, but it didn't matter – Duncan came barreling through the double doors at the opposite end of the hallway carrying what looked a little like the lead aprons they draped over you at the dentist before getting x-rays. Right behind him, one of the Triple Canopy contractors was shoving a waist-high wheeled machine wrapped in hoses.

The contractor was unrestrained, and Jack gripped his vest tightly to prevent himself from reacting when Pete and Dunc didn't hesitate to let the guy slide in at Mac's left hip. He started methodically assembling the hoses, actions quick and professional, and Duncan supplied him with the apron without a word before grabbing the power cord and hunting for a place to plug it in.

"Thank you-" Pete grunted, accepting the now-heavy apron and arranging it over Mac's chest and legs. It draped down to just below his knees.

A second later, a quiet hum filled the hallway, and the contractor leaned over the machine, making a few adjustments. Dunc reappeared, fishing what looked like an electric toothbrush out of his thigh pocket, and Pete accepted it and without hesitation stuck it in Mac's ear.

The thermometer beeped after a couple seconds, and Pete's expression didn't change in the slightest.

If Mac's struggle to breathe wasn't tipping Jack off, that certainly did.

"We're gonna need your O2 kit and the coolest saline you got-"

"I just popped a bag in the freezer," the contractor confirmed, twisting a final dial before he tapped Dunc's arm with the back of his hand and took off back down the hallway at a run. Duncan followed him without question.

Must be Trip Canopy's medic.

Jack watched them go, suddenly realizing how crowded the hallway was. All the contractors except Duke and the medic were still lined up and kneeling on the floor, and most of the EOD techs and their overwatches had returned, trying to keep out of the way while still watching everything that was happening.

If Mac was awake, he'd hate this.

In a kind of daze Jack went to Mac's side, crouching beside his tech, offering his back as a shield from some of the eyes staring at him. The cooling blanket hid that bruising, but Jack saw it anyway, saw every scratch on the kid, every crack in his lips, every bruise on his swollen foot, every stain on his fingers. He gently unwound the torn, messily braided fabric from Mac's curled hand. Clearly it had once been his pants. The same blue that had been on that wind indicator – also clearly made from Mac's pants – spotted the braids here and there. The heat was still pouring off the parts of him not covered, and the puddle Jack had put his knee in was already tepid.

He had fought like hell to get out of there, literally had to fight off a scorpion and god knew what other critters, and in the end all he could manage was to wave a flag and wait for rescue.

Jack's fingers tightened around the braid, and something occurred to him.

". . . it's scorpion blood," he said aloud, releasing the fabric to gently turn one of Mac's stained hands over.

"Hmm?" The medic followed his lead, studying his patient's other hand.

"Scorpions bleed blue." Maybe Mac hadn't been stung – though his swelling right foot said otherwise – and maybe he had. Still, he'd used what he had to find a way to get a signal out. He'd made a wind indicator out of a dead bug and his pants. Subtle enough that whoever put him in there wouldn't notice –

But a sniper would.

The thought jarred the kind of fugue state in Jack's head. The mission had been to find Mac and deliver him to medical care, and it was done. He was in Pete's hands now, capable hands that Jack trusted. There was nothing else to do –

Jack's fingers wrapped around the braid again, and he cut his eyes to the line of contractors.

"When can we move 'im?"

"Not until I can get his core temp down to 102," Pete said without looking up, slipping a pulse ox meter onto one of Mac's fingers. "We can't cool him as effectively on the 'hawk."

"What is it now?"

Pete studied the readout on the device. "Higher."

Which meant a lot higher. "Ground convoy still arrivin' at 1050?"

"Yeah."

Jack didn't glance at his watch, or the clock on the wall. He simply put a hand on Mac's shoulder, covered by the noticeably cool apron, and gave him a reassuring squeeze.

"You hang in there, brother, you hear me? We just gotta cool off that big brain o'yours and you'll be finer than frog hair."

Mac didn't respond one way or another, and Jack held onto him another moment. Then he raised his eyes to the man on Mac's opposite side.

"Doc, you take care of him now."

Pete dipped his head. "I am unfortunately familiar with this particular patient. We'll get him home." There was a lot of meaning in those four words, and both men knew how heavy a promise it was.

With that sentiment conveyed and received, Jack rose to his feet and stalked over to the line of contractors. When he had their eyes, he spoke, his voice low and quiet.

"Who did this."

A few of the men broke eye contact and looked away. A few of them exchanged glances. Two of them silently watched him.

One of those men was the last person on camera to touch Mac.

"It was you," Jack decided slowly, approaching him almost casually. "You didn't just put him in time out."

The contractor wore the same glare he had when he made the joke about Jack's momma, and he didn't look nearly sorry enough about it.

"Nah," Jack murmured, rubbing the braided fabric between his fingers. "You put him where you used to put us when you wanted us to sweat it out. 'Member that, boys?"

The other overwatches were keyed in, and their techs were starting to. A few of them played along, giving knowing nods.

"Only you can't leave a trainee in one of those containers after the sun comes up. Against protocol. Too risky. Temp climbs to what, hundred sixty, one sixty-five?"

The man he was staring down rolled his eyes. "Or he was lookin' for a place to lay low and closed the door. If you've been through it, you know they're child locked."

Child locked. The opening mechanism was on the outside only, so that any instructor could get it open in case of emergency, but the person inside could not.

"Idiot probably did it to himself. It was an accident."

Jack inhaled carefully. Then he chuckled. "Yeah. He is dumb as a box'a'rocks, that one," Jack agreed, twisting his lips into a friendly smile. "Looks like he damn near busted his foot tryin'a force that door open. Like he coulda broken a steel door." Jack held up the braid. "And what the hell did he think he was gonna do with this, huh?"

The contractor gave him a poisonous look, and shrugged. "He knew it was training. Shoulda stayed where I put him, but he was chasing a grade."

Jack felt his eyebrows climb, and the pit in his stomach deepen. "Chasin' a grade. Weird for such a total dumbass, right?"

"Guess he had something to prove."

Dalton raised his eyes to the other overwatches. "Funny you should say that, about proof. Ain't that funny, fellas?"

No one laughed.

There were footsteps behind Jack, more than one set. He didn't turn around. "Well, slick, you're right about that. He did have somethin' to prove. And he damn well proved it. And all you did was add an attempted murder charge to treason." Jack made a production of rubbing his head. "I guess that adds . . . life in prison to a death sentence? Not enough of an incentive to stop ya then, I guess."

"Wyatt." It was quiet, meant as a warning for Jack alone.

"I don't know what you're talking about," the man growled at him. "And speaking of proof, how 'bout you get some. Oh, wait, it doesn't exist."

Jack bared his teeth. "Was that an invitation? I think I heard an invitation."

Without waiting for a response, Jack grabbed the contractor's scalp left-handed and hurled his face towards the floor. The guy's hands were behind his back and he was on his knees, all he could do was shout and take the brunt of it with his shoulder. On the line, the other contractors reacted, shouting and starting to struggle to their feet - and in less than one full second every overwatch in the room had drawn a weapon.

But the presence behind Jack didn't touch him. Didn't grab him like Pete had earlier. Boxer – and apparently Duke – did nothing at all.

The show of firepower – with guaranteed live rounds – was enough to stop the other contractors cold, and Jack dropped his right foot on his target's back as the man tried to sit up. Then he jerked his chin at Molina, who was standing mostly in front a wide-eyed Charlie Robinson with his sidearm in a ready position, covering him.

"Member what I said about the bad guys?" He kept the same steady, conversational tone, turning to invite the rest of the EODs. "You're in training, after all. Might as well get some."

The corridor fell quiet, so that the hum of the cooling blanket and Mac's panting were the only sounds.

". . . you said they could change up their threads, but not their hardware," Zimmerman finally ventured.

Jack snapped his fingers, feeling the man under his boot flinch. "Exactly right. And you know what's been the only decent thing about being deployed this last week here in Kabul?"

Now he turned his eyes to his fellow overwatch.

Javier scoffed. "No wind."

"No wind," Jack agreed immediately. "Clean, easy shots every time, even at distance."

" . . . which means there's nothing to move the sand," Robinson reasoned slowly, then dropped his eyes to the man under Jack's boot. "Since he didn't change his boots, you've got pristine prints out there. All you need to do is take a mold and run a comparison."

Jack grinned at the other tech. "Class dismissed," he said approvingly. Then, to Javier, "Grab his boots, wouldja?"

He kept the man pinned as the other sniper did so, and Javier had only gotten one boot off before the other overwatch stepped forward, and relieved the rest of the contractors of theirs. As Jack looked down the line, he caught Box in his peripheral vision, and sure enough, it was Duke beside him. His hands were restrained in front of him, now, and his expression was calm and blank.

It was the expression he tried to teach in interrogation. He was assessing the men in front of him for signs of deviation from honesty.

Well, not like he could deny it now. The boot prints, whoever they truly ended up belonging to, were proof that a barefooted Mac hadn't stumbled into a self-locking container all by himself.

Someone put him in there to kill him.

The moment Javier was done, Jack gave the body under his heel a firm shove, then turned away from him altogether to see that the two medics were hooking up a bag of fluid to each of Mac's arms, and a soft mask had been fitted over his nose and mouth, attached to a large tank of gas with a green cap. While the movements were rapid, neither man seemed panicked, and Jack waited patiently, and did his job.

His only job.

He watched over his bomb nerd.

-M-

2022 HOURS, FRIDAY, BAGRAM AIR BASE

"Sergeant Dalton, do you have anything further to add?"

Jack took a deep, slow breath.

It was late. He was tired, damn tired of sitting in aircon in the TOC repeating himself to an agency he knew better than to wisecrack to.

He knew it.

And yet, the urge was mighty.

"I dunno," he drawled, then rolled his head on his shoulders so he was looking directly at Gates. "I got anything further to add?"

Brandon did not look nearly tired enough. "You've been very helpful," he said, rather than answering the question. "If I've got it all straight, on your own initiative, you investigated material theft, solicited orders to investigate further, completely ignored the limits of that authority and coerced seven other officers into potentially illegal arrests, deliberately shared classified intelligence with those who did not have a need to know-"

Jack opened his mouth to protest, only to have to close it again because technically Brandon was right. He hadn't said they didn't have clearance, he'd said they didn't have need to know.

Because they did have clearance. They were Delta, for fuck's sake. And quite frankly they did need to know.

"- planned and evangelized a recovery operation you did not have authority to execute, acquired key intelligence and evidence in a matter of national security as well as an attempted murder, and saved the life of a fellow serviceman."

Jack's mouth was still open, but he had to close it with a frown, unable to decide if he'd just been reprimanded or commended.

"That's the gist," he finally agreed, a little lamely.

The two other agents in the room – two people Jack had never seen before in his life, who had apparently been flown into Bagram to interrogate Bowman – glanced at their colleague but didn't comment. Gates' attention dropped to his phone as it vibrated with a new message.

" . . . well then, I think we're done for now. You may be called in tomorrow to clarify any details as we continue the debriefs, but it seems your presence has been requested elsewhere on the base, sergeant, and I see no reason to delay you further." Brandon raised his eyes to Jack's. "Dismissed."

Jack waited for the other shoe to drop, but when nothing else happened besides Gates giving him a politely confused look, he gave the agents a two-fingered salute and levered himself up out of the chair. When he opened the door to the small office off the main TOC, he was not surprised to find a uniformed body waiting for him.

"McDonald's," he greeted the private, whose eyebrows bobbed.

"You are nothing if not consistent. Sir," he added. "I have orders to escort you to the infirmary."

The blood in Jack's veins went cold.

All exhaustion forgotten, he beat the private out of the TOC, and had to force himself not to exceed a jog as he crossed the wide open space between the TOC and the other admin buildings.

"Sergeant –"

"I know where I'm goin'," he hollered over his shoulder, and did not stop until he hit the double doors.

It was after 2200, long past visiting hours, and there was a young man in scrubs hunched over the computer at the front desk, charting. He glanced up, then his face took on a disapproving look and he got to his feet, hand raised. "Sir, it's after hours. If you're injured, wait here and I'll get the nurse-"

"Specialist MacGyver. How is he."

The doctor took a breath to answer.

"Back here!" a different, familiar voice called, and the doctor looked more disapproving, if that was possible. Jack didn't care. He followed the voice beyond the front room, quickly glancing down the hallway.

The infirmary wasn't terribly busy; other than the active op earlier in the day – and of course their adventures at the Triple Canopy installation – there wasn't much activity going on in that section of the country. Add on to that one of the patients was involved in a classified operation, and it was easy to tell where the voice had come from. The room at the end with the light on.

Jack wasted no time getting there, more than a little irrationally afraid he was going to find a figure covered in a white sheet.

Pete wouldn't just drop it on him like that -

Would he?

The figure was in a white sheet – up to his chest, where the bruising was a vibrant blue, red, and purple against all the white. Like the white around his hands, which Pete was trying carefully to corral as Mac squirmed on the narrow bed.

For a second, Jack wasn't sure what to do.

"Hey hey, got somebody here who wants to see you," Pete crooned to his writhing patient, managing to pin Mac's mittened hands. His bomb nerd's eyes were closed, brows furrowed, and he didn't stop his uncoordinated attempt to escape. The sheet had ridden up, and the blue air cast on his restlessly shifting right foot – and ankle restraint on his left - became visible.

This wasn't a seizure. They'd had to restrain him.

"Today," Pete added drolly, and Jack shook himself and approached the bed. There was only one IV in Mac now, his left arm, so Jack went right. Pete was in the way, but he slid his hip off the bed, still pinning Mac's hands and clearly inviting Jack to take over. So he did.

Rather than pin them, Jack picked them up – stiff, restrictive medical mittens and all – and held them sandwiched between his own.

"Hey, hey, hoss, none of that. You're okay."

Mac didn't open his eyes, but Jack felt like his struggles reduced at least ten percent.

"There you go, bud. Easy does it. Just a bad dream." Mac was still squirming, so Jack didn't let go of his hands, but he did settle more firmly on the bed, giving Mac's hip a little bump with his own. Mac actually froze for a moment, like it registered.

"You with me, brother?"

The pucker between his eyebrows deepened, and Mac tried to tug one of his hands away. Jack didn't let him.

"You gotta leave that IV in, kay? Doc here worked hard to get it in ya so it's gotta stay till he says it can come out, yeah?"

Mac turned his face towards Jack, but still didn't open his eyes.

"There you go. I'm right here, dude. Not goin' anywhere."

Mac gave one more tug on his hands, his mouth turning down almost in annoyance, and Jack couldn't help a fond chuckle as he relaxed the pressure on them, laying them down on Mac's stomach. "You stop wavin' 'em around, I'll letcha have 'em back. Deal?"

The moment he was able, Mac drew one up to his chest, frowned a little, and swiped the sheet down to his waist. Then he sighed, pushed his left foot as far as the restraint would allow, and rolled a little to his right, into the dip Jack's weight was pressing into the mattress.

When it looked like he'd fallen back asleep, Jack turned to his former teammate and longtime friend. "It was just a nightmare, right?"

The medic had stepped away from the bed and was currently stretching his back with a series of loud pops. "Dunno. We've been trying to get him awake to check his cognitive state for a couple hours now, but, well, Exhibit A." Pete gestured half-heartedly at his fitfully-sleeping patient. "I don't wanna lower his pain meds any more or that foot's gonna really start hurting him. I can tell you that he really doesn't want anything touching him. Good sign," Pete added immediately, straightening with a wince, "it means he's situationally aware enough to remember he was in danger. If I had to guess, I think he's trying to swipe the bugs off."

Now that his hands were still, Jack gave in to the urge to wipe some of Mac's sweaty bangs out of his face. "He's still pretty hot, doc."

"Yeah. Fever, little under a hundred and one. Normal response to the heatstroke. I was about to give up lettin' it break on its own, but . . ." The medic spread his hands, his mouth curving up. "Binkie."

Jack rolled his eyes. "Maybe don't restrain a guy who just got almost murdered," he grumbled, gently working the buckle on one of the mittens loose. "He ain't a Delta, not like he's gonna come up swingin'."

"Oh yes he does," Pete disagreed, but Jack noticed he made no motion to stop him. "And since we can't let the regular nursing staff in until he's lucid enough not to spill classified intel, you're babysitting tonight."

Jack pulled the sweaty restraint off Mac's hand, noticing his fingers were clean. No blood, blue or red. Mac's hand curled a little, but otherwise he didn't wake, and Jack took that as permission to start working on the other one.

"Ain't no problem," Jack told him easily. "No place I'd rather be, hoss. You just sleep, I'll take first watch."

The second mitten came off without fireworks, and Jack discarded them both on the very small table beside the bed. "What's with the boot?"

"Couple broken bones, two jammed toes, hairline fracture in his heel. Looks like you were right; blunt force, self-inflicted, probably while he was in the container."

The dent in the bottom of the door, that he'd been basically curled right up on top of. He'd done that himself, barefoot. Jack funneled his anger into smooth, slow motions, focusing on the buckle of the ankle restraint.

"Scorpion get him?"

"Doesn't seem like it. Might be the only fight he won." Pete dropped into the physician's stool and Jack took a second to look at him as he unthreaded the nylon strap from the buckle. Pete actually did look as tired as Jack felt.

"You been with him the whole time." It wasn't a question.

"Yeah," Pete told him matter-of-factly. "He wasn't in great shape the first time we extracted him, but I'd have taken that again to this. Another twenty minutes in there would've killed him."

Twenty minutes. If he hadn't seen that wind indicator, it could have easily been thirty.

Jack forced himself to take a deep, slow breath.

"He tried coming around on the ride home, but he was delirious - and in case you are unaware, this young man is a deeply suspicious individual when he's semi-conscious." Jack absolutely agreed with the medic's assessment. "He's been less combative this go-round, though. Seems like he wants to give us a strip tease instead."

This time.

"You givin' the staff trouble?" Jack asked Mac softly, but he didn't wake.

"Good lookin' kid like him? Soon as he's lucid, he'll have all the nurses wrapped around his finger – even Jerry. Especially Jerry."

"Hey, don't ask, don't tell." Jack eased himself slowly up off the mattress, and Mac slept on. The next deep breath was easier. "He is good lookin' though. Must be all this beauty sleep he gets," Jack prodded, a little disappointed when Mac didn't respond. "The other techs call him Hollywood."

"You don't say," Pete drawled, and Jack pulled a face. "You're the one with the penchant for inappropriate nicknames, Jack, not the rest of us."

"There is nothing inappropriate about Carl's Junior." Even as he said it, he heard the echo of one of the Smith twins.

He really hates that nickname.

Jack ducked back into the hallway to locate a chair, which he tugged back into Mac's room, and closed the door. He settled himself this time on Mac's left, so he was between Mac and the door, and could keep an eye on the IV. " . . . doc, I can't leave him unsupervised for ten minutes without him gettin' into twenty kinds of trouble."

Pete nodded. "You'd've said the same about Coop and Dunc five years ago."

"And I'd'a been right." Jack tried not to sound defensive. "You guys look like you're doin' pretty good these days."

"We are," Pete agreed placidly. "It's like you never left. We still get regaled with stories of Texas, and Dunc and Coop still get up to all kinds of stupid shit."

The little pang that hit him that morning came back, just a beat of his heart, but it was gone as Jack looked at Mac's peacefully sleeping face. That wasn't his job anymore. "Coop's about ready for his own team," he commented.

"Yep." Pete studied him across the bed. "Speaking of, what's next for you?"

"Been wondering that myself," Jack admitted, then starting ticking his fingers. "We've checked off getting blown up, ambushed, attempted kidnapping, helo crash –"

Pete waved him off. "You know what I mean. You're Delta, went to the Company, left the Company - figured we'd seen the last of you in country, and then here you are coming back for this one."

The room was quiet, save Mac's reassuringly slow breaths and the faintest blipping of his heart monitor.

"Yeah, guess I did," Jack agreed, softly. "You and me, we were built for this – well, you were built for this," and he gestured at the room in general, even as Pete self-consciously waved him off, "when you get out you're gonna get them two little letters after your name, no ifs, ands, or buts."

"Jack, I'm just a combat medic -"

"You are more than that and you know it," Jack cut him off. "You saved his life, dude."

Pete slowly shook his head. "You and Coop saved his life, Jack. But if you wanna give me the credit . . ."

"You kept his brain from gettin' fully cooked, and I'm gonna be forever grateful to ya for it."

When the medic opened his mouth to protest, again, Jack narrowed his eyes, and after a second, Pete gusted out a sigh and gave up. Jack gave him an approving nod.

"So mebbe not you. But me, Coop, Dunc, Box . . ." So many brothers in arms, good men that he trusted with his life. "This is where we can do the most good. This right here." He stabbed a finger towards the window. Towards the world outside it. Then his eyes drifted back to the bed.

"Him, now . . . dude is so freakin' smart. He's like you. He's not made for just this. There's a lot more to this guy than a scrawny little bomb nerd." So much more. "He can do his most good somewhere else. And the number of lives this kid has saved, and the nothin' he asked in return for it . . ." Jack trailed off helplessly. "I'm gonna stick around, help him find that place." He hadn't really thought about it like that, but as he heard the words out loud, they fit. "And the first step in that is to keep him alive in this place."

Pete arched his back with another series of painful-sounding pops. "Yeah, well, so far so good, Tex, but the first thing you need to do is keep him in a place with decent aircon. Heat stroke victims are highly susceptible to relapse. Assuming his brain isn't fully cooked – which I think is a pretty safe assumption," he hastened to add at Jack's look, "he'll be out of rotation three weeks minimum, and you'll need to keep a close eye on him at least three weeks after that."

"Not a problem," Jack muttered, and the combat medic gave him a questioning look.

"More trouble with Trip?"

"Nah." Of course, Pete didn't know. He'd been here taking care of Mac. "Looks like Duke didn't know a damn thing about it. Bowman's the ring leader, roped two other guys in. Was gonna gun for Fischer's job when they were the Nostradumbasses who were able to guess where to set up shop next."

Pete snorted. "Boot print match your man?"

"Oh yeah." Mac shifted uneasily on the bed, and Jack took some of the edge off his voice. "They're headed for a very dark hole someplace stateside to think about what they did."

What they tried to do.

When Jack looked back at Pete, it was to see a soft smile on the medic's face. Which was weird. "You okay, doc? You're not usually the murdery type."

"You're right," Pete told him, the warm expression not fading for an instant. "I'm not at all surprised we had to go find this kid to get you to settle down back in Janabad, but I gotta say, I am surprised he won't settle without you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Pete told him honestly. "This is the calmest he's been all day."

As soon as Jack had softened his voice, Mac had indeed gone back to sleep – but not without shifting his head on the pillow, so that he was now slightly more left-facing.

Where Jack was sitting.

"You two gonna be good in here while I go find someplace to take a nap?"

"Yeah." Jack cleared his throat – quietly. "I'll just tell 'im about the time my pop flew that mission in Tijuana."

"Do that." Pete pushed the stool back against the wall and shuffled for the door. "Puts all of us to sleep every time."

"I know you didn't just say one of my pop's stories was boring-"

"It's the way you tell it," and then the door was quietly shut.

"Can you believe that guy? And to think I mighta missed him once or twice." Mac didn't really take a side, but that was okay. Jack got good and settled in. "So you be the judge, alright? I gotta set the scene, though . . ."

Mac drowsed for several more hours, only repeating his flailing trick a couple times – and Jack found he agreed with Pete, it was like Mac was trying to brush something off his body. Each time, Jack captured his hands but didn't pin them, and a few soft words could get him to settle. It was pretty clear the kid wasn't really awake.

A nurse stopped by to get his vitals, change up his fluids, and assure Jack that nursing staff with the proper clearance would be flown in first thing. Like it was a burden that he was sitting in the room, and would choose to be elsewhere if he could.

"Bud, in all honestly, the Air Force is seriously becoming my second-least-favorite branch of the US military," he told Mac as soon as she was gone. "But she did top off the good stuff, so you might as well get that shut-eye while you can."

A little after 0300 – well into Jack's ninth favorite rodeo story - Mac started to sweat like he meant it. Jack was just about to go find Pete when a clammy hand came up and swiped in irritation at Mac's bare, bruised chest.

"Sorry hoss, can't wipe pain off that way." God I wish you could. He glanced up the IV tree, but the bag of painkillers wasn't empty yet. "Just take a couple breaths. You're okay."

As before, Mac stilled. But this time, bright blue eyes squinted themselves open, and after a slow blink, stayed that way.

Jack dragged his chair a little closer to the bed. "Well lookit that. You with me?"

Mac dragged his eyes in Jack's direction, and stared at him.

Kinda through him, really.

Jack raised his eyebrows. "So that's a no, then," he concluded, and reached out to catch the hand that was wandering back towards Mac's chest. "That's alright. You had a long couple days. I can rustle you up a snack, if you wake up a li'l bit for me?"

He got a blink, no faster than the last. "J'ck," Mac finally decided. His voice wasn't more than a hoarse whisper.

"That's my name," Dalton confirmed, grabbing the nearby cup and waving it plus a straw in front of his bomb tech. Mac's eyes didn't track it.

Definitely not awake. "Yeeeaaaah, we're just gonna wait on the water, I think." He offered it one more time, but Mac took no notice of it. Instead, his eyebrows drew together in dawning confusion.

Then he jackknifed straight into a sitting position with a croaked, panicked shout.

The cup of water hit the floor as Jack extended an arm high across Mac's chest – above the bruising – and one behind him to catch him when he lost his balance. And it happened that quick. Mac didn't have the core strength to hold himself up, and as soon as his half-raised arms tangled in Jack's BDUs, his spine turned into a Slinky. The arm around his back basically controlled his fall back into the mattress.

"Whoa now," Jack cautioned, as Mac's eyes rolled in his head, trying to take in everything at once. "Just take a breath, now, you're back at Bagram. You're good."

Mac scrabbled a little at the arm in his grasp, and then it seemed to occur to him that he was grasping something, because his chin dropped to his chest as he tried to focus on the fabric clutched in his fingers.

"Yeah, I know what you're thinkin'. That's some mighty fine digicam. Bet you want some of your own, huh." Jack slowly extricated the arm that was trapped between Mac's back and the mattress, and Mac's confused gaze moved back to him. "So you can take it off with everythin' else."

Mac stared at him for a second, then sighed, and as he exhaled, all the tension left his body. Jack thought for sure when he closed his eyes that was going to be it for the excitement, but the kid surprised him, and opened them again.

"Jack." This time it seemed like less of a question.

"In the flesh." He made no move to remove his arm from Mac's half-curled fingers. It didn't seem like Mac remembered he was still holding the fabric. "You're gonna be fine, dude. Back at base, all the bad guys scooped up and arrested."

Mac considered that, and as out of it as he was, Jack could actually watch his thoughts cross his face in real time. "You're safe, Mac. Can you say it for me?"

His lips sucked slightly inward, like he thought about opening his mouth and repeating it, but he discarded that effort quickly. Then he changed his mind.

" – 'tainer . . ."

"That container's in the rearview, you don't gotta worry about that." As happy as Jack was that he clearly remembered at least part of the last couple days, he wouldn't have been heartbroken to hear that particular memory had evaporated with everything else in that godforsaken tin can. "Thanks for hangin' that windsock for me, though. Good thinkin'."

Mac opened his mouth, then closed it again with a soft exhale. "Knew y'd see it," he murmured. When his eyes closed again, they stayed that way.

-M-

Pete shambled into the room a hair before 0600, dragging a hand through his messy hair. "Both still here? I'm stunned."

Jack gave him a wide yawn and a single finger.

"Looks like he's sleepin' enough for both of you."

"Yeah," Jack agreed, taking the opportunity to stretch. "Pulled his usual. Woke up, looked around, turned over, went back to sleep."

The medic watched the stats on the displays for a moment. "So if he keeps pattern, that means he's going to stay sacked out for the next twenty-four?"

"Gonna have to ask him."

"I was going to . . ." a voice ventured from the doorway, and the face there - this one looking quite a bit more awake and clean-shaven than any of the other men in the room – gave them a sunny smile, and held up two Styrofoam cups of something steaming.

Jack thought about ignoring him out of principle, but he was tired, and the coffee smelled good. He was really gonna have to give this stuff up when he got back stateside.

"Yeah, sorry, debrief's gonna have to wait." Jack didn't even try to pretend that he wasn't in the least bit sorry. He did, however, accept the coffee that was offered to him in spite of this.

"How's he doing?"

Pete snagged a thermometer off its hanger on the wall and put it to Mac's ear. He didn't wake. "Ninety-eight point four. I see the fever broke."

"Not the only thing," Jack muttered, carefully not looking at the cracked plastic water cup sitting on the patient table. He instead took a deep draught of the coffee. Black, one sugar.

Gates remembered. And he was demonstrating it.

Pete blinked inquiringly at Jack, but when he didn't offer any further explanation, turned to their guest. "Specialist MacGyver is going to be fine. He'll be pretty wiped for the next few days, I don't recommend letting him leave the bed, and certainly not the infirmary. You need to debrief him, you'll have to do it here."

"Of course," Gates accepted immediately. "We have staff coming in at oh eight hundred with the proper clearance. He'll be well taken care of."

Pete gave the man a dispassionate look. "Did he just dismiss me?" he asked Jack without turning his head.

"Yup," Jack confirmed. "At least he got you coffee from the officer's mess first."

The combat medic mulled that over, than accepted the offered cup. "Let him sleep, he needs it. And Jack, try to get some food into him the next time he wakes up."

"Sir yessir."

"In fact . . ." The medic sidestepped Gates and disappeared down the hall, muttering something that sounded like 'cheese doodles'.

"Get me some too!" Jack called after him, and then Gates stepped forward and helped himself to the chart at the foot of Mac's bed.

"Don't pretend you don't already know everything on that."

"Okay I won't," Gates agreed pleasantly. "Was he lucid when he woke up?"

"Y'mean did he give me any impression that he remembers what the hell happened to him?"

"Yes, that's what I mean," the agent confirmed, flipping a page on the chart.

Jack blew across the top of the coffee cup. "You don't need his testimony." They had all the proof they needed, even without Mac, even without those assholes ever confessing to diddly shit.

"You're right." Gates flipped the chart back into order and tucked it quietly into its bracket at the end of the bed. "I'm more interested in how he noticed there was a discrepancy with the inventory."

"And I'm more interested in how you knew that he and I would be here," Jack replied, in the same tone of voice.

Brandon stared at the sleeping young man on the bed for a long moment. "Let me know when he wakes up."

"Dude. Seriously. It's gonna be a minute."

A grin split Brandon's face. "Well, I've got another three days of cleaning up this particular incident, so. I guess we'll have time to get that drink after all."

Jack grunted. "Hope your lackeys are bringin' it with 'em." And whatever it was went well with coffee.

"They're not my lackeys, Jack." Gates crossed the room to the door, checked it apparently for Pete, and then closed it. When he turned, his face was thoughtful. "You've been working with him a year now, right?"

The light bulb finally clicked, and Jack could have kicked himself for not realizing it before. "You're here to recruit him." It wasn't a question.

Not anymore.

Gates shrugged. "Can't say I wasn't hoping to run into you two while I was here. Two birds, one scone."

Just the mention of food made Jack's stomach gurgle hopefully, and he narrowed his eyes at the intelligence agent. "That was low."

Brandon chuckled. "Alright, fine, too far. Let me make it up to you." He looked again to the bed, tucking his hands into the pockets of his BDUs. "I looked into the orders. And you're right, he was hand-picked for SERE training. In fact, he was the only one hand-picked for SERE." Gates turned to face him directly. "The rest of his class were just butts in seats to meet quota."

Jack stared at him, trying to decide if it was real intelligence, or just a play on his already paranoid nature. "Your people?"

Gates shook his head once. "Think it's safe to say we're not the only ones interested in recruiting him. That's worth putting in a good word for me, isn't it?"

Jack took another slug of coffee to buy himself some time to think. "Did someone put us here just to see if he'd blindly stumble onto your leak?"

Gates didn't break eye contact. "Gotta say, Jack, your instincts are as sharp as ever. Seriously, if you're looking for a change of scenery, we could use you both." His eyes cut briefly back to the bed. "I hear you're a package deal."

"Get out," Jack told him – not harshly. He crumped up the Styrofoam and made a hook shot at the small trashcan.

"Seriously, have me paged when he wakes."

"Seriously – get out."

Brandon held up his hands in surrender and made leaving motions. "He's wasted out here. You both are."

"Sell it to someone who's buyin'."

-M-

1142 HOURS, MONDAY, BAGRAM AIR BASE

Something in the room was rustling.

Mac took a deep, silent breath, lazily enumerating the options in his head. "You know, you do paperwork so rarely I didn't recognize the sound."

More rustling – this time with a little more substance. Fabric, not just paper. "Har har, smartass. One of us has to keep Martinez off your back."

Mac made no move to open his eyes. Or to move in any way. "How is it possible that I literally just woke up, and I am more tired than I was when I fell asleep?"

An audible exhale. "Pretty sure that life-suckin' daystar out there's got somethin' to do with it."

Daystar. That was a fun perspective shift. ". . . you got that from a vampire movie, didn't you."

" . . . no . . ." Then, "An' if I did, it was a good piece of writin'."

"Unlike whatever you're inflicting on those innocent sheets of wood pulp."

A chair creaked. "You are definitely feelin' better, 'cuz when you went to sleep on me last you didn't have the energy to sass."

Mac gave up, and opened his eyes. Same room in the infirmary. Same bed. Same enormous insulated mug on the table hovering over his stomach, holding the worst-tasting rehydration solution he'd ever encountered. Mac made a face even as he reached for it. "At least we got real Gatorade in training."

He choked down a few swallows of the stuff anyway– anything to keep any further metals and catheters from entering his body.

"You hungry? Y'got at least seven gophers who'll getcha damn near anything, all you gotta do is ask." Jack was where Mac had left him, which was to say in a chair someone had stolen for him from the TOC – and how anyone smuggled a chair out of the most secure building on the base was the question he had pondered as he fell asleep – and he'd commandeered Mac's bedside table to spread out a respectable number of pages.

At least one of them was using the time productively. Mac couldn't even stay awake, and he was pretty sure it was Monday.

What had Jack asked him?

Right. Food. "Wouldn't say no to a steak."

"You and me both, brother." Jack resettled in the chair. "Think you graduate to real food today."

Yippee. "I won't take salisbury steak day for granted any time soon, that's for sure."

His overwatch took that in stride. "Yeah, hunger is the best Spice Girl an' all that."

Despite himself, Mac smiled. "Really?"

Jack spread his hands. "Whatever. Close enough."

"Hunger is not one of the Spice Girls, Jack."

Jack snorted. "You seen them? I guaran-fucking-tee you they're ALL Hungry Spice."

"And which one are you, Old Spice?"

Jack's mouth fell open, and he cast around for something to throw. Unfortunately, apparently the paperwork was off limits, and he only had one pen, because he had to settle for kicking the bed. "Lay off the old jokes or you're gettin' a bottle an' another nap, there, Captain Crankypants."

"I don't even have pants," Mac complained. Oddly, it made a faint memory surface. ". . . though I think I had that dream where you show up to the final exam naked in front of the whole class . . ."

"Yeah?" Jack gave him more of his attention. "You know they're gonna wanna debrief you today."

Mac rolled his eyes and cast around for his own ammunition to throw, seriously considering sacrificing his insulated mug of electrolytes. "Really, Jack?"

The man waved a careless hand. "Pun not intended. You'll be off the hard painkillers twenty-four hours at twelve hundred."

Mac staunchly ignored the tightening in his gut that came with that proclamation. Honestly he was surprised he hadn't already received orders. "And you can't tell me anything until then, right?"

It was protocol. He had to give them the information from his perspective and memory, and there were still a lot of questions in his mind as to what truly happened on the Triple Canopy installation.

Or if it even existed anymore.

"I can tell you everyone made it home alive." His overwatch's brown eyes softened a little, even as his voice turned serious. "Including you."

Mac scoffed. "But you can't tell me why they tried to kill me." He tried to play it off, in the same teasing tone, carefully not letting his voice catch on the last two words.

Jack paused, then heaved a sigh, and Mac waved him off. It was stupid, this wasn't even the first time someone had tried to kill him. He was in an active combat zone, and there were a lot of people who'd pay a lot of money to see an EOD technician wind up dead. "I know the rules, sorry I - "

"They weren't just smuggling a crate of clackers here and there," his overwatch told him shortly. "They were also sellin' highly classified military intelligence."

. . . what?

Mac stared at him, electrolyte solution completely forgotten, and when it almost spilled he plunked the cup on his table and pushed himself up a little straighter in the bed. "What kind – to who? Triple Canopy?"

Jack dipped his chin. "Couple of the contractors were bad – not all, just some. They musta heard through the grapevine you were diggin', and decided to put a stop to it."

Through the grapevine.

"Actually, I told them," Mac confessed. God, even at the time he'd known it was stupid, but now the full weight of that mistake was apparent and Mac couldn't help but shake his head at his own arrogance. "I mean, they knew I was investigating, they name-dropped Stinson and tried to tell me it was part of the training-"

"And you responded the way you always do when someone gives you a line," Jack finished.

He didn't sound disappointed. He kind of sounded proud.

Mac frowned at him. "Which was clearly a mistake."

To which his overwatched offered a one-shoulder shrug. "Depends what you told 'em."

"That I tasked an unidentified private with finishing the inventory."

Jack's expression didn't really change. "K'," he accepted patiently, "that's what they got. What did you get?"

"Thrown into a metal shipping container in the middle of the Afghani desert," Mac deadpanned. Jack simpered at him, and Mac made a face back, and actually thought about it. "They – well, he dropped his accent," Mac remembered aloud. "It did surprise him, but I thought he was acting."

"He bein' Bowman?"

Mac considered that a second, then shrugged. "I don't think I know his name. But he's not the guy who –" Mac cut himself off.

Nope. Not that guy.

And of course Jack didn't let it go at that. "Not the guy who . . .?"

". . . not the guy who did my earlier interrogation," Mac supplied flatly. "Not that it matters, there were at least seven contractors."

"More'n that," Jack corrected him automatically. "An' I'm pretty sure I'm pickin' up what you're not puttin' down." Mac didn't know when he'd dropped his eyes to his lap, but he raised them to see that Jack wasn't mocking him. His face and eyes were serious. "Good lookin' dude like yourself?" He gestured at his own face. "Hello? Brother, you ain't the first to go through that kinda trainin' and you sure as hell won't be the last."

Almost against his will, Mac laughed. "Is that why . . . you wouldn't tell me anything . . . ?"

A conflicted look crossed his cover's face, and seemed to settle on regret. "It's one thing to read it in a book, and another to find out in person. You learn a lot in a trainin' like that one." His eyebrow and lips quirked. "I think you learned a little too much, but it's good to know how you react. It ain't fun, that's for sure, but it's . . ." He trailed off. "Enlightening."

That was a word. He was definitely enlightened. Into an entire world of unpleasantness that Jack was right – he didn't fully appreciate when he simply studied the manual.

"Can't say they get it quite right, they can't really go far enough, but that kinda interrogation – they're warmin' you up for the ladies, and I don't mean in the fun sexy times kinda way." Jack blew out his cheeks. "Female interrogators – dude. They're the ones you gotta watch out for."

Mac cocked his head a little. That was more detail than Jack had shared in a hundred rambling stories that only barely claimed not to have been covert operations. "Are you speaking from personal experience?"

Jack's eyebrows shot for his hairline, and for a second, he looked almost alarmed. "Oh hell yeah," he admitted, without a trace of hesitation. "Zero outta ten stars, man. Do not recommend." He gave a dramatic shudder, then had to scramble to catch his pen before it rolled off the small table. Jack then pointed it at Mac. "Even when they're on your side, they are scary as hell. Especially when they're on your side."

"You . . . you fought a liger with your bare hands, and you're afraid of female interrogators," Mac teased him, eager to lighten the mood, and Jack gave him a long look.

"I would fight three ligers with my shootin' hand tied behind my back before I'd willing enter a room with some of those chicks. Now," and he set the pen back on the table with a precise click, "before you start gettin' all skittish on me, let's get back to the other guy."

Mac suppressed a sigh. Think of it like debrief training.

The kind that wouldn't end with him dead.

"Not much to say. As soon as I told him I'd set a private to do the inventory, he offered me a couple deals if I'd abandon the investigation. I didn't take them, he told the guy behind me to 'change my mind', and he left."

Jack's expression remained deceptively mild. "Change your mind." He said it like he was tasting the words.

Mac shrugged a little, and picked his huge insulated mug back up, just for something to do with his hands. Jack surprised him by giving a soft whistle.

His overwatch plucked a paperclip off his paperwork and offered it over the bedrail.

"How exactly did he go about changing your mind?"

Mac automatically accepted the paperclip, considering and then dismissing the gesture as anything but Jack being thoughtful. "Took me out to the container, tossed me in. Gave me thirty seconds to cave. I told him no, he said that he believed me, and, uh, he walked away."

He walked away. There was nothing in his tone indicating it was the last offer, or that it was even that significant. Like he hadn't even cared about the answer.

. . . because he hadn't.

Mac had straightened the thin metal in his fingers, and he rolled it between them. "They were never going to let me leave the training."

"No," Jack said quietly. "They weren't."

"Even if I agreed to bury the inquiry."

His overwatch gave a solemn nod. "If you'd flip on your principles like that, no reason to believe you wouldn't flip on them soon as you were in the clear."

If someone would cheat on another lover to be with you, they'd cheat on you to be with another lover.

Mac stared at the wire between his fingers. "To answer your question, what did I get, I guess it was confirmation that I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life."

"You think?" Jack leaned back in his chair and got comfy, and Mac gave him a weird look.

"Well, it almost killed me, Dr. Phil, so going with yeah. I think."

Jack snorted. "Let's be real, Angus, you've done at least five dozen things that've almost gotten you killed and that's just since I've known ya."

". . . point," Mac conceded. "It's just, I knew it was a mistake the second I said it, but I was . . ." He twisted the half-bent wire up to tap the bottom of the table hovering over his knees. "Wanted to show him up. Insulted, I guess, at being underestimated."

"We call that cocky, chief. Which you are damn near every day."

Mac's lips pulled themselves into a half smile. "Am I really that bad?"

His cover made a quiet noise. "You shoulda seen the smirk on your face when I grabbed your arm and told ya that I was a lost cause, and you couldn't disarm a bomb in less than a minute."

Mac was gesturing with the bent paperclip before he could help himself. "Your mistake was telling me I couldn't do something."

Jack grinned, then. "Yeah, I guess you're right about that. Slick."

He shook his head with a sigh, still feeling the weight of Jack's eyes on him as he pretended to focus on the paper clip.

"My point here is that cocky ain't all bad. Cocky is just excessive confidence and a total lack of fear."

"You are really selling it there, Jack." In his peripheral vision, Jack gave a careless shrug.

"Bein' fearless is what you do all damn day, dude. You gotta be sure of yourself if you're walkin' up to a bomb, or a sniper, or anythin' else that could kill you. Self-doubt prolly killed just as many as over-confidence." Mac turned, his lips twisted to reply, and Jack held up a hand with a no-nonsense look. "I'm serious, now. You walk into that kinda life or death situation and then hesitate? You know how many of our brothers and sisters been sent home under a flag for that? Only gotta happen once and it's adios."

Mac didn't agree with the math but decided it wasn't worth the argument that would follow. "And if I'd kept my mouth shut and stayed quiet they wouldn't have gotten their confirmation."

"They didn't need you to confirm what they already knew," Jack disagreed. "Stinson told Bowman you were onto 'em. Nothing you did or didn't do. All that feelin' out was just to see if you were dirty, and I'm pretty sure they already knew that answer too."

From their perspective, an easy assumption. Stinson hadn't been able to scare him off, after all. "They offered me his job. Stinson's," Mac clarified. "If I'd said I was willing to take it –"

"They'd still have done exactly what they did," Jack interrupted. "The second you stuck your face in, you were a problem for them. All they really wanted to get outta ya was anyone else ya offered your soup sandwich to."

Donnell, for example.

"And I basically told them" Mac admitted glumly. "New private to the base. Process of elimination."

"An' me," Jack added unhelpfully, and Mac shot him a look. As expected, his overwatch didn't look the least bit unhappy or intimidated by this prospect.

And he shouldn't. Because, despite the intelligence drought Mac was currently experiencing, he knew that men from Bagram had arrived at the Triple Canopy installation several hours before their scheduled pickup. He vaguely remembered the same medic that had pulled him out of that cave, that had interrupted a throw-down with Jack's old Delta team, being in this very room.

Pete. Jack's old Delta team had extracted him.

Again.

Someone on base had realized that military intelligence was being sold on the black market, and how. Mac might have started that timer, but he didn't detonate the bomb.

"I wasn't aware of that at the time," Mac offered, well aware that he was fishing and Jack would know he was fishing. "But clearly Donnell gave you the report, and you read it." Which kicked off a chain reaction of questions in Mac's mind. "So how did you figure it out?"

"Same way you would've." Jack said it like it was the most sensible thing in the world. Like he believed it. "Well, mebbe not quite, since an ol' spook showed up on base a day after you were gone, and that was kinda a red flag. But I took your lead, bud. Started at the front gate, worked my way back."

The front gate. "That was a dead end," he pointed out, but Jack was already shaking his head.

"You just ran outta time is all," he corrected. "Five more seconds and you'd've asked the same questions I did. Seen the pattern between shit going missin' and Triple Canopy bein' on base. You'd've checked the badge access logs after that, lined up all the buildings, and then it woulda been obvious to ya. You didn't have enough time, hoss, and didn't know what you were lookin' at. None of us did."

His urge not to later inadvertently give away that Jack had just broken multiple espionage laws was the only thing strong enough to quash his curiosity. "Maybe, maybe not, but I am sure I wouldn't still be here if you hadn't picked it up." Ironic, considering that not even three hours ago his overwatch had proclaimed the reports he was currently surrounded by were giving him hives. Jack had trusted that Mac was digging into something real, and continued pursing it even after Mac left, and without being asked. "Thank you."

Dalton then fixed him with a look that Mac could only label as 'confused'. "Chief . . . none of it would've changed a damn thing if you hadn't've done what ya did to mark your location. I don't think the doc told you how close it was." A disturbed look crossed his overwatch's face. "How much of what happened in that container do you remember?"

The way he said it, it mattered to him. And Mac struggled to find an answer worthy of that. "Honestly, it gets kind of fuzzy," he admitted reluctantly. "It took me too long to figure out what was going on."

"You remember gettin' pulled out?"

He could only shake his head and study the half-shaped metal wire in his hands. "No. I remember realizing I was probably going to die of heatstroke. And I remember what I did to this." He lifted his boot-covered right foot a few inches off the mattress. "Bought some time."

He remembered the calculations. He'd done them over and over.

Jack grunted. "Well, you ripped up and braided your pants, but far as we could tell ya didn't use 'em for much. You remember why?"

Unfortunately, that was where the fuzziness started in earnest. Mac's eyes flicked sightlessly across the far wall. "I . . . probably tried to get at the exterior latch. Door mechanism was boxed off from the inside." It was discouragingly unlikely he'd have managed to hook it, given he had nothing to weight the end with, but it was the only thing that made any sense to him. "Weren't a lot of options."

His overwatch scoffed. "Comin' from you, pretty sure that means no other options."

Certainly no good ones. "I thought about trying to get my hands on a scorpion as a weapon, but that would only have worked if they'd come to check on me, and that was apparently not part of the plan."

"Don't think they had much of a plan, dude. It woulda killed ya, you're right about that, but it's not like it woulda stopped the investigation."

Mac wasn't sure what he was supposed to do with that piece of information. "How did they find me?" If no one knew why he'd tried to make rope, it was pretty clear that idea hadn't worked, so -

"You put up a wind indicator," Jack told him matter-of-factly. "That dent you broke your foot makin' created just enough movement to spot it, if you knew what to look for. A lot more subtle than your Rapunzel idea, which is why we snipers use 'em."

That was the other option, of course. Mark his position and wait for rescue. That someone on the campus would realize he required rescue. Even though the staff of said campus were the ones to put him there in the first place, making it even less likely to succeed than hooking the latch.

And yet that was the option he'd chosen.

Mac rewound the last thing Jack had said and realized something else. Jack had just strongly hinted that he was the person who found the indicator Mac had apparently hung. Jack hadn't just sent his old Delta team to retrieve him.

He'd gone with them.

"Guess I was counting on one of my classmates realizing I was missing." Mac was more than half-sure that wasn't actually what he'd been counting on.

"Guess so," Jack drawled easily. "Sounds to me like you looked at your shit options, and you picked one. Didn't even try the other, or at least you didn't get that far with it."

He was expecting to get called out, but not like that, and Mac glanced at his overwatch in confusion. ". . . not sure I was in any condition to."

"My point," Jack continued like Mac hadn't spoken, "is that you didn't hesitate. You started down one road, assessed, changed tactics, and committed. More importantly, you pivoted from self rescue to rescue assist. You gave us a way to find you. Might be a little early to call it, but . . ." Jack hesitated, expression unusually serious, then he blew out his cheeks in a huge sigh. "I do believe the US Army has finally gotten somethin' through that thick skull."

Mac stared at his overwatch, fully cognizant that Jack was giving him an out, and just as aware that it was one he should not take. "Wasn't the Army."

He registered first surprise, then something soft cross Jack's face, a mixture of pride and gratitude and a few other things that Mac still wasn't comfortable naming. All he could offer Jack in return was a smile.

For once, Dalton didn't draw attention to it. Instead, he cleared his throat. "I ever tell you how I didn't get recruited by the CIA?"

The non-sequitur threw Mac for a little loop. "Pretty sure it would be illegal to tell me if you did?"

"Yesterday that mighta been true," Jack conceded, glancing down at the papers strewn around. "When you do your job so well that someone tries to kill you about it, it tends to draw attention." Jack made a small 'ah-hah' sound and picked up something quite small. He then held it up between his thumb and forefinger. It was a dark square, roughly half the size of a standard zipper pull. Mac gave it a quizzical look, and Jack offered it for inspection.

Inspection didn't reveal much more than the fact that the base of the thing was a circuit board, with adhesive on one side, and a couple tiny modules attached to what was likely the smallest lithium ion battery Mac had ever seen. It could power something quite low voltage -

"Sorry about that tinny taste in your first cuppa water." He didn't sound apologetic in the slightest.

Mac stared at the device another few moments, then hesitantly offered it back. "Is that a listening device?"

"State of the art," Jack confirmed. "And not cheap."

Mac digested that. "Where did you find it?"

Jack's eyebrows drew together in either thoughtfulness – or irritation. "Inside the clip on your chart."

Which, while probably accurate, wasn't terribly helpful. "Who would -" But then he realized Jack had already told him. "Your old spook friend who showed up."

"Got it in one," Jack confirmed. "And since it seems like holdin' out on ya isn't a great strategy, I'm gonna change it up here. After your debrief, pretty sure a couple'a folks are gonna feel you out a little, maybe even offer you a job."

Mac just stared at him. Jack couldn't be serious. The listening device was probably there just to make sure Mac – or Jack - really hadn't been in on the intelligence theft. "I already have a job."

"Yeah, you do, bud, and I ain't sayin' it's not an important one. All I'm sayin' is, think about the kinda IEDs you can disarm here, the good you're doin' here, and then think about the bigger problems out there, and what you can do about those."

I can't just leave the Army. "Kinda in the middle of a deployment here."

Jack's lips thinned. "You're gonna get an honorable discharge, Mac. Forget the broken bones, a US military contractor tried to kill you. Most people wouldn't want much to do with Uncle Sam after that."

"Wasn't Uncle Sam's fault," Mac defended, not sure why.

The way Jack's expression changed, Mac was pretty sure Jack didn't agree. "Be that as it may, I told you all that to say this. If they do make you an offer – an' no matter what they tell you, you got time to think it over – you need to make the best decision for you. Not whatever they try an' guilt or pressure you into, and not what you think anybody else would want you to do."

Mac didn't know how to react. "Okay," he finally ventured. "And that's different from any other job offer exactly how? Are you telling me the CIA blackmailed you into working for them?"

It didn't seem to be the response Jack was looking for, because he straightened up in his chair. "It wasn't like that," he denied, before he pressed his lips together and shook his head. "An' my situation ain't like yours. They needed me to do the same thing I was doing in the Army. You got more than one skill set to bring to the table."

"Jack, you are more than one skill set," Mac protested. "And in case you've forgotten, I don't even have a college degree-"

"Diploma's just a piece of paper. You got nothin' to prove here, Mac, not to them, and not to me." His overwatch's tone was unyielding.

"Jack –"

Dalton cut him off by swiping a knife-hand through the air. "Nope. Uh-uh." The flat hand resolved into a finger waving in Mac's face. "This notion you got, that you gotta somehow earn what comes automatically to everyone else, that's gotta go. You're a grown man, despite that mug, and you need to start thinking about yourself, and what's right for you. Not what's best for everybody else."

Mac balked at the insinuation; it wasn't like he was some selfless angel who couldn't tell someone no - and he also wasn't a guy who could just shrug off his prior obligations and cut bait. "Jack –"

"Don't you 'Jack' me. No matter what you do, hoss, the rest of us are gonna be just fine." He gestured expansively at the room. "You just went through trainin' with a room fulla fellas that can take care of business here. I told you a year ago, and I'm gonna say it again. That feeling I had, that you're too valuable to Uncle Sam to lose just yet? That ain't just a feeling."

Was Jack really telling him that the CIA wanted to recruit him? To be a secret agent? Obviously they existed – he was sitting across from one – but the idea just sounded so . . .

Absurd. Patently so.

"Based on all those stories you didn't tell me, I don't think that I'm exactly what the CIA is looking for." Sitting behind a desk all day, doing the same kind of analysis he'd done on the inventory sheets, couldn't possibly compare with what he was doing now. Even if it could potentially effect change on a greater scale.

. . . could it?

Jack grimaced. "I walked away from that life, not gonna lie, but I will tell you this – my old spook buddy, he ain't with the CIA. That's not a place I'd recommend for you, tell you that right now."

Mac stared at him. " . . . then what are we talking about . . . ?"

Jack waved him down. "He's with another outfit these days, don't know much about 'em outside of the rumint. They handle things a little differently, have a little more latitude to get creative." Jack seemed to hesitate. "It'll be worth your time to listen to his pitch. He gives you a line, you just do what you did with Bowman."

"Give away all my leverage and get thrown into a cell?"

Jack wrinkled his nose. "I don't think you're gonna make that mistake again any time soon, brother."

No. No, he wasn't.

"And you remember, now – you ain't less than. I get that you're young, and it's hard to put a label on what you can do. You need to understand that you're gettin' a seat at that table because of what you've already accomplished, and not just for bein' in the right place at the right time. You get me?"

Right place at the right time.

And what place was that? An EOD supply tent looking at mismatched signatures? An overheating semi truck container in the middle of dozens more just like it? He certainly wouldn't be recognized for what he'd managed to accomplish on the Triple Canopy installation.

"The contractors – the clean ones – what will happen to them?"

Jack permitted the topic shift. "Oh, I 'spect Trip Canopy will be blacklisted, and they'll need to set up fresh meat with a new name to qualify again. Guys like Duke, they never really go anywhere. Don't really ever adapt, either," The second part seemed to be almost to himself, and Jack actually looked surprised to hear his own mouth say it.

And Mac realized why Jack was telling him what he was telling him. Do what was best for himself, and not worry about what would happen to anyone else. Like the guy who re-upped to keep him safe.

"And what about you?" Mac asked quietly.

Jack gave an exaggerated tilt of his head. "Now what did I just say about-"

"You re-upped contingent on being paired with me," Mac cut him off, not unkindly. "Hypothetical job offer aside, if I'm getting kicked, what does that mean for you?"

His overwatch started to open his mouth to say something ridiculous and insincere, and Mac frowned at him. It worked; Jack reluctantly closed it, and considered his next words more carefully. "If I want out, they'll let me out. I wanna stay, they'll let me do that too."

"And which do you want?"

"Doesn't matter." The answer was immediate. "This ain't about me, hoss."

"Well, actually, it really is," Mac reasoned. "We're a package deal, right?

His partner gave him a long look, and Mac searched his expression, all his tells. Looking for confirmation that he wasn't wrong.

"We already laid out a few potential business ventures," Mac reminded him. "And I don't know what got you kicked out of the CIA to begin with –"

"Hey, there was no 'kickin' out' –"

"- or whether or not they or any other intelligence agency would be willing to hire you –"

"Just what the hell are you tryin'a say here-"

" – so I really do need to know if you're going to choose to stay here and finish out your deployment, just to be fully informed of all my post-Army employment options."

Jack sighed, deflating just a little. ". . . bud . . ."

Mac glanced at the obviously inert listening device. Too bad it was dead; it could probably save him a lot of time. "If the offer is for an analyst role, I can already tell you the answer's gonna be no."

His partner didn't really seem surprised. "Because of your grandpa?"

Mac nodded. Of course Jack remembered. "I left MIT for the same reason. I need to be solving practical problems, not theoretical ones."

"Well, I can't say you'd be a shit analyst, because you'd be great at it, but no. Pretty sure they'd want you for a field agent."

"Because of the bug?"

Jack gave a short nod. "Prolly wanted to assess how freaked out you were by what happened. Which is, by the way, in my not so humble opinion, not nearly enough."

Mac couldn't help a little grin. "One of my many character flaws."

"Yeah, yeah," Jack grumbled. "So if that's the offer, is that somethin' you'd consider?"

And again, Jack gave him nothing, no indication at all about what he thought. It gave Mac a new appreciation for all the times Jack had been capable of hiding what he was feeling, and had chosen not to.

"You said the CIA hired you because of what you did – you do - for the Army." And that skillset didn't need elaboration. "I disarm bombs. There can't really be that much need for emergency secret bomb disarmament."

"And I told you these guys aren't the CIA," Jack replied, in the same steady tone. "They're not in the assassination department. But the field is the field, man, same as the sandbox is the sandbox. I can't promise you you won't have to take a life to save your own or someone else's."

"I'm not asking you to," Mac assured him. And he wasn't. He didn't need Jack's stories to know that sometimes bad guys would prefer to kill you than go to jail. And he already knew that he was capable of taking a life in defense of himself and others, if there was no other way.

He also knew what he really wanted to ask. What he was afraid to ask, for a litany of reasons but really only one that mattered.

"Field agents are sent on missions, presumably to stop bad things from happening," Mac started, glancing at his cover for confirmation.

Jack nodded.

"Do you get any say in who you go on those missions with?"

"Eh." It sounded like a hedge. "Sometimes yeah, sometimes not so much. Depends on the mission and the skill sets needed."

Which was the answer he'd expected. "So not unlike how we already operate." Mac focused back on the paperclip in his fingers, finally finding the right shape. "Knowing what I know now, I don't think I would be comfortable in that scenario without someone I trusted to have my back."

"I get that," Jack agreed seriously. "Just like goin' outside the wire here, you gotta trust the people you're workin' with absolutely."

". . . there are only a couple people I can say that about," Mac admitted to the paperclip he was folding. "So I think my answer depends on who I would be working with."

"Huh," Jack drawled after a moment. "Well, in my experience, never hurts to ask."

Well, Jack, I'm not you.

And then Mac realized that was exactly Jack's point.

He wasn't asking for a job – but he might be offered one. Whether he felt underqualified for that job was irrelevant; clearly if they were actively recruiting him they didn't agree. And if they felt like he was the right man for the job, then why wouldn't he have the leverage to ask for a contingency of his own. The worst they could possibly do was say no.

Or that he'd name Jack as his contingency, and Jack would say no. Mac's fingers stilled at the thought. That would definitely be worse.

But even if Jack wouldn't go back to that life, it didn't mean that Jack wouldn't still be a part of Mac's. And if Mac had enough say to pick his team, there was no reason he also couldn't stipulate that he have input on the kinds of missions that team was assigned. Such as refusing the kinds of missions Jack had had during his time with the CIA.

More latitude to be creative. Jack had already proven he was willing to let Mac try to solve every problem they came across without killing someone. Maybe that would be enough.

"That's actually a good suggestion."

"Really? You're really gonna act like you're surprised?"

Mac grinned broadly at his paperclip creation. "It happens about as often as you doing paperwork."

The man beside him huffed. "Ungrateful is what you are, you know that?"

"Never," Mac told him, and then offered back the paperclip.

Jack took it, his eyebrows furrowing a moment in confusion, and a quiet knock on the door made them both look up, then jerk to attention – or at least, as much as Mac could while sitting upright in a hospital bed.

"At ease," Colonel Martinez murmured, taking them both in. "You feeling up to telling us what happened out there, son?"

Mac dipped his chin, surprisingly uncomfortable being seated in the colonel's presence, particularly when Jack was standing. "Yessir."

"Good. I'll send in the nurse to get you ready for transport." The colonel then openly eyed Jack up and down. "You have that report ready, sergeant?"

"Yessir." He said it with the same tone Mac had, but MacGyver got the impression it had conveyed significantly more information.

"I expect it on my desk in the next fifteen minutes."

"Yessir."

"Thank you, sir," Mac added, and the colonel refocused on him.

"For what? Making your overwatch do his damn job?"

Couldn't have said it better myself. "Yessir."

The colonel's expression became slightly less severe. "I've briefed Lieutenant Smiley on your situation. She's looking forward to having you back on base as soon as you're cleared for transpo."

"Thank you, sir."

"See that he gets there without any additional damage."

Jack shifted effortlessly from parade rest back to attention. "Yessir!"

Martinez frowned at him, then shook his head to himself and started to turn around. "Oh, and MacGyver?"

He couldn't help trying to sit up just a touch straighter. "Yessir?"

The stocky man shocked him, and gave him a nod of his own. "You did good out there, son. Army's lucky to have you."

"So's the Air Force," Jack muttered under his breath.

"Keep pushing, Dalton,, and you'll have another six months of reports to revise."

"Yessir," Jack agreed smartly, and then Colonel Martinez swept back out into the hallway.

He and Jack relaxed at the same moment, but there was no time to say anything else before a nurse – one of the few with high enough clearance to be part of Mac's care team – pushed a wheelchair through the doorway. Mac couldn't help making a face.

"That's really not necessary-"

"It really is." She seemed to be completely immune to Mac's charms, and a real stickler for protocol. "Unfortunately, so is the uniform. Sergeant, if you'll give us the room."

Jack gave her a smart salute she completely ignored, and then shot a smirk over her head towards Mac before heading out, casually tucking the contents of his right hand into the top breast pocket of his BDUs.

"Be right outside, hoss."

The nurse had grabbed a folded uniform from the seat of the wheelchair, and she offered the pants to her patient before bustling over to close the door behind Jack. "I can have him chased out of the building if you'd like."

"Not necessary, thank you," Mac assured her, carefully drawing his right foot up and over his left knee to start on the buckles of the brace. "I appreciate you letting him hang out with me."

"Let him?" She scoffed as she came back over to assist. "I couldn't stop him if I tried. Which I did."

Mac huffed out a laugh, easing his aching right foot out of the brace and into the rolled up pant leg the nurse held out for him. It didn't take them more than a couple minutes to get him into uniform, including his left boot, and after a quick trip to the bathroom Mac was wheeled back out into the hallway, where Jack, as promised, was keeping watch.

"Pretty sure you're not allowed in the debrief, Jack."

He rolled his eyes. "Only stuck around to get my report. You chewed up five minutes of my deadline, bro. Not cool."

The smile on his face belied the words, and Jack signed hook'em horns to Mac behind the nurse's back, their sandbox shorthand.

Give 'em hell.

Mac used the hand resting on his thigh to tap twice with his middle finger.

Jack's own smile broadened a little, and he tapped his breast pocket twice in reply. The same pocket into which Jack had tucked something small and metal, in the shape of St. George's cross. Not unlike the one Mac knew he wore around his neck.

The patron saint – and protector - of soldiers, scouts, and guides.

Let's do this.

-M-

FIN

-M-

I know you waited a long time for this chapter, and I can only hope the fact that it's twice as long as all the ones that came before makes up for that. This was originally started because there were a few more firsts and details that hadn't been taken care of in the Turkey Day prequels that needed to be wrapped up:

The first time Mac realizes his total and implicit trust in Jack to actually be there when he needs him

The first time Jack receives proof that Mac truly relies on him for the 'big stuff'

How Mac got an honorable discharge from the Army and into DXS

Basically, this is the bridge between my prequels and the first episode. There's only one more first that I've been thinking about, and that is the first time Mac loses his cool on a mission. Anyone have any other suggestions for firsts that we know must have happened, but never got to see?