Kandahar, Afghanistan
October, 2011
0900
Jack
"C'mon, you're not serious," Jack scoffed over their comms. "You had to dress up as like, Spidey, or, wait, I know…The Flash. Just once."
"I'm telling you," Mac's low voice, holding more weight than his nineteen years should, came through Jack's earpiece with crystal clarity. "I never dressed up for Halloween."
Jack blinked sweat from his eyes, shifting his weight slightly so that he could rotate the sight on his AR-50, making sure to check both the front and back of the alley where Mac was currently crouched, disarming an IED he'd spotted from the road. October in Afghanistan was not too bad, as far as temperature went. But, even a nice, breezy day got hot with over 80 pounds of gear and a 30-pound rifle to carry.
Jack had often grumbled about wearing his IOTV—especially the groin plate, for the chafing factor alone—but once he'd been assigned Overwatch to the slowest EOD Tech on the planet, he gladly geared up. He was pretty sure he'd need all the protection Uncle Sam was willing to provide.
Blinking the sweat from his eyes, Jack rotated slightly again, focusing in on Mac's back, the kid's ruck sack having been set aside so as not to hamper his movement. Jack could see a set of crimpers next to a roll of duct tape on the ground next to Mac's knee. He grimaced, suspecting that the kid had pulled out his old stand-by: that damn Swiss Army knife.
He'd seen other Specialists use a multi-tool when working to disarm ordnance, but none of them had used a little knife their Granddad gave them for a birthday eight years ago.
"Want to know my favorite costume from when I was a kid?" Jack asked, having learned a few months ago that asking Mac if he was about done only made the waiting that much more nerve wracking.
"Can you remember back that far?" MacGyver teased. His tone was light, but Jack could hear the underlying tension he'd conditioned himself to listen for; the kid was worried.
Jack scoffed into their comms. "Oh, so it's the smart ass, is it? That's how we're playing it today?"
Mac chuckled softly. "Okay, Jack. Tell me."
Jack felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he shifted his sight, catching what could have been the edge of a burqa or a shifting curtain out of the corner of his eye. The kid was way too exposed in that alley. His slim back was curved toward Jack's window, his body shielding the ordnance he was working to disarm.
Jack counted four different windows and at least seven rooftop vantage points where someone with a rifle like his could take Mac out faster than he could say Carl's Junior. Knowing one slip of one wire could end Mac in a second wasn't half as terrifying as the idea that a rifle or RPG could come out of one of those windows and erase the kid before Jack could stop it.
"I'm ten years old. Return of the Jedi had come out like the year before," Jack started.
"Lemme guess," Mac grunted, and Jack narrowed his sight on his partner. He could see that Mac had shifted from a crouch—a position that signaled a quick, easy bomb—to a kneeling position. This one was giving him trouble. "You finally thawed out your Han Solo from the block of ice in the freezer."
"Well, duh," Jack scoffed. "He was good as new, too. But you're missing the point."
"There's a point?" Mac half-gasped and Jack saw his elbow jerk back as though he'd been tugging on something.
Jack felt the shadow move again, though he hadn't seen it through his sight. Pulling his head back slightly from his weapon, he blinked twice, focusing his vision and did a quick visual sweep of the rooftops.
Something wasn't right. It was too quiet.
"There's always a point," Jack admonished the kid before shifting his sight once more down the alley. "My buddy Casey Riggs was having a Halloween party and I needed a kick-ass costume," Jack continued. "I heard that Casey was going as one of the Ghostbusters and this dude was always out-doing me. I had to be cooler than Casey Riggs, man."
And then he saw the rifle barrel.
It was a slim line, barely parting the curtains of an opened window roughly 600 meters away from Jack. This far from target, there was no way he could hear the glu-click of a round being chambered, but something in him knew exactly when the shooter was ready to pull the trigger.
So, he shot first.
His finger scarcely flinched, the recoil absorbed in the padding at his shoulder, the low blast barely discernible to his ears anymore. It was just one more sound he took for granted—like the beat of his own pulse, the phwap-phwap of a helo's rotating blades, or the buh-shuu of the men's soft snoring in the barracks.
The barrel disappeared, and Jack saw a burst of red on the curtains.
Shifting his sight back to his Tech, he saw that Mac was half-turned toward his window, having heard the shot, but unable to pinpoint the location. Through the scope, he could see from the kid's wide, blue eyes that Mac wasn't able to find him.
"Anyway," Jack continued, watching with something akin to relieved satisfaction as MacGyver's slim shoulders sagged and his eyes closed briefly at the sound of Jack's voice. He turned back to the ordnance. "My mom is the coolest person on the planet, dude. She got all her church ladies to collect up the cardboard boxes they got their groceries in and bring them over. And then we turned my BMX into the Millennium Falcon."
"Your what?" Mac asked, a smile caught in his voice. Good. He was finally getting the better end of that mother.
"BMX," Jack repeated. "Dirt bike. C'mon, don't tell me you haven't seen E.T."
"I've seen it," Mac said, and Jack scanned the alley once more as the kid sat back on his heels.
"Then you know," Jack asserted. "Back then, a kid's bike was everything, man. And that year? Mine was the fastest hunk 'a junk in the galaxy."
"Take that Casey Riggs," Mac chuckled, and Jack saw him gathering his crimper and tape, pushing to his feet.
"Damn straight," Jack grinned, straightening up from the sight and looking down to where Mac was moving the now-diffused IED to the side of the alley. "'bout time, man. Think you set a new longest-bomb-diffusion-ever record with that one."
Mac didn't reply, but Jack could see the kid's helmet shake back and forth with amusement or exasperation, he wasn't sure. Didn't matter. The kid was still alive and because of him, no soldiers would be blown up when they drove over this particular IED.
Lives saved, job done.
Jack stood, folding down the portable stand that steadied his rifle, and untwisting the strap from around his arm before slinging it over his shoulder. He reached for his ruck, eyes darting through the window toward where Mac was making his way down the alley toward him.
"Let's pop smoke—" Jack broke off when he saw a man dressed in gray and white perahan tunban—a civilian, not a soldier—dart out of an open door and head directly for MacGyver.
"Kid!" Jack shouted, watching as the civilian threw something toward Mac.
Jack dropped his ruck and pulled his rifle around to the front in one move, stumbling back as dust and debris blew skyward from whatever the man had thrown. For one terrifying second, he couldn't see MacGyver through the dust and smoke. The civilian had turned and ran the minute he'd thrown the explosive. Finally, after what felt like a heart-stopping eternity, Jack saw Mac's slim form dart out of the cloud of dirt and head right for the man, taking him down in an impressive flying tackle for someone Mac's size.
Jack was torn between heading down to street level or staying on Overwatch from his perch. He pulled the gun to his shoulder, sighting on where Mac and the civilian were trading punches. Mac got a few good hits in before the man grabbed what looked like a rock and slammed it against the side of Mac's helmet hard enough to ring the kid's bell. Mac slumped off to the side and the man stood, calling in Farsi toward another house.
"Oh, hell no," Jack muttered as two more men headed toward where Mac was now on his knees.
The kid raised his hands and Jack saw that each of the civilians held a gun—Berretta M9 service pistols. They had taken those weapons from American soldiers. They had no intention of letting Mac live—and that just wasn't going to work for Jack.
Exhaling, Jack fired twice.
The first shot took down the man who'd thrown the explosive and hit Mac with the rock. The second cut through the other two men who'd come out brandishing service pistols in Mac's face. When all three men were lying in crumpled heaps around him, Mac looked up toward Jack's window. His mouth was bleeding, but his hand was steady when he gave Jack a thumbs-up.
The whole thing had taken less than five minutes, but to Jack it felt like he'd lived three lifetimes.
He waited until the kid got to his feet and went back down the dust-covered alley to grab his ruck, then head toward the house where Jack was positioned before he left his spot near the window. As they met up in the doorway, Jack scanned the kid's dusty face, reaching out to tip his chin sideways and examine the split lip and bruised jaw.
"You should see the other guy," Mac quipped as Jack frowned. His voice had a forced lightness to it; Jack could see the shadows in the kid's eyes.
"They did not want you to get out of that alley," Jack stated. "No matter how they were dressed, they were the enemy the minute they put a gun on you."
Mac nodded, pulling his chin from Jack's grip and reaching for the Oakley's hanging around his neck. "We gotta get back to the security team."
"Yeah, I know," Jack sighed, sliding his own eye protection in place. "I'll call this in. See if there's something in your IFAK for that lip."
"I'll be okay," Mac argued, shrugging his arms through the straps of his ruck sack. "Let's just go."
Jack nodded, slinging the strap of his AR-50 over his shoulder. "You know, you're carrying a pistol—"
"We've talked about this," Mac practically growled, and Jack was once more struck by the weight of a voice that heavy in one so young.
"Yeah, we have," Jack agreed, falling into step next to his Tech as they made their way back to their abandoned vehicle. "Don't mean I understand it. You got through basic with a weapon, why not use one now?"
The kid sighed, reaching up to unbuckle the chin strap of his helmet. He paused just before pulling the protective gear off, knowing as well as Jack that until they were back at base, there was no guarantee someone with a vantage point and a high-powered weapon couldn't get off a lucky shot. He rubbed his bruised jaw gingerly as they rounded the corner where their Humvee was waiting, just south of their security detail.
"I didn't have a choice in basic," Mac replied. "You know that."
Jack climbed behind the wheel of the Humvee, shoving his ruck to the back next to Mac's and situating his rifle between their seats. "Don't really see that you have a choice now."
Mac grinned over at him and in that moment, he looked so damn young Jack wanted to pack him up and ship him back to high school. "Sure, I do," he said. "That's why you're here."
Jack rolled his eyes. "Hey, strap up. You know better than to John Wayne when we're outside the wire."
"Yeah, yeah," Mac sighed, but simply continued to rub at his bruised jaw.
Sighing, Jack started up the vehicle and reached for his radio. "Bulldog 6-5, this is Rickshaw 4-2," he said, pulling forward and back on their route. "EOD cleared three streets on route, ready for the fourth, over."
"Roger that, Rickshaw," came the reply. "Ordnance?"
"Three disarmed," Jack replied in the mic, then glanced over at Mac. "One per street…not great odds, you ask me."
Mac's eyebrows bounced up and he turned to look out through the side window.
"Heard a ruckus."
"Ran into resistance," Jack continued into the mic. "Three insurgents down."
"Casualties?"
"Not on our side," Jack replied.
"Copy."
After confirming their security detail would split up—one going to handle any necessary clean up from the confrontation, the other covering the route—Jack slung the radio back in its holster and reached for their map, glancing at the streets Mac had crossed off and the route they were ordered to follow. From the corner of his eyes, he saw Mac shifting so that he could scan the road in front of the vehicle.
The kid's eyes never stopped moving, Jack knew. Even back at base, in the safety of their barracks, he scanned the corners, the bunks, the chairs, the rafters just walking into a room.
A plastic bag or piece of loose trash on the side of the road would have the kid's head snapping around so fast Jack was sure he heard vertebrae pop. Every box was suspect. Any open doorway eyed with caution. Every time they went out on patrol, the kid was wound tighter than the fuses he was so good at rendering harmless.
Jack had seen a lot in his lifetime, as a soldier, in the CIA, but it wasn't until JSOC assigned him to Combat Support, EOD Overwatch that he truly recognized what it meant to live on a constant edge between life and death. Most of the EOD Specialists Jack had met were at least four or five years older than Specialist Angus MacGyver, the skinny kid with the funny name. But none of them—at least in Jack's estimation—matched the sheer determination and focus he'd witnessed in this kid since he'd first been assigned as his Overwatch.
"I need to get Hawking fixed," Mac said suddenly, startling Jack out of his musing.
Jack grinned. It was rare to see an EOD Tech without their Remote-Controlled Vehicles—or 'wheelbarrow'—following them around like a metal puppy. Mac's RCV had malfunctioned the day before yesterday and the kid had spent most of the night taking it apart to find the cause.
"You give that thing a voice and I'm outta here," Jack teased. "Skynet becoming self-aware is not a reality I'm cool with."
Mac rolled his eyes. "I don't think you have anything to worry about, John Connor," he said, eyes skimming an intersection as Jack paused, waiting for his nod before crossing.
"Rickshaw 4-2, copy."
"Rickshaw here, Bulldog," Jack replied into the radio.
"Covering the East route."
"Roger, we got South."
Jack turned followed the route on the map.
"Besides," Mac continued without missing a beat. "Hawking already has a voice."
"Not one anybody but you can understand," Jack replied.
The Techs became rather attached to their RCVs—since whenever possible, they attempted to disarm an ordnance remotely—but most he'd met had named them after dogs. Mac's friend Charlie had an RCV named Scooby, which Jack could appreciate. But Mac had to be different, naming his after Stephen Hawking in a nod to the renowned scientist's ability to overcome adversity—or so Mac explained.
"Jack, stop," Mac said, his deep voice crisp and authoritative.
Jack obeyed immediately, eyes scanning the road, trying to see what Mac saw. He swore the kid had some kind of special, infra-red, bomb vision. He'd found IEDs in places Jack wouldn't have even thought to look. And the Taliban used anything to hide them in; they once found one in the body of a dead dog.
Mac didn't even try to diffuse that one. He simply contained and destroyed. It had taken Jack a week to get the smell of burning hair out of his nose. And Mac didn't sleep for more than two hours at a time for the next four days.
"Feel a tremor in the Force?" Jack asked when Mac hadn't said anything in nearly a minute.
Mac tipped his chin forward, the loose straps from his helmet clicking against his IOTV. "You see that?"
Jack wanted to laugh. "I see a dirt road, two bombed-out cars, and a shit-ton of laundry hanging from all these windows."
Several yards beyond the road where they were paused was a busy street with throngs of people and cars pelting every direction. Yet…none of them were coming down this road. It was practically deserted, which was enough to raise the hairs on the back of Jack's neck.
One thing he'd noticed when they were ordered to relocate to Kandahar: there wasn't a single stop light. Navigating basic city traffic was almost as dangerous as disarming an IED. And if this street was being avoided, there was a reason. One he wasn't going to like.
"That bag over there," Mac clarified, pointing just to the West of where they'd stopped.
"You want to check it out?" Jack asked, already knowing the answer.
Mac rolled his bottom lip against his teeth, his tongue darting out to dab at the cut, and nodded.
"Copy that," Jack sighed, shutting down the engine. "Let me find a way to the roof—"
Before he was able to finish that thought, four men carrying what appeared to be Soviet Bizon submachine guns stepped out from one of the opened doorways. They saw the Humvee and stopped, rotating their weapons to train the barrels on the windshield. Jack reached for his rifle and Mac immediately snapped his chin strap into place.
"When I tell you," Jack said in a low voice, "you get down and stay down."
"What are you—"
Jack shot him a look. "You hear me, Specialist?"
Mac nodded quickly, blue eyes wide. But not scared, Jack registered. He might be young, but this kid was one of the bravest people Jack had ever met.
Jack pulled his rifle forward across his lap and rolled down the window. "Let us pass," he shouted in Farsi.
One of the men shouted something back. Jack frowned, glancing over at Mac. "Is that Pashto?" he wondered.
Mac nodded. "They know what you're saying, though," he observed. "Look."
The men had leveled the weapons at their hips, mobster-style, and were advancing on the vehicle.
Jack tried again, still in Farsi. "Let us pass; we mean no harm."
The men didn't reply, just continued to slowly advance.
"Jack," Mac warned. "Back up."
Jack started the vehicle, darting a questioning look over at Mac. The young Tech nodded toward where he'd been looking earlier. The men were drawing abreast of the bag that had given Mac a bad feeling, and if Mac was right, they didn't want to be caught in the blast radius.
Jack began to reverse.
One man brought up his weapon and fired a spray of bullets across the windshield. Jack gasped and ducked, reaching out instinctively to grab Mac's arm and pull the kid down with him. The bullets spider-webbed the glass, but Jack kept backing up. Another spray of bullets hammered the grill and Jack swore as steam spewed from the front of the engine.
Mac darted a look over the dash and his eyes grew wide. "Jack, floor it!"
Without bothering to ask why, Jack obeyed, eyes on the side mirror, hoping he didn't smash someone in the process. Ten seconds later, the Humvee was rocked as the men who'd been advancing on their vehicle hit the IED. Bits of metal and pieces of marble peppered their vehicle as the antipersonnel device exploded.
Their radio erupted with demands for a sitrep from their security detail.
Jack continued backwards for a few more feet before coming to a stop, one wheel bumped up on a sidewalk. Adrenalin surged through him, making him breathless. He kept his head down for a few more beats, then straightened up to peer through the cracked windshield.
Their Humvee was trashed, but miraculously still running. The men were lying scattered in various places up the street—dead or wounded—and the building the IED had been closest to was missing a huge chunk of its wall, an empty room now exposed.
"You okay?" Mac asked, his voice trembling slightly.
Jack looked over and saw the kid was pale under the layer of dirt coating his face.
"I'm good. You okay?"
Mac nodded, straightening up the rest of the way. They'd backed up to a sidewalk scattered with vendors and merchants, their Humvee dislodging one rather ramshackle kiosk from its perch. Jack registered a delayed reaction to the explosion. People had screamed and startled, moving away from the empty road and the military vehicle, but then seemed to settle back into a semi-normal, flowing around the vehicle like a river of humanity.
Jack grabbed the radio and informed Bulldog 6-5 that they were intact, and an IED had taken out four insurgents. He glanced over at Mac when the lead for the detail informed them they were headed back their way.
"How many more roads on our route?"
Jack cleared his throat, grabbing for their map. "Supposed to be four."
Mac exhaled slowly. "Okay."
The hiss of their engine caught Jack's attention. "Not sure this baby's gonna hold together for that long, though."
"Return to base?" Mac asked. "Get a new ride?"
Jack nodded. "Bulldog, this is Rickshaw 4-2."
"Copy you, Rickshaw."
"Vehicle is compromised," Jack said, eyeing the bodies, "need to RTB."
"Are you good to get back?"
Jack glanced at Mac who nodded, reaching for his door.
"Yeah, my EOD Tech is going to keep it together until we get back."
"Your Tech is going to…," the voice cut off, then clicked back. "Uh, yeah. Roger that, Rickshaw. Tell MacGyver not to use chewing gum this time. Took the Base mechanics forever to get it off the engine block."
Jack chuckled as Mac lifted the engine hood. Clearly, Mac's reputation was preceding him.
"Copy that." Jack slung the radio into his holster then got out to join Mac at the engine.
"Need to take the hood off," Mac said, moving around to the side. "Keep it from overheating."
"Whatever you say, bud," Jack shrugged, paralleling Mac and helping him pull the pins that held the engine hood fast.
They lifted the metal off and set it against the nearest building. The smell of the too-hot engine had Jack wrinkling his nose. A couple of merchants shouted at them in Farsi and Jack half-heartedly apologized. When the locals pressed forward once more, Jack pulled his side arm, holding it at the ready. The men backed off but continued to shout in his general direction.
Mac pulled off his Oakley's, letting them rest at the base of his neck, and climbed up on the Humvee's bumper, leaning into the engine. Jack glanced over but couldn't figure out what the kid was doing. Especially when he pulled out the little red knife of his.
"You know what you're doing?"
"Yeah," Mac grunted, lifting himself briefly to remove his helmet, then burying his head once more. "The bullets took out one of the pistons, so I just have to rig up something to keep the oil from the crankcase out of the combustion chamber—"
"Yeah, yeah, okay, I get it, Mr. Popular Mechanic," Jack broke in. "Let's just get this done and get out of here."
"Almost…got it," Mac's voice was strained from his position. After another minute, he leveraged himself upright and hopped down from the bumper, grabbing his helmet in the process. He slid his Oakley's into place. "Ready?"
"Waitin' on you, bud. Mount up," Jack returned, holstering his pistol and climbing back behind the wheel. "We'll get back to base and get another team ready to head out."
Mac frowned, climbing into the Humvee next to Jack, and pulling his eye pro down again. The damn kid couldn't keep one piece of gear in place for five minutes.
"I've got four more streets to clear you said."
"Kid," Jack took a left turn, trying not to over rev the engine. "You disarmed three ordnance, fought off three insurgents, and just about got your head blown off today. And it's only," Jack tipped his wrist, looking at the face of his watch, "1300."
"I don't do it, someone else has to," Mac argued. "And what if they don't make it? Then it's on me."
Jack frowned. That was a helluva lot responsibility for those narrow shoulders to bear. "It's not on you," he argued.
"It is," Mac replied. "This is why I'm here, Jack. To keep people alive."
Jack let those words sink in for a minute. He meant what he'd said earlier; he didn't understand Mac's resistance to use a weapon. He knew the kid could fire a gun—and based on his eyesight and steady hand, he was probably a decent shot. He wasn't afraid, that much was plain. And he didn't stop Jack and others from using their weapons; he wasn't reluctant to kill if it meant saving a life, even his own.
But he wasn't there to kill the enemy. He was there to keep people alive.
"Alright, kid," Jack acquiesced. "We'll do it your way."
It should have rattled him; how easy it was to trust this kid. He was easily twice Mac's age, had been fighting in battles when Mac was blowing up his first chemistry set. And yet at some point along the way, his faith in the skinny bomb tech had become absolute. There was no question he'd go to the mattresses for Mac.
He glanced over when he saw Mac reach up to rub at his sweaty face before sliding his Oakley's back into place. For a moment he wondered what it was going to be like for this kid to return to his life back in California in a little over a month. How would he tell his LA friends about the streets of Kandahar? How would he explain Kabul and the desert and the way the sand got into everything? How would he tell them how weather in the space of one day could go from hellish heat to arctic chill?
How was he going to explain finding bombs in the bodies of dead dogs and seeing the pink mist that coats everything when an IED goes off at the wrong time? How was he going to look at their smiles and not see the grins of the men in his barracks? How was he going to drive down the road in his neighborhood and not see every piece of litter, every bit of roadside trash as a possible ordnance?
Jack sighed. He wasn't, it was just that simple. Jack had been back from more tours than he could count on one hand, and every time it was different.
Every time he tried to explain and every time he failed. Every time they tried to understand and every time they fell short. It simply wasn't possible to connect with life the same way after something like this, no matter how much those back home loved him.
Someone who just visits the zoo has no idea how the tiger lives.
The Humvee bucked slightly, and Jack blinked, bringing himself back to the present. They'd maneuvered to a side street, much less traveled than the main thoroughfare, but still congested with people, burned-out cars, and many, many stray dogs. Mac's temporary fix had loosened, steam once more emanating from the engine and partially blocking Jack's view.
"Dammit," Jack growled, slowing down.
"No, wait," Mac put a hand out. "You stop and I won't be able to see the leak."
Jack frowned over at the blond. "You want ride home on the engine block?"
"Not exactly," Mac shook his head, setting his helmet aside and pulling his IOTV and IFAK clear.
"What the hell are you doing?" Jack exclaimed as Mac slimmed down to just his fatigues, all his protective gear removed.
Without answering, Mac shifted so that that upper half of his body was sticking out through the opened Humvee window, his arms around the front of the windshield, fingers reaching for the leaking engine.
"Son of a…." Jack thrust his arm out and grabbed the back of Mac's belt, anchoring the kid in place.
He couldn't see what Mac was doing, but whatever it was, the steam stopped and the engine quit seizing. After a few minutes, he felt Mac start to shimmy back and hauled the kid the rest of the way.
"Don't you do that again, you hear me? Get your gear back on, right the hell now!"
Mac grinned at him, a disarming expression that just made Jack want to throttle him. "Okay," he replied, tapping the air as though to calm Jack down. "But I fixed it, didn't I?"
"I'll fix you, you ever pull that out-the-window stunt again," Jack growled. He shook his head, unwilling to admit to himself how much it had scared him to see the kid's complete lack of self-preservation in that moment. "And get your ACH on."
"Yes sir, Sergeant, sir," Mac teased, pulling his helmet on and buckling the chin straps.
A few beats of silence filled the interior of the cab.
"I wasn't going to fall out," Mac offered, his voice slightly contrite.
"Yeah?" Jack growled. "And how the hell'd you know that?"
Mac lifted a shoulder. "You wouldn't have let me," he said matter-of-factly, fastening his IFAK to the front of his gear.
Jack felt like someone had punching him in the solar plexus. For a moment, he couldn't draw in a breath.
The complete trust he'd heard in Mac's voice, a belief that nothing bad would happen to him as long as Jack was around, hit him like nothing else had in his past. Not surviving the impossible with his Task Force Green Delta unit. Not keeping men alive during his years as a sniper.
Not even burying his father.
He was Mac's Overwatch, assigned to keep the kid alive so that he could disarm explosive ordnance. The very real possibility that he might be keeping Mac alive just to watch through his scope as he got blown up pressed on him every day like a lead weight.
It was just a job. Like any other.
Only it wasn't. Not anymore.
Not from the moment his sixty-four days as MacGyver's Overwatch were up and he didn't get further than his Sergeant Major's office before turning right back around. This was it, this kid.
He was Jack's last assignment.
Jack pulled in a slow breath as they began to breach the cluster of bombed-out and run-down buildings for the road that led to their base. Afghanistan had been at war with someone since the 1970's. While Kandahar was, essentially, a metropolis of vendors and merchants, there were whole sections of the city that would never recover from the carnage and warfare visited up on it. On one street, Jack saw businesses and places of worship, while just one street over, the shells of homes and hotels with burned-out shells of cars and bodies of animals littered the streets.
There was something in the air; like the weird force that surrounded a magnet or the pull right before he was shocked by static. Something was going to happen today, and Sergeant First Class Jack Dalton was certain he wasn't going to like it.
"Rickshaw 4-2, you copy?" A different voice on the radio from their security detail, Bulldog 6-5, came through.
Jack glanced over at Mac and saw the same look of confusion on the kid's face as he knew crossed his own. He picked up the radio.
"This is Rickshaw 4-2."
"Jack, what's your location?"
Jack frowned at the familiarity. It was his Sergeant Major Rob Temple, not their security detail or Mac's EOD unit leader. "Just about to put Kandahar proper in our rear view and get this bucket of bolts back to Base."
"Need you to turn around."
Mac straightened up in his seat and Jack eased his foot off the accelerator.
"What's going on, Robbie?"
"We got four men pinned down south of the market, near the hotel that was bombed last month," Robbie replied. "We can't get to them; we need them to get to us."
Jack looked over at Mac and echoed the kid's worried frown. He was already making a U-turn as he as clicked the radio.
"Why can't you get there?"
"They're surrounded by a group of insurgents who just took down one of our Black Hawks."
Jack swallowed. They must have missed the Black Hawk crash when the IED blew. "Survivors?"
"Negative."
"Damn," Mac breathed, and Jack glanced at him, seeing the kid's clenched fist against the door panel.
"What do you need us to do?"
"Need you to get to them, assess the situation, re-establish contact, and get them to new coordinates," Robbie replied. "We'll get you all out from there."
"They lost their radio?"
"Radio and radio operator."
"This just gets better and better," Jack muttered before clicking his radio again. "Anyone else in the area?"
"There's something else," Robbie replied.
"There usually is," Jack said, waiting for his Sergeant Major to continue.
"Before their radio cut out, we got a broken-up report of an unexploded ordnance, but it's unclear where or what kind," Robbie continued. "Specialist MacGyver is the closest EOD Tech available to determine what we're dealing with."
Jack glanced at Mac and saw the kid was already pulling his EOD pack out, checking each item.
"Good copy," Jack replied. "Send coordinates."
Jack navigated the insanity of the Kandahar traffic, radioing an update to their security detail and advising them to return to base.
"You good to go with a busted rig, Rickshaw?" came the response.
"Charlie Mike," Jack sighed. Continue mission, even when the mission changed. Or their ride was ventilated. Or they had seven broken limbs. Welcome to this man's Army.
Mac held the map so Jack could see it, pointing out the location several klicks to their South. As soon as Jack noted the location, he looked up, seeing a thinning plume of black smoke above the lower rooftops. The Black Hawk.
"We have to ditch the Humvee," Jack said.
"Copy," Mac replied, his voice tight and thin with focused anxiety.
Jack got as close as he dared to the coordinates, then turned down a nearly-empty, narrow alley. There wasn't enough room to open their doors on either side, so they shifted until their boots were flat against the spider-webbed windshield and kicked the glass free. Mac climbed out first, reaching back for his ruck sack, his EOD pack, and the radio.
He set each on the over-heated engine block, waiting for Jack to hand out his ruck, the extra IFAK—two first aid kits were enough for them, but they had no idea what condition the four men were in—his AR-50, and extra camelback of water. When Jack climbed out, Mac hopped down off the engine and began to gear up, his ruck and EOD pack adding bulk to his thin frame.
Jack shouldered his rifle and checked to make sure he had both of his service pistols, leaving nothing behind in the Humvee that could later be used against an American soldier.
"You ready, bud?"
Mac nodded, a determined look at home on his young face.
"We don't know what we're walking into," Jack told him. "We don't know how many bad guys there are, or how well they're armed."
Mac nodded again, eyes on Jack, taking in every word.
"We do know they're pretty damn determined if they took down a Black Hawk," Jack continued. "Gotta assume at minimum they have RPGs available—and therefore the geographical and tactical advantage." He dragged his hand down his face. "And for whatever reason, they picked this hill to die on, so here's what we're going to do."
He lowered his chin, eyes on Mac, trying to ignore how freaking young the kid looked right now.
"We're going in like it's the trench run, you get me?"
At that, Mac tilted his head. "Not…exactly."
"When we get close, you head straight for our boys, do not stop, stay on target," Jack flattened his hands together, palm to palm, and pushed them forward.
"What about you?"
"I'll be keeping Darth Vader off your six," Jack grinned.
Mac arched a brow. "Maybe you should have just let Casey Riggs win the Halloween costume that year," he teased.
Good. If the kid was being a smart ass, he wasn't so focused on what they were about to do to be terrified.
"I got you, brother," Jack told him, eyes level and serious.
Mac met his gaze and nodded stiffly, swallowing his nerves. Jack held out a fist and Mac automatically bounced his against it, as if this was just one more day, one more job.
"I got you," Jack repeated quietly, and they headed down the side street toward the bombed-out, abandoned hotel, the afternoon sun warming their backs.
The Kitchen, Downtown Los Angeles
Present Day
2345 hrs
Matty
The small room had grown dark as Jack told his story.
At some point, someone had dug out several of the tabletop tea light candles from the storage bin beneath Kira and set them around the room, using DeAngelo's cigarette lighter to light them. The warm glow of the candles seemed to offset the gritty reality of their predicament.
Jack's voice had an almost hypnotic quality. So much so, Matty didn't realize what she was feeling immediately until Riley's hand gripped her arm.
This time the aftershock was much stronger, sending those still standing to their knees. Plates and glasses collected for food and water supplies rattled off the tops of tables, and the surviving patrons cried out in fear as parts of the broken walls started to fall inward.
"Get under the tables," Flynn shouted, pulling people away from the crumbling walls.
Riley pulled Matty with her to the nearest table and they joined the elderly couple seeking cover until the tremors stopped. Breathing hard, Matty stalled the elderly gentleman for a moment, waiting to see if it was truly over, before allowing him to assist his wife back out from underneath the table.
Most of the tea light candles had been extinguished, but there was a blue-ish glow to the room that indicated light was coming in from somewhere. Matty crawled out from beneath the table and immediately looked toward the bench where she'd last seen Mac and Jack. They were in the same place, Jack covered with a fine layer of plaster dust, coughing a bit. Mac was still unconscious, his position against Jack slightly askew. Ben was standing next to them, looking around with a slightly stunned expression. They seemed intact, if a bit rattled.
"Look!" DeAngelo cried out suddenly. "It opened up a space in the walls!"
Matty looked toward what had been the front of the restaurant and saw that there was indeed a slim opening. Not one large enough to allow easy passage of a person, but it was clearly the source of the light. DeAngelo headed for the crack in the walls.
"I bet if we just push the rest of this—"
"Wait!" Called Riley, holding out a hand. "You can't—they said it was too unstable!"
DeAngelo scoffed, moving forward and reaching for one of the cracked walls. "They can't see from this angle, what do they know? I can just pull this part off and fit through."
"Mr. DeAngelo, don't," Flynn called, moving away from where he'd been helping one of the older women to a more comfortable spot and heading after the determined business man. "You could bring it all down on our heads."
"I doubt that," DeAngelo grumbled, kicking the flat of his dress shoe against the cracked wall.
At first nothing happened, but then he kicked again and Matty heard a terrifying groan of metal and rock above their heads. Someone gasped and Leanna and Bozer pushed three people away from the proximity of the entrance. The wall gave way slightly, opening the crack a bit wider.
"It's working!" DeAngelo cried, triumphant. "I told you—"
His celebration was short-lived.
One of the metal support beams that had originally run the length of the ceiling teetered and fell, crashing through the cracked wall and coming right for DeAngelo. Moving almost inhumanly fast, the young Marine who'd spoken up earlier darted forward, grabbing DeAngelo by the back of his expensive suit jacket and hauling him out of the way.
The beam crashed down, the resounding shockwave of noise causing Matty to cover her ears and many of the others to cry out in terror. When the noise finally dissipated, Matty looked up. The narrow crack had been filled by the metal beam; no light shone through. The flames from the remaining tea light candles danced in the ensuing rush of air but didn't blow out.
"At least it's not completely dark," Bozer offered up from the shadows.
"You fuckin' idiot," the Marine growled, and Matty heard him shoving DeAngelo off him. "I swear if you get me killed, I'll haunt your ass."
Matty exhaled. At least the Marine was still alive.
"I was trying to get us rescued," DeAngelo grumbled. Matty could see him getting unsteadily to his feet and tugging his jacket into place as he limped toward the brighter candlelight. "How was I supposed to know that would happen?"
"Because she fucking told you," Flynn snapped, gesturing toward where Riley stood, her hands on her slim hips, fire in her glare.
"Oh, and what is she? A structural engineer?"
"No," Flynn stepped forward, his figure silhouetted against the candlelight. "She's the one who has been talking to the rescue team—and they're the structural engineers."
DeAngelo shook his head. "Listen, Kid Chef, I've had just about enough of your sanctimonious bullshit."
Matty shook her head as Flynn squared his shoulders. She expected him to throw a punch and was surprised when instead his voice slipped out, low and dangerous, "Someday, I think you and I are going to have a serious disagreement."
"Don't wait, shithead," DeAngelo snarled. "Let's go!"
"Matty!" Jack's voice cut into the brewing brawl and drew all eyes toward him. "We need some light over here," Jack continued. "Now."
"Cell phones," Matty barked. "All of them. Get them out, now!"
Almost everyone pulled their phones from pockets and purses, turning on the flashlight feature and shining the light toward where Jack and Ben were bent over Mac. Matty waved a hand at Bozer and Leanna and they joined Riley in gathering up six phones, bringing the lights closer to the bench.
A sound of quiet misery was emanating from the figure on the bench. Jack had slid back until Mac was once more lying flat on his back, the leather jacket having been completely removed and set aside as Ben worked to unwind the saturated gauze wrap from around Mac's shoulder and arm. Matty could see that Mac was visibly shaking—she didn't think it was another seizure, but he was no longer lying lax against Jack as he'd been for the hour prior while Jack had been talking.
"What happened?" she asked, stepping closer to Jack.
"The aftershock knocked some debris onto his chest before we could shield him," Jack reported. "I didn't think it hit him too hard, but he just started…started shaking, and I—"
Mac coughed, a wet rattling sound that ended in a choked-off gasp.
"Roll him," Ben ordered. "To his side, now. Roll him."
Jack eased Mac to his side, keeping him off his wounded right arm by bracing him across the chest and cradling his head. Mac coughed again, and Ben thumped the heel of his hand against Mac's lower back, as though shocking his diaphragm into working once more. Matty pressed her lips tight in dismay as Mac gagged, bright red blood on his lips.
"Oh, Mac," Riley breathed, covering her mouth.
"I need a stethoscope," Ben practically growled.
Bozer ran to the first aid kit and rifled through it. "There's nothing…. There's nothing like that in here."
As Mac gasped, his breath rattling roughly in his chest. "J-Jack."
Matty blinked, shocked to hear the young agent's voice.
"Right here, bud," Jack replied immediately, pulling Mac up against him. The still-bleeding wounds on Mac's arm and shoulder smeared a garish red across Jack's shirt and Matty heard someone behind her utter a cry of dismay. "I'm right here."
"Wh-what…h-happened?"
"You got a little blown up," Jack replied, his voice amazingly calm for all the anguish Matty could see in his expression. "We're trying to keep you in one piece."
"H-hurts…," Mac gasped, finally blinking his eyes open a crack. Matty couldn't see much more than the flutter of his eyelashes from where she stood.
"Yeah, I know, kid," Jack cradled the back of Mac's head. He looked up at Ben. "What do you need the stethoscope for?"
Ben dragged a hand down his face, his fingers stretching the scars on either side of his mouth into a garish grin. His eyes darted around at the cellphone lights currently illuminating the macabre scene.
"I cannot determine if he has internal bleeding from the," he gestured to the center of his own chest, "the bruising here, or if his lungs are compromised." He sighed. "Or both."
"Would you be able to help him if you knew?" Matty asked.
Ben nodded. "Depending on what I heard, yes."
"J-Jack…." Mac's voice strained, his back arching slightly in helpless retaliation against the pain.
"Hey, kid, it's okay," Jack tightened his hold on Mac as the young agent tried to shift out of his hold. "I got you. It's gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay."
"Steth…stethoscope…."
Jack shot his eyes over to Matty, then looked back down at Mac's bandaged face. "You know how to build a stethoscope?"
Mac swallowed convulsively and for one agonizing moment Matty thought he was going to be sick, but he managed to pull in a shallow breath. "Balloon…f-funnel…t-tubing…."
"Oh, shit, yeah," Bozer suddenly spoke up. "I saw him do this once for my dog—when we were kids! I remember because he tore up my Super-Soaker to get the tubing."
"You know what he needs?" Matty asked, her sharp eyes on Bozer.
Bozer nodded, setting down the cell phone lights he'd been holding so that the beam shot straight up. "Yeah, I just don't know where to find it."
"I can help you there," Flynn spoke up. "C'mon."
The young chef crossed the room to grab Bozer by the arm and lead him into the darkened kitchen, using one of the cell phone lights as their guide. Ben was folding several napkins in what looked like a make-shift pressure dressing as Jack continued to murmur to Mac in a low voice. She couldn't tell if Mac were still conscious; he seemed to be pressing back against Jack's chest with each breath.
The squelch of the radio clipped to the belt on Riley's dress startled them all.
"This is L.A. County Fire Department," a female, static-filled voice came over the radio. "I need to speak to Riley Davis."
Riley handed Jack one of her cell phone lights and grabbed the radio from her belt, moving closer to the newly collapsed wall to increase the signal strength.
"This is Riley Davis," she replied. "How close are you guys to getting us out of here?"
"We may have a solution, but we need to bring equipment down through rubble. It will take about an hour to get here."
Riley shot a desperate look toward Mac. "Can you send more medical supplies?"
"What's the status there?"
"We're trapped, lady," DeAngelo growled before Riley could depress the button. "What do you think our status is?"
"We have some anxious people," Riley replied, completely ignoring DeAngelo, "but except for one, everyone is intact. We could use some food and water, though."
"What about the injured man?"
Riley looked at Ben.
"He needs pressure bandages, pain medication—morphine, preferably—and oxygen," Ben replied, laying the folded napkins against Mac's shoulder and arm before beginning to re-wrap them with gauze.
Riley repeated what he told her.
"And more saline," Ben added.
"What about something for his fever?" Matty interjected.
Ben shook his head, frustration in his tone. "Without knowing what is damaged inside, I do not know which antibiotics to ask for. I have improvised so much already; I am afraid of causing more damage."
"Is there a Matty Webber in there with you?" the woman asked.
Matty looked up and headed over to Riley, taking the walkie-talkie from her outstretched hand.
"This is Matty Webber," she said.
"Ms. Webber, I have a message from someone named James MacGyver," the woman informed her. "He said to tell you he is working on it."
Matty narrowed her eyes, not allowing herself to look over at Jack or Mac. "Thank you," she replied. "If you get the opportunity, please tell him that he'd better work faster if he wants that chance he was asking for."
"Yes, ma'am," the woman replied. "Supplies are on the way."
"Ben," Flynn called as he and Bozer exited the kitchen. "Can you make this work?"
Matty handed the radio back to Riley before joining the group over on the bench were Mac lay. She winced, seeing that Mac was indeed awake, but she couldn't tell if he knew what was going on. His right hand shook uncontrollably, the latest bandage on his shoulder already starting to turn red in places. His pupils were blown so wide, there was barely any blue visible. Mac was seeing a whole lot of nothing; despite that, his eyes skimmed the room, searching for something in the harsh light from the cell phone flashlights, and his chin and lips trembled as he fought for breath.
She stepped closer, needing to help. Needing to fix this. Unable to do either.
Ben took the materials from Flynn and Matty saw two different sized funnels, both smaller than Ben's palm, a handful of rubber balloons, a clear tube that looked like it had once been part of some plumbing, and a roll of painter's tape. The former Medic seemed at a loss.
"I am not…I don't…," Ben shook his head.
"I got you," Bozer stepped through the ruined doorway, a pair of kitchen shears in his hand. "You don't spend as much time as I do with a guy like Mac without picking up a thing or two."
Bozer picked up one of the balloons and cut the end off, then began to fit the larger portion over the wide end of one of the funnels.
"I see what you're doing," Flynn chimed in, picking up the other funnel and matching Bozer's work. "I knew having these balloons on hand for birthday celebrations was a good idea."
A scoff sounded from behind Matty and she half-turned to see DeAngelo shrugging out of his suit jacket, shaking his head.
"You gotta be fucking kidding me," he muttered loud enough for the room to hear. He dropped the suit jacket across the back of one of the chairs, wiping sweat from his balding scalp with a napkin. "Kid's half-dead and you expect me to believe he's with it enough to help you build a goddamn stethoscope?"
"I don't think anyone in this room cares what you believe, Mr. DeAngelo," Matty stated, her voice brittle.
DeAngelo looked at her, surprised, then shook his head again and leaned against a nearby wall.
"Jack…." Mac's voice cut through the tense room, bringing both Bozer and Flynn's eyes up. His eyes were hooded, his forehead turned to press slightly against Jack's throat. "Some…something's…wrong."
"You just keep breathin', kid," Jack told him softly. "That's all you gotta worry about."
"'m…h-hurting," Mac confessed, his eyes rolling closed before he forced them open again as though afraid of falling asleep, his pale features tight with pain.
Matty couldn't pull her gaze away from his right hand; it shook even as his arm rested across his belly. She couldn't imagine the pain that was causing such a motion.
"I know," Jack held Mac close, one hand carefully carding through his hair, above the bandage. "But you hang in there, okay? You stay with me, now."
Mac swallowed, eyes slipping closed once more. "'m tired…tired of…h-hurting."
Bozer froze in his motion of taping the balloon in place and Matty almost called out to him to keep going when he went to his knees next to the bench. Handing Ben his assembled funnel, he took Mac's trembling hand in his, closing his fingers around Mac's.
"Hey, Mac," Bozer said softly. "I know you're tired, man. But you gotta stick with us, okay?"
"Wh-why?" Mac asked, blinking half-lidded eyes open to look vaguely in Bozer's direction.
He seemed genuinely confused, uncertain as to why he was being asked to continue his suffering. Jack made a sound somewhere between a sob and a gasp. Matty stepped closer to Bozer and felt Riley close in at her back.
"Because, we need you," Matty told him, trying vainly to ignore the way his chin trembled, a tear leaking out of the corner of his eyes. "I know you feel like you're drowning right now, Mac, but…your life is about so much more than pain."
Flynn reached over Matty's head and handed Ben the assembled stethoscope. Matty saw that it was going to be tricky—each end had a balloon stretched over the mouth of the funnel, taped in place, and connected by the tubing. But if he could make it work—if he could help Mac—she didn't care how tricky it was.
"Jack…," Mac groaned, his eyes closing as his neck arched back, pressing his head against Jack's shoulder.
Bozer released Mac's hand and stood up, taking a few steps back, his breath hitching as he fought to keep his emotions in check. Matty sympathized; the only reason she hadn't let the tears that burned the backs of her eyes fall was the knowledge that she had to stay strong for her team. They took their cues from her; if she faltered, so would they.
And her team simply did not falter. They never had, not once. She was damn well not going to be the first.
"I'm right here, kid," Jack said, tears choking his voice. "I'm not going to leave you."
"M'head," Mac panted, "…heads…k-killin' me. Hurts…to think."
"Yeah, I bet," Jack swallowed, his hand bracing Mac's head near the bandage. "Don't suppose it'd do any good to tell you to stop thinking."
"Hold him still, if you would," Ben said, moving into position so that he could lean over Mac's bared chest. "I need it quiet, please."
He rested the larger of the two funnels against Mac's skin just below the spectacular bruising and pressed the other end to his ear. It took him a moment to get the right angle as Mac's rapid, ragged breaths sent his chest stuttering up and down at irregular intervals.
"Oh, come on!" DeAngelo almost laughed. "There is no way that's going to work."
Matty turned to glare at him, seeing that several of the other people in the room had similar looks of disgust on their faces. Before she could do anything, Bozer crossed the room in three long strides, slapped his hand over DeAngelo's mouth, and shoved the other man against the wall.
"The man said he needs it quiet," Bozer growled.
Matty felt her shoulders pull up square at Bozer's action and she allowed herself a small smile before turning back to see what Ben was doing. He'd motioned for Jack to hold the funnel against Mac's chest and pressed his other hand flat against his open ear, blocking out sound.
Mac lay propped against Jack's chest, his head back on Jack's shoulder, breath rasping through trembling lips. Matty couldn't tell if he knew what was happening, or if he was just trying desperately not to shake apart from the pain, but he didn't move.
After several minutes, Ben straightened up, setting the make-shift stethoscope aside. The room seemed to collectively exhale at this motion and Bozer released DeAngelo from the wall.
"I cannot hear fluid in his lungs, which is good," Ben told them. "But the bruising is extensive, and the fact that he is coughing up blood is worrisome."
"What should we do?" Jack asked.
"Keep him warm, keep him calm," Ben said, rubbing the top of his shaved head. "Pray."
"Riley Davis, copy?"
They all jumped at the unexpected sound. Riley unhooked the walkie-talkie from her dress belt and pressed the button.
"I'm here."
"We have the supplies—same place?"
"Yes! Thank you," Riley replied, then looked over at Bozer. "C'mon."
This time, Bozer grabbed DeAngelo's arm and hauled him along grumbling, "…damn well gonna help do something good around here, I know that much."
"You with me, kid?" Jack was whispering, his face close to Mac's. "Need you to stay with me, Mac, you hear me?"
"Mmm," Mac groaned in response.
"You don't have to think, you don't have to solve any problems, you don't have to fix anything. You don't have to do anything but lie here and breathe," Jack told him. "I know you can do that."
"Jack…," Mac gasped, and Matty saw another tear chase the first down the same path on his blood-stained face. "Can't…nnnrrrghhh….," he arched his neck back again, causing Jack to shift his hold so that he didn't press against any of Mac's wounds. "Can't…."
"Yes, you can," Jack told him, though Matty wasn't sure if either of them knew what Mac was referring to. "You can. You are the goddamn bravest person I have ever met in my life."
Mac turned his head weakly, his lips trembling and Matty couldn't tell in the eerie cell phone lighting if she was seeing blood staining them from earlier, or if they were tinged slightly blue. She saw him force his eyes open and, in that split second, she realized he was scared.
The kid who had found a way to survive without the safety net of loving parents, who had pushed himself every day to make his way in the world, who had willingly put himself between death and someone else on countless occasions, was terrified.
Matty found herself at a loss. She always had an answer, an order, a plan. Yet in this moment, the look in his eyes set her back on her heels.
"T-trying," he panted, his body shuddering slightly.
Something seemed to click inside Jack and he straightened his back, shifting his position so that he still held Mac but at an angle so the he could better look the younger man in the eye. Mac groaned at the movement, but Jack didn't let that deter him. He slid his arm from behind Mac's shoulders and rested both hands on either side of Mac's neck, his thumbs against Mac's cheekbones.
"Dammit, kid," he almost barked, bringing several eyes his direction, "you're not giving up. You get that? I won't let you."
Mac blinked sluggishly at him, eyes clouded with pain and an almost hesitant fear—as though he knew he should be afraid, but he couldn't remember of what anymore. "C-Cairo."
Matty frowned, thinking Mac was disconnecting from time again, when Jack suddenly nodded.
"That's right, kid," Jack said, sniffing as his tears slipped down his cheeks as he leaned forward and gently pressed his forehead against Mac's. "I didn't give up on you in Cairo; you're not giving up on me now."
"Flynn," Bozer called and Matty looked around to where he, Riley, and DeAngelo came back carrying a large, plastic bucket between them. "Get this stuff, will ya?"
Flynn joined them and pulled out a box of energy bars and more bottles of water, working with DeAngelo to distribute them through to the survivors. Riley and Bozer filled their arms with the medical supplies and headed to Ben. Matty motioned Leanna over.
"Take this bucket and shove it as far back into that corner as you can," she said, pointing to a point well away from where the crowd sat huddled. "Then find something to string up a couple of table cloths like a curtain."
Leanna looked puzzled. "Matty, what—"
"It's been several hours now," Matty pointed out. "People are going to need bathroom breaks. And since we can't get to the actual restrooms from here…."
Leanna grimaced. "Yeah. Didn't think of that."
"I'll help you," Riley offered, setting her supplies on the ground next to the bench. She picked up Ben's discarded kitchen jacket where it had fallen to the floor when Jack collected Mac against him and pulled it around her shoulders. "Kinda need it myself."
Turning back to Mac, Matty saw that Jack had turned once again so that he was holding Mac against him, his posture tight, his eyes watching every move Ben made with a hyper-vigilance that set Matty on edge.
Ben almost looked happy as he sorted the pile of supplies provided them. He handed Jack a packet of QuickClot and instructed Flynn to unwrap the pressure dressings. Using his teeth, he opened a packet of 10 milligram morphine syrettes. The small auto-injectors were common with soldiers, Matty knew, and Ben didn't hesitate as he pressed the injector against Mac's leg.
It took less than a minute to take effect; with a sound caught somewhere between a sob and a groan, Mac's whole body seemed to melt against Jack. His hand still trembled, but his back and shoulders released the tension they'd been holding, his head sagging back onto Jack's shoulder.
"Thank God," Matty heard a voice from behind her whisper.
She glanced back when she realized it wasn't DeAngelo who'd spoken. The young Marine stood holding one of the flats of water bottles, helping Flynn distribute the supplies, his eyes on Mac. Letting her gaze travel the rest of the small room, she saw relief on many faces, tears on others, and one person crossed herself as she breathed a prayer.
Ben had been right; pain was hard to witness, the sound of pain even more difficult to withstand. Except for one, this group of people had been silent supporters, doing their best to remain brave in a terrifying situation, letting the team focus on Mac. She looked at each face, memorizing them, knowing that no matter what happened after this moment, she would remember their relief at Mac's reprieve from pain, even if just for a little while.
She looked back at her young agent. His blue eyes roamed the room lazily, as though trying ground himself on something familiar. She stepped close, taking his hand.
"You will be okay, Blondie," she ordered him, drawing his eyes to her. "You hear me?"
"Hear you," Mac replied, blinking slow and sluggish.
"Good," Matty nodded, her throat tight. "Because I didn't refill that damn bowl of paperclips for nothing."
"Use the QuickClot on the puncture wound," Ben told Jack, then shifted his eyes to Flynn, "and then apply the pressure bandages to the shoulder and down the arm. We have to get that bleeding under control."
Jack and Flynn moved in tandem. The minute the QuickClot hit the deep wound on Mac's shoulder, the young agent let out a sharp cry, then clamped his jaw tight, huffing out strangled breaths in an attempt to get control.
"Easy, you're okay," Jack murmured.
It unnerved Matty to see Mac working so hard to gain control. She tightened her hold on his hand as Flynn pressed the bandages to the puncture wound. Mac made a noise somewhere between a sob and a growl, his teeth grinding. When the QuickClot hit the torn skin along his bicep, he gasped and went limp against Jack. Quickly, Matty slid her fingers to his wrist, feeling the too-rapid slam of his pulse, then nodded at Jack who was looking at her expectantly.
Flynn applied the pressure dressing on the rip in the skin along Mac's bicep and together the men wrapped him from shoulder to elbow. For the first time since they'd started trying to mend that wound, the bandages did not immediately turn red. Breathing a sigh of relief, Ben handed Jack an oxygen mask attached to a small, portable tank.
"Keep that on him," he instructed, turning the knob of the oxygen tank to release a stream of air. "And keep him as upright as possible without putting additional pressure on his chest."
Jack nodded, easing the thin strap around behind Mac's head, the mask clouding with Mac's exhale.
"Glad he's not awake for this," Jack murmured.
Matty frowned. "Why's that?"
Jack glanced over at her, something dark shifting across his eyes. "It was before you," he said, drawing her frown deeper with his words. "Bad guy basically waterboarded him using Nitrogen."
Realization dawned. "El Noche," Matty recalled, ignoring the curious looks that were tossed her way by Flynn and others.
Jack nodded. "Took him a while to get over that, and…," he shrugged slightly, shifting Mac's head against his shoulder, "ever since then, he's been a little, uh, claustrophobic when it comes to these things." He tipped his chin toward the oxygen mask.
"He needs the oxygen," Ben said quietly, pulling the table cloths back up to cover Mac's bruised chest.
He registered Jack's nod of acceptance, then reached up to change the now-empty bag of saline. Matty saw a slight tremor in his hand as he reattached the tubing to the new bag.
"Ben-Aryeh," she said softly, turning from Mac to face the former Medic.
Ben flinched at the sound of his full name and turned to stare at her in surprise.
"However it is you ended up here, wherever you came from, I am so grateful to you," she told him, smiling.
"I have not saved him yet," Ben reminded her.
"You're damn well on your way," Jack spoke up. "Thanks, man. Seriously."
Ben looked down and away, his face pulling tight with emotion. "He can have more morphine in six hours," he said. "If we are still here."
"If we're still here in six hours, I'm going to need that morphine," DeAngelo grumbled.
Matty rolled her eyes, turning to Jack. The man was strung tight as a bow; Matty could practically see his radar on high-alert, sending out warnings to anyone or anything that attempted to come near that he was on guard.
No one was getting to his boy.
"You need to eat something," she said.
"I'm fine," he told her, his eyes on the tablecloth covering Mac to the shoulders.
Matty found Riley with her eyes, the glow of a dozen cell phone lights turning the room an odd pearled-blue, and tipped her head toward Jack. Riley grabbed an energy bar and a bottle of water and took them over to Jack. He didn't move to take them from her.
"You have to keep up your strength, Jack," Riley said softly. "We don't know what we're going to have to do when they try to move those walls. We need you to keep Mac with us."
"I can feel him fading, Ri," Jack said, tears in his voice. "Right here, right against me, and he's fading away."
Riley crouched down, the edge of the white coat brushing the floor, and rested her hand on Jack's arm, looking him in the eye.
"He's still here, Jack," she told him.
"He's just so…still," Jack's voice hitched. "He ain't ever still. Always gotta be doin' something. Like messin' with those damn paperclips just to keep himself focused." Jack drew in a slow breath, swallowing a knot of emotion. "Just don't like seeing him so still."
Matty felt her heart clench and found herself helplessly reaching up to press a hand against her chest. Jack was right: Mac was never still. Even when the solution required something as cerebral as math, he wrote on glass, on car hoods, or even in the air. Always in motion.
"He's strong, Jack. He's so strong," Riley's voice faltered slightly, but she pushed on, "and that's because of you. Because you keep him going."
Jack shook his head. "Nah, this kid…it's always been him. He saved me. Kept me away from the edge. He's always just…just figured out how to get through one day. Then the next. And the one after that."
"Because he knows you're there for him," Riley insisted. "He knew he wasn't going to fall out of that truck in Kandahar because you wouldn't let him. He trusts you more than anyone in this world. He needs you to be here for him."
Jack sniffed and dragged a hand down his face, attempting to banish his tears. "Damn kid," he half-chuckled. "He's done that out-the-window thing a few times, you know?"
"I do," Riley allowed herself to smile. "Scares the crap out of me every time."
"Doesn't have one ounce of self-preservation," Jack shook his head. "He ran into that burning kitchen without thinking about whether or not he'd be able to run back out. Just 'cause there were people in trouble."
"I was closest to the hole in the Earth," Ben revealed quietly. "He had to lean over the edge to pull me to safety."
Jack waved a hand in Ben's direction as if to say, see, there you go.
"So, how about you eat something," Riley lifted the energy bar and water. "Take care of yourself, so you can take care of him."
Jack nodded, taking the proffered food and water with a soft smile at Riley. Flynn slid down to sit against the bench near Mac's feet, his head canted back against the padded seat.
"You're right about that whole…leap before looking, thing," Flynn commented as Matty and Riley found chairs to sit in near Bozer and Leanna. "He did that in Afghanistan, too—at least the times I was around him."
"Sounds like a bit of a hothead," DeAngelo spoke up, but Matty detected a sliver of admiration in his tone this time.
"Nah, not really," Jack shook his head. "He just thinks so much faster than the rest of us, he's plotted out the solution in his head before his body can catch up. It looks like he's reckless when really he's scary calculated."
"What happened when you guys reached those boys that were pinned down?" the young Marine spoke up from where the rest of the patrons had clustered together in the shadows of the cell phone lights.
Jack blinked, looking over at him in surprise. "You really want to hear the rest of that story?"
"Hell yeah, man," the Marine replied. "Get my mind of these damn aftershocks and the idea that we're sitting in the middle of a Jenga tower."
"I hear that," Bozer muttered in agreement.
Jack looked over at Flynn. "You okay with this?"
Flynn lifted a shoulder. "My old man told me one time that when we die, we turn into stories. And every time someone tells a story, we live on." He tipped his hand to the side, curling the fingers into a fist of memory. "I'd like to see some of those guys again, y'know?"
Jack nodded, taking a drink of water. He looked down where Mac rested against his shoulder, lashes dusting his bruised face, the oxygen mask clouding at regular intervals.
"Well, Mac decided to go along with my crazy plan to approach the place like kamikazes," Jack began, picking up where he left off, "although, looking back, I'd probably have definitely done it differently…."
A/N: So, in my research for this story, I found I had to draw some educated guesses when it came to making the Afghanistan portions somewhat plausible. As I investigated the formations in Delta, I discovered that there was a Combat Support Squadron that oversees EOD. I also discovered that each troop has multiple teams, led by a non-commissioned officer (Master Sergeant or Sergeant Major) and the rest of the teams are filled out with operations ranging in rank from Sergeant to Master Sergeant…so, that's how I settled on Jack's rank because, to be honest, I wasn't sure what his rank actually was.
Next, in trying to figure out a believable "call sign" for Mac and Jack, I found a table aligning appointments (artillery, infantry, etc.) with a title, and "Rickshaw" was assigned to Ordnance. Now, the security detail being "Bulldog"? That was a shout-out to SarieVenea, who so graciously helped me with the language for the 2011 flashback scenes (for example, I didn't realize soldiers deployed in Afghanistan never said "sandbox" …they call it "downrange"). Thanks, girl. *virtual fist bump*