Three

- x -

The ruins were crisscrossed with the signs of archeological excavations from different generations, some begun decades before, some abandoned in mid-dig when violence had broken out. The ground was treacherous beyond belief, and the deceptive wash of soft moonlight hid sudden trenches and holes in random locations. After his second stumble into near disaster, Moshe stayed in MacGyver's footsteps.

Mac led him, surefooted and confident, around crumbling walls and pediments carved in half-seen riots of ancient stonework. In the moonlight, some of the carvings looked sharp-edged and new again, and Moshe half-fancied that they were on the verge of stepping back through time and finding the ancient temple grounds restored to life. He shook himself. Too much strain, too long without food or rest; it did things to the mind.

Glancing around uneasily, Moshe stumbled over yet another obstacle and cursed softly but vehemently.

Mac glanced over his shoulder, his eyebrows at a quizzical tilt. "Y'know, I haven't worked with a lot of Israelis before – "

" – but some of your best friends are Jewish, right?"

"That's not what I was gonna say." Mac hesitated before he plunged on. "It's just – they don't mention God very often, and when they do, they really mean it. And you – "

"I know, I know. I sound like some cheap hackneyed parody of everybody's Nice Uncle Moshe, and I swear like an American."

Moshe smiled sardonically at MacGyver's embarrassed expression. "What can I say? We grow up with God looking over our shoulders, and as adults we are mostly very, very picky about mentioning the name. Most of my people have great reverence for the holy. Me . . . I have seen and done too many unholy things." He shrugged. "Besides, I have some very devout colleagues, and it annoys the hell out of them to hear me talk like this."

Mac looked up at the moon, checking his bearings. "Is the rest of it to get folks to underestimate you?"

"You mean it's not working?" Moshe's tone was a caricature of innocence.

Mac shook his head and pressed on into the ruins. In his memory, he could hear his own voice shifting into a backwoods parody of his own accent. He'd been doing it since college – no, before that – baiting his teachers, annoying his friends, and playing the hick for half the security forces in the Eastern Bloc. He knew just how well it could work.

At last Mac reached a trench cut into the side of the ancient tell, and gestured to Moshe to stand back. He dropped into the trench, hurried to its end, shoved aside a handful of dry earth and shifted a rough-hewn stone. Moshe saw the corner of a plywood panel emerge from the rubble. MacGyver pulled out the gun barrel from the Uzi – he must have kept hold of it all this time – and used it to prise the plywood away from its setting far enough so that he could get his hands around it. He grasped it firmly and heaved.

Trickles of earth shifted, but the hillside remained in place as a dark hole opened in the side of the tell. Moshe started back, fragments of old legends crowding into his brain when he saw movement within.

Dark eyes, ringed with thick dark lashes; a woman's face, a flawless curve of cheek and arched brow, exquisite as a peri; a thick waterfall of dark hair, uncovered by any veil or hijab; and the muzzle of a gun, catching the moonlight as the figure emerged from the underworld.

- x -

"Dr. Awad?"

At MacGyver's words, the fierce face of the she-goblin in the cave dissolved into relief and tears; the woman flung her arms around him with a cry of joy. Mac grunted and winced at the sudden pressure on his damaged ribcage. She was still holding the gun in one hand, and Moshe sidestepped in alarm as the firing path of the muzzle careened randomly in his general direction. He delicately removed the gun – another Uzi – from her grasp and pointed it at the ground.

MacGyver ruffled the woman's hair and kissed her gently on the top of her head, murmuring soft assurances. After a few minutes, she eased her grip and looked up at him, and flinched in horror.

"MacGyver – oh my God, what have they done to you . . . ?" She raised a hand towards his battered face, but he fielded it before she could touch him, and shifted around so they were facing Moshe.

The katsa was regarding them both with a peeved expression, shaking his head. "MacGyver. My friend. Don't do this to me. Are you telling me you took that beating for this? For a woman? You're hiding one of their women from them? Do you think you're James Bond or something?"

The woman glared at him, but Mac only shrugged ruefully. "Moshe, I'd like you to meet Dr. Jamila Awad, from the Phoenix Foundation. Jamila, this is Moshe Ben-Ari. Don't bite his head off, okay? We need him. He's gonna help us get out of Baalbek."

Bemused, Moshe found himself switching the Uzi to his other hand and shaking the woman's hand briskly. "So you're not from Baalbek? I thought . . . "

Her face looked like a refined archetype of the Middle East, but when she spoke, the accent was pure American. "Dad was from Baalbek originally. And my mom's from Beirut. I'm from Boston. And if we get out of here, I'm never coming back. The megaliths will have to get on without me. I'm going back to Stonehenge after this. Jesus, if there were megaliths in Greenland, I'd go there. Or Antarctica."

Mac raised an eyebrow. "Not a lot of ruined temples in Antarctica."

"You never know. Have we looked?"

Moshe was looking from Jamila to MacGyver, his brow furrowed in confusion. "She's an archeologist?"

"I wrote my doctoral dissertation on the megalithic foundations of the Baalbek sanctuary. I thought it would be worth the risk to actually see the place in person. I'm going to have to re-evaluate that theory in light of new evidence . . ." She looked back at the dark hole where she'd hidden for so many terrified hours and shuddered.

"We were surveying the ruins, and one of the Hezbollah head honchos saw her and liked her looks." Mac's eyes narrowed at the memory. "And then he tracked down some distant male cousin of her dad's, and the guy gave her away, just like that . . . "

"I thought you said they grabbed you because of a bomb!"

"Oh, that was a coupla days ago. But it did make things more complicated."

"Complicated. Complicated, he says. My friend, if you hadn't saved my life, you'd be the death of me." Moshe hefted the Uzi in his hand and frowned at it. "Any pieces missing?"

Jamila smiled wanly. "Just the ammunition."

Moshe removed the magazine, then drew back the breech block to check for a round in the chamber. The ejection port was empty. "Not much use, then."

"You never know." Mac shrugged.

Moshe replaced the empty magazine, released the bolt, and reset the safety. "You left her in there with nothing but an empty Uzi to protect herself?"

"An empty Uzi's better than none," Jamila said defensively. "Especially if no-one can tell that it's empty."

"In some ways, it's the best kind," Mac muttered. "Less noisy, for starters. Could you keep your voices down? Sound carries like anything around here."

"MacGyver didn't just leave me there," Jamila said. "He hid me in the burrow, told me to stay put, and, well . . . "

"Ran like a rabbit to draw them off," Mac finished drily.

"Maybe you're not so crazy after all. In Baalbek, running makes sense."

"Well, they thought they were chasing her – they didn't figure out their mistake till they caught me," Mac explained. "I was doin' okay until that danged burqa got wrapped around my ankles. How do women move in those things?"

"I take it back." Moshe rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling as if the night air was far too thin. "Can we go now? Or have you got another distressed damsel tucked away somewhere?"

MacGyver grinned. "Nope, only one this time. Which way do we go from here?"

"Back to town – but if you think I can find my way out of this maze of yours, you've picked the wrong rat."

"Okay, fine. Follow me. Jamila, you okay for a short hike?"

"After hours in that hole? I could walk to Beirut if I had to. It'd be a relief."

"I'm hopin' for something a little better than that." MacGyver glanced at Moshe. "Something with wheels would be nice." His eyes sparkled. "An engine would be a bonus."

Moshe grinned. "I should warn you: it won't be anything fancy. We'll be doing well if it has all four wheels."

"At this point, I'd settle for a secondhand camel."

- x -

MacGyver led the way back through the ruins, careful not to outpace Jamila, who was staggering in spite of herself. Moshe followed in the rear, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. He found the place unnerving; the looming walls and massive stonework felt far out of human scale, and the silent weight of the centuries mocked him with its relentless endurance.

Mac kept an eye on the moon as he threaded his way through the sanctuary, wishing Moshe had been more specific about which part of town they needed to aim for. East and south of the ruins, there was a wide swath of open space before the nearest buildings provided cover again; Mac was aiming for the northern end of the precinct, where the town drew closer and there was better cover from the sparse trees.

He nearly walked into the khaki-clad figure that loomed suddenly out of the shadows of a low stone wall. The first blow to his face reopened his cheekbone; the next blow knocked him sideways, his head spinning. He grappled with the wall, felt cool stone under his hands, tried to pull himself back to his feet.

The man was tall, taller even than MacGyver, black-haired and bearded, and thunderous with rage. He stepped towards Jamila, who flinched back involuntarily before she could catch herself. She stiffened her back and stood up to her full height, glaring up at his face.

"You're Farouq, right? The guy that mangy cousin of mine sold me to? Well, forget it. You can rot in hell for all I care."

Farouq snarled an Arabic obscenity and seized a handful of Jamila's hair, wrapping it around his hand and yanking her sideways. Her shriek of pain was cut off when he backhanded her savagely across the face. She crumpled at his feet; he hauled her up again by the hair, drawing his hand back for another blow.

MacGyver launched himself at the man. He still held the gun barrel, although he'd nearly dropped it when the militant attacked; now he struck the man's arm with it. Farouq dropped Jamila and turned. He took a step back as Mac slashed at his face, opening a bleeding gash that twinned the fresh injury on his own cheek. Farouq hissed with pain and anger.

Mac tried to help Jamila up. "Can't you take a hint, big guy? She's an American citizen. Go find someone in your own weight class!"

"An American whore!" Farouq's eyes glittered. "You pigs ruin everything you touch – our land, our daughters – this one will stay here and learn her place!"

"How'd you find us?" Mac wondered where Moshe had gotten to. Jamila was slumped, unmoving, and he didn't dare look around behind him. He didn't see any of Farouq's men; the Hezbollah chief seemed to be alone.

Farouq smiled with contempt. "How are you feeling now, my big damned American hero? All that courage gone to waste." He brushed his fingers along the bleeding welt MacGyver had left on his face. "It was rude of you to pass out on me earlier, you know. We hadn't finished our talk. It was rude to leave my hospitality without saying good-bye. You've cost me a lot of face. But your face looks lovely. We'll do an even better job on it tomorrow."

Mac couldn't keep from wincing. "Is that why you came out here on your own? Where are your bully-boys?"

"My men are searching the town for the Israeli pig. But it was easy enough to guess where you would go. When I bring you two back, my face will be restored – no-one will mock me after that." He looked around. "So where's the stinking Jew? He ran out on you, didn't he?"

"The stinking Jew is staying upwind from the stinking terrorist." Moshe stepped out from behind a toppled stone pillar, the Uzi in his hands pointed at Farouq. "Much easier to breathe that way."

Farouq moved like a striking snake. He seized MacGyver's left wrist in a grip that made Mac flinch as the calloused hand closed on the raw wounds left by the manacles. He yanked Mac off balance and twisted his arm behind him, pulling him close, swinging him around so that his body was between Moshe and Farouq.

A knife blade glittered silver in the moonlight as Farouq drew it from his belt. He had MacGyver in an armlock; he pushed the arm up higher against Mac's shoulderblades, forcing his hostage onto tiptoe, and set the blade against Mac's throat.

"Drop the gun, pig, or I'll cut his throat. You can watch him bleed to death."

The knife was honed to a razor sharpness; Farouq pressed slightly, and a faint thread of scarlet opened up at the touch. Mac felt the sting as a warm trickle ran down his neck. He tried not to breathe too deeply; a deep breath would press the skin harder against the knife.

Moshe's eyes locked on Mac's, expecting to see pain, fury, fear, even capitulation. Instead, he felt as if he was watching a turbocharged engine roar into overdrive. Mac met his look with one of fierce intensity, and glanced deliberately down at the gun barrel he still held in his almost-slack right hand. His eyes flicked back towards Farouq's hand where it held the razor edge of the knife at his throat, and then returned to meet Moshe's.

Now here's my plan.

Moshe spoke lightly, each word dripping with contempt. "You damned Hezbollah dogs – always making the stupid assumptions. Always overlooking the obvious."

"Assumptions? Obvious?" Farouq tightened his hold on Mac's twisted arm, and smirked at the resulting yelp.

"Yes, obvious! You're assuming I give a damn about some stupid American tourist caught in the crossfire. Such a pity." He hefted the Uzi and smirked. "One bullet – just one – and you have no more hostage. That's as obvious as it gets, no?"

Each movement seemed separate and distinct, items checked off a list, as Moshe raised the Uzi and moved the selector lever to semiautomatic fire, leveled the gun at Farouq, then shifted his aim to point carefully and deliberately at MacGyver's head, and pulled the trigger. The crisp, metallic click of the hammer striking the bolt seemed amazingly loud, and yet barely audible to ears expecting the crack of a gunshot. Mac could even hear a faint ring to the sound as the metal of the empty magazine reverberated tinnily.

It felt as if Moshe had taken a very long time to complete the act. But Farouq had been caught, transfixed and unbelieving, for that entire agonisingly slow two seconds. Even as the click rang through the still air, Mac whipped the gun barrel up with all his strength and caught Farouq squarely in the back of his right hand. The hand spasmed automatically, the fingers slackening, the knife slicing a shallow line down Mac's neck as it fell. He pushed himself back against Farouq, twisting out of the way of the falling blade.

Mac's next blow with the barrel hit Farouq's right kneecap. The big man didn't quite lose his balance, but he was rattled; it took a moment before he gathered his wits. Mac tried to wriggle out of the armlock.

Bad move . . . the attempt had reminded Farouq of the hold he had on MacGyver. He yanked at the twisted arm until Mac thought his shoulder would dislocate, and caught Mac's right wrist, twisting his hand until the gun barrel dropped out of nerveless fingers, clattering onto the stone to join the fallen knife.

The massive hand was back at Mac's throat, this time choking him, but suddenly the grip slackened and the man behind him became a heavy weight dragging him earthwards. The extra pull on Mac's arm nearly broke it; Moshe caught at Farouq's body from behind and eased his fall to the ground, as MacGyver wrenched himself out of the bearlike grasp and stood, panting and sweating. He looked at Moshe as the katsa let Farouq drop with a thump and stepped back.

Moshe hefted the Uzi again; he was holding it by the barrel. "That's one damned thick skull he's got. I don't think he even felt the first two whacks. But you were right. Even an empty Uzi has its uses."

Mac eased his aching shoulder, reassuring himself that the arm was still attached. He touched his throat with light fingers, glanced at the smears of blood, then knelt down by Jamila and helped her sit up. She blinked at Farouq's supine form.

"Is he dead?" She wasn't sure which answer would be more frightening.

"No, no. A skull that thick? He'll be fine. Except he'll lose so much face his beard will probably slide off. But we'll be long gone by the time he wakes up." Moshe was shaking his head. "You crazy American . . . you are one bad influence."

"You're a little bit crazy yourself, y'know?"

"Yes? Well, don't tell anyone. I have a reputation to consider."

MacGyver grinned. "Yeah? Maybe I oughta worry about my reputation."

"Oh, the reputation you'll have, my friend! But don't worry. I'll be sure to tell everyone that you're much crazier in person."

~ fin ~