Jack appreciated Matty coming out personally, appreciated how many of Phoenix's resources were already being deployed to find Mac, but he was quietly losing his mind at the moment. This was Murdoc. Not even a question.

Bozer knew it (although Jack slightly wanted to slap the kid around for selfishly having a momentary freak out about the psycho being back in their house – That psycho had Mac; but he didn't say anything because he thought maybe it was a denial thing, easier to think about than what might be happening to his best friend). Riley knew it. And Matty knew it. The fact that Cage even questioned his judgment on this destroyed the progress she'd made with him in becoming a real member of the team on the last mission. It made him want to choke her. Or shoot her. But not like fatally. Maybe in the kneecap.

Fortunately, the rest of the team backed him up. And Matty hassled him a lot, most of the time, but not today. Today he could almost see the person that he used to count as one of his closest friends. When she looked in his eyes and tried to convince him this wasn't his fault he'd nearly broken down. She saw that, knew he would hate it, so she backed off. He owed her one for that.

Besides, no one was going to convince Jack that this wasn't his fault. Sure, he'd stayed in Paris and watched Mac's back. Carefully. From a distance. But once the kid had gotten on the plane home, Jack had let his hurt feelings get the better of him and just convinced himself that Mac was fine, that he didn't need watching to get from LAX to his house. And that maybe, just possibly, if he didn't hear from the kid by dinner, he'd buy a pizza and some beer and just show up at his place like nothing happened and try to get him talking.

When Riley got the lead on the phony registration, Jack wanted to weep in relief. Even a small lead was better than nothing. And he forgave Cage for her earlier resistance to his theory since he was armed and ready to go after Mac, no more questions asked. He wanted to smack Bozer again when the kid insisted on coming with them, but he couldn't really blame the guy. Mac was his best friend, too.

The warehouse was about the worst Jack thought he'd ever felt. No Mac. No Murdoc. Nothing but a cold trail. Son of a bitch. And there was nothing, literally nothing he could do. Mac could already be …. No! Jack's mind wouldn't even let him articulate the thought. Besides, if Murdoc just wanted him dead, they would have found him riddled with holes somewhere between the airport and his house.

This was some sort of sick game. It had to be. Well, that wasn't a fun thought, but both he and Mac had been through that sort of hell before. Mac was going to be okay. He was going to get himself out of this, or at least find a way to call Jack.

Then Jack sort of wanted to be sick. He knew Mac would be thinking he was on his way, that he'd stop at nothing to get to him and get him out of whatever mess he was in. But, his brain reminded him maliciously, they'd fought the last time they'd spoken.

And Mac never quite seemed to be able to hold on to the idea that Jack was never going to just leave him like everyone else had. After all these years, somewhere down deep, Mac still didn't think he was worth caring about. So maybe he was just suffering somewhere giving up hope because he figured Jack had finally checked out on him, too.

Then Jack realized that no matter what was happening, there was no quit in Mac. He'd fight to get free, if only to piss off Murdoc, if only to prove to the sick bastard that he wasn't as clever as he thought he was, that Mac was his better. "He'll be alright," Jack said, hoping it was true, and already blaming himself for every possible outcome in which it wasn't.

0-0-0

Mac had come across a lot of truly awful people in his career, both as a soldier and as a government operative. But nobody else he'd ever met made his skin crawl the way Murdoc did. Murdoc could sense his discomfort, too; he sat just close enough to make Mac instinctively pull back in the chair he was chained to.

He wanted to be able to verbally spar with Murdoc, push him until he revealed something about where he was being kept or even just did something stupid like got close enough for a Jack Dalton-style headbutt, but his eyes kept wanting to flutter closed. He was being kept on the razor's edge of unconsciousness with this drug, whatever it was. He supposed getting clobbered awake earlier didn't help either.

He was having a hell of a time remembering what he'd just said even a minute before. And worse, he felt on the verge of tears, and he couldn't have said why. Oh yeah, because he was chained to a chair in some basement, his arm throbbing with having had a needle about driven out the other side of his elbow, talking daddy issues with a psychopath. Angry was easier, felt better, cleaner.

But then, when Mac let himself get angry, all he accomplished was hurting himself. He tried to relax, even as Murdoc moved closer, letting his skewered arm hang as straight as the handcuffs would let it. That eased the stabbing pain somewhat, let it fade to just a miserable rhythmic throbbing. That wrist would just have to deal with the cuffs digging into the raw bruises there. Bending the arm was out of the question at the moment. He rested his other wrist against his leg.

He needed to be able to think, to pull something useful from Murdoc's babbling. And his story about Cassian and his mother actually made Mac feel sick. Or was that the drugs. Mac had reached a point where, Murdoc or no Murdoc, he would have given his entire, any and all, past, present, and future earnings, and maybe a thumb or even like a kidney, just to feel clear headed again, even for a minute.

Then Murdoc had to start hinting at what he had planned. Completely without the influence of any consciousness altering drugs, Mac's imagination had done some pretty rotten things to him. Since he was a kid. It had taken him until he was much older than he cared to admit to just get over his fear of the dark. And if he was honest, while he wasn't afraid of it anymore, he wasn't exactly comfortable either. So, knowing what some of Murdoc's past victims had been subjected to before he'd put them out of their misery was enough to send his foggy brain into all sorts of unwelcome directions.

Then when Murdoc made it clear the Jack wasn't coming for him, and of all the things he'd said that was the one Mac was sure was true, he made a decision to try to escape. At least if Murdoc shot him doing that, he'd avoid what promised to be a much worse end for himself. And frankly, he wasn't going to accept defeat that easily.

As Murdoc left, he could feel himself slipping back toward unconsciousness again. If he let that happen, he didn't want to contemplate what he'd wake up to. Despite his best intentions, his head slipped down onto his chest and his eyes started to slide closed.

He pried them open and found himself staring at the IV needle sticking out of his now-bruising arm. He started at it for a minute. If he could just get that out of his vein, he bet his head would start to clear and maybe he could figure a way out before Murdoc got back. Besides, he wanted it gone. He shifted carefully and got his teeth around the line to pull it out.

God damn that hurt. He spat it out, cringing a little. He realized almost immediately that while he might have a very sore arm because that was about the biggest IV needle he'd ever seen (not that he looked really, but you had to make some assumptions based on how much you did or did not want to sabotage the car of the person poking you), Murdoc had made a big mistake using it. That was sturdy enough to maybe … Yes! He bent it with some real effort and had himself out of the cuffs in under a minute.

He stumbled around the room for a minute, evening managing to get up the stairs to look at the lock before needing to sit for a second. But he'd barely let himself balance, much less sit, on the stairs, when he bounced back up. He didn't have time to rest, no matter how sore, or sweat, or nauseous, or even ready to just pass out he was.

If he didn't break out of here, he was going to die slowly and painfully, and probably terrified. Murdoc knew too much about him. From Nikki; when she'd ordered that hit, his brain reminded him. Not now! he practically shouted at himself. That wasn't going to help. He could wallow in that particular set of betrayal and abandonment issues later. Like in a clean bed. After half a bottle of Advil maybe.

Although he felt sort of hopeless, like maybe he was just to dinged up to get out of here on his own. And he felt out of resources. Then he started to really look around. This was actually looking up. As he moved around the room, making his impromptu hydraulic jackhammer, he started to feel a little more clear-headed, he thought.

When it worked, he almost fell down the stairs and realized that maybe the garbage Murdoc had doped him with hadn't lessened at all. That had probably been wishful thinking. But the door was open. He drunkenly made his way up the stairs and almost whooped with triumph when he found the drainage access, but he was with it enough to keep quiet.

He hadn't gotten very far when he heard Murdoc's bellow of rage. But he realized he'd made good progress through the pipe already since it sounded far away. But he didn't think he was moving very fast. He kept staggering into the wall, falling down into the brackish water, weaving and swaying. When he heard the singsong call, "MacGyyyyyveeerrr, come out to plaaay-aaaayyyy!" it sounded like Murdoc was practically on his heels.

All he felt was hot blistering panic in his chest and a cold terrified sinking in the pit of his stomach. He'd gotten away he couldn't get caught again, couldn't go back down there, couldn't endure any more of what Murdoc had in store for him. Trying desperately to slow his breathing, knowing he was a hairsbreadth away from hyperventilating and steadying his steps by putting his hands out, Mac turned and ran up the pipe as fast as he could go. Which, he thought fearfully, was still painfully suicidally slow.

When he emerged on the street about a half hour later, he knew he was nearly hit by at least three cars, but he only cared in a vague sort of way about it. He saw a group of people walking down the sidewalk. They looked friendly and helpful, and sane. So very sane. Although Mac had a feeling everyone else in the world was going to look sane from here on out.

He stumbled and fell, hitting the curb and surrounding pavement hard. People started rushing over. He heard voices asking what was wrong, what they could do. He was so close to slipping out of consciousness again, he forced out the only words that he could, though they were words that didn't come naturally to him. "Help me."

He heard people drawing closer, trying to do just that. Then he heard someone say, "Call 911."

And he knew that was a good idea, really. He knew what he must look like lying here on the ground, but he did muster up the energy to say something that came much easier than a request for help. "Call Jack Dalton," and then his eyes slid shut.