The first explosion sent a rain of crumbling stone down on their heads. Jack let out a little whoop of triumph and Mac grinned as they crouched down and ran around the building to light the next fuse. Even over the sound of parts of the wall collapsing they could hear chaos ensuing inside. "This is workin' a lot better than the last time you made sugar bombs, Mac!"

"Yeah!" Mac shouted. "'Cause this time I had stuff for fuses!" He dodged as a larger chunk of wall nearly hit him as the next explosion went off. "Riley! How's the plan for exfil coming?" he called over the noise, hoping it wasn't causing too much interference on the comms.

"Well, after Matty swore at me for about five minutes …" Jack snickered and she pretended not to hear it. "She called in a few favors. There's a private airfield on the other side of Severny Airport not too far from here. She's got someone who owes her big bringing in medical supplies and fueling up something called a Kazhak? A Mi-17 or something ..."

"Matty the Hun got us a Hip! No way! Ima hafta kiss that woman."

"Slow your roll, Dalton," Matty's voice cut in over the noise. "That's a privilege you have to earn back."

"Earn back?" Mac nearly cackled. "I cannot wait to hear this story."

Gun fire joined the cacophony and Jack started scanning the darkness more carefully for threats.

"That's enough outta you, Blondie," Matty began, and she was about to ask how infiltrating the prison was going when she heard Mac's yelp of pain. "Mac? Mac? Dalton, talk to me."

"He's hit, Matty," was Jack's grim reply.

"I'm good," Mac insisted, a little breathlessly. "It's just a graze."

Riley interrupted. "If you guys can get everyone three blocks south without getting pinched, I've got a school bus waiting, thanks to my new friend Lexi, who apparently can hotwire as well as his hero Captain America … I mean Mac." She managed to sound totally on top of the situation, but knowing Mac was injured had, what Jack would have called, her Spidey-senses tingling. If Mac was admitting to a graze with no argument, it was probably worse.

"Sounds good, Ri," Jack said.

Everyone could hear Mac almost panting for a second over the comms.

Milton's voice interjected, "Jack I need help neutralizing the rest of the guards; on the hop, man."

Jack took a minute to assess his partner. "You really okay?"

"Yeah, Jack. Go help Milton. I'll try to meet up with Rodgers and we'll see about getting into the lower level." Jack nodded and took off through the smoke. As he moved through the yard himself, Mac asked, "What's your twenty, Steve?"

There was a pause before Rodgers' voice spoke in Mac's earpiece. "I think I've found an external entrance to the basement. I'm on the south side of the building. The one you haven't blown to shit yet."

Mac could hear the grin in Steve's voice as well as a fair amount of awe. "It's just homemade rocket fuel under some pressure."

"Yeah, well it's awesome. I think maybe I got the world's best new assignment. Science nerds unite."

Mac laughed, then sucked in his breath sharply. Steve heard it. "Graze, huh?"

Mac joined him behind some fallen debris at that moment. "More or less. Don't worry, I'll avail myself of your services once we get the hell out of here."

Steve looked him over briefly, satisfied that the wound in Mac's upper arm was leaking rather than gushing, but not happy that there was no obvious exit wound. "Alright, let's get your friend."

The noise all around them suggested a firefight, more debris falling, and the triumphant sounds of men who never thought they'd breathe free air again. Jack's voice rang over the comms, "We are go to exfil! Where my boys at?"

Rodgers answered, "Just heading underground for the package."

"Everybody alright?"

Mac just nodded at Rodgers, not wanting Jack to hear the pain in his voice. "We are five-by. Get those guys out of here. We'll take that shit box of a car. See you at the rendezvous."

"Mac?"

Goddamnit. The man would never just do what was expected, would he? "Five-by-five. Like the man says, Papa Jack. Jeez." Mac tried to put all the resentful teenager he could muster into his voice, hoping humor would mask the seriousness of his injury for now.

Rodgers spared him any further conversation by breaking the lock on the basement doors at that moment and calling, "Go, go, go!"

This particular medic had no compunction about carrying a gun so he took point moving down the stairs into the dimly lit dusty basement. Mac followed, squinting even though it was nearly dark down here. It was brighter than the un-illuminated yard. They tried a number of doors, finding mostly supply closets and one disturbing filthy bathroom. At the end of the hall they found a locked door. Mac used his knife to make an impromptu bump key, pretty sure he'd need a new blade, but thinking if anyone could understand someone breaking this heirloom for busting up a concentration camp it ought to be his Grandpa Harry (technically great grandpa, but Mac didn't think the universe really kept score like that; as Jack often said, family was family).

In the room on the other side was his friend Kolya. Mac stood stock still for a moment and just took in the man, naked except for a pair of dirty boxers of indeterminate color and streaked with the man's blood, exposed skin corpse-pale and streaked with more blood, head hanging on his chest, dark limp hair falling around his unshaven face. For one sickening second Mac thought he was dead, and then for another, he almost hoped that was true, knowing exactly how surviving capture and torture could mark a man, and Kolya wasn't a soldier, wasn't a trained agent; he was a journalist who just happened to think that sometimes information was so important you had to do more than report it. Then Kolya lifted his head and smiled. It was a sickly smile, around dry, cracking lips and receding gums, but it was a smile, nevertheless. There was the whispered almost unbelieving word, "MacGyver," before Mac was hauled off his feet from behind by someone twice his size, and if the death hold the man had on him was any indication, fresh as a daisy, and uninjured. Mac was slammed brutally into the stone wall several times. He felt a sharp pain down one side. He heard gunshots and a scuffle, then his head connected solidly with the wall.

Mac heard several more shots fired and Jack's voice in his ear before the comm was yanked from it and stomped, "Mac! I'm comin' back."

Everything went black.

0-0-0

The first thing Mac noticed as he regained consciousness was his throbbing head and vaguely sick stomach, signifying at least a mild concussion. Then he took in his pained shallow breathing. Yeah, those ribs are probably broken. Hopefully they aren't poking into anything too important. Finally, he was aware of the stiff dampness of this sleeve and the side of his shirt that said he'd lost more blood; if how his arm was throbbing was any indication, it had been a lot more than a graze, and wasn't a simple through and through. The bullet was still hanging around somewhere near his shoulder waiting to cause no end of future problems. Once he'd processed all the major damage, he could feel a zip tie around his wrists. His hands were secured behind him, but beyond that he wasn't bound, or the pain would probably be a lot worse. He reluctantly forced his eyes open.

A bare overhead bulb illuminated the room. It was a supply closet. Pain aside, Mac couldn't suppress his grin.

I know what you're thinking … And you're wrong … Well, if I wasn't me, you'd be right. This guy's been shot, grabbed by the bad guys, beat up, and thrown in some closet! What the hell is he smiling for? Well, I'll tell you. My grandfather always used to say that you're only beat when you quit. And you only quit when you run out of tools. Locking me in a supply closet is basically like giving me a well-stocked toolbox. Oh … yeah … I haven't forgotten that my hands are tied. That's actually the easy part. Well, maybe not easy, but not complicated.

Mac took a deep breath, knowing the first part of this maneuver was going to be the hardest. He did his best to relax, but relaxation was hard to come by knowing exactly how badly this was going to hurt. His brain was doing its best to throw another flashback his way and he clamped down on it, focusing almost desperately at the task at hand. Young Mac had responded to the pain when his first combat injury ripped through him by freaking out a little, sure he was going to die. He always felt at least a little piece of that. He wouldn't say so to Jack, but it was at least half the reason he was always so surly when he was injured. MacGyver! he barked at himself, using the same mental tactic that had kept him going all those years ago. You wanna be hurt or you wanna be dead?! His more conscious self knew the easy answer, just like it had then. Well, good. Your hands need to be in front of you! So get them there. Carefully, fighting through his own instinctive resistance to the pain he knew was coming, Mac stretched his arms far enough to slip his backside and legs through his arms. It stretched his shoulders almost past the point of tolerance and he could feel the wound high up on his arm begin to bleed more freely. He sat panting for a few moments, resting his head against a nearby shelf. He hoped Steve had gotten Kolya out with the rest of the recently liberated prisoners.

After he caught his breath, Mac leaned forward contemplating his boot laces. They were tightly tied and damp. Well, hell. He tried to undo them with his bound hands, but with no success. Sighing heavily, Mac leaned forward and used his teeth to assist his swelling, restricted hands in unknotting the laces. He was quickly losing feeling in his fingers, but he managed to tie the laces around the zip ties. Sawing his hands back and forth, the ties broke about a minute and a half later. He looked at his wrists. Satisfied that he'd freed himself without opening another wound, Mac got up and tried the door. It was locked as he'd suspected. He looked around at the contents of the small closet. He grinned again, seeing both basic kitchen and bathroom supplies on the shelves. There was aluminum foil, drain cleaner, and matches. He could get out of here.

Mac had under-anticipated the concussion of the blast in the poorly ventilated closet and was knocked unconscious and sprawling by the force. Shades of his first meeting with Jack. Then, as with that unhappy memory, the next thing he knew, Jack was beside him trying to patch him up enough to move him and reassure him at the same time. Mac knew he'd managed to get out of there under his own power, or at least on his feet, although heavily assisted by Jack. He vaguely remembered getting to the car which thankfully started on the first try. The next thing Mac was really aware of was the vague sound of a helicopter taking off, the noises of the other men, some in pain or frightened, but all of them determined to be a part of the team getting them to safety, and Steve's voice right next to him. "Hey, Mac. How you holding up, buddy?"

Mac groaned slightly before answering. "I'm super great. Can't ya tell?"

"Yeah, seems like. Look, I'm trying to find a good place to start an IV and I can't seem to locate one I like."

Mac sighed. "I've got shitty veins, or so I've been told."

"Recommendations? Preferences?"

"Nowhere?" Mac half-joked. "I hate needles so it doesn't really matter. Do what you have to, man. It's gonna suck regardless."

Then he heard a warm familiar voice that relaxed him, made him forget his pain for at least a second. "Back of his hand. Left hand. He's still gonna hate it, but it almost always works and it won't get in his way too bad." Jack sat on the floor by the makeshift gurney and took Mac's right hand, as if to reinforce his words.

Jack was right. Mac still looked away and flinched at the poke of the needle, but Steve had steady hands and was successful on the first stick. Only seconds later Mac could feel the line being taped down and the cool infusion of saline starting, making him feel slightly shivery. Jack immediately took off his jacket and draped it over Mac, knowing just how unpleasant the chill of IV solutions could be. Just about everything hurt, but Mac could formulate enough coherent thought to look at Jack and ask, "Did everybody get out? Kolya? Lex? And …"

Jack's eyes were over bright, but he rushed to reassure his friend, "Everybody on our side made it out, kiddo. You were probably the worst injury except ..."

As banged up as he was, Mac knew that expression, that tone, so he pushed, "Jack?"

Jack sighed, "It's gonna be a little touch and go for Nikolai, Mac … But we're transferring onto a jet in Turkey and getting everyone to Norway ASAP. Not only are they taking refugees like these men, but their medical care is second to none."

Mac sighed with relief, which was stopped short when he saw Rodgers with a syringe poised above his IV line. "Hey, don't …"

Steve was prepared to ignore Mac, who had a bit of a reputation with the Phoenix medical staff. Besides, a lot of guys insisted they didn't need pain meds, even if being stabbed with a big needle wasn't what they were worried about, but Jack stepped in. "Yeah, morphine is a bad idea, brother."

"He's been shot and beaten like a rented mule, Jack, and I'm not sure but I think he's got some broken ribs," Steve argued.

"It doesn't do what it's supposed to for Mac, dude. Whatever it does to him ... it's not good."

Mac added, his voice tightening with another wave of pain, "It makes me want to tear my face off and then just keep tearing until all I have is a big handful of Mac face confetti. And it just makes the pain worse. Jack has seen it."

Mac only sort of remembered after the medic had jabbed him in Afghanistan, but he did remember how much the shot had hurt, and how wired and weird he'd felt afterward, how the pain seemed to ramp up with every passing second, and overhearing someone say the effects lasted for at least four hours. The thought of spending four hours like that had made him want to scream. He remembered feeling a hand just resting on his arm that was frustratingly strapped to the bed, apparently because he kept pulling out his IV although he didn't remember doing that, and a gentle voice talking in hushed soothing tones about horses and riding all day, cooking steaks out on the grill after, about pretty girls and cold beers; about home. When the injection wore off enough, someone else had brought him some pills that had allowed him to finally, blissfully drift off to sleep. He didn't know the man's name, but until his dying day he would be pretty damned sure that if angels existed they had green eyes and brown hair. Jack remembered all of it and it was worse than anything Mac's brain had let him in on. Steve nodded and handed the morphine off to someone else. Mac thought it might have been Riley, who moved away like it was an everyday part of her job. Steve looked from Mac to Jack, honestly more worried about the reaction of the latter. "I just want Mac to be comfortable and I need him to keep still, to keep cavitation to a minimum to reduce further damage from the bullet. Graze my ass, Angus MacGyver," he said in Mac's direction, with good natured irritation. Ignoring Mac's non-verbal frowning protest toward any medication, he said to Jack quietly, "I don't want to use straps. How does he tolerate benzos?"

Jack shook his head, glancing his apology at Mac for not even consulting him, but not liking the idea of Mac needing to be strapped down either, especially after the way Mac's eyes had widened when he heard Steve's quiet comment. "I don't remember if he's ever had them. Worth a try though, I guess."

Mac was ready to argue, but saw that Steve already discarding a syringe in the box he was taking from patient to patient. The medic was looking at him very apologetically, but Mac could tell from the vague rush of warmth in his arm that it wasn't going to be bad like morphine. In fact, he could feel himself getting relaxed and dozy in spite of the pain. At least he didn't feel cold anymore. He actually felt decent enough for a small joke. "That's not super solider serum, right?"

Steve patted him on the arm with a grin. For someone who had a reputation as a terrible patient, he found Mac to be one of his easier cases of the night. "It's called Versed. Knowing you've had surgery before, you've probably had it. It won't do much for the pain but it'll chill you out and make you tired. I swear you'll just be the same level of super you are now when you wake up, Mac." He moved off toward his next patient.

Jack settled onto the floor next to MacGyver. Mac drowsily said, "I thought you wanted to fly a Hip …"

Jack took Mac's free hand in his a little more firmly and squeezed it. "Well, I handled takeoff, but I figured our new buddy Todd earned some flight time. Besides, I thought you might need me back here. I know your basic opinion of medical types and how much you like bein' a pin cushion …"

"I'm glad you got to fly this bird a little, Jack," Mac mumbled sleepily. "You didn't need to come back here with me though. I'm okay, I think …" His eyes started to drift closed.

He didn't see Jack's eyes fill, and with the warmth that was flooding his veins he didn't hear the quaver in his friend's voice either. "I will always come back for you, Mac. You're my boy."