Jack saw someone of O'Neill's size and shape down a side hallway as the ran toward the armory. He shouted about what he'd seen to Mac and sped off toward what he thought was the ringleader of this little shenanigan.

He got to the end of the hall and discovered what he'd seen was one of the Tac guys who'd escaped the small group of hostages heading away from the armory to see what he could do about the situation. He also realized Mac hadn't followed him when he'd yelled about O'Neill.

Son of a bitch.

Jack got the Tac guy, Dawes, headed back the way Jack had come. Each one of them now carried a couple of weapons since Dawes had loaded up.

They'd made it around the first corner of the general direction Mac and Jack had been heading when the main lights cut out in favor of flashing red ones and an alarm reminiscent of an air raid siren started to blare.

Heavy boots and shouts followed.

Jack and Dawes switched gears and headed in the direction of the sound. With only a few weapons between them, the firefight was brief and fruitless.

O'Neill's men were able to pin them down with no trouble. The smoke cleared and the two agents moved forward. There was noise fading away on the stairs. Suddenly, not distracted by bad guys and high velocity rounds, Jack realized the reason he'd headed back this way to begin with. "Mac!"

The started scouring the rooms for the younger man, calling out his name. At least Jack knew help was there because the alarm stopped blaring and the lights came back up.

"Mac! Yo Mac, buddy! Where are ya?" Jack called.

He was answered with a sharp, "Dalton!" by a voice that was almost familiar, but his hearing was fuzzy from all the gunfire.

When he and Dawes rounded the corner in the direction of the call, Jack recognized the source immediately. Mac's rather imposing doctor friend was standing by the door of one of the conference rooms. When he met Jack's eyes he held up Mac's cell phone and then Jack saw the glint of red that told him Elliot had Mac's Swiss Army knife too.

"Goddamnit," Jack growled and moved to push past Elliot to see inside the conference room.

"You're not going to like this any better, Jack."

He was right. Jack didn't like what he found any better. Because what he found was nothing.

Well, not nothing. There was a smear of blood drying on the floor. Not a lot. But it was blood. And Jack had a nauseating certainty that it was Mac's.

He was about to ask Elliot if he knew the status of the rest of the building but Elliot had his phone in hand.

"They nabbed the kid," was how he started the conversation. "Okay ... Okay … I'll tell them."

He put it back in his pocket and looked at Jack, more or less ignoring Dawes. "Vis made a couple of trucks heading away from here about ten minutes ago. Headed to the airfield east of here last Look she got." He paused. "Odds are they bagged Mac and cut their losses when the kid had us sound the alarm."

Jack was breathing heavily. Not with exertion or fatigue. With something much darker and harder to bear. "And?" What Jack meant was "Status report. What's next?" but words weren't his strong suit even when he didn't feel like a massive failure so they'd almost entirely left him now.

"And we mobilize a team and go after him. All interorganizational like. Miles is handling it. All we need to do is head to the roof and make the ride he called in."

Jack just nodded and headed back toward the armory with a purposeful stride. Elliot saw him pull out his phone and heard a little bit of the conversation before he headed toward the stairwell.

"Patty? Okay, good … I'm going with … I don't give a good goddamn what you or Oversight wants … So fire me," he bit out. Or tell your bosses to do it their damnselves."

Elliot would have almost smiled if he wasn't worried about Mac a little bit himself. Then he thought about it and smiled anyway. He wouldn't want to be the guy that pissed off Jack Dalton, especially if said pissing had anything to do with someone he'd taken it into his head to protect. He'd read Jack's files. Mac's too. Or he wouldn't have gotten involved with them no matter how big a favor Miles thought he owed the kid. And Mac, well, a kid a resourceful as that one could probably hold his own until the team Miles was working on got to him.

He picked up his pace though.

Sooner was better than later.

0-0-0

Everything was black. That was the last thing he remembered, too.

Blackness.

Maybe the power was out. Maybe the stuff at DXS was a dream. A really bad dream.

Then Mac made the mistake of moving. A stabbing pain shot through his head from behind his ear. He sucked in his breath against the throbbing that spread out from it, and he bit back the urge to throw up from the immediate roll the movement set off in his stomach.

Definitely not a dream.

Also definitely a concussion.

He was on a dusty floor and had a vague sense of movement. He risked moving again to feel for the lump he was sure was there making his head ache. He couldn't do it though. Someone had duct taped his hands behind him. In front of him he could have done something about. Probably. But there was nothing he could do from this position except try to to roll too awkwardly. That explained the ache in his shoulders anyway.

He bounced and the echoing sound the movement sent around him said he was in the back of a truck. Like a moving truck, maybe. He didn't have that 'too full in the ears' feeling he always got if he fell asleep on a plane, so in all likelihood he was on the ground, maybe even still in LA. The distant blaring of horns as the vehicle he was in whipped from one lane to another made LA a good bet, he thought.

He was pretty sure he hadn't been unconscious long. He could feel blood drying in the hair behind his ear, but it wasn't dry. Head wounds tended to bleed a lot, but he didn't think a crack on the back of the head would keep going for hours, especially since he'd been lying still.

Okay, this looks pretty bad, he thought to himself, feeling the tendrils of panic start to wrap themselves around his chest, and worse his head, making his heart race and his thoughts keep pace with it. He tried taking a deep breath, but it caught as his imagination gave him a quick show of what was probably in store for him.

HIs racing thoughts and pounding heart made him want to curl up in a ball and pretend this wasn't happening.

Now, Gus, the warm, calm voice said in his head (or was it his ear? Later he was never sure). What good is that gonna do you?

Not now, Gramps, he grumped. Sometimes he welcomed when his mind provided Harry's voice to talk him through difficult moments, but right now was too damned much. No ghost, imaginary or otherwise was going to get him out of this.

That's right, Harry's voice agreed. You gotta get yourself outta this mess. You sure as hell got yourself into it. And what did we agree about Gus messes when you were ten?

"That I'd clean them up myself," he murmured aloud. Harry was always right. It was literally his most annoying habit. Even if he was only imaginary now. Not much had changed.

The same things he'd thought the last time these guys had almost grabbed him at that warehouse were still true. He still had plenty of valuable intel in his head, and now he had the added wrinkle of knowing that DXS existed. This wasn't just about what they'd do to him, or how much he'd hurt, or for how long, or even the fact that they would undoubtedly kill him when they were done. This was also about the other people who would be hurt by him giving O'Neill or any of his men the information inside his head.

While Mac had been unable to calm himself enough to think when all that was at stake was himself, the moment he'd settled enough to remember that what was happening to him could affect other people too, he was able to take that deep breath Harry was always reminding him about. Deep breath, Gus. Now, work the problem.

There weren't a lot of these guys. And he had a headache, but was otherwise unhurt. So when they stopped the truck, he had at least a chance of fighting his way free and running away. Mac was fast. He was especially fast without heavy boots.

Okay. Good idea.

Mac started working off his boots. He'd never out run anyone in his usual sort of clunky hiking shoes. But barefoot? He'd outrun those guys in their heavy foot gear, at least enough to get himself to where there were other people, or a phone, or he could hide until … His calmer breath stuttered and sped up again. Jack. Oh, man, I really hope you're okay, Big Guy.

He worked to slow his breathing down again. Jack was alright. He had to be. Honestly, since they'd become friends, Jack had never once let Mac down, never once not been there when he said he was going to be. He wasn't going to start today.

Now, what about those hands, Gus? Those are the second best weapon you've got, kiddo. Your first one is your brain, which seems to be working okay again.

That was a good point.

Mac started trying to get his legs through his arms so he could get his hands around front and maybe bite the duct tape.

By the time he gave up, he was drenched in sweat and more than half sure he'd dislocated one of his thumbs. Shit.

The truck hit a speed bump … or a baby elephant … something … and Mac was tossed up into the air and he came down hard. He cried out sharply as his hit connected with a bolt in the bed of the truck.

It still hurt like hell a full minute later, but Mac had started to smile anyway. Maybe it was a slightly desperate smile, but it was dark, and he was alone, so no one would ever know.

He scooted down and used his fingertips to find the bolt. He started slowly sawing his wrists back and forth over the bolt. It's edges were sharp enough to hurt his hip, so they were probably sharp enough to help him break through the tape.

He'd just pulled his hands free and ascertained that he had in fact done something not great to his thumb, when the trucks brakes slammed on and he skidded across the metal and hit the wall by the cab.

"Oooof," he complained as pain blossomed, not just in his head where he'd been previously knocked, but all over. Which was no surprise to Mac, who'd been estimating how fast they'd been going as they hit bumps and made turns, and who knew within a few Newtons, exactly how much force his body had just been subjected to.

The urge to curl up and admit defeat wanted to resurface. But the voice in his head this time absolutely forbade that from happening. Angus, you've got to get up. You've got to get up now. A bully is a bully sweetie. They hate it when you fight back.

Mac started struggling to his feet, a look of grim determination on his face. He rarely let himself imagine her voice.

If he did, his psyche meant business.

Mac prepared himself for the flood of light he knew would blind him when the doors opened.

He was almost rendered deaf as some aircraft screamed overhead.

Airport.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

He could not get taken out of LA with these guys. White hot, sort of greasy fear settled in his gut. He had to get away.

The doors swung open.

He was right. The flood of sunny Los Angeles light rendered him unable to see anything other than vague shapes. So he did the only thing he could think of and ran at them full tilt, lowering himself for a tackle and the moved.

He connected with two bodies solidly and sent them all sprawling.

All that Madden he'd played at Jack's while he was sick must've been good for something. The Big Guy would have been proud of how he'd just taken out guys double teaming him. Probably would say something about trying to get the Cowboys to scout him for their offensive line. Mac scraped along the ground past the men he'd leveled, his momentum being greater than theirs.

Well, more of him was bleeding now. That wasn't ideal.

But it didn't matter. He scrambled to his feet and took off, away from the noise, and his eyes quickly began to adjust.

He'd aimed right and was headed for the tower of the small airport he found himself in. He'd also guessed right in taking off his boots as his unencumbered feet carried him rapidly away from the group of men who were now chasing after him.

Another hundred yards and he'd be close enough for the people in the building to see he needed help, close enough to make noise they might notice. He laid on another burst of speed.

He was close to his goal when the probe darts pierced his back. He had a split second to think the range on that taser was impressive before the electricity rendered any thought useless and pain all that his brain could consider.

He was twitching, stiff, and not altogether sure he was breathing, but he was aware of guys dragging him up off the ground. He struggled weakly, but his nervous system was too overwhelmed.

Electricity was a very effective weapon for incapacitation.

He was aware of being thrown down onto another hard metal surface.

He was vaguely aware of noise, of the pressure of a climb, of the change in altitude.

As consciousness slipped away from him, he was also aware that he must be in the cargo bay. It was pressurized, because it wasn't getting harder to breathe. But there was no denying by the time he greyed out that the temperature had begin to drop.