This is in honor of my brother, he's a huge MacGyver fan (the 1980s one). Hope you guys enjoy. Feel free to leave a review.

My opponent had just taken a hit on one of my ships, the tension was rising. I had to find out the location of the opposing vessels, or I was done for. I was already down by four ships and, if my memory served me right, they were down to three. I took a breath, entered the coordinates, and waited for a response. Miss. Dang it. Suddenly, my rival took a hit on my ship. One last strike, and I was done for. I had to take a wild guess. I called the location and once again was met with the same answer: miss.

I held my breath, my opponent entering their last coordinates. Contact. The ship had sunk.

"All right, all right." I said from across the table. "You win, Jared."

The nine-year-old smiled, "Which one did I get, Dad?"

I leaned back, admitting defeat, "Looks like you sank my carrier."

He smiled, his gray eyes (which he had gotten from his mother) twinkling with the thrill of victory. "Let's play again," he urged, already setting up the plastic pegs with the same meticulous precision he had learned from countless games.

"Sorry, kiddo." I said, "I've got to get back the shop."

Jared's face fell, but he knew the drill. I was his dad, and sometimes, MacGyver had to go get some work done. "Can I come with you this time?" He asked, hopefulness in his voice.

"Not today, buddy," I replied, ruffling his dirty blonde hair gently. "But I'll be back in time to tuck you in."

"Okay." he said, a little disappointed at me leaving.

I nodded, standing up from the kitchen table.

"Remember," I said, "If anything happens, you know what to do. You're the man of the house."

Jared nodded a response, his shoulders squared as if he was twice his age. "I got it, Dad."

I had to admit, I hated leaving him home alone. Even with the neighbor, Mrs. Jenkins, keeping an eye on him, there was always that niggling doubt in the back of my mind that something could go wrong. But, I trusted him, and I had to. I had no other choice.

"Good, and if you behave for Mrs. Jenkins, I'll bring back your favorite treat."

"Jalapeño cheese puffs!"

"If you're good," I said, winking as I picked up my keys and headed for the door.

Mac's Car Shop. It had a pretty good ring to it. After I gave up working for the Phoenix Foundation, I figured that opening a small garage would be a decent way to keep busy and pay the bills. Plus, it allowed me to keep my hand in the game, so to speak. The shop was a sanctuary of sorts, filled with the comforting smells of oil and metal, the steady rhythm of tools and machines, and the occasional whine of a car engine in need of TLC.

My first patient, an old blue Toyota, sat in the center bay, its hood open like a defeated beast.

The owner had complained of engine trouble. I knew the type. It had probably sat idle for weeks, maybe months, before someone decided to drive it again. Classic case of neglect.

I rolled up my sleeves and got to work, checking the oil and battery first. The oil was blacker than night, and the battery was as dead as my chances at winning Battleship with Jared. "Looks like we've got our work cut out for us," I murmured, as if the car could hear me.

I needed a flashlight to get a better look inside the engine, but the one I had was acting up. It flickered like a candle in the wind, and I knew it wouldn't hold out much longer. Then, inspiration struck. I rummaged through my toolbox, my eyes landing on a paperclip. It was a classic MacGyver move. I straightened it out and carefully inserted it into the flashlight, poking around until it made contact with the right spot. The light flickered, then glowed steadily, as if it had just been reborn.

"Looks like old habits die hard." I heard a familiar voice say.

I turned to see an older man standing behind me: Pete Thornton.

"Pete," I said, trying to keep my surprise from showing. "Long time no see. What brings you here?"

He stepped into the garage, "Just needed a car fixed." He said with a chuckle.

I gave him a skeptical look, "Is that all?" I asked, knowing Pete had a knack for turning up when things were about to get interesting.

"Never could hide stuff from you, Mac," Pete said, his eyes twinkling with mischief. He leaned against the Toyota, his arms folded over his chest. "Got a little job for you, if you're up to it."

"Pete, I told you I gave that up," I said, keeping my tone light despite the seriousness of his proposition.

"I know, I know," Pete said, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "But this is different. They need someone with your particular set of skills, and you're the only one I trust for this."

"The answer's 'no', Pete."

"But Mac..."

"No," I said firmly, wiping my greasy hands on a rag. "I'm out of that world. I have Jared to think about now."

But Pete's expression grew serious. "This isn't just any job, Mac," he said, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It's about national security. Something big's going down, and they need you on the inside."

The words hung in the air like a thick fog, weighing heavily on my shoulders. I knew that look on his face. It was the same one he had when he convinced me to take on missions that were so covert, they didn't even have a mission briefing. But times had changed. I had a son now, a life to live that didn't revolve around secret government operations.

"Pete, I can't," I said, my voice firm. "Jared needs me here."

"Come on, Mac," Pete persisted, his eyes never leaving mine. "Think about your country. Think about all the people who could be in danger if this thing goes south. Sharon would've..."

But he stopped before he could finish the sentence, realizing his mistake.

Sharon. That beautiful, kind woman I had met through the Phoenix Foundation. We had fallen in love and gotten married. Life was good. But then she died in childbirth, leaving me devastated. Her death led me to give up my job at the Foundation to focus on raising our son, Jared, something I wish she could have seen. She would've been proud, too. He had her spunk.

"Sorry, Mac, I didn't mean to bring that up," Pete said, his expression immediately apologetic.

"It's okay," I said, my eyes drifting to a picture of Sharon and me that sat on a shelf next to the toolbox.

"But we really do need you, Mac," Pete pressed on, his voice earnest. "The kind of trouble we're looking at, it's not something you can ignore."

I let out a sigh, "Fine, give me the briefing and I'll get you in touch with someone."

Pete's eyes lit up, "No, Mac, I need you on this one. You're the only one who can pull it off."

I thought about it for a minute. Pete wasn't the kind to ask for help for come small job. This was serious.

"Alright, Pete," I said finally, "tell me what's going on."