MacGyver dived into the Land Rover so fast Sam didn’t even have time to blink before he’d got the V8 running and the truck in gear.

“Where’s Paul? What the…” Sam didn’t finish his sentence as he was slammed back into his seat with the truck’s acceleration.

Mac dipped the clutch, hit the next gear and yanked the steering hard over before answering. “Davy and his brother are here…one of them killed Mandy…” He bounced up the curb, over a grassed area and into the car park Watkins had mentioned.

McDonald/Davy was diving backwards into the rear of a white Ford transit van, a small automatic rifle bursting with staccato gunfire until he’d emptied the clip. Watkins was behind a Rover, returning fire as and when he dared to break cover.

As Watkins saw his truck round the corner, he made a beeline for it, ignoring the bullets strafing the ground perilously close to his feet. He landed in the passenger seat next to MacGyver at about the same time Davy landed in the back of the Ford and vanished.

The Transit skidded past an old blue police call box and was lost from sight.

“Step on it! We can’t lose them, Mac!” Watkins was reloading his Sig, much to MacGyver’s chagrin. He averted his eyes, focusing on the narrow British streets as he gave chase to Davy whilst trying to avoid commuters on bicycles and daring pedestrians on the sidewalk. Do Brits even call it a sidewalk?

“Over there, Dad, he’s heading out of the city!” Sam had caught sight of the white van and was attempting to take some shots of it. His camera rocked in his grasp as the Land Rover swerved across a roundabout and across oncoming traffic.

The van’s rear doors swung wildly as it dodged in and out of cars, and every now and again, Davy would appear and fire off a clip at them.

The 4x4’s windshield cracked into a myriad of pieces as two slugs smashed into it, but somehow no one inside was hit. Watkins used the butt of his weapon to knock out the damaged glass and muttered something unrepeatable about the damage under his breath.

“I thought you “Bond” guys had bulletproof cars,” Mac dared to tease.

Watkins huffed. “Aye, and I thought you Uncle Sam types could drive better!” He let off a volley of rounds at the Transit which earned him a scowl from Mac.

“I was aiming at the tires, I swear!” Watkins toothy grin suggested otherwise as more slugs from Davy battered the Land Rover and he was forced to duck. There was a massive pop, followed by a hissing sound and a plume of smoke from under the 4x4’s hood.

MacGyver slammed a fist onto the dashboard as he was forced to hit the brakes. He pulled over onto a grassed area and popped the hood only to be greeted by more smoke. Sam and Watkins joined him.

“Can you fix it?” Sam asked, seemingly asking the impossible because he knew his dad was capable of it.

Mac wafted away the steam and dared to poke his head into the engine bay. One of the Irishman’s bullets had gouged a hole in the radiator top hose and it was spilling antifreeze out. “I might be able to make a temporary repair, but it has to cool first…”

Watkins shook his head, flicked on his Sig’s safety and tucked it safely away. “That’s time we don’t have. Davy and his brother are going to scarper and we don’t have a clue what their next target is!” He waved his hands in the air in apparent defeat.

Mac sucked down a breath. Watkins was probably right. He ran a hand through his hair and looked around. A road sign caught his attention. They were just off the A30 – and according to the sign, very close to Heathrow Airport. Could it be that easy?

Mac pointed to the sign and raised a brow. “You don’t think..?”

Watkins gaped. “Bloody Hell! There were three attacks on Terminal Four back in March. We suspected Davy was involved but could never prove it!”

Sam wasn’t so sure. “Hey, c’mon, the Channel Tunnel is way bigger news than an airport they’ve already attacked. They wouldn’t use the Tunnel as a diversion; it would be the main event.”

Mac stared at the road sign. There was something he was missing.

Something from earlier…

He tried to think back to when everyone had been on the train. What had Davy, or rather “McDonald”, been doing that had seemed odd?

MacGyver’s mind flicked into reverse gear. The Irishman had been jittery all the while he’d been reading an article about Gerard Carter, a multi-million dollar stock embezzler who was being extradited back to the U.S. And what was more, the jet he was being moved on was getting there via Heathrow that afternoon.

“I don’t think this was ever about terrorism,” Mac offered breathlessly. “I think it was a diversion to keep the security forces busy elsewhere.”

“He’s I.R.A.” Watkins almost yelped. “What could it be about if not terrorism?”

“Money,” Mac said sadly. “I saw Davy reading an article about Gerard Carter – the man has embezzled millions, and his F.B.I. escorted flight is landing there,” he pointed to the sign for Heathrow, “Right about now. I’m betting that’s why Mandy had to die, she knew the real motive behind their actions and they couldn’t afford to let it get out this wasn’t about Ireland, at least not until they were all safely in some extradition-free country.”

Sam saw his dad’s point quicker than Watkins. “You think he’s using the skills he’s learned in the I.R.A. to free Carter in return for money? And he’s used the tunnel incident as a distraction?”

“Right!” Mac turned back to the Land Rover and began drying off the now cooled hose as he spoke. “Paul, do you have a car phone? We need to call the airport security people and the police…” He slipped a hand in his pocket, pulled out a roll of flattened duct tape and tore off a small strip just big enough to cover the hole in the hose. He put the patch on, then took the remaining reel of tape and wrapped it around and around the patch as tightly as he could.

Watkins shook his head. “No, I don’t have a phone, and no way is that going to last once I crank the engine…”

“It’ll last to get us to the airport,” Mac argued. “After that, it won’t matter…”

* * * *

London Heathrow Airport
Terminal Four
Thirteen minutes later…

MacGyver pulled the Land Rover up outside the terminal as people poured from the nearby exit. The panicking crowd was being ushered out by police officers in body armor and carrying automatic rifles.

Davy was here, of that there was no doubt.

At the sight of the bedraggled, bullet-ridden 4x4, the lead cop broke away from his shepherding duties and dived across the tarmac, placing himself in front of the Land Rover’s hood.

The officer held his weapon high at the broken windshield, finger itching on the trigger. Beside him, more cops appeared until the truck was surrounded.

Mac held up his hands. “Hey, take it easy.” He glanced over his shoulder to Sam, making sure his son wasn’t doing anything that might cause a bullet to head his way.

He wasn’t.

“Out of the car, nice and slow, and hands where I can see them!” The cop was barking at MacGyver, Watkins and Sam, and as he spoke his eyes ticked back and forth between them, daring them to make a move other than he’d demanded.

Mac kept his hands up, but Watkins totally defied the order. He moved slowly, but purposefully, opening his door and sliding out into the terminal’s parking lot. Once on his feet, his slid a hand into his jacket and pulled out a small leather case. He opened it, carefully showing the nearest officers its contents. “Stand down!” He grumbled. “We’re on your side!”

Whatever he’d flashed at the police seemed to partially do the trick. They kept their aim, except the lead cop who’d initially addressed them. He let his weapon slip to his side and grabbed at the radio on his shoulder clip. “I’m sorry, sir, but I’m going to have to confirm your credentials. It’s protocol…” He called some unknown office and proffered up a string of numbers and letters that must have been on Watkins’s’ I.D.

Ten seconds later, the officer held up a hand to the rest of the response unit. “Okay lads, stand down and back to your original positions.” He looked at Watkins expectantly, then to MacGyver curiously.

“Why the evacuation?” Watkins was back in S.A.S. mode, and he wasn’t happy.

“We have a situation inside. I thought that’s why you were here…”

“What kind of situation?” MacGyver asked, suspecting he already knew the answer.

“There’s a bomb in the center of the terminal.” The cop jerked a thumb to the doors behind him. We’re still getting people out, and the bomb disposal unit is on its way, but I’m afraid from the time left on that thing, they’re not going to make it.”

Mac winced. Davy was using his terrorist training perfectly. It was one decoy after another while he got away with Carter, and a whole lot of stolen cash for his trouble. The problem was, they couldn’t just ignore the bomb and go after the bad guys – and that small fact was what Davy and his crew were counting on.

“Show me the device,” Mac asked the cop as forcefully as he dare, considering he didn’t have any fake credentials of his own.

The officer swallowed and his eyes flicked to Watkins for approval. “Sir…he doesn’t have clearance…”

“He’s probably the best damn explosives man in the country,” Watkins Yorkshire accent was thick and guttural as he spoke, signaling just how intense the situation was getting. “And he’s all we’ve got. Get us inside, show us the bomb, then get your men the hell out. Understood?”

The cop nodded and beckoned them to follow him inside.

Mac looked back just once to Sam. “Stay here. No matter what, okay?”

* * * *

The terminal was ghostly quiet and empty. The boards had turned every expected flight to “delayed,” and any planes that were down had kept their passengers onboard and well away from the expected blast area, in case the bomb should go off.

MacGyver hated the silence. The sensation was overwhelming, like the end was nigh, and there was no stopping destiny. He walked past a kiosk selling ice cream and confectionaries. How many kids had been here only moments before buying candy and not realizing what was about to happen?

It’s not going to happen, we’re going to defuse the dang device and find Davy before he gets away…

“Mac, you better get a look at this?” It was Watkins, and he was standing over a row of seats peering down at an open briefcase. The cop had already begun to retreat for the door, relief showing clearly on his features.

“How bad?” Mac asked, joining his friend.

“On a scale of one to ten, I’d say it’s about a twenty,” Watkins half-joked, rubbing at the stubble on his chin as if it might show him a solution.

MacGyver brushed past him, hunkered down and examined the bomb and the case that held it. There was an abundance of C4, two triggers and everything seemed to be connected to a motion sensor or tilt detector of some sort or another.

The whole contraption was wired into a simple battery operated travel alarm, and the controls had been snapped off, so there was no way to reset it. The thing had nine minutes left to run and ticked away happily as they watched.

“We can’t cut anything without it triggering,” Watkins bemoaned. “Maybe we should make a tactical retreat while we still can? The building’s already evacuated. The only thing that’s going to get hurt here is concrete and good old British pride.”

Mac didn’t like the idea of defeat. Going outside and simply waiting gave Davy the nine minutes he obviously wanted and needed to escape with his embezzler friend.

And Mac didn’t like losing to people like him who built their lives on intimidation and destruction of others. He peered at the bomb again, willing himself to come up with an answer.

The clock was ticking down, and cutting the wires to it would trigger an explosion. But if the clock simply stopped before it reached the set time..?

Mac turned and looked at the kiosk he’d passed moments earlier. He ruffled in his pocket, retrieved a few English coins and handed them to an incredulous Watkins. “Go get me an ice lolly…”

“Huh?” Watkins eyes almost popped. “Any particular flavor?” He asked sarcastically.

Mac didn’t have time to explain what he was thinking. “Nope, just as long as it has that little wooden stick…”

Watkins scurried off, his face a mask of curiosity, and just a little fear. MacGyver ignored the latter. His own stomach was churning just like it had back in ‘Nam when he was working with land mines or booby trapped bodies.

He flexed his fingers, wiped his brow with his forearm and then pulled out his knife.

The trick now was to be able to carefully tease off the clock’s battery compartment without disturbing the wires to the alarm or to the bracket that held it in place. Too much jarring could easily trigger the motion sensors there.

Watkins returned, pulled off the wrapper and handed over the lolly. It was multicolored and shaped like a rocket.

Mac smiled wanly, took a bite, and then broke off the remainder until only the wooden stick was left.

Finally Watkins got the picture. “You’re going to push that between the battery and the metal contact, stopping the clock and alarm without cutting any wires?”

“I’m going to try,” Mac admitted. “You might want to take cover, just in case the bomber anticipated the move…”

To his credit, Watkins didn’t budge, but simply smiled thinly. “Go for it, you mad bugger!”

Mac flexed his fingers again, suddenly feeling like they were ten times their size in the confines of the briefcase. He picked up the flat wooden stick and slowly and deliberately pushed it against the clock battery.

The clock stopped ticking, the fingers stopped moving, and there was an ominous click from its plastic casing.

MacGyver and Watkins dived for the floor, flattening their bodies against the linoleum, hands over their heads in a futile attempt at self-preservation.

And silence followed.

There was no explosion, no blinding flash of light, and no wanton destruction. Both men rolled over, stared at the briefcase and then began to laugh nervously.

After a few seconds of taking in they were still in one piece, MacGyver was on his feet first and gave Watkins a hand up. He glanced at the briefcase, but for now the danger had been averted. The bomb team would be arriving soon to deal with the aftermath.

“Where will Davy most likely have headed?” Mac was looking for a way out of the terminal that led onto the runway as he spoke.

“I think the flight Carter came in on was a private F.B.I. one.” Watkins pointed to a fire exit and began to jog for it. Mac followed. “It will be at the far end of the bays…if Davy hasn’t already taken over and flew out.”

Mac pushed on the emergency exit bar and when the door didn’t immediately give, stepped back and kicked at it with his sneaker. The door flew outwards and Watkins moved out first, producing his Sig again magically.

MacGyver scowled at him. It was becoming a habit. “Now where?”

Watkins spun around on the spot then stopped, like a compass needle finding true north. “Over there, I think Davy has left us his calling card…”

At the edge of the runway a small Learjet sat askew, like the pilot had parked it while inebriated. The door was slung open, and under the right wing laid two bodies dressed in black suits – stereotypical F.B.I. garb.

MacGyver was surprised. “They’re not taking the plane?”

Watkins suddenly began to run. “They’re taking that plane.” He pointed with his automatic and Mac instantly realized they were too late.

All air traffic in or out of Heathrow had been grounded, and yet a small Cessna 172 was taxiing for takeoff. It had to be Davy, his cohorts and Carter, the embezzler.

“We can’t run after them!” Mac gave in trying to chase the impossible and waved his hands in the air in defeat. Then he stopped dead in his tracks as he spotted a resolution closer than he could have thought possible.

To their right, in a cordoned off area, was a bright red Wessex helicopter. There was red carpet up to the boarding area, along with a similar colored thick rope all around the machine held in place by large brass stands. The chopper shone in the sunlight like it had been polished for a month, but then maybe it had.

“We could take that?” MacGyver started for the Wessex before he had engaged his brain fully and realized just what he was looking at.

Watkins enlightened him. “Are bloody crazy?! That’s the Queen’s Flight! We can’t steal Her Majesty’s helicopter!”

Mac wasn’t fazed. “Have you got a better idea? Do we just let them get away?” He ignored Watkins protests and jogged up to the cordoned off Wessex.

As if by magic, a man appeared, suitably attired to belong to M15, or some other British clandestine agency. He had an earpiece in, and his hand moved uncomfortably close to the inside of his jacket, suggesting he had an automatic there and wasn’t afraid to use it.

“This is a restricted area. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Watkins stepped up, stared the man down for a second, and then flashed the badge he’d used on the officers outside the terminal.

The agent took it, examined it, and then eyed Watkins for another thirty seconds before smiling. “These aren’t your credentials. I’d heard you were dead?” The voice was mocking, but he didn’t reach any further into his jacket.

“Who says I’m not?” Watkins moved so fast MacGyver didn’t even see his fist impact with the agent’s nose and then a second blow smash into the man’s jaw. By the time Mac realized what was happening, the agent had tumbled to the ground unconscious.

“Do you treat all your fellow operative’s that way?” Mac kidded as he stepped over the man and clambered into the chopper.

Paul shrugged. “Just the one’s I remember.” He glanced around the Wessex. “I assume you can fly this thing now we’ve stolen it?”

Mac sucked down a breath, peered at the controls and shook his head. “I can fly, but not helicopters. I was kinda hoping..? I mean aren’t you James Bond types trained for this stuff?”

Watkins climbed up into the pilot’s seat, strapped on his harness and began flicking buttons until the engines fired up and the rotors slowly began to spin. “I suppose it’s a good job I’m not dead after all,” he shouted over the noise as the chopper prepared for take off.

MacGyver remained in the back compartment where the blue “Royal” seats where fitted, keeping the side sliding door open, but he poked his head through just to ask, “Just how did you manage to survive that firefight in Bosnia anyhow?” His brow ticked up as he remembered Watkins walking into a smoke-filled battlefield full of enemy soldiers.

Watkins tugged on the cyclic and collective controls and smirked. “Hey, I can’t tell you all my trade secrets! Bond wouldn’t!” The Wessex lifted off the ground at a sharp angle and soared into the air, finally giving chase to Davy and his crew.

The radio screamed as air traffic controllers spotted that they had two birds in the sky that didn’t belong, and when they realized one was the Queen’s Flight, things got even more frantic. “You better figure out a way to bring Davy down pretty quickly,” Watkins warned. “Because we just became public enemy number one – I knew we shouldn’t have nicked this thing…”

He climbed fast; bringing the Wessex around several times in an attempt to spot Davy’s escaping Cessna. On the third try, MacGyver caught sight of the plane low on the horizon. “Over there!” He yelped over the roar of the speeding engines. “Can we catch them?”

Watkins checked his altimeter and airspeed, winced and then brought the helicopter around hard. “I’m damn well gonna try,” he snapped. “I’ll come in above them, so hopefully their pilot doesn’t see us until the last minute. What I want to know is, then what? We can’t exactly shoot them down with my automatic, and knowing you, you wouldn’t let me try anyway…”

MacGyver didn’t answer. He slid back into the rear compartment and started making an inventory. It didn’t take long. Apart from the light blue seating, an emergency flare, and more of the thick red rope used to cordon the chopper off at airports, there was nothing.

Mac picked up the rope and examined it. It was heavy duty stuff and quality too – but then he’d expect nothing less for the Queen of England. The problem was it most definitely hadn’t been manufactured for what his mind was conjuring up.

If the rope would hold, then that was one part of the puzzle solved, but he also needed somewhere to tether it. He dared to hang out the door, inspecting the Wessex for signs of a winch. The framework was gone, no doubt removed when the helicopter had been fitted out for Royal duty, but inside, the metal support structure remained.

It might just work…

Mac stuck his head back in the cockpit. “Are we gaining?”

Watkins pulled away one side of his headset to hear and nodded. “Aye, but only because they haven’t seen us. Have you come up with anything?”

MacGyver offered up the red rope. “Yeah, I was thinking of going fishing…”

It took Watkins a few seconds to register just what the troubleshooter was suggesting, and then he gaped. “You’re joking right? You think we can hook that bird with a piece of ceremonial rope? It will never hold, and even if it did, this helicopter wasn’t made to pull other aircraft out of mid-flight. It’s insane!”

MacGyver didn’t think so. There was an element of risk, yes, both to them and Davy’s people. But the option of letting a madman get away wasn’t on the table. Davy and Carter had to be stopped.

Mac bit into his bottom lip. “How much weight can this thing carry?”

Watkins seemed to calculate in his head as he adjusted the controls every few seconds to stay shadowing the Cessna. “Well, it’s based on a Sikorsky H-34, and variants of that have taken loads of over 2000kgs.”

“And the Cessna is what? About a 1000kgs?” MacGyver concluded. “We should be able to hook it easily.”

Watkins shook his head as if Mac had gone mad. “You’re forgetting that 2000kgs is a sling load under the chopper that isn’t fighting back. We’ll we pulling the Cessna backwards against its engine’s’ thrust. Can you work those variables out in your head? Will the rope stand the strain of being in a tug of war as well as taking the plane’s weight?”

MacGyver stared down at the thick red braided cable. “I’m betting it will.”

Watkins fell into a deep sigh, but didn’t argue. Instead, he began to bring the Wessex closer and closer to Davy’s little plane until the helicopter’s shadow fell across its tail.

As he flew perilously close to the Cessna, MacGyver dived into the rear compartment and began securing the rope to the winch frame he’d discovered moments earlier. Once it was tight, he risked leaning precariously out of the side door with his massive “lasso.” The idea was simple – Mac intended to swing the noose over the tail of the plane, let it tighten and then signal for Paul to take it up.

At least, that was the theory.

As he tried to swing the rope, the wind brought it back again against the chopper, and before he could make a second try, a hail of bullets slammed into the metal panels to his right.

Davy’s brother, Patrick had opened the Cessna’s door and was hanging like a trapeze artist with one arm, whilst firing with the other.

The Wessex yawed to the right as Watkins realized what was happening, but it was too late. More bullets tore across the front, several ripping through the plating and into the cockpit area.

MacGyver heard a yelp and the helicopter veered wildly to the right for a second, almost forcing him to lose his grip on the door. He steadied himself, and was about to check on Watkins when the Wessex slid back into its original position.

The barrage of gunfire paused and Mac realized Patrick was reloading, and he was finding it difficult given his position outside the plane. His fumbling was buying time, and MacGyver wasn’t about to waste it.

He swung his body out against the Wessex’s fuselage as far as he dared, yanking the rope across so hard it finally bounced against the Cessna’s tail. He tugged just a little more, praying for the wind and downdraught to be in his favor this time, and it was.

The rope slid over the little plane’s tail and hung there.

Mac rolled back inside the Wessex and grabbed a spare headset and yelled into the mike. “Paul, take us up, they’re hooked!”

There was a pause and Watkins answered, albeit breathlessly. “Aye, let’s reel ‘em in!”

The helicopter started to climb just enough to tighten the lasso and the Cessna immediately began to fight the pull on it. The plane’s engine roared defiantly, but its tail was dragged backwards and into an angle until it was almost vertical. There was a jarring motion as it lost all lift of its own, and suddenly the Cessna was the burden of the Queen’s Flight.

“It’s holding!” Mac shouted over the struggling Wessex engines. “Can you get us down anywhere fast?” He leaned out of the side door to watch the Cessna dangling like a toy – beneath it they seemed to be over a large lake in a spacious garden, complete with summer house.

Now the only issue was, once the chopper got the plane on the ground, how were they going to fight Davy’s people and stop them? Davy had more weaponry, and a bigger contingent.

Mac dumped the headset and clambered back up to the cockpit to get Watkins answer. When he climbed up into the co-pilot’s seat, he finally realized his friend had been hit in the leg when Patrick had been shooting at them. Watkins had tied his belt around it and seemed oblivious to the blood oozing from the hole.

“Are you okay? You’re bleeding all over the Queen’s property you know…” Mac smiled and Paul huffed back.

“Oh I think we’ll have more to worry about than a few blood stains in a minute…” Watkins pointed to a helipad he was gently lowering the Cessna down onto. “This isn’t just private property we’re landing on. It’s Royal property…”

Finally, the penny dropped. “You’re setting us down in Buckingham Palace?” Mac was gaping.

Paul smirked. “Perfect really, the security people will be on hand to take Davy and his lads into custody. They’ll be all over us the second we touch down.” He looked at MacGyver apologetically as several suit-wearing individuals appeared from nowhere, running in their direction. Behind them was a group of armed police officers. “’Course, they frown on people who steal Her Majesty’s property, so you’re probably off to the Tower.” He shrugged. “I’m already dead, remember, so I don’t count…”

For a second, Mac actually thought Watkins was being serious, then the Wessex’s wheels hit the grass with a thump and the ex-S.A.S. man couldn’t resist winking at his American friend as they were surrounded by security.

* * * *

The Ivy
West Street
London
Two Days Later…

MacGyver looked around the swank London restaurant and wondered why Paul Watkins had chosen it for their meeting place. It was definitely too up-market for the Yorkshireman, and Mac was already feeling out of place – rich, he was not, and a lot of the clients around him probably earned more in a week than he did in a year.

“You okay, Dad?” Sam was watching his father, an expression of amusement spreading across his face.

Mac rolled his eyes. “Let’s just say, between Professor Atticus and the Channel Tunnel, I’m ready to go home and maybe hide out at the cabin for a month…no, make that a year.” He looked at the menu, decided he really didn’t want to eat and popped it back on the table.

When Mac glanced back up, Watkins was hobbling across to meet them. He pulled up a chair and sat down, wincing as he eased his injured leg out for maximum comfort. “I thought you’d have ordered by now,” he said, obviously trying to sound sincere.

“I’m starting to think I’d prefer some of your unhealthy chips compared to what they serve here,” Mac admitted. “But then, you knew that didn’t you?”

Watkins chuckled. “Just trying to get you a bit of the James Bond lifestyle before you go back over the pond.”

“Well, we won’t be going back with a story, despite everything that happened and all the shots I got.” Sam was fidgeting with a napkin, and he didn’t look happy. “Some guys in suits came by our hotel and took all my film, told us to forget anything ever happened if dad didn’t want charging with the theft of the Queen’s chopper…”

“Right…” Watkins nodded as if he’d expected as much. “The tunnel cost a pretty penny, went over budget, and can’t afford to fail – if one word of what happened got out there’d be a mass panic and everyone would suddenly want to get back on a ferry. The government can’t let you publish the truth; it would be a major embarrassment, not to mention an open invitation to other terrorists to try something.”

Sam still wasn’t happy. “So whatever happened to the freedom of speech deal, and freedom of the press? Huh?”

MacGyver put a hand his son’s shoulder. It was hard to explain to someone so committed about the bigger picture, and how sometimes the very act of silence could save lives. “Sam, printing what happened here might get people hurt. It’s not just about saving face for the government.”

“Well, yeah, it is,” Watkins huffed. “But like your dad says, it would make us seem a weak country to other terrorists too. And that can never be a good thing.” He looked at his watch and then to the door.

“You have to be some place else?” Mac asked, knowing Watkins was still “technically” a wanted man, since MI5 had now realized he was still alive. Heaven only knew how he’d gotten away from the palace when they’d landed.

Paul smirked. “Nope, but the reason I brought you here has just arrived, right on time…I did promise you James Bond.”

“The real equivalent to 007? Is he a friend?” Sam’s dejected face turned into one belonging to an excited puppy. “Could you get us an interview? An introduction even? I don’t expect photos of course…”

Watkins chuckled. “I don’t know about “real” not unless you take your films way too seriously?” He jerked a thumb to a corner table where someone looking remarkably like Pierce Brosnan was being seated.

“He means movies,” MacGyver offered helpfully. “But isn’t that the guy from Remington Steele?”

Paul was still smiling. “Aye, and he’s your new Bond. He’s just been cast.” He took a sip of water from a glass on the table. “See, I’m ex-intelligence, I know things…” He winked, and finally Sam and Mac couldn’t help but smile too.

It had been an intense week, and not a good ending for Sam, the photojournalist having to stifle a story, but at least they’d come through it together.

“Well, that version of Bond might like to eat here.” MacGyver tapped the menu with his forefinger. “But right now, I think I’m ready for those fish and chips of yours.” He looked to Sam. “And I know Sam would just love British junk food.”

Sam grinned. “If it’s greasy and heart attack-inducing, I’m in!” He moved to get up, then paused mid-motion and looked questioningly at Watkins. “Just answer me one thing? If all that happened has been suppressed, what about Davy, and Carter?”

“Carter is already on his way back to the states, with the original charges, and a few new ones to answer to.”

“And Davy?” MacGyver asked, raising a brow. “If nothing officially happened, how can he technically be charged with anything? Please tell me he’s not going to walk free?”

Paul’s sardonic smile turned into something a little more serious, a little more dark, but it was still a smile. “Oh, he won’t be causing anyone any trouble for a long time, don’t you worry. I hear he’s being charged with the theft of Her Majesty’s Wessex, and for breaking into Buckingham Palace grounds…”

It was Sam’s turn to smile as he looked to Watkins and then his dad. “Sounds almost as good as this British junk food you’re going to introduce me to!” He offered Paul a hand up, and the limping Brit took it gratefully.

“Oh, well I can direct you to a chip shop,” Watkins said hopping up onto his good leg. “But I can’t take you to a chip shop…”

“Ah, the bad guys on your tail and all that?” Sam guessed with a grimace.

“No,” Paul corrected, looking sternly at MacGyver. “It’s because a certain bloody Yank broke my Land Rover!”

Mac broke into a grin. “Ah, c’mon, stop being so melodramatic – it’s nothing a little more duct tape won’t fix!” And to prove it, he brought out a neatly flattened roll from his jacket pocket and tossed it at his friend.

The list of profanities that came from Watkins mouth made everyone in The Ivy turn and stare, to which he reacted by turning bright red. Ex-S.A.S or not, it would seem even Watkins could be embarrassed.

“I think we’re ready for those chips now?” Sam scurried for the door before anyone could ask them to leave, and Mac and Watkins weren’t very far behind.

“Forget the chips,” MacGyver muttered under his breath. “I’m ready for the cabin before any more trouble can find us.”

“Any room there for a gimp with an accent?” Paul asked, almost sincerely as they mingled into the city crowds, hailing a black cab.