As he rolled, Mac reached out and grabbed the gun where it had been tossed. The metal was cold and uninviting in his hand, and he instantly wanted rid of the thing.

Follett would have no such feelings, though, and the troubleshooter knew it.

Reluctantly, Mac took aim and let off one single shot – not at the general, but at the rope holding a block and tackle over Follett’s head.

The line snapped as the slug tore into it at close range, and the block tumbled down, cracking the officer on the left of his temple. The blow jarred the gun in his hand, and his second shot went wide. He pulled back again reflexively on the trigger without aiming as he sprawled forwards onto the deck, momentarily stunned.

Mac took the reprieve as a sign to retreat and ducked into the cabin, taking the stairs two at a time down into the galley.

But on a schooner this size, was there really anywhere to hide?

He looked down at the gun in his hand and knew there was no way he would use it again, not even to fire at an inanimate object. He had to find another way.

* * * *

Follett stumbled to his feet, his body swaying from the blow he’d taken to the head. He realized he probably had a slight concussion, but he would push through the throbbing and nausea until he had taken MacGyver. That was all he cared about now.

The general had done some big game hunting in his time, but somehow the chase was so much more thrilling when the target was a man.

He moved cautiously forwards and peered down below. From here he couldn’t see much, but could he really have missed MacGyver with all three of his shots?

Follett was an accomplished marksman out on the range, and he doubted that all three bullets would have gone astray. But then, hadn’t the Bodens already shot this man once and he’d lived?

Follett took a look around before daring to go below deck, looking for any information that would improve his chances “in the hunt”. Behind the cabin, he found what he was looking for – a bulletproof vest with two holes in the back.

So, MacGyver no longer had any protection.

The general sneered and tentatively took a few steps onto the ladder that lead to the galley. He was still wobbly, but at least his eyes were focusing better now.

He let his gaze wash over the cabin floor, looking for signs of blood or anything to indicate he’d hit his quarry.

In the galley, he paused and smirked.

There was a small puddle of crimson by the varnished louver door that led further aft, and on the wall, there was half a handprint in blood. Underneath the print, on the work surface, was the gun MacGyver had used on the block and tackle.

Follett picked up the weapon, noting that it had been stripped and rendered useless. He shrugged. If MacGyver wanted to have even less of an edge, then that would be his funeral.

The general moved on, following a blood spatter here and there that was obviously leading to the engine room. He felt his senses tingle in anticipation, almost wishing the other man hadn’t been injured.

It wasn’t exactly a fair fight now, but then, did he really have time for all this nonsense anyway, with all the gold on board?

The thought of how rich he now was excited him more, and he suddenly wanted Mac dead and overboard, so he could relish his newfound wealth that little bit faster.

As he approached the door to the engines, he slowed. It was ajar and he could see more blood drops leading behind one of the motors.

Follett cocked his head, listening, taking in his surroundings, weighing up the situation. He licked his lips and stepped behind the 240hp MAN diesel and stopped, his face ticking into a satisfied sneer.

MacGyver was slumped against the stopped engine, his right side covered by a dark and sickly red stain that had ebbed out onto the floor and pooled there. He was motionless, his head lolled against the motor like a marionette that had had its strings cut.

The idea of such an easy victory made Follett’s heart pound in his chest, and he ambled over, leaning to feel for a pulse, just to make sure.

Before his hand was able to touch flesh, however, he felt something curl around his ankle and yank him upwards.

Follett managed to get a shot off, but then the automatic tumbled uselessly from his hand with the help of gravity as he became airborne. From the angle he’d been hoisted up, he was forced to look at the floor, only to realize his idiotic mistake.

MacGyver had left a small noose ready for the general to step into, and “dead Mac” had been the bait. Once Follett’s foot had been inside the curl of rope, Mac had made a dive, pulling on the other end of the line, which he’d attached to a smaller block and tackle on a ceiling beam.

The end result was Follett dangling upside down in midair, totally disarmed and at Mac’s mercy.

MacGyver kicked away Follett’s fallen weapon and then quickly searched for more rope. Once he’d found something suitable, he tied the general’s hands and carefully let him down onto the floor.

Follett struggled against his bonds, not trying to hide his frustration and anger. His face clouded over a shade of scarlet as his blood pressure skyrocketed at being caught. “You were bleeding,” he protested.

MacGyver shrugged. “Oops,” he smiled. “That wasn’t exactly blood.” He pulled at his shirt, showing the other man just how tacky it was. “Amazing what you can find in a ship’s galley. A little syrup for thickness, a little ketchup for color and just a touch of cocoa powder to get that brownish tinge that makes it all seem real.”

Follett was incredulous. It was inconceivable that he’d missed with all three shots. He trembled in nervous agitation, not believing what his eyes were telling him. “I shot you, I must have…”

Mac shook his head. “Sorry, no extra holes in me, and trust me, I’d know…” He paused, mid-sentence and winced. Something was apparently bothering him. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Do you smell something?”

Follett sniffed obediently, and found himself answering, even though he had no desire to aid the other man. “I smell diesel.”

MacGyver nodded and took two strides over to the motors. After a quick inspection, he discovered the main fuel line to both engines had been severed by the stray bullet Follett had gotten off when he’d been caught. He turned back to the other man. “Stick around. I think we might have to improvise.”

* * * *

MacGyver jogged back into the galley and then up to the main bridge area, then began to look around for the radio. While he was okay with rowing boats, and even small sailing boats, Mac was well aware that he wasn’t a good enough sailor to get the schooner back home without engines.

It was simply too big for him to handle on his own.

Spotting what he was looking for in the top part of the cabin, Mac retrieved the mike and clicked it, noting at the same time the ships’ name on a small brass bell to his left. “This is schooner… Little Rebecca requesting Coast Guard assistance.”

There was a hiss and a pop, and then a disembodied and very welcome voice answered. “This is ISC Alameda; please state the nature of your problem?”

MacGyver paused. He didn’t really need to go through the whole story – he could do that once he was on dry land. For now, he just needed help getting there. “The ship’s engines are out and I can’t sail her on my own. Do you have a cutter in the area that could tow me in?”

There was a pause and a slightly curt response. “Sir, can I ask why you took a schooner out without any crew members, save for yourself when you don’t appear to have the skills to sail her?” The man the other end obviously thought MacGyver had more money than sense and was wasting government cash needing to be saved.

I guess I owe them some kind of explanation after all…

Mac clicked the mike again. “I didn’t,” he confessed. “I work for the Phoenix Foundation and am on an assignment for them that shall we say, got a little messy. If you speak to Pete Thornton he’ll give you more details, but right now I’m kinda stranded…”

The pause was even longer this time, and MacGyver guessed the radio operator was conferring with a superior, or maybe even calling Phoenix.

Eventually, another man came on the line. “I’m Captain Markham. Can I ask who I’m speaking with?”

Mac smiled to himself. “Name’s MacGyver, but most people call me Mac.”

“I wish I had better news, Mr. MacGyver, but there’s a storm heading your way, and even if you knew how to sail the schooner without the engines, you wouldn’t be able to. The squall would probably tear your sails to pieces if you deployed them.”

Mac bit his bottom lip, and then ran a hand reflexively through his hair out of habit. “And you don’t have a ship near enough to help out?” he guessed.

“No sir, not at the speed the storm is coming in. You need to get out of there and fast.” Markham wasn’t hiding any of the concern he had. “Is there no way you can rectify the engine problem?”

Mac puffed out a breath, thinking of what might be on board. So far, the galley had been a great source of things to work with. He clicked the mike one last time. “Stand by ISC Alameda. I’m gonna try something…”

Mac hung the mike back in its cradle and took a peek out of the window. The sky was already filling with dark clouds that raced across the heavens, billowing and growing as he watched.

The normally blue and placid sea was beginning to change, too. The waves were no longer calm and inviting, but choppy and rough, making the schooner bob up and down like it was sitting on a giant spring.

MacGyver didn’t wait any longer. He took the steps back down into the galley and let his eyes roam around the kitchen.

Follett’s bullet had torn through the diesel line to the engines from the tank and the precious fuel was now dripping out onto the compartment floor. If he cranked the engines, it would pump everywhere, except where it was actually needed.

Okay, so I need the right diameter pipe or tubing…

There didn’t seem to be anything immediately on offer, but then it hit Mac – what about the gas line to the cooker? Sometimes they were solid pipes, but others, they were rubber.

MacGyver grabbed the cooker and began to yank it forwards, tearing it away from the wall mounts that held it in place, and leaving four holes in the wood behind.

Once it was far enough forwards, he leaned over it, and let out a long breath when he saw a significant length of rubber hose.

This just might work.

He wedged the cooker back into place and began rummaging underneath, looking for the emergency cut off valve before he severed the tubing. He didn’t want gas escaping all over the schooner, after all.

Flicking the valve to “off” he pulled out his pocket knife and cut the hose at both ends, making sure he had enough length to fix the fuel line. Fuel lines tended to be made of special material to stop the hose perishing due to chemicals in the diesel, but the gas hose would hold until the Little Rebecca got home.

Racing back to the engine room, Mac made a beeline for the damaged pipe and measured the impromptu one at its side. He grimaced as he realized it wasn’t going to be a good fit on the tank outlet hose.

Think MacGyver, how do I reduce the diameter this end?

What Mac needed was something that narrowed and could be inserted into both pipes. He chewed on his bottom lip until it came to him. Some ball point pen tops where the right shape, and they usually had a hole it the top too, to stop kids choking on them if inadvertently swallowed.

He dived back into the galley, checking all the drawers, but the general was nothing if not neat. Only cooking utensils adorned this kitchen.

So where would Follett keep a pen?

MacGyver made his way up the stairs and back onto the bridge area. Everyone kept a pen near a radio, right?

Except the work surface was perfectly empty.

He yanked out the drawer beneath it, and sighed with relief when he spotted a note pad with a pen neatly tucked down the ring binding.

Mac slid out the pen and took a look at the top. It was a Bic, with just the right shape for his fuel line “reducer”. But shape wasn’t everything, would the diameters work? He clenched the top in his palm and once again returned to the engine room.

As he approached the line, Follett watched him, apparently curious as to what all the fuss was about.

“Why don’t you just cut me loose, and I can make a few calls. We could both rescued and be rich men if you’d just trust me?” His beady blue eyes searched Mac’s expression, possibly for a glimmer of greed.

There was none.

“Like the Bodens trusted you?” MacGyver offered as he took off the pipe to the fuel pump and tried the pen’s wider end.

Follett shrugged. “They were fools.”

MacGyver shook his head. He didn’t even want to have a conversation with Follett. Half the time his attitude and morals seemed to make him seem something other than human.

Instead, the troubleshooter focused on his task. The wide end of the top fit the line. It was tight, but with a little brute force and a jubilee clip, it was on.

Next he came to the all important part, would the narrow end fit into the different diameter line he had from the tank?

The first attempt was a failure. The tapered end of the top was actually too slim, and wouldn’t hold once he tried tightening another clip around it.

MacGyver puffed out a breath and pulled his knife from his pocket. Being careful not to shave off too much, he began slicing at the very end of the top like he was whittling down a piece of wood – just like a true sailor.

He tried the joint again, and this time, the clip stayed fast.

But would the line hold once he started up the engines and the pump kicked in, adding extra pressure?

Mac stole a glance at Follett, and then hit the scarlet red start button that fired up both Mann’s.

The two diesel motors roared into life and idled normally, with just the odd hiccup and cough caused by a slight air leak on the line Mac had jury rigged.

MacGyver felt like he could finally relax. The assignment was over, and he thankfully hadn’t had to shoot anyone.

Follett was less than pleased about the very same thing. “I shot you!” He complained. “Why couldn’t you just stay dead the second time?”

Mac shrugged, a cheeky smile starting at the corner of his mouth and creeping over his features until it was a full-on beam. “Hey, don’t feel so bad. The Bodens shot me too, and that didn’t work, either. I guess guns are overrated after all, huh?”

Follett looked away in disgust, his brow creasing in temper.

MacGyver watched him for a second, wondering how such a man was going to cope with life in jail for a very, very long time.

The thought passed quickly as he remembered the storm, and that the schooner needed turning back to the U.S. coast. Now that he had engines to work with, he should easily get the Little Rebecca home without the squall hitting them.

Mac headed back topside with a spring in his step and a smile on his face – knowing that after this assignment if he never touched a gun again, it would be too soon.

* * * *

Phoenix Headquarters
L.A. Division
Some time later…

MacGyver sat on the couch in Pete Thornton’s office; his sneakers firmly perched on the edge of the nearby table. After the whole affair with Follett and the Bodens, it was good to relax in a place that tended to be his second home.

He fiddled with a pencil in one hand, his fingers always eager to be on the move, doing something, making things…

It was a nervous energy he always seemed full of, and maybe that’s why he’d found he couldn’t leave Phoenix for long even when he’d tried. Heaven only knew how he was going to cope when he got older and had to slow down.

The door swung open, and Mac looked up to see Pete enter with his cane. The older man nodded, knowing his friend was in the room and somehow sensing where he was seated.

“Sorry I’m a little late,” he apologized. “The meeting with Colonel Woodward took longer than I expected.”

Mac took his feet down, allowing Pete to pass and take a seat next to him.

“No problem,” MacGyver countered with a small smile. “You know I hate meetings. I’d rather be here.” He sighed. “So how’d it go?”

It was Pete’s turn to smile. “It went well, thanks to you. According to Scott, the weapons shipments have all been accounted for and are now back with their respective departments within the military. None of them got onto the streets or worse…”

“And Follett?” MacGyver asked, finally popping the pencil down on the table to concentrate on the conversation.

“He’s up for a court marshal and several murder, and attempted murder charges,” Pete replied. “It looks like the army and the state will be fighting to see who gets to try him first.”

Mac shook his head and his eyes met with the new carpet Pete had recently had fitted. “Things could have gotten outta hand pretty quickly out there, ya know?” It was obvious he meant the guns, even though he didn’t directly say it.

Pete put a hand on his friend’s arm. “I’m sorry I had to ask you, of all people to do this one, Mac.” It was Pete’s turn drop his head in regret. “Your feelings about guns, and why…”

The elder man’s voice trailed and MacGyver realized he’d been rendered speechless. How did you say you were sorry for something, when in the end you were right?

Mac decided it was time to put Pete out of his misery. “It’s okay, Pete, I know you had to ask.” He picked the pencil back up, suddenly feeling tense as some not-so-pleasant memories from his childhood assaulted his senses. “It was hard, but better that I faced my own demons and stop Follett, rather than all that ordinance ending up in the wrong hands. So many people could have been hurt or worse by them…”

Mac’s eyes grew glassy as in some portion of his mind he saw Jesse lying bleeding.

“Well, it’s over now, and I promise I’ll never ask you to do anything like this again.” Pete sounded sincere, but MacGyver knew it wasn’t a promise his friend could keep if the right circumstance arose again.

Mac smiled anyway. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Pete!” He teased.

Pete squirmed a little, and then changed the subject. “So now what are you going to be up to? Some downtime with Sam?”

Mac shook his head. “Nope, he’s off working on a story. The first thing I’m gonna do is go home, get a drink, a haircut,” he paused rubbing at his beard. “And a much needed shave!”

Pete’s face screwed into an incredulous frown. But then he couldn’t see the unruly appearance of his friend. “Drink? Haircut? Shave?” He questioned.

“Milk, Pete – just milk.” It was MacGyver’s turn to grimace. “I had enough alcohol on this assignment to prove to me just why I don’t drink the stuff. Why the heck do you like bourbon anyway? And tequila?” He gagged at the memory of the taste in the back of his throat.

Pete shrugged. He really didn’t seem to have an answer.

“And as for the shave,” Mac continued to gripe, now finding himself on a roll. “Right now I feel like I’ve got your old carpet stuck on my face…”

Pete finally realized his old friend was joking and chuckled. “Are you sure you haven’t? You are the one who tends to recycle stuff around here!”

MacGyver let out a sigh and smiled. “C’mon, Pete, let’s get outta the office for awhile. I know a great little coffee shop. I might even buy ya a milk.” He held out a hand to help his friend up.

Pete took it, his well-honed ears knowing exactly every move Mac made. “Sounds good,” he said with an expression that said otherwise. And then he playfully added. “Do you think they’d add a tot of whiskey for an old guy? Especially and old guy that has to put up with this young upstart who gets in all kinds of trouble… ”

Mac grimaced but couldn’t resist laughing as they both headed for the door.

“Um…Not really!” He tried to keep a straight face and failed as he answered.

The End

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