The woman smiled as if she was looking at two potential lovers, her eyes dancing with something even MacGyver couldn’t quite place. Her words didn’t match her apparent demeanor. “Get rid of them,” she cooed. “And then we’ll talk about how they got in here in the first place…” Without saying more, she breezed back out of the door and vanished.

Both guards stepped forwards, but the elder man pulled a .45 from under his jacket and pointed it at MacGyver and Sam. His face wrinkled into a snarl as he spoke, not to them, but to his companion. “Tie them, I don’t want any funny business on the way out.” He had an accent, but it didn’t sound Arabic – more southern U.S.A. although with his deep tan and the glasses, it was hard to tell.

The other man did as he was told, magically producing a reel of cord as if he tied people up on a daily basis, but then, maybe he did. He grabbed Mac’s wrists, yanking them hard behind his back and fastening them together. He moved to Sam, doing much the same.

“Your boss is a very pretty lady,” MacGyver said quietly as he and Sam were led from the bedroom and down a long flight of stairs. “Mind telling me her name, so I know who just signed my death warrant?”

The elder guard chuckled. “Now who said anything about killing you? The boss said get rid, and that’s just what we’re doing. We’ll leave the rest to nature…” He opened a side door obviously used for the kitchen staff and almost dragged MacGyver through it, then Sam. There was a black van waiting on the driveway, the side door open inviting them inside. The guard gestured with his automatic. “In you go, time to get a tour of the desert…”

MacGyver frowned then pulled back. He’d seen enough of deserts in his younger days, and he didn’t want Sam stranded in one. Maybe he could cause enough trouble for Sam to make a run for it? Without thinking, he barged forwards, head butting the guard in the stomach and sending him reeling backwards.

The plan should have worked, but a third security man appeared from nowhere. He didn’t waste time joining the fray, but instead whirled the gun in his hand until he held the barrel and the handgrip served as his weapon. With one swift flick of his wrist, he knocked Mac out cold, and without waiting for Sam to fight or protest, he did much the same again, hitting the younger man just hard enough to knock him down.

Both men lay slumped at his feet, hands still tied, and he smiled as if that made him the happiest man alive.

* * * *

MacGyver woke with a headache from hell – but still not the worst headache he’d ever had. He blinked, realizing the sun was straight in his eyes. Sun – the memory of the previous night’s events came back to him, and he suddenly opened his eyes wider to realize he’d been staked out in the sand – no in the desert, to be precise. He looked like a stranded starfish on the beach, ready to be baked alive.

He looked over quickly to his left, then right, hoping to find Sam with him, because dire as the situation was that meant Sam was still alive, at least for now.

Sam was to his right, and also neatly staked out, his wrists and ankles bound to four wooden poles hammered deep into the sand. From their age, and the abundance of dried blood on them, they’d been used often already.

“Dad, is it too early to ask for breakfast?” Sam wearily joked, his voice already sounding hoarse from the lack of water. “A nice ice cold milk would be great right now.”

A black silhouette hovered momentarily over Mac’s face and then was gone. It was the fleeting shadow of a carrion bird, already checking them out – maybe it was used to visiting here for easy pickings. “If we don’t figure out a way off these stakes, the only thing getting breakfast around here will be the ravens.”

“Ugh huh,” Sam agreed with a grunt as he stretched to check out their surroundings. “So what are you waiting for? Saw through the cord with your teeth or something! You’re the one who improvises!”

MacGyver’s lips curled into a half-smile at the tone of his son’s voice. As it happened, he did have something that might help – a little souvenir from the mystery woman’s bedroom. It had been a painful addition to his motto of picking something up along the way, but right now, he was glad he’d had the idea.

Carefully spinning his wrist in the cord that bound him, Mac maneuvered his hand until he could touch his palm with his fingers. Now was the tricky part. He’d picked up a small pin from the woman’s dressing table and deftly pressed it under his skin the night before, as the guards had bounded in the room. Now, he needed to use his fingertips to slowly remove the pin by pulling on the tiny head, and then use the sharp tip to pick laboriously at the cord he was tied with, attacking each fiber over and over until it snapped.

Sam craned his neck, amazed as his father worked, first drawing blood as the pin came from its hiding place beneath his flesh, then yanking on the cord after two hours of gentle persuasion with the pin, until it snapped.

“How the heck did you know you’d need that?” Sam asked incredulous as MacGyver untied his feet, then jumped up to untie his son, sweat dripping from his brow.

“I didn’t,” Mac admitted. “I never know what I might use anything for when I take it. I usually just work that out as I go.”

Sam chuckled and rubbed at his chaffed wrists as he stood up. “That’s taking making it up as you go along to a new level.”

“No,” Mac corrected. “That’s surviving – and that’s something we still have to do out here, and it’s gonna be harder than it sounds.” He spun around on the spot, taking in the never ending vista of sand and dunes. He shaded his eyes, but it didn’t make their predicament look any better. “I think we’re in the Rub-Al-Khali,” he explained.

Sam raised a brow as if he understood, then sucked down a breath. “Exactly what is that? It’s sounds straight out of a Kipling novel.”

“It means “empty quarter” and it’s not called that for nothing.” MacGyver winced. “It can get up to fifty-one degrees out here, and as we have no provisions, no shelter, no idea where we are…”

Sam smiled despite what he was being told. “You’ll figure it. You always do. Can’t we navigate with the sun, or the moon and stars or something?” He pondered, wiping his brow with his forearm.

“Maybe,” Mac conceded, and we really should travel at night when it’s cool, but I don’t think we have the time.” He gestured in his best guess at the right direction. “C’mon, I would say race you, but not in this heat.”

Sam moved off first. “Yeah, that’s because you know I’d win, you being an old man and all!”

Mac moved into step beside him. “Yeah, but age and speed isn’t going to save us,” he countered with a small smile. “I’ll take my brains over your youth any day.”

Sam smiled back. “Actually, so would I…”

* * * *

The afternoon sun burned hot, so hot MacGyver could feel its intensity on the sand through his sneaker soles. Some people said you could fry an egg out here some days, and right now, he wouldn’t dispute it.

Every muscle ached with the effort of walking without fresh water for hydration. He’d used his shirt to make them both impromptu Arabian style kuffiyas, but it was little help in the situation.

“I wonder how long before we start seeing things, you know like a mirage or something,” Sam pondered blearily as he dragged his feet through the sand, each step getting slower. “Because you know, right now, I swear I see a big old pickup on the horizon.” He pointed for effect, but his timbre suggested he wasn’t convinced.

MacGyver followed his son’s gaze and realized he was also staring at a truck – a red Chevy Blazer to be precise – or at least what was left of one. Its carcass looked like it had long been attacked by the scavengers of time itself. The tires were gone, slithers of perished rubber stretching out behind the rusting wheels, and most of the glass had been shattered.

The red paintwork had dulled to an almost pink hue, and in places it had succumbed to the sun completely, peeling back like necrotic skin on a metal skeleton.

Mac looked at his watch. It would be dark soon. There was just time to check the truck for anything useful, and then they’d make camp here. He had a few ideas for food and water, and the truck might actually help.

“Okay, we’ll take a break by the Chevy, it will be sundown soon,” MacGyver instructed. “I’ll check out the truck, then we’ll see what we can camp with.”

Sam grimaced. “I hope you find something in the truck, or it will be a dang sparse camp…”

Mac broke into a jog, reaching the truck in just two minutes. He reached out to pull the door handle, then recoiled when he realized how hot the metal was. That was a good thing. Cold nights here in the empty quarter followed by heat the next morning would be fruitful. He took off his homemade headdress, wrapped it around his hand and tried again.

The inside of the Blazer was a faded and worn as the exterior. The plush seats were holed and threadbare. MacGyver ignored the state of the trim and picked up a piece of broken glass from the windshield. Using it, he cut the remaining material from the seats and tossed it outside. The truck was old, old enough he hoped not to have fire retarded standards in place.

When the temperature dropped, anything he could scavenge would be good to burn and keep them comfortable. A lizard slithered from under the passenger seat as he worked and he paused – it had been a long time since he’d been forced to harm anything to eat, the last time he’d cooked lizard, it had been with a very pretty photographer. Mac smiled, then felt just a little saddened when he looked back at the lizard, but sometimes sacrifices had to be made, and he had Sam to think about now.

Two hours later, darkness had covered the arid landscape except for the small fire MacGyver had mustered from some pieces of wood from the truck’s dash and the seat coverings. A stick over the fire held the carefully prepared lizard – well, as careful as anyone could be with just a fragment of glass as their impromptu knife.

Sam watched the flames as his father cooked. “I never ate lizard before,” he offered, his face screwing into a frown. “I guess it’s my punishment for not packing Twinkies.” He sighed. “I’m sure it will taste great, but I really need a drink…” He licked his lips and the skin was so dry it cracked and bled slightly.

MacGyver knew the feeling, his lips were much the same, and he even felt a little lightheaded. Real dehydration would set in soon, but of, course he had a plan. He offered up a chunk of meat. “We’ll drink in the morning,” he said cryptically.

* * * *

Sam awoke just as the sun was peeking over the horizon. He yawned, stretched his arms and realized they ached more than he’d care to admit. He rubbed at his gritty eyes and looked around when he noted his dad was already up.

MacGyver looked to be cleaning the ancient pickup’s hood, which made no sense at all. Sam craned his neck, and when he still couldn’t see what was going on, he drew himself up and stood.

Mac smiled and offered up a very wet t-shirt. “Squeeze this into your mouth. Not exactly a full-on drink, but it will wet your lips.”

“Condensation formed on the hood, and you mopped it off with a cloth we can squeeze back out!” Sam grinned. “Nice one, Dad, but it won’t exactly keep us alive.” He took the offered t-shirt and squeezed anyway, the cold liquid felt like ambrosia to his lips.

Mac did much the same with another piece of t-shirt, then began examining the truck’s mirrors. One was hanging off, but the glass wasn’t broken. He seemed to fixate on that one.

“Now what?” Sam asked, wiping his forehead with the drained cloth in his hand. It still felt cool and calming.

“Mirrors can be great tools,” Mac said almost cryptically.

“I know they’re good for making fire,” Sam agreed, “But that’s hardy helpful out here.”

Mac ignored him, wrenched out the last bolt and looked over the mirror like it was gold. “C’mon, we better get moving…”

“What, no breakfast again?” Sam tried to sound cheerful, but inside he felt hollow, and not just from the lack of food. Some deep, dark part of him believed they would die out here and be fodder for the birds and insect life, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t shake it.

They walked on in silence for awhile, both men apparently thinking the same thing, but not wanting say it out loud. Footsteps, turned from precise moves to dragging limbs after just half an hour, and Sam felt like every breath was breathing in superheated air.

He sucked down a lungful anyway, and then exhaled so loud MacGyver stopped in his tracks.

Sam instantly regretted the slip, but then quickly realized his father’s sudden coming to a halt had nothing to do with his weary body after all.

MacGyver was shading his eyes and looking into the distance at a large dune slightly to their east.

“I thought I saw a reflection off something,” MacGyver explained helpfully.

“Out here?” Sam squinted, but he didn’t see anything.

“It could be a local tribesman,” Mac countered. “They’re mostly the only people that venture into the Empty Quarter all that often.” He flipped the mirror he’d scavenged over in his hand, then began to flash it to and fro in the direction of the dune.

“You’re using it to signal!” Sam realized with a grin. “Do you think they’d see us this far? Would they even realize?”

“Trust me, they’ll see us. Nothing much gets past those guys out here.” Mac continued to move the mirror around until two minutes later something flashed back. It repeated rhythmically letting them know it wasn’t just a fluke.

“Aw man, we’re saved…” Sam frowned as his vivid imagination kicked in. “These guys don’t go around with big knives slitting their enemies’ throats, right?”

“Sometimes,” MacGyver replied, and then grinned. “But as I don’t think we’re anyone’s enemy except the mystery woman, I think we’ll be okay.”

“Yeah? Knowing our luck, she’ll be one of the tribesmen’s sisters,” Sam grumbled, then crumpled down onto the sand and waited for their rescuers to arrive. He only hoped they had a spare camel, because he wasn’t sure he could walk any further.

* * * *

MacGyver watched as the desert passed him by dune after dune in almost the blink of an eye – at least, that was how it felt after traveling on foot for over a day. Across from him, Sam sat in the rear bed of the bouncing Jeep and still looked incredulous.

When Mac had signaled the Bedouin tribesmen with the mirror, Sam had expected them to turn up clad in robes and riding camels. Instead, the three locals had driven up in a somewhat battered ’77 Jeep and offered up a semi-comfortable ride, at least compared to what they would have gotten on a dromedary.

“I still can’t believe we’re in a Jeep!” Sam grinned from ear to ear. “I need to come out here with a camera and do an article on these guys, they’re amazing!”

“You’re young, you’ve a lot to still learn about people, with or without your camera.” Mac smiled back, looking at the teenage Arab driving them. It was obvious that in his culture responsibility was given at a much younger age, and this kid had accepted it comfortably. He had saved them from the desert with no questions, offering up a ride to the nearest settlement of Sharurah like they’d been hitching a ride on Route 66 instead of in the middle of the Najran Province’s emptiest sector.

“My cultural naivety aside, now what do we do?” Sam asked with a sigh. “The U.S. has no treaty with this country for extradition, even if we could prove the mystery woman is the bad guy – and just who is she anyway? A jealous lover? Something more?” He looked across the lonely terrain as they moved, thinking, his face a masque of bitterness as if he had been the one accused.

“First up, we need a name. We need to identify her, and then the reasoning might just fall into place,” MacGyver pointed out, rubbing a hand through his semi-matted mullet. “But if Pete couldn’t put a name to her, just an address, I think this gonna be a tough one…”

“Sam grinned again suddenly as the Jeep bounced over a rut. “Maybe not,” he grunted out with rough the motion. “I found this in her bedroom, just before she came in!” He slid a hand into the side pocket of his jeans and pulled out a cigarette butt. There was lipstick on it, suggesting it was the woman’s.

MacGyver nodded, seeing where his son was going. “Your thinking D.N.A. testing can pick up something off that? And Phoenix has several top experts in that field! They were actually trained by Alec Jeffreys!”

Sam exhaled like their excitement wasn’t fair and Mac understood. Jerry had died because of all this.

“Maybe it’s ironic that it was D.N.A. tests on blood that got Jerry convicted, and now that same testing might exonerate him – even if it is too late.” Sam put the butt in his shirt pocket and patted it. “How much longer before we can get to Sharurah and contact Pete?”

Mac looked at the horizon and the slowly setting sun. “Too long,” He admitted.

* * * *

Phoenix Central office
Riyadh
Saudi Arabia
Sometime later…

MacGyver hated waiting, but this time, he’d had to – the D.N.A. fingerprinting procedure was still pretty new, and it took time. Mistakes could not be made, or a killer may be left to roam free.

While everyone had been on tenterhooks for the lab technicians to get a result, Pete Thornton had flown over to supervise things personally. He was now sitting opposite Mac and Sam with an expression that said he was just as annoyed as they were about sitting around, while the mystery woman carried on living the life of an apparent millionaire.

Pete let his fingers stroke his Braille watch for the seventh time and then began tapping on the table with a pencil he’d managed to find.

“Sheesh, Pete, I thought I was the one that tinkered with things when I got restless!” MacGyver teased.

“Yeah, well it’s hot in here!” Pete grumbled, loosening his tie. “Maybe the air conditioning isn’t working…”

“Maybe you’re just as all fired up about this case as we are, more likely,” Mac countered. “Technology is a wonderful thing – until you have to wait for it.”

A knock at the door silenced them all and Pete’s temporary secretary breezed in with an envelope. She offered it up. “This just came in from the lab, Mr. Thornton.” She nodded, pressed it gently into Pete’s palm and then retreated as he thanked her.

Like the watch, the envelope writing and what was inside had been prepared especially for him in Braille as well as ordinary typeface.

Pete took down a breath and carefully tore it open to pull out the report. He let his fingertips glide over the embossed writing not once, but three times, his eyebrows rising in both shock and surprise. “This can’t be right,” he murmured. “Either I’m reading this wrong or the lab made a mistake…”

MacGyver stood up, quickly moved behind the desk and read the report over Pete’s shoulder. His brow rose almost as rapidly as his boss’s.

“Well will you two put me out my misery!” Sam complained. “What can it say that has got both of you so all wound up!”

Pete dropped the paper on the table. “It says the woman who smoked that cigarette was Rebecca Dunlevy…”

Sam blinked. “But that’s the woman Jerry was supposed to have killed! I thought Phoenix had the best scientists in the world?”

“We do,” Pete insisted. “That’s why when this result came in they redid the test – it still says the same.”

MacGyver ran a hand through his hair, this puzzle had just taken a turn even he hadn’t seen coming, and now somehow, they had to make sure justice was done by getting Dunlevy back to the U.S. The question was, how?”