Director of Intelligence
Posts: 7,214
Joined: 3 Dec 2005
Gender: Female
Country: USA
SAK owned: Camper&Swissbit
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Season: season 5
Episode:Serenity
Vehicle: Jeep
Jacket: Brown bomber
House: House boat
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Mac in Martinique, ch 10
Hacienda
Mac’s Voice-over:
It was a brittle ride back toward the marina. DuGaul was afraid to be too rough or too nice to me; we sat in the back of his car and said very little. He had a small silver-plated pistol that he held across his lap, pointed vaguely in my direction. I tried to ignore it, but it was a little like trying to ignore a scorpion crawling on your arm.
“You seem a little nervous, MacGyver,” DuGaul observed.
“I don’t like guns,” Mac said, looking out the window. There were a couple of girls walking down toward the beach, but Mac wasn’t really seeing at them.
Where were Mike and Jack?
“Guns are a part of the business.” This was DuGaul’s dry response.
“Yeah, well… I’m used to being on the other side of them,” Mac lied smoothly. “You can keep that toy if it makes you feel safer, but I’d prefer it if you’d not point it at me. If your driver hits a pothole, you may wind up having some explaining to do.”
“Did you hear that, Jones?” DuGaul said, “Mr. MacGyver doesn’t trust your driving.” He didn’t put the gun away but he did swing the muzzle downward. If the thing went off, the bullet would either hit Mac in the leg or strike the back of the driver’s seat.
The road took them past the beach where Mac had come ashore. A tangle in the traffic slowed them down to the speed of a crawl. Through the open window, Mac saw the woman he had nearly stumbled into after his swim from DuGaul’s boat. She was standing near the volleyball pit, arguing with a man. As the car slowly coasted past, it looked to Mac as if she were getting the better of the debate.
Jones was preparing to turn onto the marina road when DuGaul brusquely said, “Turn left toward the airfield.” The muzzle of the gun moved back toward MacGyver as DuGaul frowned at him. “Our boat is temporarily disabled, thanks to you. We’ll take the chopper.”
Mac gave DuGaul an annoyed look; he really hated guns. “Yeah… well, you owe me a new shirt.”
Listening to the two men talking in the backseat, Jones thought that his hands were going to freeze to the wheel of the car. ‘At last!’ his heart began to thrum with excitement. ‘He’s taking us to his boss!’ His eyes flicked up to the rearview mirror. He saw DuGaul threatening MacGyver with the gun, and MacGyver returning his stare with patient disinterest.
Next to Jones in the front seat, Chink shivered. He had not had time to change out of his clothes after he went overboard, and though they were drying slowly, the man was obviously uncomfortable.
Jones wanted desperately to accompany DuGaul to the Big Bosses base of operations, but somehow manage things so that Chink would be left out of it. He could have his people pick the man up later, but having him along was dangerous. Jones knew that Chink would turn a gun on him just as quickly as he would on any tourist or native that any man paying his paycheck happened to choose.
“Chink—you look like crap!” Jones said, hoping that DuGaul was listening. “Who does your dry cleaning… Jacques Cousteau?”
“Yer not funny, Jones,” Chink growled, brushing ineffectuality at his salt-encrusted garments. “I nearly drowned—thanks to that one!” he jerked his thumb toward Mac.
DuGaul leaned forward, scrutinizing Chink’s ruined clothes. “Great,” he said under his breath, “we’re headed to see the Man and he looks like a hobo.”
Mac could tell from the sound of DuGaul’s voice that he was getting nervous. The little black hole of the tiny silver gun stared at Mac like a shark’s eye, unblinking and unfeeling.
They arrived at the airfield and circled around to the helicopter pads where a small white and blue craft was waiting, blades rotating idly in the Caribbean wind.
“Where’s the pilot?” DuGaul demanded. Sweat was beginning to dampen the edges of his carefully combed hair. “Keep an eye on this joker.” He handed his gun to Chink and got out of the car, slamming the door shut. He walked purposefully toward a nearby hanger.
Chink pointed the gun in Mac’s general direction, resting it on the back of the seat and covered his hand with his soggy sleeve so that the airfield personnel could not see. He wasn’t looking at Mac, though; he was staring at the helicopter. He didn’t look very happy.
“I hate flyin’,” he said glumly. “I never signed on to do no flyin’!”
“I figured you’d prefer it to swimmin’,” Jones cracked, his eyes meeting Mac’s in the rearview mirror; he flicked a wink at Mac that Chink wouldn’t see.
“I hate flyin’,” Chink repeated glumly.
“What’s wrong with flying,” Jones asked, “aside from that sick, dizzy feeling you get?”
Chink’s face took on a shade of green.
“Yeah,” Mac added, catching on to Jones' purpose, “Flying is great… except when you hit those pockets of air—and the whole cabin just seems to drop like a brick. I hate that.”
Chink shivered again and swallowed convulsively before he half-heartedly muttered “Shut up, you.” Mac wondered if the man was going to lose his lunch before they even got inside the helicopter.
⌂
“Jack, let’s stop,” Mike said wearily. “I think we’re going in circles.”
“We’re not,” Jack answered firmly. “Look.” He pointed skyward.
Mike looked, shading her eyes with her hand. A small airplane soared through the small gap in the trees overhead. It was very low; Mike could clearly see the identification numbers painted in blue on the side of the craft. “So what?”
“So… it’s going that way,” Jack indicated the direction in which they had been heading. “Just like the other two I’ve seen in the last half hour.”
“How do you know they’re not flying in circles?” Mike asked wearily. She shifted her pack to a more comfortable position. “We’ve been stumbling around in this jungle for two hours, and frankly I’ve seen so many damn plants that I’m beginning to regret my botany degree. And my backpack weighs a ton.”
“Mine, too.” Jack lowered his duffle bag to the ground. Mike could hear the sound of metal clinking beneath the jumble of Jack’s belongings. “Anyway, I’ hoping that there is an airport in that direction.” Jack wiped the sweat from his face. His hand came away smeared with green stuff. “Yuck! What is this stuff?”
Mike looked at Jack and couldn’t suppress her laughter. “You look like Tarzan after he grabbed the wrong vine!” Jack tried to touch Mike’s nose with one of his greened fingers. “Hey! Keep you’re slime to yourself, mister! I’ve got enough of my own.”
Jack grinned and turned to continue his struggle to part the thick growth so that they both could pass. He had gone only a few feet when Mike stopped him.
“Look, Jack!” The roof of a large white building had appeared above the tops of the trees and bushes ahead of them.
“Civilization at last!” Together, they fought their way through the last tangle of bushes until they came out suddenly onto a cool, smooth lawn. The jungle was trimmed back sharply, and beyond the straight-edge sharp cutting the grass stretched over an acre of land, rising smoothly upward toward a great white house.
As they stood looking about in surprise, there came a buzzing, ticking sound from the ground below their feet. Without further warning, water began spraying upward from the sprinkler system in long streaming arcs. Against their skin, flushed with tropical heat and exertion, the water felt ice-cold.
Mike let out a small shriek that turned into a laugh as the chilly water doused her hair and clothing. Jack grabbed her hand and together they ran through the sprinklers toward the house, ineffectually ducking more jets of water. Sweat and sap were rinsed from their faces and hands, but their stained clothing got soaked before they managed to reach the buildings. Stepping from the manicured lawn onto a tiled patio, both friends stopped to catch their breath, laughing like children playing on the lawn.
“Well,” said Mike, wringing water from her long hair, “that was bracing!”
“Better than a cup of coffee to wake you up, that for sure and for certain,” Jack replied. He turned away and shook his head, shedding water like a dog. Mike raised her hands to shield her face from the spray, and noticed that they were not alone.
“Jack,” Mike whispered, grabbing his sleeve. “Company.” The water from the lawn sprinklers had soaked her blouse; she stepped behind her friend, conscious of the fact that her undergarments were visible beneath the now-transparent fabric.
“Good day,” said the man. He was sitting in a chair under an awning; he rose and came toward them, a sweating glass of some iced drink in his hand. Skin deeply tanned and dressed all in white as he was, Jack thought that he looked like a crazy combination between George Hamilton and Mr. Roark of ‘Fantasy Island’. “Welcome to the Manor.”
“Hiya!” said Jack tossed up a friendly wave. “We didn’t mean to barge in on you, but we kinda got turned around in the trees.” He swung his soggy dufflebag behind him, where it settled on the tiles with an audible ‘chink’. Jack winced, but turned the expression into one of wistful hope. “Could we possibly use your tele-…”
Jack’s voice trailed off as three men appeared, each holding machine guns that were pointed at him and Mike in a very business-like fashion.
“… -phone?” Jack ended lamely, raising his hands in the universal gesture of harmlessness.
The man in white merely stood still and let his men corral the two strangers. He sipped his drink while one man roughly pawed Jack’s clothing, searching for weapons. Another man picked up the bag that Jack had tried to hide behind his legs. When he felt the unusual weight of it, he brought it to the man in white and shook it. The coins in the bottom chimed musically… damningly.
The man in white smiled. He casually handed his glass to one of his men and opened the bag, tossing aside the things within. He withdrew a handful of coins and held them out as if to admire the sparkle of the sunlight on the mellow gold.
“Welcome indeed to the Manor,” the man repeated as his men took firm hold on Mike and Jack. They didn’t search Mike for weapons, but the state of her clothing made it apparent that she wasn’t carrying a gun of any kind. “I am Edmund St. Just.” His voice was rich with a French accent, and when he pronounced his name, it sounded like ‘juiced’. He spoke as one who expected his suggestions to be carried out like orders. “You will accompany my men into the house.”
Jack forgot about his precious gold and twisted out of the hold one man had put on his arm. He took Mike’s arm and faced down the man holding her without showing an ounce of fear for the deadly guns that were pointed at him. He looked like a bulldog snarling at a Doberman pincer. “Neither of us have forgotten how to walk, bud. Hands off the lady!”
St. Just nodded, and the man released Mike. He watched as the two tourists walk obediently toward the house, bracketed by armed men. He took especial interest in watching the movements of the woman, who was graceful even in her disarray. He watched until they disappeared through the double French doors.
St. Just smiled and flipped one of the gold coins into the air and caught it deftly. Just another wonderful day in the tropics!
~~~tbc
 Everyone, sometimes, needs a camel.
Old troubleshooters never die...
They just wait til the last moment and then rescue themselves!
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I'll be keeping an eye out for part 11. 
