[Lothithil]

Chapter 15

Mac’s Voice-over:
Bullets flying overhead, I’m crawling over shattered wood and shards of broken glass—and I’m thinking, ‘Some vacation in the Caribbean this is turning out to be!’ Right about now I’m wishing I was back home, sitting on a bank of snow and lacing up my skates, or sticking it out with some friends in a game of street-hockey—but I had friends right here who needed my help, and that thought kept me going.

I could hear Jones cursing as he crawled beside me. Apparently, this day wasn’t going exactly how he had planned it either!


More Fun than a Barrel of Gunpowder

Mac slithered through the doorway, ignoring the cuts he was collecting on his forearms and knees. There was little more protection to be had inside the house; designed to be comfortable in the tropical heat, the house had been built with wide windows and doorways, all of which were shattered by the continuing hail of bullets. Mac rolled to the right, Jones to the left, and both men hastened to close the hurricane shutters. It wouldn’t keep the bullets out, but at least they couldn’t easily be seen and targeted.

Jones leaned back against the solid panel of the storm-door, panting for breath, but MacGyver was already moving away, looking down hallways and checking rooms. Jones dragged himself upright to follow him. “Who are we looking for?”

“My friends… the ones you missed at the bungalow,” Mac answered, shouldering a locked door. The paneling around the lock splintered with a crash, and he threw the door open: a storage closet.

At that moment, there came a shattering crash from a room further down the hallway, followed by a triumphant shout. MacGyver and Jones hurried toward the sounds and drew themselves up short in the doorway of the study.

There was a large man dressed in black lying on his back on the floor in the center of a pool of crystal shards; a cigar still smoldering in his clenched teeth. Jack Dalton was busy wrestling away his weapons. Standing over the man’s head, Mike Forester still held the jagged base of a heavy vase in her hands.

“That looks like it was once very expensive,” Mac commented wryly.

When Mike saw MacGyver in the doorway, she tossed aside the broken vase and threw her arms around her friend’s neck.

Jack had found some handcuffs in one of the man’s pockets and used them. He looked up from his work with delight at his friend’s arrival. “You know what they say, Mac: it’s not the value that makes an object priceless—it’s the sentiment!” He had an automatic rifle in his hands and a small handgun, as well as a combat knife which he tossed into the bulging backpack sagging on the floor. “And the timing! Ol’ Chimney-chops here turned around to find out what all the fuss was about, and Mike figured she'd finish the redecorating.” He plucked the cigar out of the still-unconscious man’s mouth and tossed it into the fireplace, then he hefted the pack onto his back with a grunt.

Mac gave Mike a hug, “Good shot!”

“Can we please get out of here now?” Mike asked. She released Mac and stepped back, and Mac saw that, in spite of the dangerous situation they were all in, her eyes were sparkling with excitement.

Mac knew the feeling. It sounded insane, but…he was having fun.

“Yeah… leaving might be a bit of a problem,” Jones said. He was standing near the window, glancing out at an angle to see what was happening; most of the action was toward the landside of the house, and little could be seen beyond the occasional mercenary smuggler running past toward the fight; there seemed to be an endless supply of them, pouring out of the sea. “Our team is taking a beating.”

“Our team?” Jack glanced from Jones to MacGyver. “Who’s all on our team?”

“D.E.A., Coast Guard, and probably the A.T.F,” Mac answered absently; he was wandering around the room, looking through the ruins of St. Just’s mini-museum. “That’s Jones over there…” Mac introduced Mike and Jack, then he resumed examining the cannon he found in the corner of the room. “These are my friends who got out with those krugerrands before you—” Suddenly Mac interrupted himself, his face illuminated. “That’s it! Jack! Where are the coins?”

Jack clutched his backpack possessively.

Mike smiled; she knew that look. “Give it to him, Jack—he’s got an idea. What do you need us to do, Mac?”

“I need… um, some cotton fabric… a broomstick… and something that burns—” he patted himself down and found that he had not lost his little bag of gunpowder. “Perfect!” Quickly, he set about his task as Mike and Jack brought him the things he had asked for.

Jones was looking anxiously out the window, noting that while the numbers of men joining St. Just had leveled out, the group was retreating strategically past the house, heading no doubt for the boat that they had arrived in. St. Just stood out in the crowd in his ridiculous white suit, and he was shouting orders while firing his gun, reloading, and firing again. Stray bullets began to bite through the glass left in the windows, forcing those inside to duck down to avoid being hit.

Mac put his weight behind the cannon and began pushing it toward the window. Jones let his help, as did Jack, but with some reluctance. “Couldn’t we use some other ammunition?” he asked piteously.

“My grandfather always said, ‘Bud, if you want to catch the best fish, you got to use the best bait!’” Mac retorted as he aimed the barrel of the cannon carefully. He blew on the stump of the cigar he had retrieved from the fireplace grate and then lowered it to the makeshift fuse he had improvised. The fuse began to burn. “Everyone get over to the far side of the room. You might want to cover yourselves… in case this blows up instead of out,” he added in an off-hand manner.

Jack and Mike hid behind a sturdy settee while Jones ducked down behind the desk. Mac stepped back behind the stonework surrounding the fireplace, where he could see.

The fuse burned quickly, and soon there was a great roar as it fired; the cannon rocketed backward as it went off, filling the room with acrid smoke but spewing a glittering payload of gold coins out over the heads of the mercenaries. Guns were forgotten as a wealth of gold fell among them like leprechaun rain. Mac could hear St. Just cursing the men while the gunfire from the DEA and ATF forces redoubled.

“Let’s go!” Mac shouted. He led his friends toward the seaside of the house.

As he had suspected, the boat was moored at the end of the private dock, one man pacing at the end of the pier while another stood in the cabin, ready to make an emergency exit.

Slowed down by the gold and gunfire, by the time the mercenaries and St. Just had retreated to the dock, there was nothing there but two unconscious men tied up with mooring cables, and the fading wake of their yacht lapping the sand. But by that time, they were out of ammunition and, therefore, out of luck.

~~~tbc

[MacGyverluver]

Very Good!!!


Is that the end? You didn't say "To Be Continued" or "The End".

[Lothithil]

The next chapter will be the epilogue.

Glad you like the story!

[Tygr]

AWESOME!

[MacNymph]

Here I am... tapping my toe... wondering why has Loth started a new fic when she hasn't finished the one I need finishing?!?

I don't know how I miss this things. I'm going to have to set up an alert or something.

I love your storytelling and most excellent -isms Loth!