This part required a lot of hard, laborious work and effort on my part. I apologize for the delay. HUGE thanks again to ghostdoll for all her help on the Spanish translations!
I wanted to emphasize just how horrific Mac's ordeal was, so this part contains some heavy violence. Once again, I tried not to be too graphic. Please consider yourselves warned.
Shake Hands with the Devil Part Three
Rated: R (some torture scenes)
The Present…
“Listen, I know it’s been five years, and a lot has happened in that time, but do you recall a patient admitted here by the name of MacGyver?” Pete asked the head nurse at the nurse’s station, a wiry middle-aged woman, her name tag reading Karen Watson, RN.
Karen searched her memory for a moment, trying to identify the name. When she remembered at last, she looked at Pete, trying to remain clinically detached as her profession dictated but finding it difficult. Pete noticed some sympathy in her eyes.
“I was the head nurse in charge of his care under Dr. Sturm,” she said. “Frankly, I’m surprised he survived and recovered as well as he did, given the circumstances. I have seen a lot of trauma during my time here at the hospital, and I always heard about how awful torture could be, but when I saw the effects of how abhorrently MacGyver had been treated…I will never forget that, Mr. Thornton. I don’t think I ever could.”
Pete sighed. “I know,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever forget it, either.”
Karen knit her brows together. “What is this all about?” She asked.
“I need to know who brought him in to the hospital. Can you describe him for me? Did he leave a name or anything?”
“Well, now that’s going to be a little bit more difficult for me to remember.”
“I know. Just try for me, please. Any information you have, no matter how limited, could help me greatly.”
“All right.” Karen paused while she reflected on the events of that night, trying to get past the horrific images of her patient, beaten so badly, his injuries so severe and extensive that he barely resembled a human being, wondering how he could still be clinging to life. Slowly, she was able to visualize the name and appearance of the mysterious man who had brought his crumpled, starved, and twisted form in on a stretcher. She looked around, making sure no one else was listening before she began speaking in hushed tones. “He said his name was Ben Stark, but I could tell that was clearly an alias of some kind,” she said. “He told me that MacGyver had been tortured by a member of Velazquez’s death squad in South America, and that he and several other rebels had managed to infiltrate the ranks of Velazquez’s military and smuggle MacGyver out of the country. He was fairly young, about early thirties, tall and swarthy, and very earnest. He spoke with a slight accent, but he spoke English well, and seemed well-educated. He told me not to mention what he told me to anyone else except those directly involved in MacGyver’s treatment so that they would know how to dispense the best possible care, both physically and psychologically, as well as anyone involved in our government, which is the only reason I’m able to talk to you at all about this today, Mr. Thornton. The information he provided was strictly confidential. I suppose he was afraid some elements of Velazquez’s regime would enter this country and spy on his activities. I don’t know. As you can imagine, I was a little overwhelmed. Healthcare is my profession, not international espionage. Still, there was something about this man that seemed honorable and trustworthy, so I did as he ordered, never telling a soul about him, except those who needed to know that MacGyver had been tortured, which included you.”
“So, he just dropped MacGyver off, gave you this information, and then he left?” Pete asked.
“He just vanished after he spoke to me. Nobody around here ever saw him again.”
“Thank you, Karen. You’ve been helpful,” Pete said.
“I don’t mind at all,” she said. “By the way…how is MacGyver?”
“Well, it’s been several years, so he’s been able to heal almost fully after all those surgeries, physical therapy, and psychological evaluations he had to endure. It’s the memories of what happened to him that still haunt him.”
It doesn’t help any that an old ghost from the past has resurrected to remind him of that time, he thought.
Karen nodded. “I’ll bet,” she said. “It takes time. I wish him the best.”
“Thanks.”
As Pete left, he thought back to that nightmarish time, wondering why he had never bothered to inquire sooner about MacGyver’s secret savior. He supposed that his friend’s recovery took the forefront of his concerns, his condition so alarming and dire that it occupied every moment of his time. Never once did he bother to seek information on the man’s identity until now, and as the events receded from memory as the years passed, he supposed that somehow finding the man had been forgotten. The emergence of Carlos Gutierrez on the South American political scene and MacGyver’s terrified reaction to him brought the issue back into importance. Now, at least he had a false name to work with and a vague yet somewhat useful description. If he could trace the name Ben Stark, he might find some leads. Perhaps this man and the others who had rescued MacGyver were now exiles in the United States. If they were, surely they were just as worried about Gutierrez’s rise to power as MacGyver was—that is, if they could make the same connection between who he was now and El Diablo, his former, more sinister persona. Either way, Pete was determined, vowing not to stop searching until he could help bring down the man who had caused his friend so much unjustified suffering and mental anguish.
***
Five Years Earlier…
Manacled with thick, heavy chains around his wrists and ankles, bruised and battered, El Diablo’s guards threw MacGyver to the ground, causing him to stumble and roll down the hillside, his pain, weakness, and the shackles binding him making him unable to stop until he crashed into El Diablo’s thick legs.
“¿Pensastes que podías escapar? (You think you can escape me?)” He roared. “Que estupidés más grande la tuya. ¿Con quién crees que estás tratando, perro infeliz? ¡Tengo ojos en todas partes! (That was rather foolish of you, dog! My patrols are everywhere!)”
He subjected MacGyver to another beating, he and his men participating in pummeling him with their fists all over his already abused body. El Diablo kicked him several times in the ribs with his steel-toed boots, cracking them. Helpless and exhausted, too weakened to defend himself against the constant blows, all MacGyver could do in response was gasp in pain and battle with consciousness, wishing once again for the welcome relief of complete blackness. He coughed, which took some effort with some of his ribs now broken and filled with stabbing, crushing pain, blood coming out of his mouth and staining the dusty ground. Grinning wickedly as MacGyver trembled and moaned, writhing in pain, he looked around at his other slaves that he had gathered around just to witness the punishment. He was a showman, and he wanted them to see the best of his brutality to instill even more fear in them, as if they already weren’t terrified of him.
“¡Esto es lo que le pasa a los listos que tratan de escapar! (This is what happens when you try to escape!)” He screamed at them. He looked at his men, panting heavily from exerting such intense, severe blows. “Take him to the shack. Somehow, I don’t think a sound beating and a few chains are going to stop this stubborn, stupid American. He needs a longer lesson.”
Nodding, his men dragged MacGyver toward the shack that all the other men in the fields knew as the place where El Diablo conducted most of his torture. Some of them owed their missing fingers, hands, and arms to that place of bloodshed and absolute cruelty. They could only wonder what part of the American’s body he would decide to remove. Laughing, delighting in watching MacGyver once again get dragged like an animal, like something subhuman and worthless, El Diablo lit a fat cigar and inhaled deeply, relishing the rich taste and aroma as if he were in a cigar club for well-bred gentlemen instead of fields of slaughter and butchery, the plants fed on as much blood as they were fertilizer. He assumed the lead, and once MacGyver was inside the shack his men lifted him and threw him onto a stone slab that resembled something out of an ancient sacrificial ceremony, securing his shackles to it. The impact against the hard stone surface on his back caused MacGyver to arch it and cry out in pain, his whip slashes by now infected and leaking pus, left untreated.
The shack did not contain some of the more elaborate, ingenious torture devices of the Inquisition, but the cruder tools housed inside were just as effective. Hanging from hooks that looked like talons and could have been just as menacing as a tool for causing pain, there was a bloody butcher’s meat cleaver, a heavy mallet, and of course the reliable whip. By this time, the pain had simply become too overwhelming for MacGyver to bear, and he was barely conscious, groaning and mumbling incoherently. Angry that his impudent American prisoner was not fully aware, El Diablo put his cigar out on MacGyver’s hand, burning him. MacGyver released a cry and stared up at his torturer with his one good eye, his other eye swollen shut from the beatings.
“¡Prestarás atención! (You will pay attention!)” He shouted. “I will not allow you to lose consciousness. You have to learn. You have to feel the pain. Otherwise, torture is useless, don’t you agree?”
MacGyver licked his cracked, puffy, bleeding lips, struggling to breathe from his cracked ribs. He blinked slowly. “Do…what you want…I won’t….tell…why here…” he said, gasping painfully between each word.
“Oh, I think I’ve already figured that out,” El Diablo said. “Even a fool knows you’re here to contact the resistance. No, I do it just for the sheer pleasure of watching you suffer. You see, Velazquez may own the people, but I own every slave on these fields, including you. He gives me free reign over what I decide to do with you, knowing that I am the best at what I do. It doesn’t matter to me if you tell me the names of those trying to oppose Velazquez. Tell me…or don’t…I’ll still make you wish you were dead.” Grinning, he grabbed the bloody meat cleaver, brandishing it, showing it to MacGyver. “Escape the first time, and I chain you. The second time, I break some bones. The third time, I cut off a limb. You may have only tried to escape from me just once so far, but I know you’ll attempt it again, so maybe we should speed up the process.” His grin looked ugly, baring his yellowed teeth into more of a predatory snarl. His eyes remained devoid of emotion. “So, the question is, what should I cut from you? Your arm? Your hand?” He asked.
Holding the meat cleaver inches above MacGyver’s wrist, he lifted it high in the air and made a swift, chopping motion, stopping right before the blade touched the skin. He hadn’t even cut MacGyver even slightly, but it was enough to frighten his captive, who was now quivering and staring wildly at the blade and how close it had come to severing his hand, beads of nervous sweat rolling down his face. El Diablo laughed when he saw MacGyver’s frightened reaction, struggling against the chains frantically, desperate to avoid the amputation. To MacGyver, nothing scared him more than the loss of one of his limbs, rendering him useless. El Diablo was sadistic and psychopathic enough to understand that. Laughing again, he put the cleaver away and approached MacGyver, leaning over him closely, breathing his foul, stale, tobacco breath on him, staring at him with those dead eyes. Without warning, he began bending MacGyver’s fingers back into unnatural positions, breaking them. MacGyver screamed as he heard them snap. The pain was once again unbearable and threatened to send him into oblivion, but El Diablo slapped him hard across his already cut, bruised, and bleeding cheek, causing him to renew his screams, his eye snapping open wide. He smacked him again, grabbing his bleeding chin and forcing him to look at him, squeezing it tightly between his thick fingers. Signaling to his men, they unfastened one of the manacles around MacGyver’s other wrist and began bending and twisting his arm until it broke as well, causing MacGyver to holler with the incredible intensity of the pain now surging throughout his body, jagged bone fragments digging into his skin and nerves, cutting him internally like knives. His breathing labored, his voice hoarse from all the screams that had been wrung out of him, MacGyver finally succumbed. His body, which had been pulling tautly against the chains in the struggle to resist pain, now went limp.
El Diablo spit on his unconscious form in disgust. Somehow, the damage his new slave had acquired did not seem to be enough, even though his broken arm now dangled at a sickening angle, gnarled and misshapen, the bones inside that usually gave it structure and functionality shattered. Combined with the crooked fingers, it was almost enough, but not quite. Grabbing another instrument of torture from his arsenal—the taser gun—he pressed it hard against MacGyver’s tender neck, the electric shocks jolting him awake again. Moaning, his one good eye wandering around the room, MacGyver was dismayed to find himself once again in the hellish reality of the makeshift torture chamber, the full force of his pain returning, causing him to wail miserably. No longer was he able to suppress his expressions of pain, and by then he wasn’t sure he even wanted to, not caring if he sounded weak to El Diablo. He couldn’t stand the pain any longer, but he knew that crying out wasn’t the same as revealing information, so he allowed himself a little leniency. If he wasn’t going to, no one else would—certainly not El Diablo.
“It’s nice to have you back,” El Diablo hissed, this time holding the heavy mallet. Instead of giving another speech about his dastardly methods, he went straight to the point, smashing it into MacGyver’s ankle bone, causing it to break as well. “I’d like to see you try to make a clever escape now!”
MacGyver released an inhuman, piercing scream that seemed to last a few minutes before his breath failed him and he nearly collapsed into unconsciousness again from the nausea, dizziness, and pain until El Diablo’s men threw an icy bucket of water on him, reviving him again as he gasped in surprise from the sudden cold, wet blast, shivering from it and the shock. Satisfied, El Diablo listened to his irregular breathing for awhile, smiling at his helplessness, pinned to the slab of rock.
“Now, you will return to work. Your punishment is over,” he said calmly, as if he were merely pointing out the pleasant weather, having no remorse over what he had just done.
Nodding to his men, they released MacGyver’s shackles from the rock and pushed him off the slab where he tumbled roughly to the ground, landing on his broken arm and screaming once again. Displeased, El Diablo kicked him hard on the back, right into his festering sores. MacGyver thrashed around and screamed some more.
“Get up! Walk!” He shouted, yanking MacGyver up from the ground, forcing him to stand on his crippled ankle. He winced and cried out some more, tears rolling down his cheeks from the tremendous amount of pain. El Diablo smacked him hard across the head. “You are lazy! Walk! Get out of here and back to the fields, dog!”
Limping and hobbling, every step merciless, MacGyver found he couldn’t remain upright and fell to the ground again, crawling and whimpering, clawing at handfuls of dirt and dragging his broken arm as he strained to push himself forward. He had always heard about how atrociously African slaves in America were treated, and he always sympathized with them, but he didn’t understand what it was truly like to be treated like one--objectified, insignificant, less than an animal—until then. Unsatisfied and impatient with his captive’s progress, El Diablo grabbed the whip and unfurled it, snapping it across MacGyver’s already lacerated back, reopening some of the wounds and causing him to scream yet again. His screams alerted the others working in the fields. They watched him carefully, hoping to satisfy their own sick desires to see him missing a limb, their time as prisoners under El Diablo making them just as base as he was. When they saw that the arm they couldn’t see at first was merely dangling from broken bones and not missing, they were disappointed.
“¡Trabajarás! (You will work)!” El Diablo shouted, flicking the whip across his chin, causing fresh, warm blood to flow from it. “Get up!”
Continuing his new whipping only forced MacGyver into the ground, further weakening him until he once again lost consciousness, unable to sustain himself after each powerful blow, the pain too excruciating, beyond anything he had ever experienced before—even beyond the first whipping. Smirking at the fallen body, El Diablo signaled his men again.
“Perhaps I have been too harsh,” he said, his tone sarcastic and not serious at all, a smug grin on his face. “Maybe our dog needs a rest. Take him to The Tomb.”
The area known as The Tomb earned the name because of the purpose it served—a hole dug into the ground, heavy, barred, iron doors covering it. It was El Diablo’s version of solitary confinement, a place where many of his prisoners lost their will to live. His largest man lifted MacGyver’s broken body as if he weighed nothing, throwing him over his broad shoulder in a fireman’s carry. When they reached The Tomb, he dumped MacGyver into it, his body crumpling, looking as if every bone in him was broken—and it nearly was. They wrapped him in chains, restraining any movement he could make, no matter how feeble, pinning the broken parts of his body into perpetually uncomfortable positions. They blindfolded and gagged him, further restricting him, depriving him of all senses except those that mattered—the ability to feel pain. Days passed, and they left him in there with nothing to stop the pain. They teased him by placing all manner of vermin inside the hole with him—snakes, massive jungle spiders, rats—laughing as he twitched and squirmed, unable to stop the tickling of the creature’s hairy legs as they crawled all over his body. Other times, they force-fed him excrement from the local livestock or a thin gruel, shoving it down his throat in a tube and lacing it with just enough pesticide to keep him ill, the brief promise of nourishment after days of receiving neither food nor water, no matter how meager, once again denied to him as he choked and vomited. As if to add to their disrespect for him, El Diablo’s men even urinated on him.
To MacGyver, locked away in that inescapable hell, the torment seemed ceaseless. Hovering between a state of consciousness and unconsciousness, blinded, waves of pain wracking his body, struggling to breathe from his broken ribs, the gag over his mouth, and the stagnant, hot air inside the cramped space, he began to lose all concept of time. Hallucinations and delirium plagued him from the lack of food and water, dehydration and starvation weakening him daily and bringing him closer to certain death. The foul, sour odors of his own bodily wastes that surrounded him kept him nauseated even as his stomach alternately growled and protested for much needed food. His blindfold was soaked with sweat and tears as he sobbed and whimpered, desperately pleading to be released, but no one would help him. Hearing footsteps approach, grinding into the dirt, MacGyver stiffened his resolve, dreading what El Diablo would do to him next. Each day brought a new torture, El Diablo and his men constantly inventing new ways to cause harm. A hand reached through the bars and removed his gag.
“No…no…more…please…” MacGyver sobbed, his voice faint and raspy as he gasped in pain. “Please…no…no…”
“It’s all right,” a small, childlike voice said. “Voy a ayudarte (I will help you).”
MacGyver knew he was either hallucinating again or being subjected to another one of El Diablo’s cruel tricks, the innocent voice of a child meant to manipulate and lure him into a false sense of security, calm, and relaxation before he could be dealt another devastating blow.
“No…”
“I have water for you,” the childlike voice said. “Drink it. It’s okay.”
MacGyver felt something cool press against his chapped, split lips, tantalizing him. Unable to resist the desperate urge he needed to drink, his undying thirst parching his throat and making him feel like a dried out, brittle husk, he tried to lift his head as high as he could to meet the drinking cup, his head pounding. It was the only part of him that could move, the rest of him wrapped in chains. Even if he was unchained, his broken limbs would have prevented him from moving much, anyway, the bones protruding painfully from his skin. He sucked greedily on the liquid, surprised and relieved to find that it was indeed water and not some clever deception. It tasted so good and was so refreshing he couldn’t stop quenching his thirst. He gulped it down so quickly that he began to cough and choke on it.
“Take it easy,” the child said. “Sip it. Don’t drink it too fast.”
MacGyver dropped his head, too weak to hold it up any longer. Painful, labored wheezes emitted from his cracked ribs as he fought to breathe, each intake of oxygen pure agony.
“My name is Fernando,” the child said. “You saved me from being beaten by El Presidente. I knew they would take you here, so I followed. When I knew it was safe, I came here. I want to help you. You saved me, so I want to return the favor.”
“¿Oye tu? ¡Niño! (You! Boy!)” El Diablo’s deep, rough voice rumbled in the distance.
MacGyver listened as a scuffle of hurried footsteps was met with several slower, plodding ones, El Diablo’s guards grabbing Fernando before he could run very far.
“No! Let me go!” He shouted.
The iron doors holding MacGyver inside The Tomb were pulled open, and they undid his chains, causing more pain to rush through his crushed body as his limbs, frozen in one position for so long, stretched and unfolded. Tearing off his blindfold and exposing his eyes to the blinding sun, they yanked him out of the hole, handling him roughly as they shoved him into the iron grasp of El Diablo’s meaty hands. Leering at him, El Diablo pushed him to the ground, forcing him to kneel on the splintered bones in his broken ankle. MacGyver clenched his jaws and tried not to cry as more pain ripped through him. Something was placed in his hands, something heavy. Unused to the brightness of the sun, his one eye still swollen shut, he squinted, trying to see what it was. Meanwhile, Fernando was dragged several yards away by the guards and held firmly directly in MacGyver’s line of sight. Slowly, the washed-out, blurry image of what was in his hand came into focus, and he saw it was a gun. He also saw for the first time how bent and twisted his broken fingers were, now swollen to twice their normal size, turning deep purple.
“You help him, and the sentence is death!” El Diablo screamed at the terrified little boy, who trembled and sobbed pitifully. He nudged MacGyver hard in his infected back with his boot. “Shoot him!”
MacGyver remained as still as his pain and weakness would allow him, blackness gathering around the corners of his eyes and threatening to send him into unconsciousness once more. He didn’t move. No matter what happened, he would never use a gun against anyone. Even if he did, his broken fingers could barely move. They were useless. El Diablo pulled out his own gun and jabbed it into the back of MacGyver’s head.
“Shoot him, or I will kill you!” He shouted. “The choice is yours. Which life do you value more?”
MacGyver closed his good eye, praying that a single bullet would end his life and his suffering. He didn’t care anymore. He had reached his breaking point, El Diablo succeeding in robbing him of his soul, leaving behind nothing but a shell of pain. Shivers ran up his spine when he heard his vicious laughter. The gun pressed harder against the base of his skull, and he heard the trigger click. Nothing happened. He was still alive. Opening his eye, he saw the boy still standing in front of him, sobbing and pleading with the guards to release him.
“Don’t kill me,” he blubbered. “Please…please don’t…I don’t want to die. NO! Please!”
Still laughing, El Diablo took the gun from MacGyver’s hands and fired at the boy’s head. This time, the gun was loaded, the bullet striking its target, the shot lethal. MacGyver watched, horrified and helpless as blood spurted from the boy’s head and he went limp in the guard’s grasp, collapsing to the ground, lifeless.
“NO!” MacGyver screamed, not caring about the stress he was putting on his crushed lungs. “NOOOOO!” He screamed and screamed until there was no breath left in him. Enraged at El Diablo, he wanted to beat him ceaselessly, to repay him, to punish him for what he had done by murdering that innocent boy so heartlessly, but he was too incapacitated and demoralized to do anything but scream and cry, falling completely prostrate to the ground, moaning and sobbing into the dirt. “NO! NO! Why?”
“Shut up!” El Diablo shouted, smashing the butt of his gun against the base of MacGyver’s head, knocking him unconscious.
***
The Present…
Pete Thornton busied himself by sifting through all the information he had compiled on this mysterious Ben Stark. It didn’t look promising. Karen Watson had been right—whoever the man really was, he had used a clever alias to disguise his true identity. Most of the Ben Starks he found were average American citizens. Then again, Pete knew how easily anyone could become an average American citizen given the right amount of government paperwork designed to create a new life. Realizing this was possible, he prepared himself to make all the appropriate contacts he knew within the government to find the truth. After all, MacGyver’s original mission was to contact one of the dissidents. If this man was the contact, Pete had as much right to know as the other branches of the government agencies did, since they were also involved. He didn’t get far when his private line rang. Wondering if it was MacGyver, worried about how he left him, pale and still in shock, staring blankly yet assuring him he would be fine, he quickly answered it.
“You’ve been looking for me, Mr. Thornton,” the voice said on the other line.
To be continued…
"If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer."
--Henry David Thoreau
brains+brawn+beauty+personality=MacGyver
I already added this chapter to the rest of my word document for this story. *happy as a clam* 
