[elainestouse]

One Moment Of Truth - Part Two:

It was almost 8:00pm by the time MacGyver and Sam were ready to checkout the nightclub. They had stayed long enough at the hospital to ensure that Pete was going to be fine and that an agent from the Phoenix Foundation, one trusted by both Mac and Pete, was stationed at his bedside just in case there was another attempt on his life.

The next stop had been at the Phoenix Foundation, Greg Willis's lab to be precise. On a hunch, Mac had checked out the nearest trash bins in and around Pete's hospital room. In one, he had found a used hypodermic needle, an empty chemical vial and a pair of latex gloves that had not been disposed of in the correct hazardous waste receptacle. Along with the matchbook, he left the items for Willis to examine and check for fingerprints.

Before they left his lab, Willis did a quick dusting of the matchbook that only proved whoever had held it before Pete had apparently been wearing gloves. Mac could only hope that the other fingerprint checks, or Willis's investigations into the source of the chemical, might prove more fruitful.

Now it was almost dark when MacGyver brought the Jeep to a halt a block away from The Devil's Cauldron. Checking his rear view mirror, Mac spotted Sam's motorcycle headlight extinguishing as he drew up fifty yards further back. They had agreed that Sam would keep out of sight in reserve in case his father got into more trouble than he could handle.

MacGyver eyed the darkened nightclub, noticing the boarded up frontage. As he studied the building, he heard the sound of a truck start up in the alleyway down the side. Before long, the lights of a vehicle appeared, exiting onto the street and pulling away rapidly.

For a moment, Mac was struck with indecision. Should he follow the truck or follow the matchbook trail into the nightclub? Neither choice seemed like a wise decision, but since he had to take one of them, MacGyver decided to stick with the original plan.

Opening the car door, he exited his vehicle and, keeping low, ran in a diagonal line towards the corner of the building. Moving down one alleyway, he did a quick scout around the outside of the building.

Along the first side, he found a fire exit that was locked, apparently bolted from the inside. Apart from that, there were no other back entrances or windows on the ground floor level and any access points higher up looked like they had been boarded shut long ago. Mac found no sign of life nor a way into the building until he neared the end of the third side.

Close to the main street, there was a fire escape ladder leading from the upper floor. Clambering up on top of a nearby garbage bin, Mac stretched high and jumped, targeting the next to bottom rung of the ladder. His firm belief that you should always aim high proved invaluable when his grip slipped and he had to grab for the bottom rung instead.

For a moment, MacGyver let himself hang there, trying not to look down. Then he took a deep breath and began to haul himself hand over hand up the ladder until he was high enough to get a foothold. With a sigh of relief, he climbed over the railing onto the metal landing of the fire escape, pausing to catch his breath before examining the exit door.

A heavy duty padlock had been used to secure the door, rusting in place where it had been there for so long, and Mac couldn't help wondering whether the nightclub had been closed down due to fire safety violations. Retrieving his trusty Swiss army knife from a pocket of his jeans, Mac selected the most appropriate implement for a lock of its size and began to jimmy it.

With an overly loud sound of splintering wood, which echoed around the concrete stairway beyond, Mac forced the door open and entered inside. Waiting for his eyes to adjust to the low level of light, he held his breath, listening intently for any signs of human presence. Hearing nothing, he decided to investigate the ground floor first. Grabbing the railing, he slowly moved down the staircase, peering through the gloom for any obstacles in his path.

The door at the bottom of the stairway opened with ease and Mac stopped to fish a match from his pocket, striking it against the wall. The flickering glow lit up the area sufficiently for him to see that he had come out onto the main floor of the night club. He made his way between the chairs and tables surrounding the centre dance floor, heading towards the stage area in search of the lighting console.

Two matches and one burned fingertip later, MacGyver flicked several switches and shed some light on the room. He was grateful that the electricity supply was still working, but took it as another sign that the nightclub was not quite as disused as it appeared to be from the outside.

Even so, as far as he could see this room had not been disturbed for some time. A layer of dust covered everything, including the polished hardwood flooring, which was interspersed with square tiles of thick coloured glass. Judging from the markings in the dust, only one person had walked across this room recently, and those footprints belonged to himself.

Glancing around the room, MacGyver located two sets of double doors either side of the bar area. Although carpeting surrounded the outskirts of the dance floor, the entrances into the room were also by way of the wooden flooring. As he moved closer, it became clear that neither entry way displayed any sign of recent passage.

Approaching the nearest door, Mac pushed it open a crack. Light flooded out from the dance floor into the corridor beyond, revealing a wide carpeted hallway that stretched all the way to the main entrance foyer. Towards the back of the building, a wide staircase led to the upper floor and MacGyver chose that as his next target for investigation.

Quietly wedging open the double doors leading from the dance floor with a couple of chairs, Mac gave himself enough illumination to creep up the stairs. At the top, he was forced to light another match, and found himself facing a further set of double doors.

Taking a deep breath, he gently pushed on one door, testing its resistance. The door swung inward easily and Mac listened for any sign of life. All appeared quiet, and there seemed little option but to enter the room and hunt for a light switch.

Figuring there was no point in half measures, MacGyver flicked every switch on the panel he found just inside the doors, blinding himself with the sudden bright light filling the large room. Apart from a pile of folding tables and chairs stacked high in one corner next to a raised stage, the floor area was almost empty.

Mac presumed this must have been some kind of private function room, the decor plain and simple to fit all purposes. The floor was varnished wood, broken only by several marble pillars positioned as if to encircle a dance area. The only other exit appeared to be a fire door on the far side. Near to that a solitary long table had been left standing, a folded chair leaned against it.

Moving quietly around the room, MacGyver concentrated on searching for any tell-tale prints in the dust covering the floor. It did not take long for him to realise that at least one person had been in this room recently. Several trails of boot prints led around the room and towards the empty table, and he found four marks forming the shape of a square in the dust a few feet in front of the table. Picking up the folded chair, Mac extended it to find the marks were an exact match.

Following another line of boot prints away from the chair, Mac wandered up to one of the marble pillars, finally spotting a clue that left him both hopeful and fearful.

There in the dust, scant inches from the base of the pillar, was a distinct set of prints made by a pair of slender bare feet, prints that looked exactly like those he had seen on the beach. The rest of the dust surrounding them was scuffled and disturbed, and MacGyver couldn't make out any details that would tell him what had happened here.

Staring intently at the floor, he continued to search around the pillar, brushing one hand against the cool marble as he circled it. His fingers touched something damp and Mac glanced up. His blood ran cold at the sight of dark crimson smears staining the pillar from waist height to the base.

The streaks of blood were still damp in places and MacGyver knew he couldn't have missed Terry by very long. But missed her he had, and he couldn't do anything to change that now. Still, the sight of her apparent costly struggle against whatever was binding her wrists made his blood boil, filling him with an even stronger resolve to find her. And find her soon.

Since there were no footprints visible around the double doors, there was only one other exit that could have been used and MacGyver headed for it. About to reach for the handle of the fire door, he paused when he spotted more smears of blood coating it.

Examining the area more closely, Mac noticed water splashes marking the floor and door and bent down curiously to touch a still damp spot. Dabbing his finger against it, he tasted the liquid on his fingertip. It seemed like plain water, but somehow MacGyver didn't believe that was all it was. Rocking back on his haunches, he noticed a tiny piece of fuse wire caught underneath the door. He pulled it out and studied it, rolling it between his fingers. Then he gazed at the door thoughtfully.

Instinctively, MacGyver moved to one side, keeping low as he began to ease down on the handle. The latch clicked open and he gingerly pushed the fire door harder. Peering through the widening gap, he could just make out a thin piece of wire connecting the outer handle to the wall. Without a doubt, the door had been booby-trapped. Sam had been right, the matchbook invitation was clearly a set-up, a renewed effort to terminate his investigations permanently.

Reaching for his Swiss army knife, MacGyver extracted the scissors and slowly stood up. Keeping his body out of the firing line, he slid his arm up through the gap and cut the wire. Then he kneeled down and stretched out his hand to slowly push the door fully open, watching carefully for any sign of secondary wiring.

Just as the door swung all the way back, MacGyver noticed two very thin lines of invisible thread connected to the top and bottom of the door. Before he could react, they pulled taut. The blast of a shotgun exploded deafeningly over his head, followed by an odd mechanical clicking sound mixing with the ringing in his ears as the noise echoed around the room until it began to fade.

Gingerly, MacGyver uncovered his head and looked up. Hooked to the wall opposite the fire door was an elaborate set of wiring and equipment. A double-barrelled sawn off shotgun, placed at chest level, nestled below an expensive SLR camera, which continued to whirr and click, snapping photographs until the entire roll of film had been exposed.

Careful to keep out of the firing line, Mac stood up to take a closer look, noticing that the camera lens was perfectly positioned at the height of his face. The first thought that crossed MacGyver's mind was a single name. Murdoc! Then he remembered the landmine on the beach and his estimation that it had simply been a warning from Craig Phelps that next time would be for real. Mac nodded to himself, satisfied that his reading of the situation had proved accurate. The only thing he still didn't know was what to do about it.

The decision was made for him when he felt the hackles rising on his neck, too late to avoid the cold steel pressing against the side of his face.

"You're early!" an ominous, but familiar voice announced. The muzzle of a handgun jammed into his earlobe. "Drop the knife!"

MacGyver opened his right hand and the Swiss army knife fell to the floor with a clatter. Without needing to be told, he raised both arms above his head.

"I thought you might find my little booby-trap," Phelps said with a cold smile. "How do you like it? Does that look like Murdoc's work or what! It was worth reading his file, even if it was a rather lengthy job!"

"Where did you come from?" MacGyver asked, ignoring Phelps' smugness.

"Mama always said I should be on the stage!" Phelps sneered, shoving him back into the brightly-lit room. "If only she could see me now!" He pointed in the vague direction of the stage, "There's a trap door."

"Yeah, I'm sure your Mom would be real proud to see how you treat innocent women!" Mac responded bitterly.

"I read Miss Wightman's file too, while I was at it!" he snorted, "She's not so innocent anymore!"

"Yes she is," MacGyver said firmly. "Apparently, your reading is selective!"

"See, MacGyver. That's the difference between you and me." Phelps shoved him again. "You think that just because they look good on the outside, they must be good on the inside too!"

"Whereas you automatically assume *everybody* is bad and they're *all* out to get you, I suppose!" Mac snarled furiously.

When Phelps shoved him one more time, MacGyver made his move, feigning a stumble to the left, away from the gun hand. He kicked backwards with his heel, solidly connecting with the inside of Phelps' right knee. The younger man shrieked in pain and his leg buckled beneath him. Automatically putting out his right hand to check his fall, the handgun flew out of his grasp and skidded across the floor.

Mac rolled away and leapt to his feet, facing his assailant, but Phelps was too fast for him. Swinging his uninjured foot out, he swept MacGyver's legs out from under him and Mac toppled sideways heavily, landing awkwardly against his shoulder. The intense pain that flared all the way down that arm was almost overwhelming and MacGyver struggled to focus beyond the roaring in his head.

His blurring vision cleared just in time to stop Phelps left foot from impacting his face. Mac grabbed Phelps' ankle with his right hand, wondering why the other did not seem to be responding to his commands. The single-handed grip was only strong enough to parry the foot away and scramble beyond its reach, but it gave him time to glance around in search of help.

A couple of yards away stood the folding chair that MacGyver had placed spot-on its original imprints in the thick dust. Pushing himself to his feet with the help of his right hand, Mac gritted his teeth against the pain that shot through his left shoulder with every movement. From the way his arm hung limply at his side it was apparent that the shoulder was dislocated. And it would have to stay that way just a little bit longer.

Ignoring the pain, Mac lunged for the chair, grabbing the top of one metal leg. Lofting it high, he swung it over his head and smashed it down onto Phelps, who was already coming after him.

The former Navy Seal grunted in pain, but the chair barely arrested his forward momentum. He barrelled into MacGyver like a defensive lineback trying to thwart a touchdown with two points ahead and ten seconds to go. The force of the impact knocked Mac flying and he hit the edge of the table behind him with a bruising crunch. The folding table legs collapsed beneath him and MacGyver continued to fall backwards, winded and unbalanced. He came to a halt only when his head hit the wall stunningly.

Mac felt every bone in his body jarring from the concussive blow. His teeth tingled, every nerve ending on edge from the collision between the brick wall and his skull. His head was swimming, and he could feel himself slipping toward oblivion, a place he could not afford to be right now.

With an agonised cry, Mac grabbed his left hand and deliberately pulled, the new pain flaring in his dislocated shoulder serving to focus his efforts to stay conscious.

The excruciating effect was to no avail. Before MacGyver could move, Phelps was upon him, yanking on his right arm and angrily hauling him across the floor.

Phelps dragged the dazed man away from the broken furniture, heading for his handgun, still lying where he had dropped it. Retrieving his weapon, he shoved it inside his shirt, then hauled MacGyver to his knees and forced his arms behind his back.

Mac screamed in agony as his dislocated shoulder was brutally manipulated in ways it was never meant to move. The roaring in his ears increased and he swooned dizzily, his head lolling on to his chest as he threatened to pass out. Phelps held his wrists, keeping Mac upright whilst fumbling in his back pocket for a pair of handcuffs.

With no strength left to draw on, MacGyver could do nothing except fight against unconsciousness, afraid that he would never wake up. Phelps snapped a pair of metal restraints around his wrists and pushed them tightly closed.

Satisfied that his captive was secure and could not give him any further trouble in the little time left before death, Phelps withdrew the handgun from inside his shirt and removed the safety. He pulled back on the slide, checking that there was already a round in the chamber, then he lowered the weapon and aimed at MacGyver's head.

A new spurt of adrenalin pumped through Mac with the sudden realisation that he was about to die. He lifted his head, his vision clearing. Breathing rapidly, he found himself staring straight down the barrel of the gun and, for a moment, Mac wondered whether the bullet would actually be necessary since his heart had apparently stopped beating.

Facing death the only way he knew how, with eyes wide open, MacGyver raised his gaze to stare into the ice-cold visage of his nemesis. Phelps glared back callously, a vengeful smile forming on his face as his finger tightened on the trigger.

~~~~~~~

Sam Malloy had waited long enough. His father had been gone for almost an hour.

Hanging his crash helmet on the handlebars, Sam kicked out the support bar, leaned his motorbike against it and dismounted. Keeping low, he ran across the street to the corner of the old nightclub building and proceeded to follow the same path that he had watched his father take earlier.

Skirting three sides of the building, he spotted the open entrance on the upper level and took it as an invitation.

Once inside, the ground floor of the nightclub seemed quiet and Sam easily tracked his father's movements from the lights that had been left on and the doors still wedged open.

Sam was just contemplating climbing the wide carpeted staircase in the hallway, when an agonised scream reached his ears. His heart constricted painfully when he recognised the source and he began running up the stairs, hoping his pounding boots were sufficiently muffled by the carpet to mask his approach.

Outside a set of double doors, he paused long enough to realise that just barging in might not necessarily help the situation. First, he needed to find out what lay beyond. Taking a deep calming breath, Sam bent down and began to inch open one of the doors a fraction at a time until he could see inside.

The horrifying scene hit him hard and Sam reeled under the weight of vivid memories from his past. Memories of his mother, forced to kneel before her executioner as a gun was placed to her head. Memories of a nine-year-old boy watching the murder of a parent were now brought to the fore with stunning clarity by the sight of his father kneeling helplessly before Craig Phelps.

The lead henchman for the Alliance was holding a gun to MacGyver's head and, judging by the malevolent smile, it was with murderous intent. So absorbed was Phelps in his final act of vengeance, that he didn't notice Sam's presence until the young man was already several feet into the room. As Phelps' finger tightened on the trigger, an anguished cry broke the silence.

"NO!" Sam yelled in terror, praying that his shout alone could prevent the death of his father.

Taken by surprise, Phelps whirled around, annoyed to find that his long overdue assassination of MacGyver was about to be interrupted if he didn't act quickly.

Running towards the pair, Sam realised the odds were stacked against him. Not only was he unarmed, but his father was also defenceless, with his arms bound behind his back, and, judging by the way he was swaying, in no condition to help with the fight. Even so, Sam continued to approach. He could see no other option.

Reacting all too swiftly from Sam's point of view, Phelps swung his arm around and fired several shots at the intruder.

Sam dived to one side, scrambling for cover behind one of the marble pillars that were positioned in a circle around the room. Counting bullets, he stuck his head out to draw another round of fire.

Just because he now followed his father's philosophy on not using guns didn't mean he knew nothing about them. Sam recognised Phelps' weapon as a nine millimetre semiautomatic, a SIG Sauer P229 if he wasn't mistaken. Fifteen rounds per magazine, plus one probably already chambered meant that Phelps had a maximum of sixteen shots. All Sam had to do was keep dodging them until all the cartridges were spent and the odds were evened out a bit.

With that in mind, the young man sprinted for the next pillar, still counting frantically as three more bullets traced a path in his wake.

Phelps' aim was just a little too close on the next round and Sam was beginning to feel like a target at the fair. Shaking the image of ducks in a row from his head, he realised he would have to ring the changes. Instead of dashing for the next pillar, he darted back to the previous one, confusing Phelps sufficiently to avoid catching a bullet that time.

Pausing to gasp for breath, Sam leaned against the cool marble and considered his last run carefully. There were two shots left and he had no wish to make acquaintance with either one. On top of which, from the moment Phelps ran out of bullets there would be scant seconds before he had time to reload. Sam had to be in a position to tackle him quickly, but there were still two pillars left between them.

Leaving the relative safety of his latest cover, Sam sprinted towards the next column, surprised when no shots rang out. Surely he hadn't counted wrong?

Peering around the side of the pillar, Sam was shocked to find his father had gone. And so had the gunman. Apparently Phelps was cleverer than Sam had given him credit for. Trying to quieten his pounding heart, he listened intently, desperate to determine the location of gunman and hostage.

Suddenly, Phelps stepped out from behind another marble pillar, shoving MacGyver in front of him. Sam was shocked at the glazed look in his father's eyes, the deep lines of pain creasing his features. Phelps' right hand was clenching Mac's dislocated shoulder brutally, holding the semiautomatic ambidextrously, the muzzle jammed against Mac's left ear.

"Come out, come out, wherever you are!" Phelps called mockingly, adding in a voice so cold it could probably freeze hell over, "Or I shoot your father here and now."

"Don't listen to him, Sam," MacGyver's cracked whisper reached him weakly. "He'll kill us both."

Sam hung his head dejectedly, his mind desperately searching for any other option. But he came up empty.

Taking a deep breath, he stepped out from his hiding place and held his hands in the air. "Okay, you win," he said grimly.

Mac's head snapped round at the sound of his son's voice, his eyes clearing enough to meet Sam's worried gaze. Understanding passed between them as if telepathically, and Sam slowly began to move closer. When he was within just a few yards, his father made as if to pass out, legs buckling at the knees, stumbling backwards against his captor.

Phelps almost toppled beneath the weight, but, at the last moment, he ducked out of the way, sidestepping to the right and releasing his grip on the falling man. Mac was too off-balance and unsteady to prevent the tumble, but he did manage to grab onto Phelps' left sleeve with the outstretched fingers of his bound hands, hoping to dislodge the gun from the man's grasp.

Clutching the SIG Sauer reflexively before it could fall, Phelps accidentally let off another round.

Suddenly everything appeared to slow down.

With shocking closeness, Sam felt the bullet whistle past his nose as he tried to reduce the remaining distance between himself and the gun.

Phelps whirled angrily on MacGyver, yanking his sleeve from the injured man's feeble hold. He spun his weapon round his trigger finger and, gripping the muzzle, smashed the barrel of the semiautomatic down hard against the side of Mac's head.

That was the last straw for a man barely clinging to consciousness. With a muffled groan, MacGyver passed out, his body slumping bonelessly to the floor, just as Sam finished closing the gap between himself and Phelps.

Making a lunge for the man's left hand, Sam tried to disarm him before the last bullet could be fired. But the former Navy Seal was stronger, fighting off the young man and forcing him on the defensive beneath a rain of solid punches.

A final swing caught Sam's lower jaw, knocking him off his feet. Shaking his head, he spat blood from his mouth and looked up in time to see Phelps aiming his weapon. Scrambling frantically for cover, Sam dived behind the nearest pillar, breathing hard and trying not to wonder just how this fight was going to end.

Rather than waste the last round in the magazine, Phelps went in pursuit of his target, making a lunge for Sam's leather jacket just as the young man spotted him and dived out of his way again.

Seeking some way to avoid another endless game of tag around the marble pillars, Sam spotted the pile of folded up tables and chairs beside the low wooden stage. Inhaling a lung full of air, he ran, zig-zagging across the open space until he reached the corner.

Tiring of the game, Phelps decided to expend the final round. As the gunshot rang out, Sam dived for cover behind a mountain of chairs, narrowly avoiding the bullet as it gouged splinters of wood from the edge of the stage scant inches above his head.

Unable to stop his forward momentum, Sam slid into the stack of folded tables, banging his head against the edge. Dazed and winded, he could only watch the pile topple down upon him. And, with his last thought, Sam knew that he had failed his father and himself.

~~~~~~~

It was late by the time the truck returned to the alleyway beside the abandoned nightclub. Parking the vehicle, the driver jumped out and headed for the side entrance. Banging on the door, it was not long before he was answered by an irritated shout.

"Okay! Okay! I'm coming," Phelps yelled down the stairs angrily. His heavy boots thudded loudly as he ran down to unbolt the door, greeting the man with a perfunctory, "About time! Come on, give me a hand."

The man followed his boss up the stairs and into the large ballroom, surprised to find two battered bodies trussed up on the floor near the fire exit. Both were unconscious, hands cuffed behind their backs, duct tape tightly binding their ankles.

"I thought you were supposed to get rid of this one," he indicated the older man, who had blood matting his blond hair.

"Change of plans!" Phelps shrugged nonchalantly. "I had it all nicely set-up to look like a contract hit, but then his kid turned up! Now I'm going to have to concoct something a bit more devious if we don't want to arouse too much suspicion."

"And how are you going to do that?" the other man asked incredulously.

"Oh, I think I can come up with something suitable!" Phelps grinned slyly, "In fact, maybe we can get rid of all three of them in one go." He gestured towards the bodies, "Let's get these two down to the truck before they wake up."

~~~~~~~

MacGyver came to with a pain filled cry when he accidentally rolled on to his left shoulder. Lying back with a groan, he blinked rapidly in the gloom, trying to remember what had happened.

Recalling the source of his last conscious thought, Mac struggled to sit up. Peering around, he called worriedly, "Sam? Sam?"

His shouts were becoming frantic by the time he received any response, and Mac fell silent for a moment until he could pinpoint the position of the muffled moan.

"Sam? Is that you?"

"Who else would it be!" Sam coughed painfully, vaguely annoyed at being so rudely awakened. His head was thudding and his ribs ached from the pounding dispensed by Craig Phelps, not to mention the pile of folding tables that had toppled onto him.

"You all right?" Mac asked, his voice filled with concern.

"Just about!" his son replied ruefully.

Gradually, MacGyver began to scramble in Sam's direction, a difficult manoeuvre considering his ankles and wrists were bound and his left shoulder made him want to scream in agony every time he moved it. But at least, they were both still alive.

That thought gave MacGyver pause, and he wondered why Phelps hadn't finished them both off when he'd had the chance. It could only mean one of two things. Either he still needed something from them, or he was going to concoct a better way to kill them both without raising suspicion. Assuming he hadn't set up something already!

Either way, it gave them time to hopefully find a way out of this mess. How much time was another matter entirely.

As he worked his way over towards his son, Mac took stock of his surroundings. It was gloomy, but not completely dark and he could just make out the boundaries of their captivity. They appeared to be inside a large room, some ten yards across and twenty yards long. Beneath his scrabbling fingertips, the floor felt tiled. Cold. Almost damp somehow.

The only windows were narrow metal frames, placed high up the walls, just below the ceiling. The sort that needed a long pole to open them. What little light penetrated the grubby panes proved that it was still night time. But, even as he made his way towards Sam's position, it seemed to MacGyver that the room was slowly becoming brighter. Dawn was approaching.

That meant he had been unconscious for at least eight hours and Mac didn't know whether to be more worried by that fact or by the concussive pounding in his head. Then again, so long as his shoulder was still dislocated, any other pain seemed relatively mild by comparison.

Before he could consider their escape, he knew he had to free his wrists and get his shoulder back into its socket. That thought made MacGyver swoon dizzily, and he nearly passed out when the pain threatened to get the better of him once more. Hanging his head for a moment, he waited until the roaring in his ears faded to a dull drone, and then began moving again, slowly and gingerly.

From the rustle of a leather jacket and scrape of boots, Mac could tell that Sam had also begun to move and it wasn't long before they met somewhere in the middle of the floor. With a collective sigh of relief, both leaned against each other.

"Okay, now what?" Sam asked breathlessly.

"First, we get these handcuffs off," Mac explained. "But I'm going to need your help."

"Okay, what do you need?" Sam replied, glad of something to do to get his mind off his pounding head and battered body.

"I can't move my left arm, so I need you to reach my belt and work the buckle around to the back."

Sam cocked his head to one side curiously, but realised he'd be better off not asking. Somehow, he knew the explanation would take more energy than either of them had to spare. Instead, he twisted his torso and leaned over as far as he could to grab the belt around his father's waist.

With painstaking moves of his outstretched fingers, Sam managed to get the buckle around to the small of MacGyver's back, stopping several times to work it through the belt loop of his jeans. Finished, Sam sat up and turned to watch.

Using only his right hand, Mac undid the belt and pulled the buckle as close to his handcuffs as possible. It took all the dexterity of his long fingers, but eventually he managed to get the buckle pin into the lock of the manacle on his left wrist.

Holding his breath, he worked the lock until he felt it give. Pushing the wrist band fully open with the fingers of his right hand, he gasped through gritted teeth as his left arm dropped to his side. The pain in his shoulder was excruciating and MacGyver knew that before he could continue much longer he would have to do something about the dislocation.

Taking care not to move his left arm, Mac slowly rose to his knees. With his right hand, he pulled the belt from his jeans and leaned over to reach Sam's wrists. Balancing himself against his son's shoulder, he worked on the handcuffs by touch alone, quickly freeing Sam's arms.

Sam exhaled in relief, rubbing his wrists and shoulders to get the circulation going. Then, he looked at his father questioningly.

"Can you find something to free our ankles with?" Mac asked, rocking back on his heels unsteadily.

Sam nodded, pushing himself to his feet he started hopping towards the far corner where he had spotted that the majority of the windows were broken.

By the time he was back with a decent sized piece of glass, it was light enough to see where he was cutting. He freed his father first, using the sharpest edge to slice through the thick swathes of duct tape and unwrap Mac's ankles.

Holding on to Sam's shoulder with his right hand, MacGyver slowly hauled himself to his feet, waiting until the dizziness passed before he let go. Then he left his son to work on his own bound ankles and walked towards the nearest solid wall.

Taking a series of deep breaths, Mac studied the wall, trying to force himself to relax. The wall facing him was covered with the same one-inch square, matt brown mosaic tiles as the floor. And he noticed that it was pitted at regular intervals where bolted on fittings had apparently been removed. Glancing down, he identified the drainage guttering running along the edge where the wall met the floor, beginning to understand the origins of the room.

Interesting as his investigations were, he couldn't put his task off any longer. Mac took one final deep breath, lining himself up with care. He braced himself and swivelled hard, whacking his left shoulder against the tiled wall with all his might. He let out a bellow of agony, tears of pain springing to his eyes. But his attempt had been successful, albeit excruciating. His shoulder joint was popped back into place. Now, if only he could remember not to try using that arm.

Panting for breath, Mac leaned his forehead against the cool ceramic and closed his eyes, waiting for the agony to pass along with the feeling that he wanted to faint, or throw up. Frankly, it was a toss up as to which might happen first. Worse still, as the pain in his shoulder began to numb slightly, the pain in his head seemed to flare up to remind him of its existence.

When he finally dared to open his eyes again, MacGyver realised it had got much lighter in the room. The sun was climbing higher in the sky. It was time to go to work on getting them out of there.

Sam had gotten the same idea. Having finished freeing his ankles, and needing something to keep his mind off the worrying, and somewhat nauseating sight of his father's do-it-yourself shoulder manipulation, he was standing in the centre of the room studying their surroundings. Suddenly his eyes fixed on one particular point, squinting into the darkest corner.

"Dad!"

Hearing the distressed tone in Sam's voice, Mac looked up a little too abruptly and another wave of dizziness hit him. When it had passed, he found himself staring at the shocked, pale face of his son. Following his line of sight, MacGyver saw what Sam had spotted.

It could almost have been a pile of dirty rags discarded in the corner of the room if it wasn't for the pair of bare feet extending from one end, now visibly spotlighted in a shaft of sunlight coming through the broken window opposite.

"Oh, God!" MacGyver heard himself say as he began to move, praying silently, please, let her be alive.

Approaching the dimly-lit bundle of body and clothing, Mac reached out a shaky hand to touch what he judged to be the shoulder of the curled up heap. But, as soon as he kneeled closer, MacGyver knew it was Terry. She was lying in a foetal ball facing the wall, deathly still and unmoving.

Holding his breath, he traced his fingers towards her neck and checked for a pulse. It was weak, but steady. She was alive!

Gently as he could, Mac rolled her onto her back to examine her. Although the growing light served to help his work, it also highlighted the state of her. And MacGyver faltered completely for a moment when he saw her cuffed hands, swallowing convulsively at the sight of an obviously painful struggle that had only been hinted at by the blood on the marble pillar inside the nightclub.

Following his gaze, Sam quickly handed his father the belt buckle pin, biting back his anger at the men who had done this to their friend. By nature, Sam was as non-violent as his father, but now he couldn't help hoping there would be a time and place for him to express his rage physically.

Seeing Terry's ankles were also bound, Sam retrieved the piece of glass he had used earlier and went to work to release them.

Whilst his son worked at the duct tape, Mac picked the lock on the handcuffs and pulled the blood caked wristbands open, shocked at the deep furrows left in the flesh by their brutal tightness.

Tenderly, MacGyver lifted Terry into his lap, cradling her with his right arm and reaching round to rub circulation back into her frozen fingertips. The amount of blood and damage around Terry's skinned left knuckles was unbelievable, but Mac forced himself to concentrate on what he could do to help, knowing he couldn't afford to allow his anger to control his actions.

When Terry's fingers began to feel a little warmer, MacGyver moved his hand up to her face, pushing hair out of her eyes. Then he saw the contusions on her forehead and leaned closer to examine the bump at their centre. As he gently probed, Terry stirred slightly and Mac pulled his fingers away to stroke her cheek.

"Terry?" he whispered softly, urging her to wake up.

When her eyelids fluttered, he brushed a finger under her chin, tickling purposely. "Hey sleepy head, time to wake up," he murmured soothingly, hoping to revive her without scaring her.

Terry's lips moved slightly in recognition and it wasn't long before her eyes began to open. Her gaze was unfocused and confused. "MacGyver?" she croaked hoarsely, trying to fix her blurring vision on to the face in front of her.

"Yeah, it's me," Mac quickly assured her, tenderly stroking her cheek again. "How you feeling?"

For a long moment, Terry frowned, her face creasing in concentration as she tried to remember. But the effort simply made her dizzy and she closed her eyes, that action answering Mac's question before she managed to speak.

"Woozy! An' my head hurts," she finally said, her words slurring badly.

MacGyver glanced at Sam and saw that he was also frowning at her response. Gingerly, Mac attempted to examine the bump on her temple again, wondering about a possible concussion.

"Ouch!" Terry winced, "Wha's'at?"

"Looks like you got hit by a gun butt," Mac murmured, fighting to suppress renewed anger and keep his tone light. In his concern for her, it was easy to ignore the fact that he had suffered the same fate at the hands of Craig Phelps.

"Oh," Terry mumbled, barely coherent, "&.'splains the headache!"

"Do you know what day it is?" MacGyver asked, trying to check her faculties were intact.

She frowned again, trying to come up with a suitable response and realising she had no idea how long had passed since she last knew the answer to that question. "Day after yesterday?" she eventually offered feebly.

Sam leaned over and held up three fingers in front of her face. "How many fingers do I have up?" he grinned as widely as he could manage.

"Sam? 's'at you?"

"Yeah, Terry, it's me," he replied. "Now, how many fingers do I have up?"

"What're you doin' here?" she murmured insistently, not particularly caring where 'here' was.

"Long story!" Sam shook his head in frustration at her apparent avoidance of his question. Then he realised that Terry was acting pretty much in character, answering questions with another question and more concerned about him or Mac than she was about herself. "I guess you're all right!" he decided with a rueful smile, lowering his hand and sitting back on his heels.

"So, what do you remember?" MacGyver asked gently.

Terry's pale face creased in another deep frown of concentration and she was quiet for so long that Mac thought perhaps she didn't remember anything. Then he felt her shudder against his arm, and he saw a dark shadow cross her eyes when she finally met his concerned gaze with one of fearful lucidity.

"Two masked men grabbed me on the beach," she whispered haltingly, "I woke up in some kind of ballroom." Terry faltered, struggling to remember all the details, partly out of her own reluctance to recall them. "The last thing I remember was a man trying to make me drink something again," she said in a barely audible voice, quaking at the memory.

An unfathomable feeling of terror shot through her and Terry tried to get up, desperately needing to escape. She scrambled away from MacGyver's one armed embrace before he could stop her, putting her hand down on the ground and pushing herself to her feet.

"Terry!" Mac tried to reach her, but he couldn't move fast enough, slowed as he was by the pain in his head and shoulder.

The sudden movement left Terry's head spinning and she swooned dizzily, only saved by Sam's rapid reaction. To his father's relief, Sam jumped up to catch the swaying woman. He lowered her gently, kneeling down to cradle her in his lap.

With a muffled groan, Terry's eyelids fluttered closed and she went limp in his arms, passing out again. Her head lolled back against Sam's supporting arm, and they both saw the stark finger shaped welts darkening her neck.

"Dad!" Sam exclaimed with a wince, looking up to meet his father's sickened gaze.

"I know." Mac shook his head disgustedly, pondering what little Terry had said before she'd passed out. "I think she's been drugged. Probably more than once," he decided bitterly. "I found water splashes by the fire exit in that room. The liquid was tasteless, but I had a feeling it wasn't just water. And there was blood on the door handle, I think she'd been trying to escape."

Remembering what Terry had said about the drink, Sam realised what his father was thinking, "Drugged. Orally?" Mac nodded, meeting his gaze painfully. "You think it was Rohypnol? The date rape drug?"

"It would explain why she doesn't remember anything after that. And it would be just Phelps' style!" Mac agreed grimly. "The relaxing effects of that drug would make interrogation pretty easy. And she wouldn't remember anything that she told him."

He gazed down at the unconscious woman, wondering how he could ever make it up to her for getting her into this mess. "I think she'll be okay," he said quietly. "Probably feel really hung over and nauseous for a day or so though."

Sam frowned deeply, another horrifying thought occurring to him. He swallowed hard. "You don't think he would have raped her?" he asked hoarsely.

"No, even Phelps wouldn't go that far......." Mac trailed off, memories of their most recent encounter playing back in his mind. A gnawing doubt left him with a tight feeling of dread in the pit of his stomach. Vividly, he recalled Phelps' gloating that he'd read Terry's file and that she wasn't so innocent anymore. Then Mac remembered the look of all-consuming vengeance when Phelps held a gun to his head, about to pull the trigger. What if Phelps was capable of anything.......?

Mac shook the image from his head, no longer sure that he could discount the possibility, but certain they had no way of answering the question right now. He sighed frustratedly and looked at his son, "Rohypnol causes amnesia. If anything did happen, Terry probably doesn't even know it. And there's no way we can tell for sure unless we get her examined at a hospital. To do that we have to get her out of here first."

Sam nodded unhappily, knowing his father was right. Still, he couldn't help worrying about Terry, after all it was his fault she was in this mess. If he had never reunited her with his father, she would still be safe. For his own peace of mind, Sam placed his fingers against Terry's neck, checking her pulse was still steady.

"She feels way too cold," he decided, realising just how barely clothed she was in such a chilly environment.

Between them, they added a few extra layers to Terry's body. First, Sam buttoned up her shirt, then he took off his leather jacket and removed his sweater, putting it on Terry instead.

Whilst he was at it, Sam pulled the laces from the side panels of his jacket and used them to form a crude sling around his father's neck. Securing his left-arm in place against his chest would reduce some of the pain Mac was suffering from the weight dragging on his damaged shoulder.

Finally, both men took off their boots and removed their socks, covering Terry's frozen feet with a double layer of warm wool.

Satisfied, MacGyver rocked back on his heels. "Stay with her," he instructed Sam, then he stood up gingerly and began to look for a way out.

Still cradling Terry in his arms, trying to share his warmth with her, Sam watched his father slowly moving around. "I figure Phelps plans to kill us, but what about Terry?" he eventually asked, his voice carrying easily around the tiled walls.

"Well, she said they were masked. I guess that proves he didn't plan to kill her originally, but I don't see as he's got any choice now."

Mac stepped back from the door he had been examining. It appeared to be the only entrance to the large room, and it had been well sealed. The door was solid metal, with an old fashioned lock that, judging by the other barriers he could see through the crack between door and frame, appeared to be backed up by several sturdy bolts, or something similar, barricading it from the outside.

Even if he could jimmy the lock, they would still not be able to get the door open. Furthermore, its hinges were on the outside, so could not be prised apart. It looked like that method of escape was out.

Giving up on the conventional exit, MacGyver looked up at the windows above. Turning in a slow circle to survey the whole room, he continued to answer Sam's question. "Besides, the fact that Terry's here tells me that we're all in this together now."

Suddenly, Mac stopped in his tracks, staring motionless, and Sam saw his jaw drop open in shock.

"Aw man!" MacGyver murmured in disbelief.

"Dad, what is it?" Sam looked up to see what his father had spotted.

There, hanging from the ceiling, high above the centre of the room, was a rope net containing dozens of glass bottles, all apparently filled with a clear liquid. Nestling below them was a square shaped box and, as MacGyver moved closer, he could just about make out the electronic device attached and the digital read-out displayed on its front.

"It's an incendiary device," Mac explained, his voice a bare whisper, as if he was afraid that any loud noise might set it off before time. "I can just about see the timer."

"When does it blow?" Sam asked resignedly.

Mac strained to read the glowing red numbers on the digital display wired to the detonator. "9:05am!"

Sam glanced at his watch, only then realising that it was no longer on his wrist. "Er, Dad, Don't suppose you know what time it is now?"

"Looks like the digital timer is connected to a wrist watch, I can't read its face," Mac frowned in confusion, it didn't seem like a very reliable form of countdown clock.......

Then Sam saw his father move his right hand to his left wrist, his fingers searching futilely before he looked down, clearly stunned, and Sam knew that his father's watch was also gone.

MacGyver's gaze shot upwards again, studying the mechanism above him in earnest. "Unbelievable!" he exclaimed in disbelief. "That's my watch he's used!"

"Guess Phelps did a real number on all of us this time!" Sam realised grimly.

"Yeah," Mac agreed, studying the set up of explosives above him. He was trying to figure out if there was any way he could reach it, but it looked like Phelps had planned carefully. The room was practically empty, leaving nothing for MacGyver to work with.

He turned his gaze towards the east-facing windows, gauging the approximate time by the level of daylight. "I reckon we've got about an hour, maybe," he said hopefully. Well he'd had shorter deadlines in the past.......

Whilst MacGyver continued to look for a way out, Terry began to move, growing restless in Sam's arms and he glanced down. She appeared to be dreaming, judging from the rapid movement of her eyes beneath the lids. She also felt much warmer now and Sam took both to be good signs. But before long, he noticed her lips moving silently as she seemed to grow agitated.

Instinctively, Sam began to stroke Terry's hair, pleased when she settled again. Then, without warning, she sat bolt upright, her eyes opened wide as she cried out, "Pete!"

Sam's heart thudded erratically in his chest and he looked at her in shock. MacGyver spun around and stared at the pair.

"Pete!" Terry cried out again in distress, positive that something had happened to him, but unsure why she thought that.

Sam raised an eyebrow in his father's direction. Mac shook his head, warning his son not to say anything about what had happened to Pete Thornton.

Still, it answered that nagging feeling he'd had that the attempt on Pete's life was no coincidence. Somehow, Terry was involved, perhaps something she'd said to Phelps under the influence of the drug. If that was the case, chances were she would never remember, nor would she have had any control over what she said or did at the time. Either way, what had happened to Pete wasn't Terry's fault and MacGyver didn't want her blaming herself.

Sam nodded in response, understanding his father's wishes. Then he looked down at Terry, "Pete's okay. He's fine, Terry," he told her soothingly.

His reassuring words and sincere gaze apparently worked, and he felt Terry relax against him slightly. "What about Roadie?" she asked after a moment, sounding a lot more coherent than she had earlier. She was obviously beginning to remember more of what had happened.

"Roadie's fine too!" Sam said with a smile.

"And you? And Mac?" She shifted out of Sam's arms to examine him properly.

Sam nodded, smiling again, "We're both fine, Terry. See for yourself." He gestured in MacGyver's direction.

"If you're both fine, why do you look so beat up?" she replied with a frown, worried by the bruises on Sam's face and the way Mac's left arm was strapped up uselessly.

What on earth had happened to them and why they were both here with her in this cold gloomy room was the question Terry really wanted to ask. But, somehow, she knew she'd never get a straight answer from either one of them, at least not one that her pounding head could comprehend just yet.

As expected, Sam simply smiled that wide beaming smile he had definitely inherited from his father and said, "We just got into a bit of a fight that's all. Nothing to worry about. Now, what about you? How are you feeling?"

Terry chewed her lip for a moment in thought, finally admitting, "Okay.......a bit shaky. And my head hurts!"

Sam watched a shadow pass over her eyes as she obviously recalled what had happened. "Want to talk about it?" he asked gently.

"It's just bits and pieces," Terry explained hesitantly. "Mostly images.......of.......a masked man."

Guessing that would be Phelps, Sam looked at her, "What did he want?"

"MacGyver." Terry looked up in his direction as Mac turned to face her, hearing his name. She gazed at him, her green brown eyes full of concern, "He just kept asking about you. What did I know. What were you up to." She shrugged, "I don't think I told him anything. How could I? I don't know anything, do I?" she wondered uncertainly.

Then, MacGyver saw her remember something else and she shivered uncontrollably. "They were inside my house. They found that photo Sam took." Terry shuddered at the memory, tears filling her eyes, her emotions ragged from the drugs, "They were in my home!"

Mac moved across to her, scooping her up in a one-armed embrace to comfort her, feeling her quivering against him as she sobbed freely.

"It's okay." He rubbed her shoulder soothingly, "Your home is okay, Terry. We've been there. It's fine. And you can see for yourself real soon."

"But they know where I live!" she cried miserably.

"I know, honey. But we'll fix it, okay?" Mac hugged her closer. "We'll get the people who did this, I promise. You'll be safe again," he added, praying that was one promise he'd be able to keep.

Eventually, she pulled away from his chest, wiping her face with the back of her right hand as she tried to recover her composure. "I'm sorry! I feel like some kind of pathetic drunk!"

"Terry, we think you were drugged," Mac explained softly, noting that she didn't look surprised. It seemed like she remembered more than she'd told them yet. "It's the after effects. Don't worry about it," he said reassuringly.

"But I do worry about it," she sniffled, "Look at the mess I've gotten you into this time!"

Mac cocked his head, smiling at her gently as he brushed her tears away. "Actually, I think this one's my fault. So, after nine years, we're finally even!"

Terry looked at him dubiously, then she attempted a smile, which rapidly turned to a grimace. For a moment, she rested her forehead against one hand, swallowing nauseously. "Ugh, I feel like I should be hugging a toilet bowl or something!"

She swallowed hard again, searching for something to take her mind off her stomach's reaction to the drugs. Then she took in what MacGyver had just said, slowly raising her head to look at him. "But if we were to be truly even, *I'd* have to save *you* this time!" she said huskily, amazed to see the smile growing on Mac's face.

He was staring at the far corner of the room, an escape plan forming in his head. Then he turned back and grinned at her.

"I think you just did!" Mac exclaimed, bending over to kiss the unbruised part of her forehead resoundingly. "You've given me an idea!" he smiled even more brightly at the hopeful look lighting up her face.

Then, without another word, MacGyver stood up and began to search in earnest.

~~~~~~~

From MacGyver's investigations of the large tiled room, it appeared to him that it was probably a former high school shower and locker room. All the fittings had been removed and the school was obviously now closed down, but the toilet or shower drains had to still be beneath the room somewhere.......

It took both Sam and MacGyver, doing a complete sweep of the tiled floor area, to find a drainage outlet big enough for an adult to fit into. And, when they did, it was a struggle to unscrew the rusted fittings and get the grid off.

Sam jumped in first, climbing down to the horizontal wide bore concrete pipe to check it was free of debris. With what little light penetrated from the room above, he couldn't see very far, but, apart from the diabolical dank smell, it appeared to be clear of immediate obstruction.

Looking somewhat grubbier than when he had disappeared, Sam popped his head back up the vertical pipe with an expectant grin, reaching his hand up to help Terry down next.

Terry stared at MacGyver nervously. "Mac, I can't go down there!" she exclaimed desperately.

Mac took her hand and looked into her eyes, his soft brown gaze full of encouragement. "Come on, you've beaten the claustrophobia before," he said gently.

Terry shook her head, a little too rapidly for her own good as she felt the pounding within go up a notch. "It's not the claustrophobia I'm afraid of, it's the rats!" she bluffed feebly.

"Rats?" MacGyver looked at her dubiously and, in the face of his penetrating gaze, Terry felt completely transparent.

"Okay, so it's not the rats!" she admitted, lowering her gaze. "I just don't think I can do it. I mean, what if I freak out? I could trap us all down there if I lose it." She looked back up into his eyes pleadingly.

Mac lifted her hand and held her gaze. "You used to trust me," he said quietly.

Terry studied him closely for a long moment, then she looked down at the drain entrance again and heaved a shuddering sigh. "Apparently I still do," she said wearily, stepping towards the hole where Sam was waiting patiently to take her hand and help her down behind him.

~~~~~~~

With MacGyver bringing up the rear, unable to move very fast using only one arm, the three made slow progress through the drainage system below the old building. They were working completely in the dark, literally and figuratively.

They had no light, except for a few matches that they used sparingly every time they came upon a junction or obstruction. And they had no idea where they were going, in the absence of a set of blueprints for the building.

Fortunately, MacGyver and Sam both had a pretty good sense of direction and, between them, they felt positive that they were still going West, a route chosen based on the simple logic that the drainage system had to run down towards the ocean. But they had no idea how far West they had to go before they would reach the outside of the building complex. Or the outside of the danger zone.

Without knowing exactly what had been in the glass containers, they had no idea what the strength of the blast would be. One thing Mac did know, if they were still deep within the drainage system when the incendiary device exploded, they would probably die from asphyxiation when the fire devoured all the oxygen in the immediate area.

If they couldn't get far enough away before the bomb went off, finding a way out would no longer be an issue.

MacGyver was praying fervently that they would get lucky. If they could stumble across the link to a storm drain, the light coming from it should reveal its position to them. If only they had some idea how long was left before 9:05am. But in the pitch blackness, it was almost impossible to tell how much time had passed. Nearly as impossible as it was to tell how far they had travelled.

To make matters worse, the darkness was taking its toll on Terry's psychological condition. Weakened as she was by the effects of the drug in her system and everything else she had already been through, MacGyver could tell that the woman in front of him was slowly creeping towards a level of claustrophobia bordering on hysteria. He may not be able to see her, but he could hear every ragged breath she inhaled with increasing rapidity. And Mac was seriously concerned that, if they didn't find daylight soon, Terry was going to lose it big time.

Of course, concentrating all his thoughts on Terry's state of mind also helped MacGyver to keep going himself. If he didn't have someone else to think about, he would quite probably have passed out by now. The constant banging of his left shoulder against the concrete side of the drain and the movement of his arm every time he jerked forward, crawling one interminable pace at a time, was excruciatingly painful.

Couple that with the pounding concussion in his head, a symptom that Mac figured his two companions were also suffering, and he knew that, if they ever got out of there, the first port of call would have to be a hospital. An experience that none of them would enjoy.

It didn't help that several times they'd had to double back when they'd chosen the wrong turn at a junction, coming to a dead-end where there was only a narrow down pipe rising somewhere up inside the building. And, for MacGyver, crawling backwards had proved even more agonising than going forwards.

At least, there hadn't been any obstructions they couldn't get past. In a couple of places the concrete had cracked and caved in, but the dampness within the drainage system had stopped the blockages from hardening, so Sam had been able to push his way through each time.

That had not been without difficulty though, and the delays had been traumatic for Mac and Terry. Unable to help, they could only wait patiently, lying crammed together in the dark, like sardines in a can.

The second obstruction had taken Sam so long to clear, that even MacGyver was beginning to think they'd be trapped inside forever. And his own inability to help had been maddening. Definitely, if they came across any more problems like that, Mac thought he and Terry would probably flip out together!

Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the pounding inside MacGyver's head seemed to get louder. Up in front he heard his son shout, but Sam's words were drowned out by the ominous sound of rumbling coming up behind them.

They were too late. The incendiary device had exploded, presumably on time. MacGyver would never know. The concrete drain beneath him began to vibrate, a slight tremble growing rapidly towards a shaky judder and Mac was suddenly afraid that asphyxiation might not kill them before the tunnel caved in and crushed the life out of them.

[Nutsy]

Jeeezzz, it took me a while to read it all it's soooo detailed!

Thanks for your story