Whew!
This part took me forever to write! Once again, I apologize for the wait. This has been the most ambitious story I have written for you guys so far, so it's taking me a little longer to post than usual. It's rated R again for descriptions and flashbacks.
Thanks again to ghostdoll for her continued support!
Shake Hands with the Devil Part Six
Rated: R
The Present…
“MacGyver, it is good to see you healthy again,” Enrique said. He marveled at the miraculous transformation, remembering his battered, half-starved body, barely clinging to life. Now, he was vibrant and sturdy with a ruddy complexion, a slight limp the only outward indication that he had ever been tortured.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you at last,” MacGyver said, smiling.
He clasped Enrique’s hand in a hearty handshake with one hand and reached out to touch his shoulder with the other, two actions that were nearly impossible for him to do during his recovery. The two separate gestures of camaraderie were also symbolic as to how far he had progressed. Enrique’s hand replaced the soft, foam ball the physical therapist had him squeeze to get use out of his fingers again, and reaching out to grab his shoulder reminded him of having to stretch his broken arm out fully, each movement feeling as if his bones were being crushed, puncturing his skin and grinding into his nerves all over again. He proved he could do it, now without pain or difficulty. For a moment, he stared at his movements in amazement, realizing how much work he had to do just to get back to that point, most people taking their fluidity of motion for granted.
“MacGyver, are you all right?” Pete asked, noticing how he had paused briefly.
“Yeah, I’m great, Pete,” MacGyver said, glancing at him and smiling, releasing Enrique from his grasp. He looked at his hand and wiggled his fingers.
The men sat down on the furniture in Pete’s office, facing each other. Even though it was a friendly meeting, it felt tense and uncomfortable. MacGyver knew this man had seen him when he was at his worst, leaving an indelible impression. As if sensing their mutual discomfort, Enrique sighed and began speaking first.
“As you are aware, as Pete undoubtedly told you, I share your opinion that Carlos Gutierrez is none other than the notorious Juan Garza or El Diablo,” he said.
“And you have prepared a report detailing his activities,” MacGyver said. “How soon before it’s released?”
“Soon,” Enrique said, his eyes blazing, revealing the passion he felt for his country’s cause for freedom and the hatred he felt towards the current monstrous despot who once again threatened to usurp power from the people. “We cannot afford to wait much longer. Although gathering the necessary proof has been an arduous task, we do believe that we now have enough evidence to convict him in the eyes of the world.”
“In fact,” Pete said, glancing at Enrique, “he plans to deliver this information to all major world governments tonight.”
Enrique affirmed what he said with a simple inclination of his head.
“So…what will happen to your country after that?” MacGyver asked.
Enrique shrugged. “Unfortunately, there will be another period of political unrest until the people rally for democracy,” he said. “It will not be easy. My people are going to need a strong, decent leader after so much horror and bloodshed. It will take some time to stabilize the region, and we may perhaps once again require military intervention from your government as well as other resources from the world to assist us in rebuilding. The future is uncertain, I’m afraid. Apprehending and trying Juan Garza for his heinous crimes will only be the beginning, a small victory in the greater struggle.”
MacGyver smiled at Enrique in admiration, impressed by his strength and intelligence. It was no wonder to him that he owed his life to such an extraordinary man. He wished that he had been able to know him sooner as had originally been planned, before that dark time of his captivity and torture.
“Maybe it’s time for the expatriate to come home,” he said, still grinning.
“What do you mean?” Pete asked.
“Maybe Enrique should be his country’s next leader. He could restore a sense of hope to his impoverished people.”
Enrique smiled and laughed slightly. “I’m flattered that you think so, MacGyver,” he said. “I fear I am still too young to embark on such an undertaking. Ultimately, it will be up to the people of my country to decide, as I hope to at least aid in creating the first free and public elections.”
“But you would consider it?” Pete asked.
Enrique’s sober expression once again dissolved into a bashful smile. “Anything is possible, I suppose,” he said, “especially for my country. I am optimistic for the outcome, no matter how long it may take. I care about my people, gentleman, so you can be assured that I will be available to help them in some humanitarian capacity.”
“I’m sure you will,” MacGyver said. “After all, you risked your life just to save mine.”
The two men exchanged intense, knowing, deep stares. As much as the years had lessened the severity of what had been done to MacGyver, Enrique could still detect the hurt and fear in his eyes. He began to relate to him the harrowing events surrounding his rescue, just as he had to Pete, who was listening again with the same amount of high interest. MacGyver listened intently, his body at times growing rigid as he relived the moment. Pete would glance at him out of concern, but MacGyver seemed willing to hear Enrique’s version of the story, wanting to know what happened since he was barely cognizant during that time.
“I could have been killed, yes,” Enrique said when finished, “but it wouldn’t have been the first time I came close to death since my role as an underground dissenter could have been discovered at any moment by Velazquez’s men. I was afraid, but yet I knew what I was doing was for the best.” He looked at MacGyver, who looked paler and shaken. “You may not have been one of my countrymen by birth or nationality, but the moment you agreed to take an interest in our struggle, I considered you as worthy of rescue and humane treatment as the rest of my people. I wasn’t going to leave you in El Diablo’s clutches to die. I’m glad you survived, MacGyver, so we can continue what it was we planned to in the beginning.”
Pete watched as MacGyver trembled, sweat appearing on his face, once again struggling with the buried emotions from that evil time that were resurfacing, his eyes moist.
“MacGyver…”
“I’m all right, Pete,” MacGyver said, his voice faint. He looked directly at Enrique, glad he at last got to know the man who was his contact. “Thank you,” he said in a whisper. “Thank you again…for getting me out of there.”
***
After their meeting with Enrique, Pete decided to take MacGyver for a walk at a nearby harbor, hoping the pleasant, balmy weather and the fresh, salty sea air would restore his friend, who was disturbingly quiet and had a pensive, distant expression on his face.
“Enrique should never have told you the full details of your rescue,” he said, watching his friend in concern. “It brought back too many bad memories and upset you.”
“I needed to hear it,” MacGyver said, looking around the harbor. “What was he supposed to do, hide the truth from me? We both know that doesn’t work.”
“I still say it was a mistake.”
They approached a seaside market where a man in a bloody apron was cutting open a fish, disemboweling it, the slimy entrails spilling out on the cutting surface. He next worked on removing its head, chopping it off with his broad knife. While such a sight was gruesome to anyone, MacGyver stopped and stared at it as if in a trance. Flashes of severed, shriveled hands hanging as trophies around El Diablo’s fields returned to him, the overpowering stench of piles of unburied body parts in various stages of decomposition returning to his nostrils, the deep, low buzzing of swarms of flies ringing in his ears. The fish’s dead, empty, glassy eyes stared up at him the way the eyes from a head without a body had, the prisoner executed by brutal decapitation. Pete hadn’t noticed his horrified reaction at first, passing the fish market. When he saw that MacGyver hadn’t continued walking with him, he stopped and turned back to retrieve him, finding him transfixed.
“MacGyver, what is it?” He asked, gently taking his arm. “MacGyver, can you hear me?”
Looking down at the grisly, disgusting sight of the fish innards, Pete began to make the connection between them and MacGyver’s shock, knowing his friend’s traumatized mind equated them with the violence he was subjected to and witnessed during his long captivity under Velazquez and El Diablo.
“Come on, MacGyver, let’s go sit down,” Pete said in a soothing voice.
Moving him away from the scene of slaughter required all his available strength, as if he was dragging a statue of solid marble. MacGyver was completely paralyzed, shuddering and gasping for breath, pure terror in his eyes.
“Come on, it’s going to be okay,” Pete said, helping MacGyver sit down on a nearby bench facing the ocean’s vast, seemingly infinite horizon. It was pleasant scenery, something Pete hoped would help coax his friend out of his panicked reaction. He rubbed his back, feeling the sweat soaking through his shirt and the raised whip scars, another constant reminder of his torture. “Relax…it’s going to be fine now. That’s it. Take slow, deep breaths for me. Calm down…that’s it…you’re going to be fine…”
The combination of hearing Enrique recounting the details of MacGyver’s rescue and the sight of the dead, sliced open fish at the market had simply been too much for him, renewing Pete’s desire to see Juan Garza incarcerated and removed from public life as soon as possible so that his friend could stop having such attacks and at last live normally. He felt MacGyver’s body begin to slow, and he knew he was at last beginning to calm himself, no longer staring at the source that triggered his latest flashback.
“That’s it,” he said. “Come back to me. It’s over now. Take it easy. Breathe…”
It had taken some practice before Pete could successfully calm MacGyver during these episodes, learning from watching how patiently his therapists dealt with him. He knew that eventually, even though most of the time he would return to the stable and happy MacGyver he remembered, he would still be revisited by these unpleasant memories from time to time and would not always have the counsel of a licensed professional there to help him navigate his way out of it and back to the present. Pete knew he would have to undertake the responsibility of caring for his friend when they couldn’t, something he was eager to do but not always certain how to do it. Even though it had been several years, he still wasn’t sure the best way to help him, each flashback reminding him of those hopeless early moments when Mac’s life was in peril and his full recovery was in a precarious, doubtful situation, watching him struggle just to make the slightest progress.
***
Five Years Earlier…
The toxic mixture was once again being shoved down his mouth. MacGyver could feel the hard tube pressing uncomfortably against his throat, obstructing his breathing and causing him to gag, desperately swallowing against it, fighting to remove it. Yet he could barely move, the chains weighing him down along with incredible, massive pain that surged throughout his body whenever he tried to make the slightest movement, his damaged limbs screaming in protest.
“Doctor! Look,” Pete said, noticing the small, almost imperceptible movements MacGyver was making, moving his head from side to side, the rest of his body twitching feebly, his broken limbs preventing him from doing anything else. His eyes began to flutter.
“He’s regaining consciousness,” Dr. Sturm said, almost sounding dismayed. She knew that what was normally considered good news might not be in his case.
MacGyver’s eyes opened widely, darting around the hospital room. What he saw didn’t make sense. El Diablo and his men were torturing him again, forcing the tube of chemical-laced gruel down his throat, yet somehow he only saw Pete and some woman he didn’t recognize standing over him. It had to be some cruel illusion of his mind, some vivid hallucination once again visiting him and taunting him with relief from his situation.
“Easy, Mac, take it easy,” Pete said, trying to hold him still as his head tossed frantically from side to side. “You’re safe now. You’re home.” MacGyver’s eyes were still wide in terror and confusion as they shifted back and forth between Pete and Dr. Sturm, searching desperately for answers. Pete noticed his alarmed, bewildered reaction and knew that it had to be frightening for him to awaken in that state after being tortured, unsure of where he was or how he arrived there, the tube down his throat only making matters worse. “Is it safe to remove his breathing tube yet?” He asked. “Look at him! He’s scared out of his wits!”
Nodding, Dr. Sturm took over the duties of restraining her patient, checking on him. “Yes, I think he’ll be fine breathing on his own now,” she said. She looked into MacGyver’s terror-filled eyes and stroked his forehead. “Listen to me, MacGyver,” she said in a soothing voice. “It’s all right now. You’re in a hospital. You’re going to be fine. There is a tube in your throat to help you breathe, but I don’t think you need it anymore, so I’m going to remove it. I know it’s uncomfortable. Do you understand?”
For a moment, the doctor’s words sounded like gibberish as they echoed in MacGyver’s dazed, disoriented mind. Soon, they began to make sense when she mentioned the tube and how it would soon be gone from his throat. He wanted to believe her, even though he knew she was just some cruel invention of his mind, so he nodded.
“Good,” Dr. Sturm said, smiling. “Now, it’s not going to feel pleasant to take it out, but it will only last a moment and then it will be gone and everything will be all right. Okay? I just need you to work with me to get it out of there. When I count to three, I want you to exhale deeply as I pull the tube out. Ready?”
MacGyver nodded again, wishing it were real. Even if it wasn’t, he still wanted to cooperate with her, wanting nothing more than to have that tube of nasty liquid freed from his throat.
“One…two…three…”
Dr. Sturm carefully pulled the tube from MacGyver’s throat and he exhaled as she instructed him to. Once the tube was fully out, he began coughing and gasping violently, surprised that the tube was actually gone, shuddering spasms rocking through his weakened, damaged body, his lungs sore and aching.
“It’s okay, Mac, I’m here,” Pete said. “It’s okay. It’s out now.”
MacGyver stared wildly at him as he began to control his breathing again, moving his lips and struggling to speak.
“D-dream…? Real…?” He asked, his voice barely audible, tears in his sad, pleading eyes. The dramatic loss of weight made them appear large, innocent, and saucer-like, only adding to his pitiable appearance and shocking condition.
Pete touched his bony cheek. “I’m really here, Mac,” he said, feeling the sting of tears in his own eyes.
MacGyver’s lower lip quivered and he began sobbing, his eyes still filled with fear. “P-pete…no…d-don’t leave me…no…” he whimpered. “Don’t go…I n-need you…please…oh God, no…”
“It’s all right, Mac,” Pete said, choking on his tears over his friend’s pitiful condition. “I won’t leave you. You’re going to be fine.”
“S-stay…”
“I’m staying, Mac. I’m right here.”
MacGyver’s unfocused eyes wandered around the room. “H-help me…” he said.
“You’re going to get the best help available, I promise,” Pete said, looking up at Dr. Sturm, who had sympathy in her eyes.
“Where…where…not…real?”
Pete bit back a sob that threatened. “Listen to me,” he said. “It’s over, I promise. You’re really home. I won’t let anyone hurt you, okay? Please believe me.”
“H-hurt…they…torture…”
“I know, but they can’t touch you anymore. You’re safe.”
“P-pete…scared…”
“I know. It’s understandable after what you’ve been through, but I’m going to help you get through it. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
“Pete…” MacGyver whispered one final time before surrendering to unconsciousness, his head settling back onto the pillow.
***
Pete took MacGyver’s wheelchair outside so he could enjoy the salubrious effects of the fresh air. It was a hot, blindingly bright day, the sky a deep blue and absent of clouds. They stopped beneath the shade of a tree so that neither of them would be affected directly by the heat. For awhile, both of them scanned the surroundings of the hospital grounds, watching as other patients in various stages of recovery were also outside, their weakened constitutions seeming to benefit immediately, changing from the drab, sterile interior of the hospital to the beautiful day that surrounded its exterior, many of them smiling even if their conditions were terminal. Although he wasn’t smiling, MacGyver seemed appreciative of the change in scenery, remaining calm and quiet, staring straight ahead, his handsome profile more sharply defined due to his extreme loss of weight. Pete was relieved his emotions seemed to have leveled after those first few moments of consciousness when he was panicked, terrified, and confused. He accepted that he was now safe and home, but something still slightly bothered Pete about his demeanor that he couldn’t quite identify. He could see it in MacGyver’s bloodshot eyes rimmed by dark circles.
“Dr. Sturm tells me you’re not sleeping,” he said. “She said that’s normal for the amount of pain you’re in, but she also suggested it might be more than that.”
MacGyver said nothing, sighing, giving no indication that he understood what Pete was hinting at, or if he did, he chose to ignore it. Pete decided not to pursue the matter further, knowing that his friend was coping with his situation as well as he could, almost better than he expected. He knew he was unqualified to diagnose MacGyver’s mental state. That work would be left up to the psychiatrist he would be seeing. The two men were awkwardly silent for awhile, finding little to talk about, the focus entirely on his recovery, few other subjects presenting themselves. MacGyver clenched his jaw, grinding it silently in frustration, fighting the turmoil and anguished, fearful thoughts that continued to plague him, desperately repressing them so as not to upset Pete. Now that he was fully aware, he knew he could control his emotions better, and he chose to suffer alone.
“My, it’s hot out here!” Pete said. “It’s a beautiful day, though. It would be a shame to miss it, cooped up inside that dismal hospital room. Don’t you think?”
“Sure,” MacGyver said, his voice lacking enthusiasm. “Could you get me some water?”
“No problem,” Pete said, smiling at him. “You just stay here and enjoy the day, and I’ll be right back.”
MacGyver watched him as he walked away, waiting until he felt he was a good distance away before he desperately tried to stand and get out of his wheelchair. He hated being confined to it, hated Pete having to see him so dependent. He didn’t want to disappoint his friend, who was expecting him to make a swift recovery and get back into action as he always had before. After all, he expected the same thing from himself. Slowly, he tried to push himself up, finding it more of a challenge than he expected, his broken fingers on one side and the broken arm on the other giving him little support, completely useless. Using his leg with the unbroken ankle to push himself to a standing position, he only managed to remain upright for a brief moment before he wobbled and toppled to the ground, his face smashing into the dirt. The broken ankle combined with his atrophied muscles provided him with little balance, and he simply couldn’t remain standing. He released an angry groan, impatient and disappointed in himself, knowing he could do much better than that pathetic attempt if he only applied himself and used what available strength his body had left. Once again, he tried to stand, but his weakened body trembled as he overexerted himself, taxing his body, demanding more from it than it could offer at that moment. He bit his lip, choking back bitter, angry tears, knowing that Pete would learn of his fall and find him, and he didn’t want him to see he had been crying.
Hearing MacGyver fall, Pete turned and found him lying prone on the ground. He ran back to help him, several other hospital staff members also rushing over in concern. Not knowing his condition, they reacted on professional instinct and speculated on a number of reasons for the collapse—heart abnormalities, heat stroke, sheer exhaustion, brain aneurism. They were already helping MacGyver back into his wheelchair and checking on him when Pete arrived, brushing the dirt off his friend’s face.
“It’s okay, I’ve got him,” he said to the others. “He’s fine.”
After checking him and concluding that Pete was correct, they left the two men alone again.
“Damn it, Mac! You scared me! What were you trying to do, getting out of your wheelchair like that? You know better than to push yourself that hard this early! Your body isn’t ready for that!” Pete said.
“It’s nothing,” MacGyver said, looking at Pete and smiling slightly, once again masking his pain and frustration. “I just…thought I’d try something.”
“Well, next time you decide to try something, let me or the physical therapist know about it, okay? You could have injured yourself even more!”
“I know, but I’m all right, really.”
Pete sighed deeply, hating seeing his friend this way, his body withered and wasted when he had been so robust. The agile, athletic man who had climbed mountains, rode bicycles for miles along coastal roads, rode on horseback, raced cars, ran in marathons, rode motorcycles, and ran dodging serious trouble countless times in foreign lands was now reduced to a sickly, broken man who had to use all the effort he had just to stand, only to find himself unsteady and unable to perform even that simple task that most people took for granted in their daily ambulatory lives. He knew it was still early in the stages of his friend’s long recovery, and that he had the best doctor and staff tending to him, but he still worried that MacGyver would forever be handicapped in some manner, no longer able to function as he used to—not just out in the field, but in his life. That was what mattered to Pete. As much as he valued Mac as an agent, he cared more about his friend having the abilities to just live life the way he preferred it—actively. If he was unable to participate in any of the physical activities he loved—skiing, hockey, bicycling—Pete knew it would be a devastating blow to his friend, sucking all the passion he had for life out of him. On some level, he knew MacGyver understood this as well, yet he remained calm, as if nothing had happened, as if nothing had changed. At the time, Pete still wasn’t quite sure if MacGyver was being confident and stubborn about his recovery, or if he was being secretive, hiding his fears and doubts so as not to appear weak and helpless. He wouldn’t find out for certain until several months and a year later when he saw MacGyver sobbing in the bathtub.
***
“Well, is it nice to be home again?” Pete asked, helping MacGyver inside his house boat. Even though he was walking much better than he used to, he still relied on a cane to ease some of the stress placed on his healing ankle.
“Yeah,” MacGyver said blandly. Still, he smiled, not wanting Pete to think that he was anything but happy and relieved when in actuality he felt dead inside, nothing mattering to him, not even the familiarity and comfort of his home.
“I bought you something,” Pete said, smiling warmly. “Consider it a welcome home present.”
He pulled a brand new knife out of his pocket and set it on the kitchen counter for MacGyver to see. It shone bright red, its finish unscratched, its blades as yet unused, folded neatly inside. MacGyver stared at it, speechless.
“Go on, give it a try,” Pete said. “I hope I got you the right kind. I think it has all the blades and tools you like to use, but I guess if it doesn’t, you’ll improvise.” He winked.
MacGyver remained staring at the knife, his trademark for so many years since boyhood, proving how useful and resourceful he had once been. He hoped to be again, but he dreaded having to demonstrate the knife to Pete, knowing his recently healed broken fingers didn’t work the way they used to, his joints stiffer. The physical therapist told him that it would require more sessions and special exercises before he could fully bend them again, but he hadn’t arrived at that point yet. Now, Pete would see how much he had to struggle just to move them slightly, and he felt ashamed.
“What’s the matter?” Pete asked, watching him as he hesitated.
“Nothing,” MacGyver said, smiling another artificial, forced smile, designed once again to hide his pain and fear. “I’m fine.”
Realizing there was nothing he could do, that Pete was expecting him to show more excitement over the gift, MacGyver picked up the knife with his good hand. At first, he tried to open it with that hand, but he knew that realistically opening a knife like that required the use of both hands—one to hold it, and the other to pull the blades out. Since he could only successfully hold it with his good hand, he tried to open the blades with his damaged fingers, hoping he could do it, hoping Pete wouldn’t notice his struggles. He knew he couldn’t hide everything from his best friend, but he was determined to hide as much as he could. He didn’t want Pete to see him unable to use his knife, of all things. He fumbled with it, his fingers cramping and twitching painfully, unable to bend very far. Eventually, the knife fell out of his hands and to the floor, still unopened.
“Aw Mac, I’m sorry,” Pete said, bending over to pick up the knife, replacing it on the counter. “I forgot about your fingers.”
“It’s fine,” MacGyver said, brushing it off and smiling, feeling his facial muscles strain and pull to produce the pleasant yet contrived expression. “Remember what you said before to me in the hospital during one of my more painful therapy sessions? You said I had to be patient with myself, that it would only be a matter of time. Well, that’s all this is. It will just take time, that’s all.”
“I guess you’re right,” Pete said, once again impressed by his friend’s optimistic outlook.
“I’m going to take a shower,” MacGyver said. “Listen, it’s late. Why don’t you get some sleep? You can take my bed.”
“That’s all right, Mac. I think you should have the bed. I’ll be fine on the couch.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Go ahead.” He yawned. “I think I’ll take you up on that offer.”
“Good night, Pete. Thanks again for everything—including the knife. I love it. I’m sure I’ll get to use it soon.”
“I’m sure you will, too. Goodnight, kiddo.”
MacGyver hadn’t heard Pete use that affectionate, fatherly nickname for him in a long time, usually because it embarrassed him and made him feel less than an adult and Pete knew that. Still, hearing it now seemed to comfort him, if only for a moment.
***
Staring at his nude reflection in the mirror in his bathroom, MacGyver hardly recognized himself. He had always had scars, either from sports injuries or other unfortunate accidents that occurred during his assignments, but he had never seen them so ubiquitous on his body before, many of them jagged and ugly, signatures of El Diablo’s brutality, branding him permanently. His skin was a map of his torture. He knew where almost all of them had come from and when they happened, reliving once again the horror of that time. Some of the neater, cleaner ones were evidence of his many surgeries, contrasting sharply with the uneven, long, and deep scars from the torture, the two intermingling. Coupled with his still rail thin body, his healed ribs highly visible beneath his skin, he felt he was looking at a stranger, his face lean, his eyes hungry and desperate as they stared back at him. How could he be expected to return to what he was when he looked this way? That he couldn’t even use his hands properly upset him even more. What was he now but a used up shell of a man?
It took him several minutes before he overcame the shock of his ghastly reflection. Once he did, he turned to the shower and began running the water, allowing the heat to soothe him and relax the pain that still lingered. After the initial feeling of pleasure, however, he began to stand there mindlessly, reflecting again on his shocking appearance, not finding it easy to forget. At last alone, not constantly being pestered by Pete, MacGyver allowed his emotions to flow. Crumpling into a seated position in the bathtub, he held himself as tightly as his healing broken arm and fingers would allow, wrapping them around his knees, sobbing, revealing the broken man he still was, the man in the mirror, the man he refused to show to Pete. It felt good to finally release what he had been containing. It had almost been as painful as the torture and the therapy combined, making his body ache. He sobbed and sobbed, allowing the water to fall on him, never wanting to stop, feeling he was in the only environment where he could express himself freely without fear of appearing weak. Isolated in his warm, watery, almost womb-like cocoon, MacGyver didn’t have to face anyone except himself. That was until he heard Pete open the door.
***
The Present…
“Are you all right?” Pete asked, handing MacGyver a steaming mug of tea. They had returned to his house boat after his flashback. Pete worried another one threatened when he saw that Carlos Gutierrez was on the television set on the news. “Maybe I should change the channel—
“No, it’s fine,” MacGyver said. “It’s easier to see him on TV than it is being in the same room with him.” He shuddered, drawing his knees up on the cushion. “Besides, I want to hear what he’s saying.”
“Mac, Enrique has only just released the information on the true Carlos Gutierrez to the world,” Pete said. “They’re going to approach this manner cautiously, otherwise he’ll slip away from them. I wouldn’t be surprised if the media isn’t aware of it yet. I’m afraid he’s still a free man until a plan is drawn up to catch him.”
“I know, Pete. I just want to see what’s happening now.”
Turning towards the TV, Pete listened to the news report as well.
“Back from his whirlwind tour of the United States, Carlos Gutierrez, the presumptive future leader of his besieged South American homeland, has decided to make one final stop in California before returning to his country where he promises to restore a sense of hope and dignity to his people,” the reporter said.
The footage cut to Carlos Gutierrez. “I love California,” he said. “It is a beautiful state.”
He flashed a grin that was supposed to be charming, but MacGyver remembered it from his torture. It was vicious, baring his ugly teeth. He stared at the TV, into the voids that were his eyes, shivering. Pete noticed this reaction and turned off the TV.
“All right, I think that was enough,” he said. “I don’t want you suffering from more nightmares than you already have today.”
“Pete, now would be the perfect opportunity to catch him,” MacGyver said. “While he’s in the states, it would be much easier than it will when he returns to his native country where he can hide and become someone else again or use the people as human shields to guard himself against an attack, resisting capture. He doesn’t care who he kills or who gets destroyed as long as he remains free and his interests are safeguarded.”
“I know, Mac, but until Enrique’s report takes its full effect on the world opinion, all we can do is wait,” Pete said.
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
