A new story, more in line with an episode than a novel. Enjoy:

ISLAND THUNDER

I always liked Russia in the spring. Cool breeze, snow all around, the start of a new year.

But I always seem to be getting shot at and chased across Siberia that time of year. And this was just another notch in that belt.

***

MacGyver finished buttoning up the sharply-pressed field jacket. He had to hand it to the Russians; they knew their insulation.

The wool, nearly-bullet-proof coat draped to his shins. He glanced down at himself and nodded approvingly. He looked enough like a Russian foot soldier. Then he noticed the white half-circles of his tennis shoes poking out from below.

“That might be a problem,” he joked as he slipped them off. He moved over to the unconscious soldier, still lying where Mac had landed on him from the upper level. Mac tugged at the body’s boots and replaced them with his own.

Mac crouched down, eying the discarded assault rifle with a mix of curiosity and cold fear. While he still had his pretenses about guns, it would help complete the disguise nicely. No one ever questions the guy with the gun, he thought.

With a trembling hand, he slung the gun strap over his shoulder and stood up. He rested his arm over top of the rifle, not caring to touch the trigger. Besides, a perfect disguise is no match for paranoid gunfire.

Mac stood back up, knees cracking in the bone-chilling morning wind. He peered out at the melting streets of Moscow.

Ten-foot icicles were dripping into flooded storm drains. It was cold, but he guessed the activity of the streets kept it warm down below.

He glanced at the three storey fall that surrounded him on the roof of the Moscow Precinct.

“That’s promising,” he said to himself. “I doubt I’ll have time to use the ladder again.”

He glanced at a curled up pile of rope and a severely bent satellite antenna, freshly ripped from the nearest rooftop. It served its purpose: it got MacGyver from the two-storey tenement roof to this one.

“I guess I’ll have to figure it out later, like always.” He turned to the only door, built into the face of a sloping shack that descended into the actual police office. He noticed footsteps in the snow that led up the incline, to the edge, and suddenly disappeared.

Just off the edge of the structure, lay the knocked-cold officer, MacGyver’s scuffle marks appearing in the snow, at the end of his trail of prints.

He eased open the door and headed inside.

***

If you’ve seen one… MacGyver thought. The third floor of the Police Station was the standard beige and even more beige color scheme with functional accents. It made him shiver just looking at every floor tile. He’d had too many memories of places like this. He didn’t care to add another.

Flashing computer screens, rife with data files and endless green lines of text. Most were of foreign agents.

They’re trying to get his name MacGyver figured. As endless headshots and bios of field agents, from the DXS and otherwise, Mac wondered how they got all their intelligence. There had to be a leak somewhere in the system. But that wasn’t why he was stuck in the middle of Soviet Russia. He had to make sure none of those headshots matched the beat-up American in the holding cell downstairs. Or rather, that there was no beat-up American in the holding cell downstairs.

Mac’s heart beat his chest one painful time. He swallowed hard, finding it hard to breathe.

His own face appeared one screen. He turned away as the intently focused Russian seated before the panel glanced over his shoulder. Mac sighed just as another officer bumped into him. The man just gave him a dirty look and kept walking.

Again, he calmed down. Just as he started celebrating, harsh Russian barked over his shoulder. Mac tried valiantly to translate it all. Did I check in with Valchek? Sure. Why not? MacGyver rattled.

He turned and put forth his best accent.

“I couldn’t find him. But that’s just like him, isn’t it?” he said in equivalent Russian, substituting in slang to sell his act. A moment of gripping silence held.

“Of course. I’ll send him your way.” MacGyver forced a laugh, watched his “superior” turn away, and hurried down the steps to the next floor.

He actually bought it. That gives me about ten minutes before he realizes I don’t even work here.

***

Andrew Bluffton, former DEA agent and current Phoenix Foundation Chief of Staff, was slouched in a corner between the bars and the chilled steel wall.

He’d been sitting and getting hungrier for days. But he had a better attitude about rotting in a jail cell than most higher-ups in the company.

Twenty years of field work and fake names got him used to long periods of isolation, particularly behind the Iron Curtain. He hoped someone would be sent to get him out, but part of him was ready to take some rough persuasion.

He really shouldn’t have been there.

He actually flew to Russia in the first place to clear up a mess with a captured agent. Turns out the kid was only vacationing there, or at least that’s what he told the head of Russian Intelligence.

Sure enough, the Russian authorities believed him, let the kid go, and then framed him for espionage. He always brought a recording device in his briefcase, usually to keep his daily schedule straight. But the police didn’t see it so practically.

That was another thing that annoyed him: the police got an anonymous tip. At least in his day the politicians played dirty out in the open.

He also wondered, if they did spring him, how they’d cover this up. The Russians had him in custody, and they’d see him kidnapped right in their own borders. What damning fallout would follow that blatant act of war?

But then again, if the Soviets knew they had him on bogus charges, they wouldn’t be making much noise.

Andrew let his eyelids shut. He hadn’t slept since they picked him up.

The clang of iron bars swinging open made him look up.

He wouldn’t be getting any sleep now, either.

The brash, rugged-looking figure standing before him was familiar. The scruffy, though well-concealed head of sandy hair. The squinty eyes. The sharp chin. He read about this agent before.

MacGyver nudged the rifle away from the prisoner, motioning him to leave. His faint grin bid his colleague “good morning” and “let’s get out of here” without too much hassle.

Andrew kept his face expressionless and stood up, wobbling from the sudden change of elevation.

MacGyver led him out, deftly answering Russian shouts from officers in the room. He was making up the reason for this prisoner leaving.

The featured story was that the Head of Intelligence requested a meeting to sort things out. The officers seemed to buy that.

Mac couldn’t help but let a full-scale smile stretch across his face. An all-too-familiar word echoed from behind.

“STOP!” It didn’t matter that it was in Russian; Mac had heard that in every spoken language in existence.

Mac turned and saw the same man that questioned him about another officer earlier. He was holding a size eleven pair of white tennis shoes.

“We must shop at the same store,” said MacGyver, in perfect English and with an accent to match.

***

MacGyver wished he still had the long coat.

Even on the second story, even in a jail cell, it was freezing. Bluffton grunted.

“I thought you were the legendary MacGyver.”

“Last time I checked.”

“Then why aren’t we half way to Berlin by now?” Bluffton scratched at his bristled grey mustache.

“Because my Russian’s a bit rusty.”

“When was your last performance review?” The older man leaned forward, eyes narrowing in derision.

“You got me,” said MacGyver, scanning every square inch of space. There had to be some way out, he thought.

“Well you’ll be undergoing some serious scrutiny when we get back, Mr. MacGyver.” Bluffton wasn’t annoyed with his situation, but that he could get out of this hell-hole better and faster than this punk could. He wondered why the ragged-looking man was stomping on the ground. Was he expecting to kick through the floor? “What are you doing?”

“I’m getting thirsty,” said MacGyver, a wry smirk on his face and promise in his eyes.

Mac stood up and approached the bars, snapping his finger through them.

“ ‘scuse me. Mister?” His Russian took a while to come out, but it got his idea across. “Do we get a last request?”

The hard-at-work policeman groaned, but eventually caved in and faced his prisoner.

“That’s a good man. How about some vodka? One last party before the noose.” The Russian man genuinely considered it for a second, scratching his neck.

The sharp-eyed fellow leaned forward, reaching for MacGyver’s personal effects. He passed the vibrant red Swiss-Army Knife and grabbed a wad of Russian marks. The younger prisoner was suddenly grateful that he didn’t bring his wallet, a habit he’d broken himself of.

“Sure, but you pay for it,” insisted the guard in much more fluid dialect.

“Naturally.” MacGyver nodded as if to further convince his captor. As another police officer passed, the one sitting at the computers tossed him the cash and told him to head to a corner store. He also added that he’d better buy the cheapest bottle. MacGyver shook his head; that should help things.

***

Bluffton was mercifully quiet for the twenty minutes since MacGyver asked for a stiff drink. But the chief of staff was still quite confounded as to why MacGyver was busy scraping the toes of his boots against the underside of his rusty metal bench. The points of them were wore completely off, showing the scuffed, dented metal below.

“Trying to stop the Ruskies by ruining their footwear?” MacGyver, still enraptured in his project, didn’t look up.

“You could put it that way.”

“Your vodka,” spat out the Russian overseer, handing MacGyver the thick bottle through the bars.

“Thanks a bunch.” MacGyver unscrewed the lid, smelled the nickel-vodka, and cringed. It was a sensory dead-ringer for lighter fluid, just what he’d hoped for.

“Want to explain just what the hell you’re doing?” Bluffton finally got up.

“Celebrating.”

“What?”

“Our escape.” MacGyver casually spilled most of the bottle onto the floor, pretending to tip it too far in either direction when he held it.

A growing soggy spot was just about soaked into the wood when he started kicking his feet together, particularly at the toes.

He swung his legs again, this time striking harder. He looked like an absent-minded kid instead of a world-class field agent.

“I’d get to that side of the cell, sir.” MacGyver wasn’t quite sure how this next part would play out.

One last kick. The metal scraped apart, not sending out the requisite spark MacGyver expected. He let his head fall into his hands, but perked right back up.

“Let’s take the easier route.” He jumped up, dripping a line of the volatile drink behind him. He tried to appeal to his captor once again. “How about a smoke?”

The man spit on the floor, then got up.

“You’re lucky the government wants you two alive,” the man strained. Mac didn’t react and instead waited for a cigarette which the officer handed to him. A match burst to life and was held as far away from MacGyver as possible.

Mac leaned forward, cigarette in his mouth. The officer wearily glanced around the room. The agent hit the man’s arm with his shoulder, sending the match to the floor and the alcohol trail.

The single flame dribbled out into several, which spread into tendrils of fire.

Soon, the whole spill was alight with blue-yellow pyres, inspiring MacGyver to climb onto his bench.

“What the hell-?” The officer reared back and slammed the glass-encased fire alarm. A shrill wail pierced the smoky air.

“I-I don’t know what happened. We’re gonna die in here! Let us out!” Mac, if nothing else, was a convincing actor. Bluffton got the hint and joined in.

“Yeah! We’ll be burnt to a crisp!” His Russian was leagues better than his counterpart’s.

“Stay here and rot!” The officer shouted, grabbing his jacket and heading for the stairs.

Another handful of officers rushed past them from the upper level, all in various states of wearing their full uniforms.

MacGyver’s spirits sank a little bit, but he had his plan B.

“What now, kid?” Bluffton was incredulous. “If we get out of here, you’re fired.”

“Don’t say fired, would you?” Mac took off the khaki vest he was using to brave the national climate and wrapped it around his legs. “Follow me.”

MacGyver hopped off his bunk and landed square in the center of the miniature inferno. With a defeated groan, the scorched wood gave way, dropping him through the floor.

He disappeared almost instantly, only a haze of splinters and fibers floating around. Bluffton begrudgingly followed.

Wonderful!! I love it!

I like it, I like it, can't wait for more to come from this story.

Sweet! Can't wait to see what happens next.

I like it.

I've returned after a year of exile. Please excuse any inconsistencies in writing styles, or the rather abrupt end to the opening gambit; frankly, I wanted to get on with the main event.


***
The front desk manager was busy filing the paperwork on a petty thief that seemed to get a kick from stealing gas caps. The manager didn’t understand it. The arresting officer didn’t understand it. Such was the nature of criminals in Moscow.

A painful-sounding clatter and tussle of rushing feet came from the stairwell. The manager leaned over his desk, head poking over.

One by one, his comrades stumbled past his desk, some shouting “Fire!” and others shouting less informative, more descriptive words.

Very funny, thought the manager. They played the same damn prank on him last month. It wasn’t funny then, and it’s not-

CRACK-CRASH!

Mere inches behind him, a man with flaming feet collapsed on the floor, raining bits of the ceiling coming with him.

The manager just sat there, watching the man peel off singed fabric from around his shins. His jeans were scorched with splotches of black char.

He patted out a fiery patch of shirt sleeve and got to his feet, feeling a sprain in one leg. The manager looked him in the eye.

“Did you hear the alarm?” MacGyver asked, stepping aside so his superior could follow. The manager shook his head. As if on cue, a whistling cry echoed from the walls. “Might want to get that checked out.”

Bluffton landed much more smoothly, on both feet. He learned to absorb greater falls than this in his younger days.

“Let’s go,” suggested MacGyver, running past the stairs to the back door.

***
“What now, hotshot?” Bluffton tucked his arms together to combat the cold. MacGyver just didn’t let it faze him, other than the occasional shiver.

“There’s a plane at the airport waiting for us.”

“We’re flying coach?”

“Of course not. We’re getting out of this place by the seat of our pants.” MacGyver hurried down the alleyway, leg dragging behind from his fall.

He peeked out into the main street, where the entire staff of Precinct 33 was waiting for help. Too much commotion, he thought. But they needed a car.

Mac cut back to the rear of the building and clambered over the chain-link fence that separated it from the rundown slums. He was about to keep running, to disappear into the maze of buildings. But Bluffton took a bit more time getting over the fence.

Once they were both on solid ground, MacGyver led them out into the next street, traffic ambling past. Squat apartment buildings lined each side, looking like crumbling fortresses. No cars were parked along the street, at least none close enough.

A bus chugged past. Blocky Russian characters were painted on the side, half worn-off.

“Airport,” MacGyver said to himself. “That’s how we get there.”

“Let’s just steal a car,” insisted Bluffton, pointing to a far-off, barely visible sub-sub-compact.

“We’re not stealing some poor family’s only mode of transportation,” forcefully reminded Mac. “Now we need to run if we’re going to catch that bus.”

He shoved off, scattering some snow and leaving Andrew a few strides behind. MacGyver, mere feet behind the quickening public transport, leapt off and wrapped his arms around one of the two vertical bars at its rear. The metal poles framed the back window.

His leg throbbed from the effort. He waved on his superior, who was struggling to keep up. Eventually, Mac leaned out, arm stretched, and grabbed him by the wrist.

***
“There’s a security checkpoint,” whispered Bluffton, sitting pseudo-casually next to Mac, who just pretended his pantlegs weren’t utterly charred.

The other bus patrons simply glared at them. After all, these two yahoos rode on the back of the bus until the last stop when they got on. And then the older one gave the driver his watch instead of any form of currency. But some of the passengers dismissed them as simply strange American tourists.

Bluffton nodded out the windshield, the alien skyline of the airport looming closer.

“I know, I know,” said MacGyver, trying to think of something. After a moment, he turned to the older agent. “We’re getting off the bus.”

***
Anatoly carried his clipboard like a champion. Or at least like a standard, second-shift gate manager would. But he did have to pay special attention today: two American criminals, possibly spies, were in the city, and they’d probably try to escape.

He was told to pay special attention to public transportation, like airport shuttles, since the enemies of state would try to blend in.

Bus Number 529, the third in rotation of airport lines, was in line behind a few already irritable tourists, looking to go home, not wait in line.

Anatoly paid as much attention as he could to the malcontents so he could rush them through without much trouble; the bus was waiting. And if he found the Americans, it would spell promotion in his future.

His impressive focus, in fact, is what kept him from noticing two men drop off the back of the bus and sprint around the guard house, into the parking structure, and then onto the tarmac.

Actually, he paid no heed whatsoever to the small, two-seater that took off just five minutes after he checked the bus.

Comment if you please.

Yay, I like it!! Keep more coming, please!

Last to the party, I know, but I like it too

Great story. I can't wait for more.