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The Nevada sun baked the dry lake bed until the air shimmered like bad special effects. Jack O’Neill crouched behind the rusted shell of a ’57 Chevy, sweat pooling under his boonie hat. Sam was ten yards left, prone behind a boulder, sighting down her P90. Daniel and Teal’c flanked a dry wash, both looking like they’d rather be anywhere else on Earth—or off it.“Carter,” Jack hissed, “tell me again why we’re playing hide-and-seek with a rogue NID kill squad in the middle of nowhere.”
“Because the Goa’uld stasis jar they stole is leaking radiation,” Sam whispered back. “And because the nearest town is thirty miles away, and we’re the only ones who know it’s here.”
A bullet ricocheted off the Chevy’s fender. Jack flinched. “Great. Death by sunburn and gunfire.”
Another burst chewed the sand. Daniel popped up, fired twice, ducked. “Jack, I’m an archaeologist, not a commando!”
“Today you’re both,” Jack said. “Teal’c, any bright ideas?”
Teal’c’s voice was calm. “I am considering throwing Daniel at them as a distraction.”
Daniel squeaked.
The NID team—eight black-clad operators with too much gear and not enough sense—advanced in a loose wedge. Their leader, a woman with a buzz-cut and a voice like gravel, shouted through a bullhorn. “O’Neill! Surrender the jar or we bury you with it!”
Jack peeked over the hood. The stasis jar—six feet of glowing blue alien tech—was half-buried in the sand twenty yards behind them, pulsing like a dying star. “Any chance they’re bluffing?”
Sam shook her head. “Radiation’s spiking. We’ve got maybe twenty minutes before it breaches.”
Jack sighed. “Of course we do.”
A low rumble cut through the gunfire. Dust kicked up on the horizon. A battered Jeep Wrangler roared over a dune, fishtailing to a stop between SG-1 and the NID. The driver’s door flew open. A figure stumbled out—leather jacket torn, face smudged with soot, hair looking like it had lost a fight with a leaf blower. MacGyver leaned against the hood, one hand pressed to his side. Blood seeped between his fingers. He raised the other hand in a weary wave. “Hey, Jack,” he croaked. “Bad time?”
Sam’s P90 dipped. “MacGyver?!”
Daniel’s glasses slid down his nose. “He’s bleeding. And he looks like he hasn’t slept since the Clinton administration.”
Teal’c’s eyebrow performed its usual gymnastics. “O’Neill, your sibling appears to be malfunctioning.”
Jack was already moving. He vaulted the Chevy, slid to a stop beside Mac. “What the hell happened to you?”
Mac tried for a grin. It came out more like a grimace. “Long story. Involves a cargo plane, a parachute that only mostly opened, and a misunderstanding with some very angry drug runners in Baja. I’ve been awake for… seventy-two hours? Maybe eighty?” He swayed. “Phoenix sent me to Vegas for R&R. Took a wrong turn at Area 51.”
Jack caught him as his knees buckled. “You’re a walking disaster.”
“Says the guy pinned down by mercenaries in a radioactive sandbox.”
Sam crawled over, eyes on the stasis jar. “Sir, he’s hurt. And that jar’s going critical.”
Mac blinked at the glowing artifact. “Naquadah-enhanced plasma core. Cute.” He straightened, swaying. “Okay. Plan. You need a containment field. I need coffee. We’ll compromise.”
He limped to the Jeep, popped the tailgate. Inside: a duffel bag, a half-empty thermos, and what looked like a junkyard exploded in canvas. Mac rummaged, came up with a busted satellite dish, a coil of copper tubing, and a roll of duct tape. Daniel stared. “What exactly is your job, MacGyver? Because I’m starting to think you’re a myth.”
“Phoenix Foundation,” Mac said, already stripping wire with his teeth. “Troubleshooter. Problem solver. Occasional pizza delivery guy.” He glanced at Jack. “You bleeding?”
“You’re the one leaking like a sieve.”
“Details.”
The NID team advanced. Bullets pinged off the Jeep. Mac ducked, dragged Jack down with him. “Okay, new plan. Sam, you any good with plasma physics?” Sam crawled over. “I’ve built a naquadah generator out of a toaster.”
“Fancy pants.” Mac handed her the copper tubing. “We’re gonna build a Faraday cage around the jar. Dish focuses the field, tubing’s the conductor. Duct tape’s… duct tape.”
Jack covered them, firing controlled bursts. “Mac, you’re half-dead. Let us handle—”
“Jack.” Mac’s voice was quiet but sharp. “I’m fine. You’re the one who’s gonna have a heart attack if you don’t relax.”
Sam and Mac worked in frantic tandem. Tubing coiled around the jar. Dish mounted on a busted tripod. Mac poured the thermos—coffee, black and thick—over the connections. “Caffeine’s a decent electrolyte in a pinch.”
Daniel provided cover fire, muttering, “I’m adding ‘caffeinated containment field’ to the notebook.”
Teal’c hauled a wounded NID operative behind the Jeep for questioning. “This one claims their leader plans to sell the jar to the Trust.”
“Great,” Jack said. “Alien tech eBay.”
The cage hummed. The jar’s glow dimmed, stabilized. But the NID leader—Buzz-Cut—wasn’t done. She lobbed a grenade. It rolled under the Jeep. Mac dove, grabbed it, and punted it like a football. It arced, landed in the dry wash, and exploded in a geyser of sand. Jack stared. “You just—”
“Little soccer tots champs, ’62,” Mac said, grinning through blood loss. “Coach said I had a leg.”
Buzz-Cut charged, firing. Mac staggered, took a round to the shoulder. Jack roared, tackled her. Fists flew. Sam zatted two goons. Teal’c disarmed another with a move that looked like ballet and violence had a baby. Mac, swaying, rigged the Jeep’s winch to the satellite dish. “Jack! On three, cut the power to the cage!”
Jack broke Buzz-Cut’s nose, rolled clear. “One…”Mac slammed the winch.
The dish spun, redirecting the containment field into a focused beam. “Two…”
Sam yanked the coffee-soaked wire. “Three!”
The beam hit the remaining NID operatives. Their weapons sparked, fried. They dropped, twitching. Silence fell, broken only by the jar’s low hum and Mac’s ragged breathing. Jack knelt beside his brother. “Mac. Talk to me.”
Mac’s eyes fluttered. “M’okay. Just… need a nap.” He slumped.
Sam checked his pulse. “He’s lost a lot of blood. We need evac.”
Jack scooped him up fireman-style. “Not leaving him. Carter, call it in.”
The SGC chopper arrived in fifteen minutes. Medics swarmed. Mac was loaded onto a stretcher, muttering about duct tape and pancakes. Later, at the Phoenix Foundation’s Los Angeles headquarters, Jack carried Mac into the infirmary. Pete Thornton— sharp-eyed, and looking like he’d aged ten years in one afternoon—met them at the door.“Jack,” Pete said, voice tight. “Heard he pulled your team out of a radioactive firefight. After surviving a plane crash. And a shootout in Mexico.”
Jack laid Mac on a gurney. “He’s stubborn.”
“Runs in the family.” Pete checked Mac’s vitals. “Three days no sleep, two bullet wounds, dehydration. He’s grounded for a month.”
Mac stirred. “Pete… no....can do… got a thing in Prague…”
“Sleep,” Pete ordered. “Doctor’s orders. And Jack’s.”
Jack squeezed Mac’s hand. “You scared the hell out of me, kid.”
Mac managed a sleepy grin. “You’re welcome.”
SG-1 watched from the doorway. Daniel whispered, “So that’s what he does. Saves the world, one explosion at a time.”
Sam nodded. “And Jack still won’t tell us anything.”
Teal’c smiled—actually smiled. “Some mysteries are best left unsolved.”
Jack lingered as the nurses hooked up IVs. “Pancakes when you wake up. My treat.”
Mac’s eyes closed. “Extra syrup…”
Pete clapped Jack on the shoulder. “He’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, look like you need a drink.”
Jack glanced back at his team. “Make it a double.”
Outside, the California sun set in a blaze of orange. Inside, Mac slept, dreaming of duct tape and quieter days.