As a thank you for your patience, I powered through this one as quickly as I could! I appreciate everyone who's continued reading along... you guys are incredible.

Chapter Eight

Mac swore up and down he would never take oxygen for granted again.

He coughed, convulsing with the effort as water poured from his mouth and nose, making way for the air he so desperately needed.

Sucking in as much musty warehouse air as possible, Mac grunted in protest as a firm, meaty hand gripped the sopping mop of blond and jerked the agent to his knees. Teeth clenched and eyes screwed tightly shut, Mac focused on breathing deeply and keeping as much weight as possible off his bad leg, which had been passably set and splinted by Manuel several hours prior.

The maddening, barely-there touch tracing his cheek and brushing matted hair from his face didn't quite catch Mac by surprise, even with his eyes closed. He grimaced, jaw tightening in a futile attempt to catch the guttural moan that slipped past his defenses.

His lungs burned like hell. The thumb brushing his cheekbone triggered a sensation akin to ice; a cold numbness that spread to his neck and hairline.

"Señor MacGyver." Mac's name fell easily from the older man's lips, liberally laced with mock affection. "I fear you overestimate your endurance."

Mac coughed up a lungful of water, wincing at the accompanying rattle in his chest. The way El Noche's mouth quirked upward, it was clear the cartel kingpin had noticed it too.

"You need rest, niño bonito. How does the American saying go... you scratch my back, I'll scratch yours? Tell me what I want to know, and I'll give you time alone to rest. Bueno?"

Forcing himself to ignore the tub of murky water to his left, Mac summoned what fortitude he had left and grinned widely - albeit dazedly - at his captor. "No comprende, amigo."

Calloused hands at his throat sent panic spiking through his chest like a bolt of lightning, feverish blue eyes blown wide as Sancola dragged him upward, just enough to lift his knees from the floor. Mustache mere inched from his prisoner's face, Sancola growled, "Who. Do. You. Work. For?"

"The good guys."

He was dropped like a hot iron, knees hitting the floor hard enough to draw a grunt of pain. Mac drew a shuddering breath of anticipation even before Sancola gave the order.

"Again, Santiago."

Inhumanly powerful hands took Mac under the arms, hauling him back to the painfully familiar tub and forcing his head under for the umpteenth time. A boot to his ribs knocked the breath from his lungs; experience taught him that trying to hold his breath only meant he stayed under longer, but self-preservation pushed him to breathe as deeply as possible before each round anyway.

Mac couldn't quite decide if this was better or worse than the nitrogen. He still couldn't breathe. Every second deprived of oxygen sent him into a deeper state of panic.

Water and nitrogen were a close match, but the shattered leg, numerous bruises and gashes, and battered ribs made Mac's first round with El Noche pale in comparison to round two.

An eternity passed before Santiago's grip shifted, jerking Mac away from the tub and letting him fall. Metal opened the skin above his left brow as Mac's forehead clipped the sharp edge of the basin, water pouring from his nose and mouth as he struggled to draw a sufficient breath.

Crimson clouded his vision, tracking down and leaving an acrid, metallic sensation on his tongue. Mac gagged at the combined taste and smell, focusing every ounce of energy to simply keep from losing what little he had left in his stomach.

Heavily adorned knuckles colliding with his midsection easily forced a rough, wet cough from his throat, droplets flying from his hair as he doubled over. Flesh and metal struck his temple next, the rough edge of El Noche's ring scoring a deep gash from Mac's hairline to his eyebrow.

Mac struggled to focus as blood mingled with the water streaming down his face and dripped to the floor. His once-white shirt was a mess of various pinks and reds, accented by the occasional smudge of dirt.

El Noche was speaking again, Mac thought, but he sounded distant. Waterlogged as his ears were, Mac wasn't surprised. Blood dripped down his forehead, trickling down to gather on his eyelashes. The young Phoenix agent closed his eyes, doing his very best just to keep himself kneeling upright as his captor carried on, probably spinning a painfully colorful string of threats that might've frightened Mac if he'd had the energy to listen to them.

Without warning, a piercing burst of gunfire sounded from the other side of the thick wooden door, jerking Mac to full awareness. El Noche had drawn his gun in an instant, keeping a firm grip on Mac's collar as he continued to kneel, dripping on the floor.

"Your friends, American?" The cartel leader demanded, pushing the muzzle of his weapon under Mac's chin. "You think they'll get you out of here alive? Think again, boy."

The heavy wooden door slammed open with a bang. Mac was jerked to his feet, fast and sharp enough to bring bile to his throat as his mangled leg protested violently. He swallowed the nausea, gritting his teeth as El Noche's gun lodged against his jaw again.

He couldn't bring himself to look Jack in the eyes. Not like this. Mac deliberately kept his eyes closed, focusing on maintaining his balance and the steady sound of his rescuer's boots treading closer.

"One more step and the boy is dead." Hot and damp against his ear, El Noche's voice made Mac's skin crawl. "I'll put a bullet right through his pretty head unless you back up."

"Dare you."

Mac's eyes flew open at the lilting taunt, panic spiking in his chest like a bolt of electricity. Anything but this. No, no, no...

The voice was definitely not Jack's. Not even close.

"I dare you. Go on and splatter his beautiful brain all over the room... We'll see if you like what comes after."

Murdoc. The last person on Earth Mac wanted to see. And yet... he almost felt relieved, despite himself.

The drug lord's gun wavered ever so slightly as he assessed the newcomer with wary curiosity. He turned ever so slightly to his left, addressing the man who stood at the ready, gun leveled at the dark intruder. "Mátalo, Santiago."

Santiago was dead before he could even register the kill order, crimson spraying from his forehead as he jerked and fell backward.

Mac gasped when the spray hit him, covering the side of his face in a mist of red. He convulsed sharply, dropping to the wet cement as hot bile spilled down his ruined shirt. A wretched sob caught in his throat, and wet coughs racked his bruised frame and forced him to double over, bloodied face mere inches from the fresh pool of vomit.

The pristine, glass-like shine of newly polished leather caught light and turned MacGyver's attention as the newcomer began his leisurely approach. "Seems you've broken him."

The casual observation seemed to amuse El Noche even as his gun remained leveled at the taller man; he laughed sardonically, gripping Mac by the hair and jerking him up, prompting another small burst of burning acid to fill the agent's mouth. "He was a tough one to break, señor. But I take pride in my work."

"No, no, my friend." Painfully deliberate in his tone, every word dripped slowly from the assassin's tongue like poison. Murdoc eyed Mac again, his expression darkening. "Not that. I mean that you've broken my favorite toy. And that, well... I just don't have it in me to forgive."

Another gunshot. Mac crumpled, no hand in his hair to keep him upright. El Noche was the last of them.

He and Murdoc were alone in a cartel compound littered with dead bodies.

"Jack," he gasped, struggling to his knees.

"You'll see him soon enough, MacGyver. Don't you worry your pretty head about it. Murdoc is handling everything." The assassin hauled his quarry upright, gripping his bicep with surprising strength. Murdoc's blade slid between his wrists, severing the thick plastic ties in one fluid movement.

"D'n touch me," Mac breathed tiredly, inwardly loathing the way Murdoc's touch sent ice up his arm, but his tongue was too thick and his throat too tight to give any edge to his protests.

"Angus, dear, unless you want to land in a puddle of your own vile nausea, I'm afraid I can't oblige you." A dark smile curving the corner of his lips, Murdoc wrapped his nemesis' limp, dirt-streaked arm around his shoulders, locking his own arm solidly around the young agent's slim hips. "And Angus, pet, do try to keep your rank fluids inside where they belong. I've promised to keep you intact..." Murdoc surveyed the younger man with an unnerving combination of amusement and dismay. "Well, as 'intact' as I found you... But if you vomit on my new leather shoes, I don't know that I can uphold that promise."

Blond lashes fluttered heavily, struggling to lift more than a crack. MacGyver swallowed thickly, wincing at the acrid taste on his tongue. "I'm nnn..." The word faded into an agonized groan. "...nnnobody's pet." Having mustered as much venom as he could for that mildly biting retort, the effort proved too tiresome in his pitiful state, and the blond's head lolled side to side, unable to keep upright.

Observing his quarry's pitiful condition, Murdoc couldn't quite decide whether to laugh or to seethe. "Go on and tell yourself that, sweetheart."

Despite his battered state, Murdoc easily caught the way Mac bristled at the affectionate nickname. He also noted how the younger man decidedly favored his right leg, and a professional assessment of the little torture room drew his eye to the crowbar lying next to the abandoned mess of a metal chair.

"How's the leg?" The question was casual, void of any trace of sympathy, as if the assassin was making casual small talk.

Mac merely shook his head in reply, focusing the bulk of his waning energy on shuffling his good leg in time with Murdoc's long strides.

Grunting ambiguously - whether from exertion or annoyance, Mac couldn't be sure - Murdoc shifted his grip, taking on more of the younger man's weight to relieve the mangled limb. Initially reading the action as a considerate gesture, it was a matter of moments before Mac sensed the change in pace as Murdoc's strides grew longer and quicker.

Too fast.

The room wheeled and tilted, fog pressing in from all angles. Pain returned with a vengeance, chasing the last remnants of adrenaline from Mac's system as he struggled to maintain his precarious grip on the taller man.

"Mmm... Murd..."

Slow down. Can't breathe.

Something in Murdoc's shoulders tightened; aggravation was evident in his expression as his gaze drifted to the fresh corpse at his feet. "Should have killed him slower." Head shaking almost imperceptibly, the assassin paused mere inches from the body. "Ah, well. Hindsight is twenty-twenty... and adrenal fatigue is a bitch."

Eyeing the younger man at his side with a baffling mixture of concern and excitement, Murdoc noted the sudden change in MacGyver's demeanor and prepared to adjust his hold once again.

"I know it's not every day a dark and debonaire gentleman sweeps you off your feet, Angus, but don't get the wrong idea." One smooth movement, and Mac's weight was entirely in Murdoc's arms; air hissing through his teeth, Mac bit back a cry of discomfort. "We'll keep this strictly professional, agreed?"

Mac groaned, reluctantly relaxing in his rescuer's arms as the pressure in his leg alleviated. Helpless to keep his eyes from falling shut, he felt Murdoc step over Sancola's body, moving easily across the musty prison. Each long, steady stride tugged him further into the welcoming darkness; the first lilting, whistled bars of Home On the Range serenaded his descent into the increasingly familiar void.

This is the scene I was most excited about tackling and I really hope I was able to do it justice! ;) Leave me feedback if you can!