Trampoline + Balloons + Drugs + Landing

by Rosamund_Calais

Summary:

When the team is trapped in a warehouse on the top of a hill, the only way out is up. But what goes up must come down....

Chapter 1

The rental van they’re using for surveillance isn’t much to look at, which is pretty much the point. Rusty and dented, from the outside it looks like the least likely vehicle to be involved in a spy caper. In the first three hours since Riley parked it at the scenic overlook halfway up the hill, it did its job pretty well.

That all changes when Mac and Jack get caught planting cameras along the fence line outside the warehouse on the top of the hill. She hears the whole thing on comms before they go dead, and then tracks the goons who caught Mac and Jack as they march them uphill to the warehouse, where they all disappear. She hasn’t been able to find any cameras in the warehouse, which was why they were planting some in the first place. The thermal satellite view isn’t very useful either. There are far too many hotspots in the warehouse.

“The tac team is nearly three hours out,” Matty tells her. It’s just bad timing; another team’s op went sideways before theirs did, and Matty had to deploy the tac team that had been nearer to them. “Sit tight and keep comms open in case Mac gets a signal out.”

She does, setting up the van’s receivers to notify her about new or unusual signal patterns, because she can’t listen to every channel on her own and the analysts back in LA don’t have remote access to all of the equipment. They were supposed to be done with the whole op before the satellite she’s using moves out of range, and now she has to find another one, but there’s a solid fourteen minute gap in the middle.

Riley knows she’s in trouble as soon as the next satellite comes online, showing her an updated view of the area around the surveillance van. The number of goons patrolling the fenceline quadrupled after Mac and Jack got caught, and sometime between one satellite and another, the goons started pushing their patrol perimeter outward. Now they’re almost to the van. Worse, it looks like they’ve already set up a checkpoint down the road.

“Matty,” she says, “I’ve got a problem.” Jill is remote-mirroring Riley’s screen in the war room, so she knows Matty will be looking at the same view she’s just pulled up. The warehouse is tucked into a clearing at the top of the steep hill, and the van is parked on the side of the road about a half-mile away from the main gate, at the scenic overlook.

The patrol has already cut off the escape route, and there’s nowhere to go if she drives the other way except to the warehouse. But abandoning the van isn’t necessarily going to keep her out of trouble either. There aren’t that many places to hide, and very little cover near the scenic overlook. If she tries to cross the road, she’ll probably be spotted.

That leaves just one option. “I’m going to hide behind the lower electrical panel,” she says. It’ll be a squeeze, and someone will eventually look there, but probably not right away. Only someone her size could actually fit there.

She shuts down her laptop before Matty can reply and grabs Jack’s spare gun and the sat phone before she crawls backwards into the space behind the panel. She barely has time to snap it back closed before the side door slides open.

#

The door closes with a bang, followed by the sound of a key turning in the lock. Mac lets out a long breath and tugs his arms, testing the duct tape again. He and Jack are taped to separate chairs, with one band of duct tape around each wrist, and one at each ankle. The chairs look like they were stolen from an auditorium, with a silver metal frame and upholstered–but firmly uncomfortable–pads on the seat and back. “I’m taped down too tight to get a rip started,” he says. “How about you?”

Jack’s struggles are vigorous enough to make his chair rock, but he shakes his head. “No good leverage. Maybe if we get our chairs bumped up together one of us can reach the other’s wrist.”

Mac doesn't have a better idea and that’s worked for them before, so he starts to throw his weight back and forth, making the chair inch across the floor toward Jack. He’s worried enough about the men who tied them up that he ignores the way the lower half of his right leg throbs in time with his movements. “Did you get a look at the bottles they injected us from?” he asks, partly to breathe through the growing pain, partly to distract Jack from the fact that he’s in pain, and partly because mystery injections are always worrisome. He can still feel the sting of the needle in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “You feeling anything unusual?”

“It was somethin’ yellowish,” Jack says between bouts of throwing himself sideways.

“Thanks, that really narrows it down,” Mac deadpans, pausing to check the distance between them. They started out five or six feet apart and have closed half the distance. “This is taking too long,” he adds, looking toward the door at the faint sound of another door somewhere else slamming. A jolt of alarm goes through him, and he grits his teeth and resumes shaking his chair. His lower leg isn’t going to matter much if they’re still stuck in the chairs when their captors return. “I wish we knew if Riley tracked us. Those guys are going to be back any second.” He rolls his neck, hating the tension he feels building there. “Wish I knew how long it’ll be before these drugs kick in.”

“I don’t know,” Jack says. “What kind of thing gets injected into your neck normally?”

“Not many things are supposed to get injected into the neck.” Mac pauses to check the distance again. He’s near enough he could reach out and pull the tape off Jack’s wrists if he wasn’t tied down. He’s breathing hard–could that be from the drugs? Or is it just the effort of moving the chair without use of his arms or legs combined with the throbbing pain?

Jack’s still shuffling his chair across the floor with enthusiasm. Within a few seconds his knees knock into Mac’s, and Mac only contains a cry of pain because it hurts too much to get out more than a wheeze.

Jack doesn’t notice, fortunately; he’s too focused on shuffling his chair around to get his left arm up by Mac’s.

When Mac stretches his fingers, he can just touch the edge of the duct tape on Jack’s left wrist with his fingertips. “Hold still,” he says. The edge of the tape is visible but not useful; he can’t move enough to unwrap Jack. He angles his fingers to push his fingernail against the edge and rubs at it.

“Is your finger a saw now?” Jack huffs a laugh. “I don’t know if that’s gonna do it before those guys get back in here, hoss.”

“I don’t have anything else to work with.” Mac presses harder on the tape. His efforts aren’t making much of a dent in it. He glances at the door, half-expecting they’ve already taken too long and he’ll find their captors returning, then back at the stubborn tape. “Do you?”

“Nope, nothing.” Jack angles his arm to pull the tape more taut, then starts bouncing his arm upward. “Press your finger against the very edge, Mac.”

Mac does. His scratching isn’t enough but it’s the best plan he has. He glances toward the door again then back at Jack’s wrist, scratching harder. He needs a better idea, but they just don’t have much to work with. They aren’t going to be able to break the metal frames of the chairs, and the room’s walls are smooth drywall, not a splinter or rough edge in sight. There’s a small table to one side with the two empty syringes laying on it, but it’s too low for him to reach the needles.

“Hey, calm down,” Jack says. “You’re not feeling those drugs are you?”

Mac realizes he’s breathing too fast and tries to slow his breath down. “No, nothing like that,” he says. The one thing he’s pretty sure is that it wasn’t sodium pentathol, because that would have been a clear injection and he doesn’t feel any particular urge to confess to tell Jack about how his pain has gone from the mild ache of a possible twisted ankle to throbbing pain of some worse injury in the thirty minutes they’ve been in the chairs. Whatever the mystery substance was, it definitely doesn’t have any analgesic properties. But there are a hundred other substances their captors might have come up with to trick or torture information out of them. “Whatever it is, I don’t think it’s kicked in yet.”

Just then, the tape starts to rip. Jack gives a whoop as his arm comes free.

“Quiet,” Mac hisses immediately, looking at the door again.

“Yeah, sorry, just excited.” Jack shakes free of the tape and reaches for his other arm. Within seconds, he’s freed both his own arms and Mac’s, and they’re both working on their own ankles. Mac hisses at the way the tape yanks at his leg.

Jack gets himself loose first and stands up, reaching down to give Mac a hand. Mac takes it and lets Jack take some of his weight on his right side.

“How’s your ankle?” Jack asks, looking toward Mac’s feet.

Mac’s wearing boots and he’s going to have to rely on them for ankle support, because there’s absolutely nothing else in the room that would help. Even if there was, he doesn’t think they ought to stick around any longer than necessary. “It’s fine,” he says. “Let’s keep moving. The sooner we get out of here, the sooner you can drag me to medical, right?”

“You betcha.” Jack grins and they move to the door, and it’s no surprise the door handle is locked, but Jack produces two paper clips from a pocket and hands them to Mac. “This one’s on you.”

Mac unfolds them and starts to work the lock. It’s a stubborn one, and he’s quickly frustrated. It feels like time is slipping away. Even if their captors don’t catch them breaking out of the room, they’re not going to be able to move quickly even after they get out. Not with the way his ankle hurts with him just standing up. “Doesn’t want to come.”

“You’ll get it,” Jack says from behind him, and the chipper tone of his voice makes the tension that’s creeping through Mac unwind a little. “Either that or I get to punch a few guys.”

“Better if we just get out of here without being spotted.” He pulls the paperclips out, adjusts the angle they’re bent at, and tries again.

This time the lock finally clicks, and he ditches the paperclips and glances at Jack, confirming his partner is ready before he opens the door.

There’s nobody in the hall. Jack takes the lead even though he doesn’t have a weapon anymore. Mac limps along behind him, doing his best to keep up and not let Jack get distracted worrying about him.

The door at the end of the hallway opens right up when Jack tries it, revealing a large room with large crates stacked to one side. It’s some kind of warehouse, but they can’t read the words printed on the crates.

Jack plunges into an aisle between crates, with Mac still behind him. He pauses in the doorway to lean against the jam for a moment, letting his right leg rest. “You sure this is the way out? None of this looks familiar.”

“Nope,” Jack says over his shoulder. “But we gotta keep moving, right?”

Mac could argue that they’d be better off hiding, at least until he can find or construct some kind of weapon or communications device, but Jack is already moving away from him at a jog and he doesn’t want to raise his voice. He follows along, telling himself that Jack’s instincts are usually right about things like this, and wishes he didn’t feel like he’s about to shatter, less from the pain that runs up his leg with every step and more from the raging anxiety that’s suddenly plaguing him.

He’s not usually a ball of nerves on missions. Maybe those drugs are doing something after all. On the other hand, Jack doesn’t seem to be on edge like he is; if anything, he seems just the opposite. So it's probably just the pain getting to him, putting him on edge. He just needs to hold it together while they find a way out.

Chapter 2

Riley has a few moments of panic when it occurs to her that the goons could simply decide to dispose of the van by rolling it over the scenic overlook. That would pretty much ensure nobody’s surveilling them anymore.

Fortunately, they find the keys and decide to drive it up to the warehouse instead. She’d breathe a sigh of relief if she wasn’t squeezed so tight behind the panel that she can barely breathe at all.

The winding drive only takes a couple minutes. Riley can’t see anything but they’re definitely going uphill, and the only thing uphill is the warehouse. The van comes to a stop and the goons get out, apparently leaving all the doors open, because she can hear them standing outside, debating something in whatever language they speak.

She’s feeling a little light-headed, and if they don’t move away from the van pretty soon so she can get out of her hiding spot, she’s afraid she might faint.

Fortunately the voices fade away before the black spots take over her vision. She pushes the panel open and half-falls out of it onto the van floor, where she lays on her back, sucking in deep breaths until she can sit herself up. Her laptop is missing, and every other piece of equipment that wasn’t physically attached to the van has been removed. All that’s left is what she grabbed. She tucks the sat phone into the waistband of her pants at the small of her back, where it’s hidden under her jacket. It’s hard to imagine no one would pat her down there if she got caught, but you never know.

She keeps the gun in her hand as she slips out of the van by the side door and sprints full-out for the nearest stack of crates. The van isn’t the only vehicle here; she seems to be in a loading dock area. It’s tucked in amongst a few old Eastern Bloc-looking cars that Jack could probably have identified and Mac could definitely have hot-wired, and two beat-up trucks that looked like they had delivered party supplies in a former lifetime. All the loading bay doors are closed and she could probably open one up, but she’s not sure exactly what’s on the other side. One thing she is sure about is that there were two lines of fencing she’d have to get through to escape.

She needs to find Mac and Jack. They’re in here somewhere, and now that she’s here, she’s not leaving without them.

#

“What the hell?” Jack is three steps past the end of the aisle of crates in the largest room they’ve come to yet. He turns back to Mac with a worried look on his face, putting his hand to his neck and rubbing at the spot where he’d been injected. “I feel fine, I swear, but I think I’m hallucinating.”

The back of Mac’s neck is tingling even though the room they’ve moved into sounds deserted, and his shoulders are tight with tension. He’s pretty sure the serious case of paranoia he’s developing is from the drugs, and if Jack’s starting to hallucinate, they're going to be in real trouble.

He’s already checked behind them a couple times, but he can’t help doing it again before he creeps closer to Jack, using the line of crates along his left for support as he limps along. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Take a look, homie, and tell me what you see.” Jack spreads his arms wide. He’s speaking too loudly, and his gesture is far too enthusiastic considering they’re trying not to draw any attention to themselves. “Do you see like five hundred balloons?”

Mac pokes his head around the last stack of crates, half-expecting to see nothing but more crates, but the balloons are hard to miss. In the middle of the room, bunches of brightly-colored helium balloons are contained under a net that bulges toward the ceiling. He’s momentarily relieved that Jack isn't hallucinating because willpower is the only thing keeping Mac from crawling into a corner and curling up into a ball. "Yeah, I see them.”

“What the hell kind of plot are these dudes incubating that needs 500 helium balloons?”

Mac had been about to suggest they move on and try the exit doors, but the idea that the balloons might be part of a plan, not just part of a cover, gives him pause. He moves toward the center of the room, where a dozen tall blue canisters are clustered at the edge of the balloon net. He’s halfway there when Jack scoots up close to his right side, offering Mac an arm. “You sure that ankle of yours is doing okay, hoss?”

“I’ll let you know if I need to stop,” Mac says, but he leans on Jack’s arm as they approach the canisters. The labels claim they’re filled with helium, and he doesn’t see anything nearby that would suggest there’s anything else in the balloons, but he can’t shake the feeling that Jack could be right. He takes a long, deep breath and tries to fight through his emotions and back to logic. “Maybe they’re just regular balloons, Jack.”

“Uh-uh, no way.” Jack reaches up and separates one balloon from the nearest bunch. He pulls another paper clip out of his pocket and works it through the rubber near the knot.

Alarmed, Mac tries to snatch the balloon away. “Jack, what are you doing?”

Jack dances out of reach. “Taking a sample for ya,” he says, and brings balloon up to his lips.

For a horrified moment, Mac can’t even move. It’s got to be the drugs. Not everybody reacts to drugs the same way. Jack’s never this reckless for no reason, and they aren’t here for toxic balloons. “Jack, that could be anything in there. You can’t just breathe it in—”

Jack is already sucking the air out of the balloon. “Smells like helium to me,” he says in a high-pitched chipmunk voice that makes it clear that whatever else is in there, helium is definitely a big component.

Mac swats the balloon away on his second try. His voice shakes when he turns to Jack.Jack’s a little flush in the face, more than normal but maybe not more than a couple minutes ago. He doesn’t see anything else visibly wrong with his partner, but there’s clearly something wrong with Jack. “There could be something toxic mixed in with it. They could be planning to explode these balloons in a public place, or at some kind of event, or…” Worried and out of ideas, he glares at Jack.

“How are they gonna even do that?” Jack asks, still sounding squeaky. It’s a little hard to take him seriously. “Send in their goons to stomp on ‘em?”

“I don’t know,” Mac returns. He wraps his arms around himself, rubbing at his upper arms. He’s aware that he doesn't feel right at all, but it feels like Jack is being more… Jack than normal and it’s getting on his nerves. “You said it was a plot, so what do you think? All these balloons are doing right now is distracting us from getting out of here. What’s your pro—” He stops, clamping his mouth shut over the rest of his words. Jack doesn’t bounce from concern to nonchalance so quickly, not when they’re in a situation like this. And Mac usually saves his freak-outs for after they’re safely home. Nothing feels right and it’s not just the weird goons with their weird warehouse. It’s him. And it’s Jack. “I think maybe those drugs have kicked in.”

Jack stops poking at balloons and twists to look him up and down. “Yeah? What’re you feeling, hoss? You look a little peaked.”

“Just a little…” He clears his throat, sorry he’s brought it up, but Jack is looking at him expectantly and they’re in the middle of a situation. He owes it to Jack to be honest. “Okay, a lot on edge.”

Jack’s face scrunches up. “That ain’t like you at all. Is that why you’re dragging along behind me? It’s not just that ankle?”

“Uh, well.” Mac looks away, scanning the room again. He can’t shake the feeling they are being watched. There has to be someone guarding this place. There had certainly been enough guys involved when he and Jack got apprehended in the midst of planting surveillance equipment. He gives Jack a shrug, a twitch of his shoulders.

“I’m not feeling it yet,” Jack declares after a moment, even though Mac’s pretty certain Jack’s feeling the drugs, just not in the same way Mac is. Mac’s a ball of anxiety, and Jack is getting loopier as they go. “Feeling pretty good, actually. Maybe they screwed up that injection. Not supposed to be in the neck, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

Just then there’s a soft thumping sound from somewhere in the warehouse. Instincts override thought, and Mac drops to a crouch as his adrenaline spikes. It’s exactly the wrong move, putting pressure on his leg in exactly the wrong way. The only way he stops a cry of pain is by holding his breath.

Jack doesn’t seem as alarmed, but he steps toward Mac, patting his hip before he glances down at the empty holster. He makes a hissing noise and reaches down to pull Mac up. “Let’s move,” he mutters.

Mac points at the nearest stack of crates and grabs Jack’s arm, leaning heavily on it. They’re slower than they would be if Mac could run, but the best he can manage is a fast hobble even though Jack is supporting much of his weight. They round the stack and have to stop abruptly when they almost run into a row of what Mac realizes, after a second, are circular trampolines sitting on their sides.

Jack gives a soft snort. “What is this, some kind of terrorist party zone?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s still just a cover,” Mac whispers back, letting go of Jack and using the nearest crates for support instead. He’s not going to be able to make a run for it—his leg hurts so much after that crouch he can barely walk—so hiding seems like the next best option. The round jumping surface of each trampoline is only semi-opaque, so they can’t just hide behind the first one in the row. They’ll need to be several trampolines back.

He passes four trampolines before he hears a gasp and a familiar voice call his name. “Mac?”

#

Riley has no idea what part of the warehouse she’s in or how many more places there are to search. She expected there to be more guys inside the place, but maybe they’ve all been sent out to patrol the perimeter. If that’s the case, she has a limited amount of time to find Mac and Jack before they get called back to their regular duties.

She’s been sneaking around long enough she’s beginning to wonder if the missing members of the team are even in here. It’s time to get in contact with the Phoenix. She passes through one last door and finds herself face-to-face with—are those trampolines? The warehouse gets weirder and weirder. She crawls between two of them and pulls the satellite phone out of where she tucked it into her waistband earlier, and then groans when she takes a good look at it and realizes it’s not the phone at all. It’s the backup GPS unit.

Frustrated, she stuffs it into her jacket pocket and sits down to consider her options. The warehouse is huge, and nobody knows she’s here. Nobody’s looking for her. But she has no good way to contact the Phoenix and she hasn’t figured out where the guys who caught her took the electronics they confiscated from the van. She doesn’t have a map to the building or any idea how many more rooms she’ll have to look for before she’s searched it all.

Just then, she hears the sound of a door clicking shut, and uneven footsteps. Shortly after that, she hears voices muttering somewhere nearby. She shifts to pull Jack’s gun from where she tucked it away, thumping it accidentally against the phone in her pocket as she tries to shift while penned in by the trampolines on each side.

There’s silence for a minute before the footsteps move toward her. She tenses up, pulling herself around so she’s crouching on her feet, Jack’s gun in her right hand.

But when the footsteps finally reach her, she gasps and lowers the gun. “Mac?”

Mac stares at her. “Riley? How did you get here?”

“Ri?” Jack pokes his head around Mac’s shoulder. “Man, are you sure I’m not hallucinating? What’re you doin’ here, Ri?”

Mac scoffs at him. “No, she’s really here.” But he throws Jack a concerned look and then glances around the room.

“I’m looking for you two.” Riley pushes to her feet and throws her arms around both of them.

Mac grunts but moves his arms to catch her even as it seems like she might have inadvertently knocked him over. Jack catches them both, offering a squeeze before Riley notices how white Mac’s face has gotten and pulls back in alarm. “What’s wrong, Mac?”

“It’s fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “I’m fine.”

“Nobody believes you.” Jack shifts his grip to lean Mac against the crates. “It’s that ankle, ain't it? Let’s take a look.”

“Not right now,” Mac says, looking toward Riley as if expecting her to take his side.

She folds her arms instead. “I think you should let Jack take a look.”

Mac’s expression turns petulant but he doesn’t move while Jack crouches down and tugs his pant leg up, humming as he presses his hands on each side of Mac’s leg, starting at the ankle and moving up. Mac gets more pale every time Jack’s hands move, and Riley grabs for his arm, afraid he’s going to tip sidewalks and collapse.

“Can’t feel anything out of place but it’s pretty swollen,” Jack announces after a minute. “Maybe a bad sprain, maybe a fracture. Either way, you probably shoulda fessed up a while back.” He looks up at Riley. “What’s the best path out, Ri? You got the satellite view?”

Riley shakes her head. “I don’t have anything, Jack. Except your gun.” She offers the weapon to him. “But these guys tripled security at the perimeter and set up blockades along the road as soon as they found you. The van’s in the loading dock, but I don’t think we can just drive out of here.”

“So we’re not getting out of here on wheels,” Jack says. “And we’re not hikin’ out with that ankle of yours unless I strap you to my back or something, Mac, like those baby backpacks, you know those things?”

Mac gives him a nonplussed look. “That’s… no, Jack. We’re not doing that.” He shivers, and looks all around as if he’s expecting they’re about to be jumped. “But we need to get out of here soon. How long until the tac team shows up? If the goons haven’t realized we’re missing it won’t be long until they do.”

“At least two more hours, but the exfil coordinates are two miles away.”

Jack shakes his head. “We need another way out. If we could get Matty on the line maybe she could find us a bird. Up might be the best way out.”

“I don’t have any tech, Jack, remember? Unless Mac can build us a phone, we’re not getting Matty on any lines.”

Just then Mac makes a noise. “I think I have an idea,” he says, looking over Riley’s shoulder at the trampolines she was hiding in. “We’re just going to need one of those trampolines and, well, probably all of the balloons…”

Notes:

Shout-out to Fesweetpea for beta'ing this chapter for me!

Chapter 3

Mac regrets everything the moment a breeze hits the trampoline and it starts to sway. “This was a mistake,” he says, squeezing his eyes shut as they rotate in the air, probably climbing, but he’s not sure he wants to know. It’s only been thirty seconds since they cut the ties that held the trampoline down while they were attaching the balloons and his heart feels like it’s going to beat right out of his chest.

He can’t stay there. He has to get off. Maybe between him and Jack, they can grab one of the anchors again and reverse course. He rolls toward Jack, ready to lunge for any solid item he can reach, anything that will stop this wild, ill-planned ride. “We shouldn’t have done this. We need to get off before it gets any higher. Jack—”

The trampoline tilts sideways with his shifting weight and immediately both Riley and Jack start to hollar.

“No way, Mac,” Riley says, grabbing his arm as he tries to roll away. “We can’t get off now.”

“Woah!” Jack flops toward him, pinning Mac back down with one extended arm. “Are you kiddin’, hoss? Settle down! This is a brilliant escape.”

The smile slides off Jack’s face at the sound of gunshots from below. He leans away from Mac again toward the edge, then laughs. “In your face!” he yells, apparently at whoever is shooting, and Mac doesn’t want to think about how far up they must be already if Jack’s not worried about them getting hit. He shivers even though his leather jacket blocks the breeze.

Jack rolls onto his back again, chuckling. “We’re movin’ off to the west and I don’t think they’ll have much luck following us. They’d have to drive all the way down around that hill first.”

A gust of wind shoves against the trampoline, and Mac grabs for the frame. Unfortunately, their exfil coordinates are to the east, so they’re going exactly the wrong direction. Even if exfil spots them and figures out the agents they’re retrieving are on a trampoline held aloft by a few hundred balloons—which seems like a stretch, even though his team’s unusual methods are well-known by everyone at the Phoenix—even if exfil knew it was them, they probably wouldn’t be able to follow either

He can't see the ground and doesn’t think he can make himself look, but he can see blue sky and fluffy, almost offensively cheery clouds against the deep blue sky above them. They’re definitely rising higher. Mac imagines the endless blue emptiness extends below them, as well, as if they’re floating through a void. If–maybe when–they hit a strong enough crosswind to rock the trampoline, they’ll fall and fall and fall….

“It’s okay, Mac,” Riley says. He feels her hand on his shoulder before her voice filters through his thoughts. He cracks an eye open. He’s rolled on his side in her direction and her concerned face fills his vision. “Everything’s okay.”

Everything is very much not okay. “We’re still going up,” Mac says, because that’s the thought that’s going in circles in his brain. “We’re still going up. We need to know how high we are. If we get above 15,000 feet the air pressure will be too low to keep us conscious.”

“We won’t go that high,” Riley says, but she looks past Mac as if she’s checking with Jack. “Will we?”

Mac squeezes his eyes shut. He should be able to calculate how high they’re likely to ascend based on the volume of the helium, the combined weight of them and the trampoline, and an estimate of atmospheric pressure but… he can’t. All he can think is that they’re so high up that there’s no possibility of surviving a fall. Falls from higher than 30 meters are 100% lethal in almost any circumstance. Meanwhile, the air is getting thinner and colder, and even if Matty has a live satellite view going, a satellite won’t have visibility through the hundreds of balloons above them. They’re going to float until something goes wrong with the air and then they’re going to die.

Absolutely nothing about the situation is okay.

“How high–” Mac stops, taking a breath before he can finish the sentence. “How high up are we?”

“Uh….”

Jack pipes up from his other side. “High enough the cars look like toys.”

Mac can’t help when his response is just a moan. He can’t seem to make words come out of his mouth.

“Oh hey. I forgot I had this.” Riley sounds excited suddenly, but Mac can’t force his eyes open to find out why.

Jack makes a cheated-sounding noise from his other side. “You said you didn’t have a phone.”

“It’s not a phone. It’s a GPS unit.” Riley falls silent for a moment. “Oh, okay, wow.”

“What?” Jack leans toward Mac, and the jumping surface dips, making Mac clutch harder at the frame. “Can you even use that thing when we’re making like superman?”

“B-be careful,” Mac gets out. “This really isn’t a stable platform. If you move too much we could tip.”

“I’m being careful,” Jack protests, flopping back onto his back, which makes the whole thing sway again. It’s not like him to be so indifferent to Mac’s fears, but the drugs are clearly still in his system, clearly still messing with his sense of

“You’re not,” Mac says. “That’s another reason we need to get down.” He put too many balloons on the trampoline. That’s obviously part of the problem. But the way they’re tied is going to make it really hard to release just a few. He’s not even sure they can reach the strings without overbalancing the trampoline.

Just the thought of getting that close to the edge makes him even more queasy.

“Current ground speed: forty miles an hour,” Riley reads off the GPS unit. “Altitude: ten-thousand two-hundred feet.”

“Riley,” Mac says. “Please stop using the word ‘ground’. It’s making it hard for me to think.”

“He’s afraid of heights,” Jack says to Riley, as if she didn’t know that.

Mac’s deathgrip on the edge of the trampoline’s jumping surface tightens. “Jack, shut up.” The air is already feeling chill, and it will get colder the further they go up. The air temperature at 10,000 feet is below freezing. If they don’t fall to their deaths or suffocate first, they’ll end up hypothermic pretty quickly.

“I’m the one who almost died in a plane crash last week,” says Riley. If Mac wasn’t convinced they were all about to die, he’d be happy that she sounds nearly as irritated with Jack as he feels.

“This is a totally different situation,” Jack argues. “You’re on a trampoline tied to a bunch of balloons. This is probably the end.”

Jack says it lightly, but Mac shivers. “Guys, I am trying to think.”

“Your thinking is what got us into this situation in the first place.”

“Yeah, but his thinking is what probably saved our lives,” Riley snaps. “We’re lucky we even got out of there.”

“Lucky? The very definition of unlucky is being in a situation where the only way out of it is to recreate something you saw in a kids’ movie.”

There’s a moment of silence before Riley changes the topic. “Guys, we’ve got a problem.”

Jack scoffs. “You mean another problem. Put it on the list.’

“The wind’s changing direction, It’s really picking up. We’re heading towards the ocean.”

“Wind speed will continue to increase as the air thins and we approach the jet stream,” Mac says. They weren’t more than thirty miles from the Atlantic Ocean to begin with. They’ve got maybe fifteen minutes to get off his trampoline deathtrap before they float out to sea, where it will be colder and windier. Falling to their deaths into frigid ocean water doesn’t honestly sound any better than falling onto solid ground.

“Well, that means we gotta get down like right now,” Jack says, sounding concerned for the first time. “How are we gonna do that?”

Mac reaches for his Swiss army knife. “We’ve got to start popping balloons.” He starts to pry open the biggest blade, but he’s startled by the sound of a gunshot close behind him, followed quickly by another. “Jack! What are you doing?”

“I’m saving our lives the Jack Dalton way,” Jack announces, and fires off a couple more rounds. It’s hard to know how many balloons he hit, but bits of plastic rain down on the trampoline’s surface.

Riley gasps. “It’s working. We’re down to 9,900 feet!”

Jack laughs and takes out more balloons.

“9,800 feet,” Riley reads off the GPS unit.

The trampoline is rocking more than before from the force of Jack’s shots and the sudden loss of so many balloons. But it’s going down. They can’t have been in the air more than twenty, maybe thirty minutes–if they can get to the ground in the next ten minutes, they won’t float out over the ocean. “Whatever works,” Mac gasps. “Just, Jack, hey–”

Jack doesn’t seem to hear him. Mac gropes blindly behind him until he rams his fingers into Jack. “Dude,” Jack says. “You’re messin’ up my aim.”

“S-stop shooting, Jack.”

“I thought you wanted down faster.”

“We’re already going down but if you keep shooting balloons there were won’t be enough lift to keep us from just falling.”

“Oh,” Jack says. The trampoline’s surface bows under his weight as he shifts, rolling over onto his belly. “Guess we’re probably going down fast enough.”

“Eight thousand five hundred feet,” Riley announces.

Jack is still looking down. He has to raise his voice over increasing air noise. “I can see the ocean, but the good news is, we’re not going straight for it, just kind of toward it at an angle.”

Mac’s stomach does another flip-flop, even knowing that at this altitude they’ll be able to see over long distances, as long as the sky is clear. Seeing the ocean doesn’t mean they’re going to float out over it. “It’s a ways off though, right?”

“Yeah, pretty far.” He pauses. “If you’re askin’ if we’re going to land before or after we get there, I don’t know.”

“Seven thousand feet,” Riley says.

“Seven—” Mac shifts toward Riley. It’s not exactly an uncontrolled descent, but it hasn’t been that long since they were at 8,500 feet. “Riley, how fast are we dropping?”

She turns the GPS unit to face Mac. The altitude reading is dropping faster than seems good. He squeezes his eyes shut to try to think, but he can’t. “Shit.”

“What’d you say?” Jack asks from behind him.

“He said shit,” Riley yells over Mac. “And we’re down to 6,800 feet. You popped too many balloons, Jack! We’re going to crash.”

“Well, maybe that’s better than flying out to sea. At least this way maybe we’ll bounce when we land.”

“Not at the rate we’re falling,” Mac says.

The longer they fall, the more gravity would increase their rate of descent, so as fast as they’re falling now, it’s only the start. The only way to slow their downward velocity would be to increase the lift by adding more balloons, which isn’t an option; increase their surface area, which they also have no way of achieving; or reduce the amount of weight on the trampoline. Otherwise, they’ll fall faster with every second that gravity pulls them downward until they reach… whatever the terminal velocity of a trampoline dragging a few hundred balloons is.

Chances are, it’ll be fast enough to kill them. There are too many variables for Mac to make any sort of accurate calculation, even if he had time.

“6,500 feet,” Riley says.

At the rate they’re descending he doesn’t have a lot of time to keep thinking about solutions. He scoots carefully onto his back and pulls his uninjured leg up, reaching for his foot. “Take off your shoes,” he says, raising his voice to make sure they can both hear him.

Riley looks up from the GPS unit. “What? Why?”

“We need to reduce the weight on this trampoline to slow our fall, and our shoes weigh a couple pounds each.”

“Great idea, hoss!” Jack says. “Knew you’d think of something.”

They’re all wearing leather boots, good quality and made to last. It’s a struggle unlacing a boot while keeping the trampoline steady, and they work in intense silence for half a minute. Jack doesn’t hesitate to toss his boots right over the edge, and Riley follows suit before taking Mac’s left shoe. That’s five boots, over ten pounds if Mac’s estimation isn’t too far off, but when Mac tries to get to his right foot, the pain is sharp enough he sees spots in his vision.

“Lemme get that,” Jack says. Mac’s hands jump back to the edge of the trampoline as Jack’s attempt to reach Mac’s right foot makes it sway dangerously, and he has to squeeze his eyes shut and breath through his mouth when Jack gets his leg angled up enough to unlace the boot.

“Got it,” Jack finally says, and Mac’s right foot is suddenly much colder. The trampoline shifts again as Jack throws Mac’s right shoe off.

Mac can’t speak for several more seconds. “Altitude?” he finally manages.

“Four thousand six hundred.”

They’re descending at about sixty feet per second, if it’s been half a minute. It might have been a bit longer; he lost track of time for at least a few seconds. But they still have more than four thousand feet to fall, and their fall rate will continue to increase, just a tiny bit more slowly.

“Jackets off,” Mac yells. He reaches for the cuffs of his jacket and begins to wriggle out of it. Three jackets could weigh as much as fifteen pounds, although Jack’s isn’t leather, just fabric. But it’s still a pound or two. “Toss them over. And your gun.”

“My gun?” Jack sounds affronted. “Are you sure?”

“Just do it,” Mac says, struggling with his jacket.

Riley’s out of hers first, but Jack isn’t far behind. Mac is hampered by the pain already shooting up his leg, until Riley rolls over and helps. Together, they manage to peel the jacket off and Riley hands it over to Jack, who drops it without a word.

RIley fumbles for the GPS unit and bites her lips. “Two thousand five hundred feet.”

“Let me see,” Mac says, and takes the unit when she hands it over. He watches the altitude reading drop, counting seconds in his head. Their downward velocity hasn’t slowed much, if at all. It’s hard to tell because while they’ve reduced the weight on the trampoline by maybe twenty or thirty pounds, so gravity has less mass to act on, they’ve given gravity more time to pull them downward. They’re falling faster now–and at over seventy-five feet per second, they’re going to hit the ground in ust over half a minute, maybe sooner.

Not that there’s anything else they can do. They aren’t wearing or carrying anything else with substantial weight. The only effective way to improve their situation would be to remove one of the three largest weights on the trampoline: themselves.

Mac shoves the GPS unit back toward Riley with a shaking hand. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“What?” Jack asks from his other side. “What’d you say?”

“I said I’m sorry!” Mac yells, shifting so he can sit up. “This was a stupid plan. My worst one ever.” He pushes himself all the way up, gritting his teeth against the wave of agony when the movement knocks his right leg against Jack’s left knee. He surveys the balloons. There are six clumps of them attached at even intervals around the trampoline’s round frame. There’s a gap at his head and one at his feet. It’s plenty big enough for one person to slide right through. “Hold on tight.”

Jack reaches for the trampoline’s frame immediately. “What’re you doin’, Mac?”

Mac knows better than to make eye contact; Jack can read him too easily. He doesn’t look down either. It doesn’t matter what’s below them and if he looks he’s going to lose his nerve. He glances toward Riley instead, checking to make sure she’s got a good grip on the frame, too. She does and he gives her a nod.

Then, before he can think too much more about what he’s about to do, Mac flips onto his belly and shoves himself toward the gap by his feet, between two bundles of balloons and toward the edge of the frame and the open sky.

Notes:

More big thanks to Fesweepea for some fine brainstorming. 😁

Chapter 4

Notes:

So if you were following along and taking my chapter estimate seriously, you may be expecting this to be the end. SURPRISE, there's actually going to be another chapter at this. This one is already the longest chapter in the story and I've got more to write because the team isn't out of this mess yet.

Mac doesn't move fast enough to outpace Riley’s horrified grasp as his feet slide over the edge of the trampoline’s frame, out over open air. “Mac!”

Jack screams something unintelligible as he lunges. The trampoline lurches dangerously as Mac and Jack both move in the same direction. Jack’s fingers slip over Mac’s bicep and scrape past his elbow, his fingernails digging into Mac’s skin but not tightly enough to stop his movement.

Jack gets a grip on Mac’s wrist, just barely, and Mac dangles from the edge of the trampoline briefly, nothing under him but air and sky. The whole trampoline is tilted at a precarious angle under his and Jack’s combined weight. It’s in danger of slipping sideways, which will reduce air resistance and speed its fall, quite likely tossing all its occupants off even before it crashes to the earth.

Either Mac falls alone or they all fall, and he can’t let his bad ideas take the rest of the team down with him. But he can’t help trying to twist his hand around to grab at Jack’s wrist because the sheer terror of dangling below the false safety of the trampoline is more powerful than any logical thought. He’s living the nightmare he’s had a hundred times, one that makes him wake in a fully-body sweat, choking on a scream.

He doesn’t want to live it in real life.

But it’s too late, and his own momentum yanks his wrist out of Jack’s hand. He sees Jack’s face twist as he realizes that he’s not going to be able to hold on to Mac.

And then Mac’s falling through open air.

#

The treetops speed toward him so quickly Mac barely has time to twist himself into a prone position with muscle memory honed for parachuting, maximizing drag, but it barely gets there before he’s too close. Instinctively, he pulls his arms up to his face, as if the flesh and bones of his own limbs can protect him from the force of hitting a tree at 30 or 40 meters per second. It’s pointless. His arms can’t protect him. But he can’t stop himself. He doesn’t want to see when he hits.

It happens so fast that he doesn’t have time to understand what hit him before pain is everything and everything is gone.

#

Riley loses sight of Mac as the trampoline heaves. If she wasn’t already holding on, she’d be flung off of it. As it is, the GPS unit goes flying and she fights to keep her grip, almost following it.

For a moment she thinks that’s it, they’re done, the trampoline is going to tip on end and they’ll all slip off.

Somehow, it doesn’t. It jerks and then flattens out, and she’s still on it. Jack is too.

But Mac isn’t. She can see through the springs between the jumping surface and the frame from her new face-down position. She sees Mac fall. They’re all falling, but without the buoyancy of the balloons, without the drag of the wide round jumping surface of the trampoline, there’s nothing to slow Mac’s fall. He plummets away below them while the trampoline drifts, its downward momentum slowed now that it’s one-third lighter.

He doesn’t look up, but seems to rotate in mid-air, flattening out like a skydiver even though he doesn’t have a chute to pull.

“Mac!” Jack yells in a tone that’s pure panic. The trampoline is still swaying too much for Riley to move, even if she could tear her eyes off Mac to look toward him.

She’s barely had time to react and Mac’s already so far away, well below them and off to the side because the wind is still pushing the trampoline west. It’s only a blink of an eye before Mac hits the trees and then he’s gone, fallen below the blanket of greenery as if he was never there at all. They won’t ever find him from the air now, not even if they can get ahold of Matty and tell her to look.

Mac’s just… gone.

She presses her face into the springy black surface of the trampoline and just holds on and listens to Jack off to her right side, breathing fast, hitching gasps. They’re almost to the ground, but they’re not near enough to it that anyone could survive the fall. Not even Mac, who’s survived so many crazy stunts in the past.

They drift to a gentle landing an eternity later, somehow avoiding getting stuck on a tree, coming down on a flowering bush. The trampoline tips sideways almost like everything is happening in slow motion, and Riley finds herself sliding to the ground, sock-clad feet coming down first, her hands still tight around the trampoline’s frame. Jack lands in a less graceful heap on the ground beside her, looking dazed.

“Are you—” she bites off the word okay. That’s not really a fair question after they both just watched Mac fall. She sinks down, too shaky to stand. “Are you hurt?”

Wordlessly, Jack shakes his head, then he looks around and seems to see their surroundings. He gets his feet under him and stands up. “We gotta go find Mac.”

“Jack.”

“Come on.” He reaches down a hand and pulls her up. “Which way did we come from? That way?” He points.

Riley wavers on her feet, grabbing on to his arm and not letting him move away. “Yeah, but—we need to contact Matty, Jack.”

He nods. “We’re gonna need medevac. You still got the GPS?”

“Um.” Riley pictures the GPS unit flying off, disappearing below them along with Mac. They were probably a couple hundred feet up when he fell. Jack has to know it’s too far a fall to survive. “No, it fell when, um, when the trampoline tipped.”

“Well, do you remember where we were right then? That’s where we gotta send medevac.”

She squeezes her eyes shut. She did look at the coordinates a few times, but she was paying much more attention to the altitude and ground speed readings than the location. “I think so.”

“Good.” Jack gives her a nod. “Let’s go.”

She doesn’t let go of his arm. “Where?”

“To find Mac.”

He seems surprised when she grabs his arm tighter. “There were a couple buildings south of here that were probably houses. We can try to borrow a phone from someone and call in. If Matty was tracking us, she might be able to provide better coordinates. Exfil might already be on their way here.”

“Good thought,” Jack says. “We’ll split up. You head south, find a phone, make sure medevac can find us. I’ll head back that way, find Mac.”

“Jack. Are you sure—” She meets his eyes. “Are you sure you want to see that?”

Jack flinches, and she knows he knows what she means. What she doesn’t think he should see. Fear flashes through his eyes, but he shuts it down almost immediately. “He might need me.”

She doesn’t see how it’s possible. Mac fell—well, she’s not sure how far, but too far. At least a couple hundred feet. Small office towers could have fit under the trampoline. She’s never seen what it actually looks like when someone hits the ground after falling a couple hundred feet but she’s seen enough TV to be sure she doesn’t want to. Jack shouldn’t either, but he’s got a look in his eyes that she recognizes. Nothing she says is going to stop him. He’ll wreck himself for the fraction of a chance of a miracle.

“Okay,” she says, quietly, and pulls him in for a quick hug. “I’ll send exfil as quickly as I can.”

Jack pulls away stiffly. “Medevac,” he corrects with a growl in his voice. He turns back in the direction they came from, and sets off.

Riley worries at her lip until the sound of his footsteps fades away. She still feels shaky and her chest is tight, like she can’t quite get a full breath in. She’s not going to be able to run toward those houses, even if she had shoes on and knew exactly where she was going. What’s the point in rushing? As soon as she gets in contact with the Phoenix, she’ll have to tell Matty what happened—she’ll have to tell Matty and Bozer.

Everything feels surreal. She starts walking, picking her way across the ground in feet in socks that do little to protect her feet. If nothing else, she needs to get the tac team here. She’s going to need help with Jack.

#

Mac wakes to the sound of his own rasping breath and the soft sounds of nature. Everything is pain. Breathing is pain. Thinking is pain. The smallest twitch of his finger is pain. He hurts so much he can’t tell where the hurt is coming from. It’s too big to break down into something as precise as a limb.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, not moving, not really conscious but not unconscious either. His vision is blurry. He’s lying on his back but he can’t see the sky. The brown and green shadows sway above him, and they must be tree branches, but he can’t focus on them.

If Jack were the one lying here, he’d say: Pain is good, Jack. Pain means you haven’t severed your spine.

Jack isn’t here, though. It’s just him, alone, and he hurts.

And it doesn't rule out a long list of other injuries, including less obvious spinal damage.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been here. Seconds, or minutes, or hours—there’s no way to know. Time isn’t moving like it should. He’s not feeling the intense drug-induced anxiety that plagued him earlier, in the warehouse. That means he’s probably been out for more than a few minutes.

He’s on his back, even though he’s sure he fell face-down, legs a little below his upper body. But he has no memory of what happened after he hit the treetops. Somehow he ended up on his back. His right leg was already injured, possibly broken—a fractured fibula, maybe—and it feels worse now. His left leg isn’t any better. Even if he could get himself up, which he doubts, he’s pretty sure he couldn’t walk. He’s got more than one broken bone for sure, but the pain is so all-encompassing that he can’t even narrow it down to an area of his body. He hurts everywhere.

Moving isn’t a good idea anyway. Any medic would have a heart attack just thinking about him trying to move. He’s earned himself a backboard and a cervical collar before, and that was for a fall from a third storey window. Falling any height is a good way to break vertebrae. Broken pelvis is likely. He can’t get a good breath in without stabbing agony in his chest, so ribs should probably be on the list. He’s almost certain he has at least a mild concussion. And that’s just bones. It’s harder to tell, without moving, about organ damage. All he can say for sure is that he’s still got enough lung capacity to breathe and enough blood to circulate.

Pain means he’s alive, but it can’t tell him for how long.

Long enough for someone to find him?

He’s not so sure. From above it sure looked like he was falling into an uninhabited, undeveloped woodland. Even if he doesn’t have any fatal injuries, he’s lying helpless in the middle of a forest at the mercy of the local animals and insects, without food or water, and it could take days to search a place like that.

That’s assuming his gambit worked, and Jack and Riley landed didn’t crash into something on their way down or float out over the water.

If, if, if.

It’s a lot of uncertainty, and there’s nothing he can do about any of it. All he can do is hope his team got out okay, and trust they’ll come for him as soon as they can.

#

Riley’s a mile down a lonely, two-lane road and beginning to get her thoughts in order when she hears the helicopter. God, what are the chances that it’s a random helicopter? It has to be exfil, doesn’t it? Alone in the middle of the empty road, she shades her eyes and scans the sky until she spots a dark dot in the sky to the east and a bit north, following the line of its advance, which approximates the route by which they arrived.

It’s military style, which doesn’t mean it’s Phoenix’s. It could be local military or law enforcement, mustered on reports of a strange craft floating across thirty miles of northern French countryside. It could be the goons they were investigating earlier, with more resources than they anticipated.

But it could be Phoenix.

She needs so badly for it to be Phoenix that she almost, almost, starts to wave her arms to draw its attention before she forces herself to stand still, take deep slow breaths, and think. Logically, she knows she’s not at her best right now. She feels shaky and a little nauseated, and she knows it’s the shock of losing Mac. Jack went off in a panic, driven by emotion and filled to the brim with denial. She has to get herself together and think.

Their exfil team was traveling by land, not air.

Still, Matty has resources. She’s managed to scare up a helicopter on short notice before, and it’s been a couple hours now since Riley went off comms. Longer than that since Mac and Jack were captured. Matty’s had time enough to work her connections.

If she signals the helicopter and it’s not Phoenix, not some friendly arm of the French government, it’ll be bad. Jack’s relying on her to rally their resources in the right direction. She doesn’t dare risk finding out the new arrivals are bad guys. Shoeless, weaponless, and without any form of communications, no one will even know if she goes missing. Not for hours, at least. Maybe days.

She keeps an eye on the helicopter, but she resumes walking away from it along the edge of the road. There’s nothing inherently suspicious about walking along a road, but she’s relieved when she comes to the next patch of trees, which hide her from view. The helicopter has been hovering to the north, and she’s almost certain that someone is checking out the trampoline/balloon contraption. Given that the ground where they crashed was dry and grassy, whoever’s inspecting the scene might not notice their footprints––they’ll be looking for the crisp shapes of shoeprints, not soft prints left by socked feet.

She keeps walking. She’s got to be at least halfway to the nearest building. She doesn’t speak French, but everyone knows the hand signal for “telephone”, so she’s pretty sure she can at least get her request across when she finds someone who has one. And she knows the CIA’s phone-in number in France which will, once she’s given her code-in and given the operator time to verify her, get her connected to the Phoenix. She’ll get exfil, find Jack, and later, when they’re somewhere safe, she’s definitely going to puke, or cry, or scream, or maybe all three. She just can’t do that right now.

The trees thin and soon she’s on another exposed section of the road, but she’s nearly to the first building. Riley picks up her pace, ignoring the way the pavement pounds her feet. She’ll feel safer once she finds some people, even if she can’t talk to them.

The distant noise of the helicopter changes; it had landed, and now it’s rising again. A glance over her shoulder shows her that it’s hovering over the treetops, and she thinks maybe it’s going to retrace the course it followed to get here, but after a minute it heads south–right over the road. Right toward her.

Shit.

She breaks into a jog, but she can’t outpace a helicopter. She’s much too far from the building or any sort of cover when it comes thumping over the patch of trees behind her. Her shoulders feel like a target, and she looks back. Definitely military, French military, except—

Riley stops. A marker has been tacked to the side: an orange square with one bright pink triangle above and one below. She knows that symbol: it’s a signal used by Phoenix. Immediately, she raises her arms and gives a counter signal.

The chopper is landing on the road behind her thirty seconds later. She jogs to it, searching the faces of the man and woman in black who stand half-concealed behind the edges of the side door. They aren’t anybody she recognizes, but Jack’s the one who would know the tac team members, and he’s not here.

“Twelve,” Riley yells when she’s close enough.

“Nine,” the woman returns, the number that will add up to the challenge goal of 21. In an instant, Riley’s shoulders relax, and she nods and lets the woman reach down a hand to help her up.

She doesn’t recognize the field medic either, or the chopper pilot, but that’s not so unusual. When Matty has to get a team on loan, she takes whoever’s available. They’re probably French, but not regular military. The woman had a bit of an accent, although it’s hard to tell given she only said one word to Riley.

The medic has a tablet. “I need that,” Riley says, jabbing her finger toward the device as she sits in the first available seat. The medic’s brows fly up and he looks like he’s going to protest and she really doesn’t have time or patience for that. “Now,” Riley adds, reaching out an expectant hand. She remembers to add, “Thank you,” when the medic hands it over.

The woman in black hands Riley a headset and she pulls it on as she wakes the tablet up and starts to work. She needs all kinds of functions that will take too long to set up on the tablet, but she can start with a basic map.

She pauses to turn the headset on and suddenly she’s in the conversation.

Matty’s voice comes through with only the faintest hint of a crackle. “Riley, what’s the situation?”

She swallows even though her mouth suddenly seems dry. She isn’t even sure where to begin. “Mac made a—he tied all these helium balloons we found in that warehouse to a trampoline and we escaped via air. Except it kept going up and up, and when we got to 10,000 feet we—” she can’t bring herself to mention that it was Jack, knowing that there’s a good chance what she’s saying ends up in the initial report. “We popped some balloons but then we were going down too fast. Mac had us throw some things off but we were still dropping fast enough we were going to crash and that’s when—” She pauses, squeezing her eyes shut and gripping the tablet so hard her hands are shaking. “Mac jumped off, Matty. Jack tried to stop him but he couldn’t. I don’t know where he landed. I’m trying to get a map up now on this tablet.”

Matty’s end of the comms has been dead silent while Riley talked. Bozer must not be there, or he'd have broken in by now. But it's early morning in LA. He's probably not at work yet. It's just Matty and whatever tech is stuck on graveyard shift, and whoever else Matty called in when they all went off comms. The silence crackles for a moment before Matty casks, “You’re saying Mac jumped off your flying trampoline gizmo and fell?”

“Yeah.” She finally has a map up on the tablet. She pinches it so she can locate their starting point on the map. It’s thirty-three miles from where the trampoline came down. “I don’t know the coordinates but I’m trying to figure it out, okay?”

“All right.” Matty’s voice is soft in the way it only gets when things are going very badly. “Do you know how high you were at the time?”

“When Mac fell? Too high.” She traces the straight line between the warehouse and where the trampoline landed, trying to match up the memory of Mac against the greenery that’s burned into her mind with the satellite view of nearby trees, and adds a circle around the area she thinks Mac fell into. “I was trying to get a phone. Jack was going to go back and look for him. I’m sending you a map now with the approximate location we need to search.”

There’s a pause and then Matty says. “Received. That’s a pretty big area, Riley, and it looks like you’ll need to approach on foot. I’m redirecting your original exfil team to meet you there. We may be able to call on local search and rescue if we need more eyes on the ground.”

“Okay,” Riley says, though she’s not sure if Matty’s asking her, or informing her. The helicopter is rising into the air, angling closer to the circle she identified on the map.

“Riley,” Matty says, sharp enough to pull Riley’s attention away from the map. “You’re the senior field agent on site until you find Jack. I need you to keep me updated. We’re here to support the op but you need to be my eyes. Got it?”

Riley notices that Matty doesn’t say anything about Mac taking over the op. Her fingers go still on the tablet. “Yeah,” she manages. The team on the helicopter aren’t Matty’s agents, and the exfil team on the ground isn’t here yet. Even when they arrive, the tac team doesn’t outrank a field agent unless the all field agents are all incapacitated. So for now, she’s in charge, and it’s just another signal that the situation is bad. “I’ve got it.”

Chapter 5

Notes:

I've upgraded the rating on this work to "Teen" and I was on the fence about the "graphic depiction of violence" warning, because there are some descriptions of bleeding, but nothing that's really gorey or anything. But just an FYI. I mean, Mac just fell a few hundred feet, so it's not like nobody's getting injured here, and I figure if you've been following along you're not going to be too surprised...

ALSO! Huge thanks to ImpossiblePluto & Nativestar for brainstorming help on this one.

Jack has been searching for a while when he realizes the sense of buoyancy that has been driving him all day is gone. Poof, bam, it’s disappeared as completely as his shoes and his jacket and his best friend into the green canopy. It’s gone as thoroughly as the hope that has been driving him.

Pain and confusion follow. His feet hurt. Socks do not make for good protection against the detritus on the forest floor. The team will probably be able to find him by following the trail of blood from the various nicks and cuts he’s accumulating on the bottom of his feet. He finds a relatively empty spot and slumps to the ground, feet out in front of him so the soles aren’t touching anything, and rubs his hands across his face.

He’s tired, and probably dehydrated. Hasn’t had a drink since before they were captured, god knows how many hours ago now. None of that explains the confusion he feels over his earlier behavior. He can’t understand the lightness of his own thoughts up to this moment. He’s a man who makes light of bad situations, but that’s not because he’s oblivious. It’s a coping mechanism. Refusing to acknowledge the horror in their daily lives, denying danger is gnawing at their heels every second of every mission—that's what keeps him from becoming an absolute basket case. He keeps it together when it matters, for the team. For Mac. He falls apart alone.

But in his heart, he always takes things seriously. Everything else is an illusion. He might tease Mac just to get him riled up, but only because it keeps Mac going, keeps his mind off the danger. If they let themselves think about how closely death stalks them, they wouldn’t be able to do their jobs.

He doesn’t know why he behaved like he did earlier. Why he felt almost giddy in the warehouse. Why he felt like he was floating through a game when they were running for their lives.

It’s bewildering.

It’s not right.

Mac fell. He fell and now Jack is searching for his best friend’s broken body in some random patch of middle-aged trees in rural fucking France. There’s no other real expectation than that he will, at best, find Mac’s shattered body in a crater of its own making.

He won’t be able to do anything to change the situation once he does.

This feels like his fault. He shouldn’t have let Mac build a vehicle inspired by a kids’ movie. He should have insisted they try something else.

He can remember the moment when it finally became clear what Mac’s plan was. And instead of balking, Jack had laughed.

He had laughed.

What the fuck.

The memory doesn’t feel like his own. It fills him with shame.

Jack has been sitting long enough that a bird lands on a branch nearby. He looks up, leans back on his fists to tip his tear-streaked face to the sky. He can see blue and white through the canopy. The forest feels peaceful. It’s quiet.

Quiet as a grave.

Jack shudders and sits upright, pulling his left foot over his right knee so he can see the sole of his foot. His feet are tough, but not this tough. His thick, trusty wool sock is a mess. Not as thoroughly shredded as he anticipated, just not thick enough to protect his foot from twigs and rocks. The tan-colored wool has been torn and a chunk of it is flapping loose, while another part is gaping open. The rest is a mess of mashed up mud and bits of nature and bloodstains. There’s no question that he’s asking for a raging infection.

He doesn’t have any good way to clean his foot. He peels his sock off, teeth gritted, not bothering to hide his whimpers when it makes his feet scream in pain, and picks away what he can get at with his fingers. Mac might have made new shoes out of bark and vines. Something that would actually protect his feet. Jack folds his sock flat and then in half, so the ankle covers the ripped sole. He rips a band of cotton off the bottom of his shirt, tears that into two halves, and ties the old sock on the bottom of his foot, like a really ugly sandal. One strap near his toes, one around the middle.

He does the second foot, tears running down his face. No need to hold it in. There’s no one in the forest to witness his pain.

When he’s done, he sits for another minute, waiting for the screaming in his right foot to die down enough that he can convince himself it won’t hurt too much to stand up.

Then he’s going to keep walking until he finds Mac or collapses. Whatever he finds, he’s going to take care of it. That’s his job and he’ll do it until he can’t.

#

Something bumps her ankle. Riley glances down and realizes the flight medic is crouched on the floor, looking at her feet. He asks something in French and dips his head toward her foot, raising his brows in query.

She hasn’t been thinking about her feet. She’s wearing a pair of the thick, cream-colored socks she prefers under the hiking boots like she had on for today’s op. And then she dropped the boots from the trampoline. A couple of pounds, Mac had said. Not nearly enough to slow the trampoline’s fall.

“I need shoes,” she says, giving the medic a shake of her head. They’re almost to the point she marked on the map, and yeah, her feet don’t feel great, but they feel functional. “Shoes?” she repeats again when the medic only looks confused.

The man and woman in black consult and then the man turns to her. “We do not have any spare shoes,” he says in accented English.

She could ask for the woman in black to lend her shoes. Her feet look a little bigger than Riley’s, and Riley wants to charge off into the trees to find her team.

But no. She’s in charge, and the people she’s in charge of are all better trained to carry out search-and-rescue on the ground than she is. What she needs is for her feet to not be a distraction while she’s organizing the next phase of the operation.

She’s stuck here, and if she thought Jack knew she would end up running an op, she’d be mad at him for going off alone. But he didn’t know if Phoenix was tracking their flight or not, and she’s sure he’s running more on emotion than logic right now. She’s sure he didn’t think this many possibilities ahead.

Riley wipes her eyes. “All right,” she says. “Then just do what you can and bandage my feet and then I put my socks back on so I can walk around.”

The medic peels her socks off with care and rests her bare left foot on a box so he can peer at it with a thoughtful grunt. She’s heard that one before. It means she’s done some unexpected thing to herself that a medic doesn’t see much. It takes a couple extra minutes after the helicopter lands, but they have to wait for the exfil team arriving by ground anyway. That takes fifteen more minutes, and she’s a bundle of nerves by the time she gets her resources organized, shares the map, and explains the search plan. The medic isn’t in favor of anything that involves her walking, but she’s the field agent in charge, so in the end, she gets her way. She has six people, including the two soldiers and the medic from the helicopter, and three Phoenix exfil team members who were on duty that morning. The other half of the exfil team will be three more arriving in another forty-five minutes.

She keeps glazing toward the trees, half-expecting Jack to show up. Wherever he is, he should have been listening for the helicopter.

The helicopter can be used for medevac, and between Phoenix and the French military, they have two trained medics. They probably won’t need them for much, but they have them. What they’ll probably need is a lift basket, which the helicopter does have. Otherwise the team will have to recover the remai—carry Mac out on a backboard.

Matty’s voice is soft in her ear. “Riley, are you prepared to run the on-site briefing for the personnel we have ready now?”

Riley doesn’t stop flipping through the windows on the laptop the Phoenix exfil team arrived with. She swallows hard before she replies. “Yeah. I thi–I can do it.”

“Good. Let’s get them moving. We’ll send out newly arrived teams separately.”

Riley gets herself situated sitting on the bumper of the open back of the SUV with the laptop on her knees. The six personnel who form her search team gather around. “All right,” she says, turning the laptop so that they can see the screen, which is filled with a local area map that’s marked up with the trampoline’s line of travel and a refined calculation for where they need to look. “This is our search area. You’ll be splitting into teams of two and beginning a grid search from these three points.”

She indicates the points on the map, and assigns each one to one of the teams. They have GPS units and phones loaded with the search map that she’ll be able to track so they’ll know exactly which areas have been visited.

She pulls up a translucent cone shape on the map. “This area represents Agent Dalton’s likely location one hour from now. Since he wasn’t wearing shoes, we don’t think he will be traveling very fast. But he is likely to remain on the move until he either finds Agent MacGyver, or night falls. The area will update on our map every thirty minutes.” She pulls up pictures of both agents. “If you find Agent Dalton, notify me immediately. At this time he is not considered the senior agent on site so he can’t countermand my standing orders. We need him to come back to the command post but he’s probably not going to want to go along with that so… just call in if you find him.” She glances at the circle of faces around her. The three exfil team members form Phoenix—two ex-military looking men and a woman who Riley knows used to be a combat medic—all look downright grim. Everybody at Phoenix knows Mac and Jack, and they know exactly what she means when she implies that Jack’s going to be difficult. This whole situation is a disaster and dealing with Jack is going to be as much of a nightmare as finding Mac.

It’s not going to be any better when they get home. She’s going to have to move in with Jack, or make him move in with her. Or maybe they should all move into Mac’s house with Bozer. It’ll be like living with a ghost but maybe it’s better to just rip off the bandaid.

She’s drifting. She pulls her thoughts back to the present and surveys her group. “Any questions?” When there are none, she gives them all a nod. “Okay. Head out. Report back as soon as you find anything.”

#

“Mac?” Jack’s mouth is getting dry and his voice isn’t as loud as he’d like anymore. He’s been searching for awhile now, walking slowly between trees, peering into shadows and around bushes, calling Mac’s name every minute or two, whenever he’s gone far enough it might carry to a new part of the woods. “Mac?”

Silence greets him no matter which way he turns. He’s not even sure why he’s bothering, but it’s like he can't stop Mac’s name from forming on his lips. Like he needs to hear it.

The only real noise is the rustle he’s making shoving between bushes. He doesn’t have a great sense of how far he’s gone, but he walked a good mile before he started moving back and forth, checking off to each side of his main path before he moves forward. Searching for a b—searching for Mac, alone, without any equipment, without a map or GPS, feels almost hopeless, but Mac’s somewhere, and Jack needs to find him.

“Mac?” He could really use some water. He hasn’t had a drink since he and Mac left the van to set out Riley’s cameras and scanning devices. It’s been a really long day since then.

He’s squeezing between two trees when he spots the incongruous bright white on the forest floor past some bushes. It’s too big to be white berries, not the right shape for a mushroom sprouting from the detritus that covers the forest floor, disguising sticks and rocks so that he doesn’t spot them until they’re digging into the bottom of his unshod feet.

He checks his position and then swerves off the line he’s been trying to keep to check it out, hope and fear warring inside him as with every time he thinks he might have found something.

This time it’s a foot clad in a white sock, toes canted to the left. He spots the long brown line of a leg, and then another just off to the side, but for a moment he can’t quite make sense of it because the positioning is all wrong. Feet don’t tilt at those angles normally. Legs don’t bend that way.

He circles a tree and can see the blond head, nearer to him than those feet, cushioned among the yellowing leaves that Mac has fallen into. It’s not really a clearing, there’s no break in the circle of limbs above, but the trees are spaced a good fifteen feet apart here, and Mac is between them. One arm is splayed out to the side but the other arm is angled so that his hand rests on his chest, fingers in a loose fist.

Mac is lying so very still. Too still. Mac is almost never still unless he’s focusing on a problem, and even then, his fingers are always moving, twisting a paperclip, tapping against his thigh while he’s lost in calculations.

Throat too choked up to speak, Jack creeps forward. Mac’s face is marked with streaks of blood, rust-red lines crusted down his cheeks, like he cried tears of blood. Jack has to stop moving because he’s suddenly shaking.

Red stains Mac’s ears, and his face is scratched. There’s blood in his hair, some of it having dropped from his ears, and some matted in his hair on the left side. The mix of leaves in various stages of decomposition that he’s lying on hides any blood that’s under him. It’s a momentary relief.

Another step forward and Jack can see over the fluffy bangs and he freezes, because Mac’s eyes are open, staring upward.

Toward Jack, but not quite at him.

And then Mac blinks.

Jack’s heart pounds in his chest. “M-Mac?”

Mac’s eyes shift and then his face relaxes minutely. “Jack?”

“Oh, shit, Mac,” Jack chokes out, unable to come up with anything more witty. He stumbles close enough to crouch by the arm that’s folded up on Mac’s chest, looking him over again and not liking anything he sees. Except that Mac’s alive—that’s a miracle and he almost doesn't quite believe it yet. Everything else is so bad he’s not even where to start cataloging it.

Mac gives Jack the tiniest smile. His voice is a rough, dry whisper. “Hey.” The smile dies with a wince as soon as he speaks. Under the blood, the skin around his left eye is purple and distended.

“Hey, hoss,” Jack says. His voice is stronger than a moment ago. He reaches for Mac and hesitates, unsure where he can touch. He’s not even sure he can without causing more pain. It’s obvious that Mac’s legs are both broken, and his right arm or shoulder too. His chest is moving in short, shallow breaths like he can’t inhale fully and Jack isn’t even sure why he’s bled so much. “Are you— are you— How are you doing?”

Mac’s brows lower and Jack thinks he’s going to roll his eyes, but the expression on his face is relief. “Better. Exfil?”

Jack shakes his head. “I’m lettin’ Riley worry about that. I’m worrying about you.” But there’s so much he’s not sure where to start. Given that he has no supplies and no way to communicate with anyone, there isn’t even much he can do. “How’s your head?”

“Hurts,” Mac whispers, and it’s obvious that speaking is causing pain, too. Jack’s urge to gather him into a hug is almost a physical need but he holds himself back. “Concussion maybe. Had worse.”

Jack doesn’t dignify the last comment with a response as he puts his hand tentatively on Mac’s forehead, which is streaked with scratches but nothing that looks too deep. He keeps carefully away from the ring of bruising around Mac’s left eye. “You’re all scratched up and you been bleeding.” Mac’s skin is cool; definitely no fever. He moves his fingers down through Mac’s hair, pressing as lightly as he dares, careful not to jostle Mac’s neck. The blood above his ear is from a long scratch on his scalp, and to his relief, he doesn’t find anything worse. No pool of blood, nothing that feels like it shouldn’t. “Doesn’t feel like you broke your noggin.”

“Just broke…” Mac pauses to sucks in another shallow breath and his eyes slip closed. “Everything else.”

“No sleepin’,” Jack says sharply, relieved when Mac opens his eyes again. “There’s enough that could be wrong with you that I can’t tell if you got a concussion or not, so I’m just going to assume you do. I’m not going to poke and prod the rest of you. Gonna wait for medevac to get here.”

“It’s that bad, huh.” Mac looks like he’s trying to sound nonchalant, but a waver in his voice betrays him.

“Pretty bad,” Jack agrees. “But it coulda been worse.” He keeps his hand on Mac’s head because there’s nowhere else he dares to touch him. “Ribs?”

“Hurt,” Mac confirms. He’s speaking softly, breathing careful, shallow breaths. “Bruised… maybe broken.” A shiver wracks him, and his mouth pulls tight.

Jack’s dealt with a lot of different injuries, enough he can sometimes surprise the Phoenix field medics with observations or suggestions they don’t expect even from other agents with a few years of operations behind them. But there’s just too much going on here, and so little he can do. He gives himself a minute to think about possible actions, but there’s no way he’s leaving Mac here alone and that really only leaves two things: keep him company, and keep him warm. “Okay,” he finally says. “I’m not gonna try to move you but we better keep you from gettin’ chilly. The weather ain’t bad but you look like you could use a blanket.”

“You have… a blanket?”

“Nope, but I do remember how you made me start a fire five different ways last time we were out at that old cabin just because you thought I couldn’t.”

Mac makes a small huff of agreement. “Bozer could… do six.”

“Bozer had the unfair advantage of knowing you longer.” Jack brushes his hand across Mac’s forehead again and makes himself get to his feet. They hurt just as bad as before, but he doesn't care. The leaves littering the floor of their little clearing have to go, and he has to find both dry wood and fresh, leafy branches, and some fist-sized rocks. Mac would’ve known exactly where to find these things if he’d walked as far as Jack has, but Jack was too busy looking for Mac to pay much attention to nature.

“Just need to get a coupla things,” Jack says, as much to himself as to Mac, and begins to clear a space to Mac’s right, where Mac’s broken arm is sprawled out to the side, hating whenever he has to move out of Mac’s line of sight. He needs to get this one job finished quick as he can for the heat of the fire, but also because as soon as he’s done he can sit back down next to Mac. If the best thing he can do is just be here, that’s what he’s going to do, for as long as he can.

Notes:

This chapter originally had one more tiny little scene, but I ended up cutting it out. But because I hate actually deleting words, I posted it on Tumblr if you're curious.

Chapter 6

“C’mon, man, wake up,” Jack’s voice says from above him as a hand brushes his forehead. It’s pain and comfort all in one as his scabs and scratches are disturbed by a warmth Mac needs.

Mac blinks, unsure when he drifted off. The note of alarm in Jack’s voice says too long ago, but he’s pretty sure any amount of sleeping is worrisome with injuries this extensive. It’s no surprise that Jack looks like he’s on the verge of panic when Mac meets his eyes.

“There you are,” Jack says with a quaver in his voice, like he doesn't quite believe it.

When Mac licks his lips to wet them, they taste of iron. “S'ry.”

The sky above, the branches and leaves he can’t quite focus on, is darker than it used to be. It doesn’t seem like he’s been here for hours, but the sky says it’s evening.

Jack clears his throat. “Got the fire going.” He looks off to Mac’s left. Mac can’t follow his eyes because he’d have to turn his head to see what Jack’s looking at, but he can see faint flickers of light reflecting off nearby branches. “Gonna keep us both warm while we wait.”

While they wait. What are they waiting for? The thought flicks through his mind that it’s his death they’re waiting for. He’s in so much pain, feels so broken, that it’s hard to imagine being okay after this. He shouldn’t even be alive right now. He’s beyond borrowed time. The chances of surviving a fall from 100 meters is… is… Well. Really low.

His thoughts feel sluggish and mixed up. The mission seems like something that happened a long time ago. He makes a noise, not really a question because he’s not even sure what to ask and doesn’t think he can get words out anyway.

Jack’s hand comes back to his forehead. “How are you doin’?”

Mac makes another noncommittal noise.

Jack seems to take that as an answer. His hand sweeps across Mac’s forehead, smoothing over that same small strip of skin again. Mac’s never been so grateful for Jack’s presence. It’s a selfish feeling because he can tell Jack’s barely holding it together, but he’s glad nonetheless that he’s not lying on the ground alone.

Jack’s hand pauses on his forehead. “This okay? Am I hurting you?”

“Good,” he manages. The act of speaking fires muscles in his chest that remind him pointedly that he’s probably broken most of the bones in his body. He wants to say, don’t stop, but it’s too many more words, and Jack seems to get it anyway, because his hand starts moving again.

“I think ‘good’ might be kind of an exaggeration,” Jack says. “You don’t gotta pretend for me, bud. I can see you’re hurtin’ all over.”

“Nothing you can do.”

Jack’s hand slows and his face slumps. “I know. I wish I could. But we gotta trust that Riley will get the medevac here as quick as she can.” His hand resumes brushing Mac’s hair. “Can you feel that fire at all? You warming up any?”

He’s beginning to feel the brush of warmth against his left side. “Yeah,” he gets out, even though he feels like no amount of heat will actually warm him up.

Jack gets up and pokes at the fire, adding more wood. Then he moves to sit at Mac’s right side, facing the fire. The light flickers across his head and shoulders. It’s a little mesmerizing, but Mac’s eyes hurt, and looking in that direction hurts more than when Jack was above him. Jack’s face is out of focus anyway.

It’s almost peaceful here, with the fire making a faint crackling noise and the soft sound of a breeze from far above. The fire is getting warmer and he’s too low to the ground for the smoke to bother his lungs. Between Jack and the fire, he doesn’t have to worry much about insects and animals crawling on him; it might be a ridiculous thing to worry about, given the extent of his injuries, but there’s a certain relief in the thought anyway. Another reason to be grateful for Jack. He wishes he could say something to let Jack know, but he just can’t make the words come.

Despite the pain in every part of him, he feels loose and drowsy. He lets his eyes drift closed.

“Mac, bud, c’mon. No sleeping.” Jack’s voice is sharp. A finger taps his forehead. As gentle as it is, it still makes Mac’s headache surge.

With a sigh, Mac forces his eyes open. Jack’s leaning over, his hand on Mac’s forehead again. He’s blurrier than before, as if what little focusing Mac’s eyes were doing isn’t working any more. “‘M tired,” he says, closing his eyes again. “Concussion, Jack.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you do have a concussion, but you got a lot else, too.”

He’s too exhausted to feel frustrated, and he’s not about to admit his vision is getting worse. He may not remember it but he must have landed hard. It won’t be a surprise to anyone if he’s bleeding internally. His skull might not be broken but his sluggish thoughts and headache could be more than just the combination of his obvious injuries. But these are thoughts that neither one of them are going to speak aloud. “Slept mosta… you got here.”

“I know, bud,” Jack says, how voice low and pleading. “But I need you to stay with me.”

“’s fine, Jack,” he says. He wishes he could see the expression on Jack’s face and is simultaneously relieved that he can’t. It’s enough that Jack is the pale blob hovering over him. It’s enough that Jack is here, and he’s not alone. “Please. Don’ wanna argue.”

Silence extends between them. “Yeah, okay,” Jack finally says in a softer voice. His hand moves on Mac’s head and he doesn’t complain when Mac closes his eyes. “I’m gonna stay right here though. I’m right here, okay?”

Mac doesn’t have the energy to say thank you, but he thinks he manages a small smile before he drifts off again.

#

The Phoenix exfil team gets delayed on a detour to fetch equipment. Riley’s already sent six of the seven personnel she has on site out to search on foot. She keeps the pilot back; if they need the helicopter, she wants to be ready. The three two-man teams check in every fifteen minutes, reporting back that they’ve found nothing, nothing, and more nothing. Time crawls. She’s on the verge of hobbling after them on her bandaged feet. Analysts in LA have managed to narrow the circle she drew on the map to a cone, but it’s still just… so much ground to cover.

Satellite imaging hasn’t been any help. The forest is full of hot spots and cool shadows. She can’t tell humans apart from other large mammals by their thermal prints, some moving, some not. None of the shapes are moving in the sort of pattern search grid she’d expect Jack to be running, so none of that data is helping. She sets up a program to track movement of thermal patterns in case she’s missing something and switches to the map overlaying the GPS signal tracks of her three two-man teams onto the map. There’s so much ground to cover. A thorough search will take hours. They can’t cover even half of the cone before dark sets in.

She can’t get the idea out of her head that she’s lost both Mac and Jack. That it was a mistake to let Jack go off alone. That he’ll disappear into the trees as thoroughly as Mac did, as thoroughly as his younger self did when she was fourteen. And this time, he’ll never come back.

She tosses the image off her screen and puts her forehead in her hand, squeezing as if that will help with the headache that’s brewing there. There must be something else she can do. She needs to think.

“Riley?”

At the sound of Bozer’s voice, she jerks her eyes to the clock on the screen. It’s 5:18pm. That’s after 8am in LA. It’s a little earlier than Bozer usually comes in, but not by a whole lot.

“Hey, Boze,” she says softly. Matty’s been off the comms line for a bit. Talking to Bozer? Filling him in? “Did Matty tell you…?”

“Yeah. Matty briefed me.”

“She’s pretty much up to date.” If Riley had anything hopeful to add, she would, because she can hear how badly Bozer wants to have hope. He knows what happened, but he doesn’t really know. He didn’t see how far Mac fell. She doesn't think she has the heart to take his hope away from him. Very selfishly, she wants to put that on Matty.

Riley shifts her attention as she hears a faint thumping. She clicks over to view her tracker. “The second half of our exfil team is almost here. I need a rundown on their equipment.” She, Mac, and Jack had arrived in France on the Phoenix jet and Jack had driven the van to the warehouse, so the type and capabilities of the arriving team are a question mark. It’s their exfil team, but it’s not their helicopter. It’s on loan from some partner agency. “Where did we get this helicopter and what do we have on it?”

“Give me a second,” Bozer says.

The helicopter is a dot in the sky. Dark in color. Decently big. She’s got enough experience with exfil to expect at least seating for 6, including the pilot.

“Okay. So–damn. It’s not medical or military, but it’s a search-and-rescue chopper.” She can almost hear the way his brow wrinkles. “We don’t have a good inventory. I’m sorry, Ri.”

“No worries. They’re almost here. I’ll just ask.”

“I’ll hook you into their comms,” Bozer says, and a moment later the Phoenix pilot is in her ear, confirming that he’s got her in sight.

“Hey,” she says. “You have three aboard? Instead of landing here, I want you to fly over the zone on the map that I’m going to send. I want a visual search of the entire zone. Look for a mirror, or a flag, or…” she trails off. Mac runs survival training every year, and Jack flat-out brags about his wilderness survival skills. Riley, on the other hand, knows about as much about what to do if you get lost in a forest as any average citizen who reads the newspaper. Last time Mac and Jack were out in the (literal) cold on their own, Mac built a radio, but that’s not going to happen this time. She swallows hard. “Or whatever. Just keep an eye out for anything.”

“Roger that,” the pilot returns.

#

It goes against every instinct Jack has to let Mac fall asleep. Modern medicine says there’s no need to keep a concussion victim awake, sure. But Mac’s concussion—and he definitely has a concussion, no doubt about that—is the least of Jack’s concerns. There are good reasons to keep a trauma victim awake. Sleeping means adrenaline fades from the bloodstream, along with its effect on blood pressure, and it means Mac’s not paying attention to threats to his airway.

But keeping Mac awake also means making him face the intense pain he’s clearly in. It means making Mac aware to his own suffering, and that seems cruel, especially when there’s no way to know when someone will come for them. But there’s no way to know when or if Riley found help, or what sort of resources Matty can get ahold of and on what timeline. It’s probably been a couple hours since he left her to deal with it herself. He’s not actually sure. Everything before finding Mac is blurry in my memory.

Chances are, exfil will be on foot when they search for him, and they’ll have to search the whole damn forest. He got lucky, finding Mac as quickly as he did. No way no how will their luck be that amazing twice. Whoever finds them won’t be prepared to find Mac. They won’t be prepared for anything near the level of help he needs, or the urgency with which he needs it.

Jack wants Mac awake, but it would be a selfish choice.

It’s selfish, too, to comb his fingers through Mac’s hair after he falls back to sleep. Jack stays away from the purpling bruises around Mac’s eyes, and the clumping locks where blood has run down from various cuts and from his eye sockets. The tacky dark blood makes horror twist in his gut. He’s seen Mac injured before, but not like this.

The hair on the crown of Mac’s head is soft and clean, and warm under his hand. It’s a soothing gesture that Mac likes, not that he’s ever said so out loud. It makes Jack feel like he’s doing something to help.

He listens to Mac’s raspy breathing for a while before he makes himself get up and tend the fire. The sky isn’t mid-day bright anymore. It’s definitely edging toward evening and that means the temperature will drop. He can’t let the fire get much bigger without risking setting the forest on fire, but they both dropped their jackets off the side of the trampoline at around four thousand feet altitude, leaving them in only shirtsleeves, and Mac’s going to get cold. Jack will be fine, if chilly, but Mac doesn’t need another problem.

With care, Jack collects dry leaves and piles them up around and over Mac’s legs, then along his sides. Moving Mac in any way is too much of a risk, so he has to rely on whatever Mac fell on to insulate him from the ground. He’s working along Mac’s outstretched arm when he hears Mac’s breath pick up. He pauses.

Mac’s half-awake, blinking slowly at the sky. Jack can’t tell if he’s looking for something, or at something, or if he’s even really conscious. “I’m right here,” Jack says, because Mac doesn’t look toward him. He crouches, putting himself into Mac’s field of vision. “Keeping you warm with some leaves. A little survival skill I picked up. But I ain’t gone anywhere.”

Mac doesn't respond, just drops back to sleep, leaving Jack alone with his worries. With a sigh, he pulls his t-shirt off. He contemplates the side seams before ripping it right down the front, starting at the point of the v-neck. Pulled wide and flat, it’s wide enough to cover Mac’s outstretched arm and torso from his chin down to his hips.

They don't have any water. He’ll be able to collect some dew in the morning, but dawn is hours away. He’s mildly dehydrated, but Mac’s actively losing water with every drip of blood that escapes a vein. It’s another thing Mac’s injured body won’t be able to deal with for long.

He collects more dry leaves and lays them on top of the shirt and along Mac’s sides. When he finishes with the leaves, Mac’s still asleep. He moves to Mac’s right side so he’s not blocking the radiant heat from the fire, sits down, and pulls his left foot up to look at the bottom of it. His ugly sock-sandal isn’t all that effective as a shoe, and there’s not much he can do about it. But it bothers him that the discomfort of his feet tugs at his attention when a little pain in his feet is hardly anything compared to what Mac will be feeling.

He needs to keep an eye on Mac and keep watch. He considers lying down along Mac’s right side, the side away from the fire. His body heat would keep that side warmer. But it would be hard to get close enough without jostling broken limbs or accidentally putting pressure on any part of Mac.

Eventually, he lowers himself down to sit by Mac’s shoulder, legs flat on the ground along Mac’s side. He can see Mac’s face and hear his breathing, chase away the gnats that hover in the cooling evening air. And wait. And wait for a miracle before it’s too late.

Notes:

Can I write this story in less than 15k? I guess not! 😂

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