The heat was suffocating inside the abandoned warehouse at the edge of the Sonoran Desert. Jack Dalton wiped the sweat from his forehead with a trembling hand. At his feet, Angus MacGyver—his brother-in-arms—lay unconscious, a gash on his temple from a brutal rifle butt.
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And standing before him: the enemy. Not some local thug, but Vicente Torres, an ex-soldier turned mercenary, armed to the teeth and clearly very, very angry.
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“You think you stand a chance without him, Dalton? Mac’s the brain. You’re just… the driver!” Torres sneered, aiming his assault rifle at Jack.
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Jack glanced around. They were trapped in an old mechanics’ workshop. Rusty tools, wires, dead batteries, duct tape, a fire extinguisher, a toaster, and a stash of industrial soap.
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No weapons. Just junk. Mac would make it work. But Jack?
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“Come on, think, Dalton. Think like Mac…” he muttered to himself.
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Torres began to approach. Jack slowly backed toward an old workbench and rested his hand on a small canister of flammable liquid.
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Step 1: Evaluate the resources.
— Flammable liquid, improvised fuse (greasy string), lithium battery…
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Step 2: Improvise a diversion.
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He unscrewed the cap, soaked a rag, and stuffed it into the neck of a glass bottle. He set it on the battery and positioned two metal pieces to cause a short circuit. The fuse would catch fire soon.
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Jack clenched his jaw. “This is totally nuts. It’s dangerous. It’s exactly what Mac would do.”
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A spark. Then the rag ignited. Jack hurled the burning bottle across the room, behind Torres. The makeshift explosion blew apart a metal shelf with a deafening crash. Screws and bolts flew everywhere.
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“You wanted to play hero? You just signed your death warrant!” Torres shouted, distracted, as Jack dove behind a workbench.
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Step 3: Use the chaos.
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Jack crawled toward the fire extinguisher. Empty. But the tank still held enough pressure for one last burst. He unscrewed the nozzle, jammed in a compressor hose fitting, secured it with wire, aimed by ear—
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BOOM!
The gas blast launched the extinguisher’s head like a missile. It hit Torres in the collarbone with brutal force. The man staggered back, grunting in pain.
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Jack leapt to his feet, grabbed a rusty chain, and used it like a whip to knock the gun from Torres’ hands. No time to grab it. Jack rolled forward and delivered a spinning kick to the mercenary’s knee, followed by a sharp right hook. Thank you, military training.
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Torres collapsed. KO.
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Panting, Jack leaned against the table, arms shaking. He heard a weak moan behind him.
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“Mac!”
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He rushed over. MacGyver was slowly opening his eyes, pupils dilated, dazed.
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“You’re alive… I missed you, Mac. But you should’ve seen me. I thought like you. I used a fire extinguisher to launch a… projectile! Made a Molotov out of a battery and… man, I’m you now!”
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Mac looked at him a moment, then winced and grinned.
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“You threw… a fire extinguisher? You’re totally nuts, Jack.”
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“Yeah, but I’m not the one who got knocked out cold.”
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Sirens echoed in the distance. Reinforcements were coming. Jack glanced at the smoldering flames, the chaos, and especially Torres—still unconscious.
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He put a hand on Mac’s shoulder.
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“You’re not alone in your genius anymore, brother. I can jury-rig stuff too.”
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And Mac, eyes half-shut, murmured:
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“Just… promise me you’ll never do that again.”
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Jack burst out laughing.
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“No promises, Mac. No promises.”
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