With James free, they scrambled toward the back exit. Mac rigged a pressurized steam pipe to blow, creating a curtain of scalding fog that masked their escape.

Mac didn't move. He grabbed a plastic bottle and began mixing ammonia with iodine. "You never did understand the difference between an order and a choice, Dad."

The drive to the site was silent, the tension between father and son vibrating louder than the engine. When they arrived at the outskirts of the compound, things went south instantly. An ambush left their vehicle disabled and James pinned under a fallen support beam in an old warehouse.

Hours later, safely back at the Phoenix base, James stood by the window, watching the sunset. He turned to Mac, who was cleaning the grease from his fingernails. "You didn't follow the protocol," James remarked.

Mac looked his father in the eye. "The protocol was broken the moment you lied to me. I didn't save you because of the Foundation. I did it because you're the only father I've got, even if I don't like you very much right now."

Armed mercenaries were closing in. Mac looked around the derelict space. No weapons. No backup. Just a pile of discarded chemical drums, some copper wiring, and a handful of cleaning supplies.

The sound of a luxury SUV crunching over the gravel broke his peace. Out stepped James MacGyver, looking every bit the cold, calculated director of the Phoenix Foundation.

"They're already on the ground, but they're pinned down. If you don't come, they don't make it out."