Team elsewhere, communication cut off, at least one cracked rib, a man with a very large gun pointed right at the middle of his forehead. MacGyver had definitely seen worse, been in tighter spots, but this mission-turned-mess was creeping into the top fifteen.
Behind him, in the filing-filled corner of the abandoned warehouse, the girl -- Emily -- whimpered. Mac attempted to make a comforting gesture while also keeping his hands visible. "Stay there, Emily. Stay small." Emily sniffled a response. Emily, daughter of the owner of a massive shipping company, had visited the office on the wrong day and heard the wrong people talking about the wrong things. She couldn't be older than 11. If anyone here was having a worse day than Mac, it was her.
"Give us the kid, MacGyver," growled the man with the gun.
Mac shook his head. He took a deep breath to steady himself and regretted it immediately. Ribs. Right.
"We don't want to hurt her," the man said, a tinge of genuine frustration in his voice. "We just want to talk to her."
But that was the problem, wasn't it? Emily knew things she wasn't supposed to know. Even if she had a polite chat over ice cream and was returned to her father's headquarters with every pleat of her school uniform in place, people would die. Probably a lot of people.
"Emily doesn't want to talk to you."
"Be reasonable. We're open to negotiation"
"Negotiating? Alright, here's my offer. If you want her, you have to go through me."
The man shouldered his gun. “Fine. If you insist.”