“It’s a reminder,” Mac said, taking it back. “The simplest thing—a spring, a spark, a guess—can stop the end of the world.”
Mac was at the table, dismantling the thermal lance. He pulled out the clothespin spring, still intact. “Always good to have spare parts.”
Angus MacGyver, kneeling beside an open junction box, didn’t look up. He was threading copper wire through the spring of an old clothespin. “Actually, Jack, Armillaria ostoyae is a fungus. It covers nearly four square miles in Oregon. Kessler’s just made it... hungrier.”
The Phoenix Foundation’s safe house in Zurich smelled of old wood and strong coffee. Jack Dalton, nursing a third cup, glared at the surveillance feed. “I’m telling you, Mac, this guy Kessler isn’t a scientist. He’s a mushroom farmer with a grudge.”
“Don’t,” Mac said. “That’s a hundred-hour turn wheel. You’ll get three turns before I reach you.”
“Boys,” Kessler’s voice echoed from a speaker. “I see you. One wrong move, and I crack the seal. The spores aerosolize.”
Kessler grabbed the canister’s manual release wheel.