"Which explains his absence from the club scene," Lloyd said. 

Mulder nodded. "Yeah. He was too busy setting the snatch up to party.
But he can't have known we were going to be jogging up there this
morning, so the actual grab was a fluke. Which means he didn't have
time to be neat. Anyway, Skinner called Stanley, and he directed us to
room 907. Me and AD Skinner and one of the hotel's security men hit
the room, but they'd already gone. The secondary signal shows him
heading into the warehouse district."

Another hotel security man joined them. "Excuse me, Mr. Skinner? Staff
witnesses have your suspect leaving the hotel with a big, wheeled
suitcase about a minute before they got the alert. His car was parked
on the street, instead of the hotel's parking lot, so he wasn't
corralled by the blockade. He was driving a panel van, medium blue, no
licence noted."

"Thank you. What did reception have on our suspect?" Skinner asked as
he caught Mulder's eye and tossed his head towards the elevators.
Mulder took the hint and dashed off to retrieve Scully and change into
his work clothes.

Lloyd hauled out his notepad as the security man continued his report.
"He registered as one Mikhail Zebruder. Salesman. Address in Long
Beach, California, in town for business."

"I'll have my boys check it out, but it's probably a dead end," Lloyd
said, as Skinner thanked the security man. "So, what's our next move?"

"Well, right now Mulder is going upstairs to get Agent Scully, *I* am
going to check in with hotel security and pick up the security tapes
they set aside for me. Then we are going to the Federal Building, turn
the tapes over to Agent Wong, check out a homing device, and start
trolling the city for Val.

"Agent Wong says the transmitter in the prosthetic has a range of a
mile and a half. Last we heard he was still in contact, although that
could have changed while we were talking. Needless to say, if he goes
to ground we'll call you in before we move on the location."

Lloyd nodded. "I've got five cars on call when you need them. Just
send me the location. I'll have them there in three minutes! By the
way, we using your crime scene guys, or mine? They were having a
pissing contest on the way over here."

Skinner sighed. "Sic one team on the service elevator and rooftop, let
the other have the room. But all the evidence goes with us. Less
paperwork, better labs," Skinner said.

"Fair enough. Let's get to it, then." With that, they headed off in
opposite directions.

###

CHAPTER SEVEN

#
"It is chiefly through the instinct to kill that man achieves intimacy
with the life of nature." --Kenneth Clark
#
Galleria Park Hotel, San Francisco, Ca
Sunday, March 12th 
#

Kapustcha had gone home and retrieved his work valise, then bought
himself a steamer trunk sized suitcase with built-in handle and
wheels, some key blanks, a set of files, and a package of plasticine
clay, then returned to the hotel and checked in, paying for one night
in advance, taking a suite on the ninth floor.

He took advantage of the bellhop's distraction to divest him of his
key ring. He pressed each side of each key into blocks of clay, then
called the man back to retrieve his 'dropped' keys. He then busied
himself with duplicating the entire set of keys.

Once that was done and his equipment was back in its carrying case, he
went strolling. He found the service elevator and tried the various
keys in the lock until one worked. Then he went down to the laundry
and snagged a laundry basket, and took it back up to his room and hid
it in the bathtub. Then he called room service and had a late supper.

The next morning, he got up early and took the laundry cart up to the
roof. He had been making a 'dry run' when he'd heard Krycek bantering
with someone. Fortunately, he had the vial of chloroform in his
pocket. He grabbed his handkerchief and wetted it with the knock-out
drug, then crept towards the jogging track. When Krycek tripped, he
came up from behind him and pounced. Krycek kicked out, sending the
chair skidding across the concrete to smash into a patio table and
chairs. But the surprise had been too complete, and Kapustcha's
strength too superior for the younger man to overcome. He lapsed into
unconsciousness.

Kapustcha dragged his captive to the laundry basket, dumped him in,
covered him with towels, loaded him onto the service elevator and went
down one floor to his room. He got the steamer-sized suitcase out of
the closet and zipped it open, ready to accept its cargo. Then he
wrestled Krycek's limp body out of the laundry cart.

It wasn't as easy getting him out as in, and he ended up dumping him
onto the floor where the incongruity of Krycek's attire almost made
him laugh. A black leather jacket over a stylish jogging suit?  He
knew the jacket was Krycek's. In fact, rumor had it that he had sewn a
stash of diamonds inside the liner, for a rainy day.

Who knew what else he had in the jacket? Kapustcha tugged it off and
felt it over. He pulled a switchblade, plam, garrote, opened pack of
chewing gum, wallet, ID card folder, sunglasses, comb, and hotel card
key out of the various pockets, which he tucked into his own. There
were things sewn into the liner, too, but they felt more like keys
than jewels. So much for the vaunted grapevine. He tossed the jacket
into the suitcase.

Krycek's rooftop companion would raise the alarm any moment now, if he
hadn't already. He had to get his prize away. He grabbed Krycek's
ankles, intending to dump him into the suitcase after the jacket, but
the tread caught his eye. Almost white. The tops were brightly white,
as well, unscarred, unscuffed. Obviously brand new.

He knew the jogging suit had been one of the items Krycek had obtained
during their little shopping spree yesterday. The shoes must have been
part of the booty as well.

Kapustcha thought about Krycek's big, beefy companion and his face
screwed up into a scowl. He snatched Krycek's right arm and pulled it
up, staring at the 'out of the case' clean watch adorning his wrist.

"This looks expensive. Not the sort of thing a punk like you would
buy. Did your boyfriend buy it for you, hm? A little love token from
your sweet Girly-man?" He stripped it from Krycek's arm and threw it
across the room in disgust with such force it clunked against the
wall.

"He probably bought everything you're wearing. Your big, bald Sugar
Daddy." Without a thought for his safety or hesitation in his
movements, Kapustcha began tearing Krycek's clothes off and throwing
them in the general direction of the watch.

When he was done, he studied the body laid bare before him. The
prosthesis was hooked onto his stump like a leech, covering the loss
with plastic skin. It was as ugly as it was intriguing. He had heard
that Krycek had lost the arm. Little snippets of Krycek gossip were
always finding their way into his ears. Krycek always wore black
leather gloves and long sleeved shirts, these days, so even though
they had see each other since, Kapustcha had never had to face the
reality of Krycek's maiming. And now was not the best time, either.

Kapustcha hoisted Krycek up and folded him into the suitcase, zipped
it closed, fixed the zipper lock to secure the load, then pulled out
the tow handle and deployed the wheels. He shouldered his other case,
made sure the 'do not disturb' sign was on the door, then rolled the
trunk to the guest elevators.

As he crossed the lobby, he could see a sudden flurry of activity. He
tried to hurry his steps without looking as if he was rushing.
Thankfully, he had express-paid his room bill, and needn't bother
checking out at the desk.

He exited the hotel and made his way across the street, to the parking
lot of one of the local shops, where he had parked his van the day
before. He opened the side door, got in, pulled the suitcase up and
into the back, then closed and locked the door. He was safe. He
settled himself into the driver's seat and drove out, paying no
attention to the covey of security men blocking the exits to the
Galleria Park Hotel's parking lot.

He drove to the company warehouse, pulling into the back to park. He
made sure the place was empty, then draped his 'equipment' bag over
his shoulder before pushing out the steamer-sized suitcase and
wheeling it into the back of the warehouse, where there was an
emergency wash area, in case some volatile chemical spilled and the
handlers needed to 'decontaminate' themselves.

It consisted of two walls of nozzles and control knobs, the back wall
was solid, the other broken into four sections to allow multiple
entries and exits from the facility. A metal grating set four inches
above the multiple set of drains kept the sloughed off toxins from
pooling around flushed skin and clothing, so there would be no effects
from recontamination, or prolonged exposure. The shower heads were set
at four heights in both walls and from pipes overhead to ensure quick,
complete coverage from head to toe.

Kapustcha laid the suitcase down and unzipped the lid, considering his
prisoner. Out cold. He went into the shower, unslung the other bag
from his shoulder, and considered its contents. First a wrench. He
unscrewed one of the next to lowest showerheads from its pipe, then
replaced it with a metal reenforced plastic hose. He tied a rope to
one of the overhead pipes, then tied another rope to the adjacent
overhead pipe. Then he went back to the suitcase.

Krycek was still unconscious. Still unprotesting, limp and unwieldy
weight. Kapustcha hauled Krycek out of the suitcase and dragged him
into the showers. He cuffed and fettered him, then secured his ankles
to the lowest nozzles on either wall. He attached his right wrist cuff
to the rope over his head, and hoisted him upright. Then he pulled his
prosthetic over to the adjacent pipe and secured it in place.

He stepped outside the shower proper to shed his own clothing,
gathered up a shaving razor, soap, shaving lather, and a wash cloth
out of his equipment bag, stepped back in to the shower stall, and
turned the water on. Water would purify them for the coming
activities. Shaving the bitch's hair off would remind him who wore the
pants and who the dress in this pairing.

When Krycek woke, he thought, for one addled second, that he was still
on the rooftop, in a freezing rain, but something besides his pounding
head felt wrong. //If I knocked myself out, shouldn't I be laying
down? What happened to my clothes?//

He jerked, trying to escape the rain, but his limbs were tightly
secured. //Hmm? Can't move.//

He blinked to focus his eyes on his ankles, then his wrists.
//Uht-oh.//

His ankles were tied below him, his wrists tied above. The memory of
falling, and being grabbed from behind, of the doped cloth pressing
against his face, flashed over his mind's eye. He groaned.

There was a showerhead directly over him raining cold water onto his
naked body. His real arm was attached to the water pipe above the
showerhead. His fake arm was secured to a dry pipe outside the
showerhead's coverage area.

He supposed his captor was afraid the prosthesis wasn't waterproof. He
felt no pressing need to tell him that it was. The chloroform had made
him nauseous and left him with an undeserved 'hangover,' which made it
hard to think straight, and it wasn't helped by the fact that he was
shivering so hard his teeth ached.

Krycek's survival instinct overcame his initial confusion and he
dropped his head so he wouldn't emulate a domesticated turkey, but
turning away from the showerhead put him face to face with his captor.

Krycek stiffened with surprise and shock. //Kapustcha.// Suddenly, he
wasn't so sure that drowning was a bad alternative.

Kapustcha was lathering a washcloth. 

Krycek flinched backwards reflexively, but he was too securely tied
for it to make much difference. "Nooo," he moaned.

Kapustcha looked up from his task and smiled unpleasantly. "Finally
awake, My Pretty? I was beginning to wonder if I'd be enjoying this
shower alone."

He gripped the back of Krycek's head and scrubbed his face, let the
shower-rain rinse the lather off, then moved down Krycek's body,
sparing no inch of flesh inside the water's 'footprint' with the
exception of the double rings of flesh covered by the cuffs around
Krycek's ankles.

He was brutally thorough, pinching Krycek's nipples through the cloth,
peeling back his foreskin to rasp the foamy cloth over Krycek's
sensitive glans with the same intensity as he'd used on the
callous-tough soles of his feet.

Krycek's flesh felt satiny and yielding to Kapustcha's washcloth and
lather insulated hand. His other hand slid slickly over soap and water
coated skin, feeling the solidity of muscle, the wiriness of sinew,
and the knotty ropes of old scar tissue. His penis flagged its
interest when he realized that most of Krycek's scars were souvenirs
from his past ministrations.

He stood back to let the last of the lather slough off into the drain,
then shut the water off. He wrung out the wash cloth then let it drop
to the grate in favor of a can of shaving gel. He shook it, and
pressed the nozzle, allowing a peach-sized ball of gel to bloom in his
palm. Then he spread the foam over Krycek's chest, armpits, and belly.
He foamed up again and lathered Krycek's groin, then each leg. Then he
picked up a safety razor and began scraping off the foam and the hair
entangled in it.

Krycek whimpered as Kapustcha circled his nipples, then made a clean
sweep of the treasure trail that led to his groin.

"Stand still, Bitch," Kapustcha warned him, as he scraped the razor
over Krycek's pubes and scrotum, giggling as Krycek's balls shriveled
at his touch and tried desperately to crawl back into his body to
escape his groping fingers.

Krycek watched as Kapustcha continued downward, baring one leg, then
the other down to the cuffs. The man had shaved off all his body hair.
All of it that he could see. He looked like a baby rat, naked tail and
all.

Kapustcha moved behind him and he shivered, feeling the man's presence
like a fat, deadly spider behind him. Blunt fingers pried his ass
cheeks apart. He held his breath as lathered fingers stroked his
crack, preparing him. The last thing he wanted was a shaving nick in
his ass crack, but he couldn't stop himself from groaning. //Not this
shit again.//

He wondered if Kapustcha ever stopped to consider how annoyingly itchy
sprouting pubic and ass hair could be on tender skin. Not that he'd
care. Not that Alex would dare complain.

Alex drew a steeling breath. He hadn't expected to get nabbed on the
roof of the hotel. He looked at his right wrist again, focusing on
another lack: no global positioning watch. He felt a moment's panic
clench his guts, then told himself it didn't matter. Whether Kapustcha
had taken it off when he put him in the shower or he'd ditched it,
Alex still had the transmitter in his prosthetic and he could *see*
that *it* was still attached. The good guys just had to find him.
Which meant he had to play along with his captor until he was rescued,
so he'd have as few injuries as possible.

San Francisco wasn't that big a city compared to other modern
metropolises. They only had to come within a mile and a half of his
position. He just had to stay with Kapustcha long enough for Skinner
to shoot the bastard dead. How long could it take? One hour? Two,
tops?  How long had it been already? //I can do this,// he thought.
//Just play it cool.//

Kapustcha turned the water back on and let the left-over foam sluice
into the drains. "Time for your douche, Cunt." He reached for the
hose. Krycek was too familiar with it. It had a five inch long,
finger-thick plastic nozzle drilled with holes that fit up his ass.
Instant enema. The nozzle was long enough for Kapustcha to play fuck
games with him as he filled his bowels with water.

Krycek felt his bottom lip begin to quiver. He bit it still. //Just
the chill,// he told himself. //I'm just cold, I'm not scared. Not
scared at all.//

Kapustcha lathered the nozzle up then shoved it up Krycek's rectum
till the metal bit kissed his sphincter, then he moved it in and out,
in and out, slow and hard, deliberately pressing down to rub Krycek's
prostate with each long, agonizing stroke.

Krycek squirmed helplessly as the soap stung his tender tissues and
cold, forceful water filled his bowels too quickly.

Kapustcha tapped Krycek's distending abdomen periodically, to
determine when he was well filled, then turned the water off. "That
should flush your filthy cunt out, hmm? Fifteen minutes, now. Don't
spill a drop or you'll have to do it all over again." He leered as he
considered that prospect, then stepped away, off the platform, razor
still in hand. "I'll just go set out your make-up, Girl."

Alex cringed. //Oh, shit! Hurry up, Skinner, please, hurry up!// 

It wasn't long before the urgent need to evacuate his bowels and his
equally pressing need to keep himself from doing that very thing
pushed all other thoughts from his mind. //Hold it! Hold it! Oh, shit!
How much more time? Don't let it go. Clench! Clench! Oh, damn! Don't
let any go. Oh! Don't cramp. Stop spasming. Hold it! Gotta hold it!//

"How are you, Little Pussy? Just about to burst, hmm?" Kapustcha asked
as he re-entered the shower, a towel draped over one shoulder. Krycek
groaned. Kapustcha chuckled and grabbed the hose. He pushed it in and
not quite all the way out, then back in, teasingly, then yanked it
out.

Krycek almost shrieked as a jet of water shot from his ass before he
could regain control of his sphincter. "Sorry! Sorry! Sorry!" he
babbled. "Permission to go. Please. Gotta go really bad." He would
have danced in place if his feet weren't tied.

Kapustcha smiled. He wiped his spattered wrist on the towel, then
gripped Krycek's hips, ensuring that he couldn't twist himself about,
not even a bit. "Go on, then, Cunt. Clean your hole for me."

Alex shuddered and let the water gush out of him, taking the remnants
of yesterday's dinner with it. Kapustcha patted his ass dry with the
towel. "Th-thank you, Big Daddy," he said. He knew the drill. He
didn't have to fight. There was no point in fighting. Skinner would
find him soon. Soon. //Please, make it soon, Skinner. I'll play it
cool, try to stay on Kapustcha's good side, just, please, get here
soon!//

Kapustcha scowled. On the one hand, he and The Slut had played this
game before, so he knew that Krycek knew what was expected of him. On
the other hand, he knew Krycek. The little bastard liked to play tame
--right up until he bit your dick. Simper and betray. It was *every*
cunt's game. Even his dear ex-wife had played it. He wasn't fooled.
Not one whit. "What are you up to, now, hm, Slit?" he wondered aloud.

Krycek's face smoothed out as if the drug had claimed his
consciousness once more. "I'm just trying to make things easy on
myself, Big Daddy," he said.

Kapustcha smiled. He had no doubt that what Krycek had said was true.
It was what Krycek *hadn't* said that concerned him. And he knew from
the way Krycek had tried to smooth his features so he wouldn't give
himself away that there was something he was hiding. He tried to think
of all the ways Krycek could betray him this early in the game,
carefully reviewing everything that had happened so far.

Up on the roof the man with Krycek had called him 'Krycek,' but he had
also called him 'Percival.' A sort of half alias. What could that
mean? He rubbed his wrist --and froze. He was right-handed, and he
wore his watch on the left wrist. The band of white skin where he
usually wore it bore silent testament to that.

Krycek was right-handed, too. So why had he been wearing his watch on
his right wrist? He reached up and grabbed Krycek's wrists, unbuckling
the cuffs one by one to check the skin and plasti-skin beneath. They
were above the showerheads, so they hadn't been washed.

As he suspected. There was a noticeably clean band of plastic on the
prosthetic wrist, but no such band of whiter skin around the right
wrist. Krycek, like himself, habitually wore his watch on the left.
Why the change?

"What's your game, Slit?"

"I'm not playing games, Big Daddy," Krycek denied.

Kapustcha back-handed Krycek's face. "Don't lie to me, Cunt!" The
little bastard rolled with the blow as much as his restraints allowed
and went impassively silent once more.

It unnerved Kapustcha. //He's too calm, too confident. He's naked, so
it can't be anything he had in his clothes. Think!// He'd cleaned out
his bowels.... He pinched Krycek's jaw and checked his mouth. //No new
dental work. Then what-- the prosthetic!//

Kapustcha uncuffed the plasti-skinned prosthetic once more and began
tugging on it.

"Hey! Wha'd'ya think you're doing?" Krycek squeaked as much with
surprise as alarm.

Kapustcha back-handed him again, this time sending him into a
half-spin, which was braked by his tethered ankles, which only allowed
his hips to swivel so far. "I want this off, Hole!"

"It's vacuum-sealed, damn-it! It doesn't pull off!" Krycek protested.
"You don't have the right equipment! You're gonna break my arm! Stop
it!"

He wrested his arm free of Kapustcha's grasp, but he had no way to
keep Kapustcha from capturing it again. Kapustcha abruptly quit trying
and stalked out of the stall, only to return with a foot long, flat
metal rod. He wrapped an arm around Krycek's prosthetic to hold it
still, and, with the other hand, shoved the rod between the cuff and
Krycek's stump, then twisted it, to break the seal. Air wooshed from
the join, the cuff loosened, and Kapustcha was able to tug the arm
free and look inside the cuff. He spotted the transmitter at once.

Kapustcha let loose an inarticulate bellow and began beating Krycek
with his own prosthetic. "No games? You set me up, you Brazen Hussy!"

Alex felt ribs pop and crack and teeth loosen even as they cut his
battered lips open. The blows to his abdomen made him retch and
convulse helplessly in his bonds. Then, when Kapustcha tired, he threw
down the unwieldy bat and grabbed his balls and squeezed hard.

Alex shrieked and spasmed, wriggling like a worm on a hook. His
screams ripped his throat raw, but Kapustcha refused to relent till
the ends of his fingernails tore through the thin skin of Alex's 
scrotum and blood oozed through his fingers.