Krycek screeched as the hooks pulled at his flesh, widening the holes
in his flesh. He sucked in breath and put on his best 'AD Skinner' growl. 
"I'd like to say you were going to miss me when I'm gone, but I'm never 
going to leave you, Boy. I'm going to be with you every hour of every 
day. Every pair of green eyes you see for the rest of your life will 
remind you of me. Every mop of hair, every up-turned nose, every 
elfin ear, on every man, woman, or child you ever meet from here to 
fucking eternity! *That's* control, Boy! And I've got it, not you. 
Because you can't stop thinking about me. I-- aughh!"

Alex screamed as Kapustcha thrust the blade into his rectum. Blood
gushed from the four cuts. Kapustcha stepped under the bloody stream
face first and rubbed it over his body as if it were a refreshing
cascade of hot water.

"*This* is control, Whore! This is *your* life pouring over me, giving
up your strength to me. You have no power over me. *I* have the power,
here!"

###

Outside, Skinner and Mulder crept closer to the main door of the
warehouse, the one that lead out to the fenced, outdoor, storage area.
They had the compound surrounded. They had parked their cars a half
mile down the road, coming in silent, no lights, no sirens, so as not
to alert Kapustcha to their arrival with the noise of their
preparations.

They had gathered around the tailgate of one of the trucks and made
their final plans. Commander Nelson sent his snipers in first, to find
vantage points. Inspector Graham ordered a host of uniformed officers
to cordon off the perimeter and make sure there were no civilians in
the line of fire. A team of paramedics was standing by, drinking
coffee from a thermos while Stanley pin-pointed Krycek's position
through the use of blue prints and the homing signal.

Skinner led the F.B.I. contingent and Lloyd in, on foot, across the
weedy sandlot that surrounded the salvage yard. Nelson and his men
marched in to the right of them.

Once they reached the front gate, Skinner and his people went left,
into the salvage yard proper, heading for the warehouse door that
opened onto the yard, while Nelson and his men went right to cover the
main office entrance. They each sent a group of men on to the back
entrance, by the sea gate, to completely surround the building in case
there were other, clandestine access ways of which they were ignorant.

In the meantime, the coastguard sent a pair of cutters in to block an
escape to sea. Their men would storm the sea gate and take possession
of the stolen boat once the enemy was engaged.

Skinner stepped quietly towards the sheet metal door. He tried the
handle. Locked. He pressed his left ear to the metal and strained, he
could hear loud voices inside, but no clear words. It could be a TV
for all he could tell. He straightened and chewed his lip. They
couldn't be sure where their quarry was, but he told himself he didn't
care. Freeing Krycek was his primary consideration. That's why he was
here, at the yard door, rather than coming in through the connecting
door in the office. Stanley had assured him that this approach would
get him to 'Val' the fastest.

Skinner set his back to the warehouse wall and pressed his hand to the
ear-piece in his right ear, which connected him to Commander Nelson.
The plan was to wait until all their men were in position before
storming the facility, the better to close any gaps that might allow
the suspect to escape. All he could do now was wait and wonder. Was
Krycek still alive? Was Kapustcha inside? Would he have a clean shot?
What would happen if he couldn't kill the son of a bitch? Would he
risk his career to make sure the bastard never walked out of here
alive?

Skinner sighed, ambivalent. He wanted Kapustcha to be with Krycek,
because then they'd know where the bastard was, he'd have a good
excuse to kill the bastard, there wouldn't be a mad scramble to locate
him before he could slip away or lawyer up, there wouldn't be any
surprises. But he *didn't* want Kapustcha to be with Krycek because
the only reason they would be together is so Kapustcha could torture
Krycek, and every minute they spent together meant one less minute
Krycek might have to live.

Skinner glanced over as Mulder took a position directly to his left.

Scully, Graham, and Wong were ambling stealthily toward their
location, the last of his team to come into the salvage yard. Scully
had one hand on her weapon, the other on her doctor's bag. There might
be paramedics standing by, but they weren't doctors, and they couldn't
administer drugs without a doctor's orders. Add the medical bag to the
high heels that, though sensible, were not the ideal choice of
footwear for the sandy/muddy ground surrounding the salvage yard, and
it was no wonder Scully had preferred to bring up the rear.

Skinner supposed it was host courtesy which prompted the two San
Franciscans to hang back with her.

Then a screech that shook the sheet metal door sounded from inside. 

Skinner went cold. //Alex!// That sick fuck was killing Alex! He knew
it with preternatural certainty. Without a word of warning, Walter
whipped into a roundhouse kick that slammed the sheet metal door clean
off its hinges.

Mulder jerked in surprise but followed Skinner through the opening,
Sig Sauer ram rod straight in his out-stretched arms, like a dowsing
rod faithfully tracking the movements of his eyes.

Skinner took a step inside and froze, stunned by the eerie tableau
illuminated by the light cast from the broken door.

Mulder, still to Skinner's left, squeezed his own eyes down to slits
as if to fend off the horror of the macabre sight and grimaced.

Krycek was suspended from the ceiling, his only clothing an emerald
green garter belt with matching fishnet hose, a pair of red stiletto
heels, and a vicious looking cock ring. He was wearing a
Farrah-Fawcetty type wig, and from the distance between them, a good
twenty feet, his make-up, as his body swung on the wires holding him,
was immaculate. As was his ass. His beautiful, full moon of an ass. It
shone in the light from the doorway like the celestial sphere, a
luminous beacon of silver in the gloom of the cavernous warehouse.

Walter felt like a deer caught in the enchanting light of that
pristine moon.

Mulder, unaffected, dutifully drew a bead on Kapustcha and yelled:
"F.B.I.! You're under arrest!" at the top of his lungs.

Krycek's body spun on its threads of wire, eclipsing the mesmerizing
globes of flesh, and allowing him to sight his rescuers. He favored
them with a million watt smile. "Skinner!" Then he snorted, "Figures!"
as if damning his luck, threw back his head, and laughed hysterically
till the pain in his distended breasts made him choke. Then he gasped.
"Oh, shit!" His lips twisted, his teeth barred, and he snarled. "Kill 
him! Kill him! Kill the son of a bitch!"
  
The shouting broke Skinner out of the trance that had enthralled him.
He took another step forward, raised his weapon, and set his mouth
into a steely line, even as Kapustcha, at first annoyed at their
intrusion, laughed at Mulder's declaration.

Kapustcha raised his hands over his head, one to either side of
Krycek's slowly swinging body, while Krycek's blood continued to pulse
onto him through the handle of the knife.

Mulder glanced over at Skinner. His boss had his weapon trained on
Kapustcha. Satisfied that he was covered, Mulder stowed his weapon and
reached for his handcuffs.

Skinner noted Mulder's movement and gulped in a steeling breath, then,
before Mulder could spoil his shot by stepping into the line of fire
in order to secure the 'prisoner,' he pulled the trigger. The bullet
caught Kapustcha neatly in the forehead.

Kapustcha rocked back, as if shocked at Skinner's effrontery. He
looked surprised, then dismayed, then he fell dead at Krycek's feet.

Mulder jumped back as if Skinner had been aiming at him and missed,
his face a mask of surprise. "What the fuck?!" he yelped. "What'd you
do that for?"

SWAT Commander Nelson buzzed in Skinner's earpiece like an angry
hornet, both demanding to know what was happening and urging his men
inside at top speed to deal with whatever situation awaited them.

Skinner didn't answer. Keeping his weapon trained on Kapustcha, he
strode over to make sure the fiend wasn't playing possum, then he
holstered his weapon and stared up at Krycek, afraid to touch him for
fear of causing him even more injury. "You OK?" he immediately winced
at the stupidity of his own question.

"I'd have felt a lot better if you'd gotten here an hour ago," Krycek
snorted derisively.

"Sorry," Skinner said. 

"That's gratitude for you," Mulder said sharply. "You're still alive.
You shouldn't complain."

"Right.... Tell me again once I'm off these hooks," Krycek retorted.

Skinner looked around, looking for a way to lower Krycek. He didn't
see any. He looked at Mulder, who had backed off to fill their
comrades in on the situation. "Mulder? A little help, here?"

Mulder sighed noisily but, at Skinner's directive, he wrapped up his
report to Nelson and started scanning the rafters for the lines that
held Krycek up. Somewhere, presumably attached to one of them, was a
control box.

Lloyd, Scully, and Wong trotted inside, then, as, all around the
building, police flooded through the sea doors and the connecting
office door, raiding the warehouse, the boathouse, and the stolen
cabin cruiser.

The tardy trio, overhearing Skinner's shout for aid, immediately began
casting about for likely control devices. Scully found the first
control box, and, after a triumphant: "Got it!" hit a button,
expecting to lower Krycek down.

It did, about one foot, then, as Kapustcha had promised, the secondary
cable caught him and his weight shifted from his breasts to his arms.

Krycek yelped in agonized relief, then told them about the second
winch.

Lloyd found those controls and, coordinating with Scully, they
unspooled the cables in unison.

As Krycek's feet touched the floor, he started to crumple, unable to
hold his own weight, so Skinner stepped forward and looped his arms
around him to hold him up till there was enough slack to lower him all
the way to the floor. At that point, Skinner laid the spy onto his
left, and least abused side, and crouched beside him to assess his
injuries.

Up close, Krycek's make-up looked like a perfect mask fastened over an
all too imperfect body. Everywhere one looked blood, scabs, and
bruises gave testament to the abuse Krycek had suffered. The entire
right side of his torso, from shoulders to hips, was a deep purple
clot of subcutaneous blood.

Skinner clucked at the purple splotches and the profusion of red welts
and scabs that covered Krycek from neck to knees. His goose-egg sized
balls made every man in the room wince, while his penis, which had
swollen up between the gaps of the five steel rings constricting its
length like yeasty bread, made their own members shrivel in sympathy.

"How *did* you find me?" Krycek asked as Skinner unthreaded the hooks
from his breasts, then set about sawing through the plastic cords
binding him to the rebar.

"Mulder," Skinner said shortly. "He had Scully put a third homing
device in your arm. The transmitter was in the tip of the hypodermic
needle. She implanted it when she gave you one of your shots, then
gave you a time-released local anesthetic to disguise the discomfort."

"Then what the fuck took you so long?!" Krycek demanded, flushing with
sudden ire.

"Well, the transmitter was so tiny it only had a range of a quarter of
a mile, and we'd already scanned this area before you got here,
because of your side trip to Oakland, so it wasn't until Mulder heard
about the O'Malley's stolen boat that he put two and two together and
we rechecked these coordinates and picked up your signal."

"I thought I was dead!!" Krycek closed his eyes to hide the relieved
tears threatening to spill onto his immaculately made-up face.
Wouldn't do to run his mascara, he thought sarcastically, although, of
course, Kapustcha used water-proof make-up.

He felt the surge of adrenaline that had flooded him when Kapustcha
had knifed him, which had then repeaked at Skinner's entrance, and
again with his anger at Mulder, fading, leaving him jittery and
exhausted and weak from blood loss and too many enemas, and the
hollowness of despair that still clutched his guts despite his
eleventh hour rescue.

"Should have been dead," had he been more resourceful and kept his
head, he bleakly realized. He couldn't find it in him to congratulate
himself for panicking like a tyro, even if doing so had inadvertently
saved his life.

Then again, he speculated, he still had a chance to pull defeat from
the jaws of victory. He might be breathing, but he was still bleeding.
Enough of the red stuff had pooled on the cold concrete around his
legs to chill his skin. Suddenly, the entire situation irked him.
"Fuck the restraints, Skinner, get this fucking thing out of my ass!"
he growled.

Skinner reached his hand down to oblige when Scully yelled: "No!"
Then, in her best 'do not even dare to disobey me' Doctor voice, she
added: "Leave it!" And, to make sure she was obeyed, she crouched at
Krycek's other side and batted Skinner's hand away.

"Right now the blades are acting as a kind of barrier to the blood
loss. If you pull them out, you'll open up the wounds and he'll bleed
freely. I've called the paramedics, they're coming in now and they've
made sure that there's an OR prepped for his arrival. It won't be
long," she reassured them as she began a cursory examination to assess
his others injuries.

"Damn!" said Wong as he, too, crouched beside Krycek. He took Alex's
hand, comfortingly. "Man, Val, are you ever a sight for sore eyes! I'm
so glad you're alive. Don't die on us now that we've rescued your
sorry ass, huh?"

Krycek smiled up at the Oriental fondly. "Maybe. If you promise to buy
me a T-shirt that says: 'I survived the San Francisco Slut Slayer.'"

Stanley canted his head. "Well, maybe something similar. I'll silk
screen it myself, if I have to."

"Jesus fucking Christ!" Lloyd exclaimed as he toed the body on the
floor behind them. "What the hell happened, Skinner? Why didn't you
wait for the signal?"

Skinner looked pointedly at Mulder, reading his posture. He was
hanging back, stiff and angry, but not righteously so, more baffled
than anything else. "I heard Val scream. No doubt when Kapustcha
inserted this blade. He sounded like he was dying. I couldn't wait for
you guys to get into position, so I went in. Kapustcha saw me. He
raised his arms, like he was going to surrender, but he put one of his
arms behind Val, out of sight. I figured he was either going to try
and finish Val off, or was going for the blade in order to take one of
us down with him, so I shot him."

Lloyd frowned. "Is that how you saw it, Mulder?"

Mulder looked at the corpse, then at Krycek's smirky grin, then at
Skinner, then he sighed curtly, belatedly putting the last piece of
the puzzle into place: Krycek had intended to kill Kapustcha all
along. He just needed someone as unimpeachable as Walter to do the
dirty work for him.

Unfortunately, the way Skinner had just described the scene made
killing Kapustcha sound *so* reasonable, even to *his* ears --and he
knew it was total bullshit-- there was no way contesting the account
would do any good. He sighed. //Outmaneuvered by that dirty Rat
Bastard again.//

"Yeah. That's pretty much what happened, alright." //Damnit to Hell.//
He glared at his superior accusingly.

Skinner nodded at Mulder, more than grateful for the back-up,
considering his agent's ire.

Mulder snorted and stalked out of  the building, looking for something
to deface.

Lloyd looked from subordinate to superior, to victim, to corpse, and
nodded. "Good job, sir. The paperwork will be a bitch, but you've
saved the tax-payers a shit-load of money for a trial, at the very
least."

"Just tell me forensics found something to tie Kapustcha in with the
Fiennes murder, so we can close the book on this bastard for once and
for all," Skinner said.

Lloyd shrugged. "It's too soon to tell. The forensics tests will be
back in a week or two, or so they say. We'll know for sure, then. One
way or the other."

"If they intend to keep working for me, they'll damn well get those
results in in eight business days, or I'll haul them up on dereliction
charges," Skinner growled. "I won't be on tenterhooks any longer than
I have to --oh, sorry, Val. That was thoughtless of me."

Krycek shook his head. "You know he's the right guy, Skinner," Krycek
said softly. "Don't sweat it. Isn't a situation board in the country
wouldn't clear you of this shoot. Now, if you can't make me more
comfortable, can you at least get me out of this damned get-up? I do
*not* want to go to the hospital looking like a deranged refugee from
a drag queen's sex party."

All those in hearing range snorted with amusement. 

"No can do, Butch," Lloyd joked. "We can't clean you up till forensics
gets an eyeful and we have to let the doctors strip and bag your
clothing so too many hands don't contaminate them. Like it or not,
your 'get-up' is evidence of a serial crime."

"Then I take it back --I *am* going to die --of mortification.
Terminal embarrassment. Talk about fashion victims --who wears this
crap?"

His audience laughed again.

"Could you at least take the cock ring off?" he pleaded. "My dick'll
fall off from lack of oxygen. I'd do it myself, but it looks like a
two-handed job to me."

Stanley and Skinner looked at Scully, who nodded assent. Then they
exchanged glances as they tacitly decided who was going to do the
deed. After a moment's hesitation, Skinner reached down and cradled
Krycek's cock in one hand while he worked the rings off the swollen
flesh with the thumbs and index fingers of both. Luckily, since the
rings graduated in size the farther back they went, it was easier and
easier to force the rings over the swollen flesh as the rings were
inched forward, towards the glans. Finally, the fifth ring popped
free, leaving Krycek with a badly abused, but still impressively
purple hard on. Skinner passed the cock ring to Scully, who bagged it
as evidence.

"Oh, shit! Oh, damn! Oh, fuck! I wish I had a smaller dick!" Krycek
cursed as each ring was worked down his eight inch long shaft by
increments. "Oh, holy crap!" He squeaked as the blood began flowing
again. "Ooh...oh..., ow!" He gritted his teeth as the numbness of
blood constriction wore off. "Oh, man!" he rubbed himself vigorously,
hoping to speed the process --and thus his relief-- up.

"Better?" Scully asked.

Krycek shook his head. "Hurts like fucking hell!" 

Skinner frowned. "Don't you have some pain medication in your bag,
Scully?"

"Yeah." Scully delved into her doctor's bag for a pre-prepared hypo
and gave Krycek an injection.

Krycek smiled as the drug kicked in. "Ohhh....you *are* a Saint,
Scully."

Lloyd toed a bundle of rags on the floor. "Hey, Val, is this your
leather jacket?"

"Umm...? Yeah. The sick bastard ripped it to shreds to get at some
locker keys I had sewn in the lining.... Six of them.... Which I'd
like found and returned..., along with my wallet and, uh..., other
stuff..., OK?" Krycek asked, mentally fading again now that the pain
was ameliorated by the drugs Scully had administered.

"Will do," Lloyd promised.

The paramedics came through the door, then, closely followed by the
Crime Scene team, who started snapping pix of Alex and the environs.

Once they got their rollful of film they released Krycek to the
medics, who took vitals while Scully detailed what she had found and
what she had given him, and made recommendations for treatment. They
packed the knife handle carefully with gauze to stem the bloodflow and
immobilized it against his right thigh, then strapped his legs
together so the blade would remain as immobile as possible during
transport. Then they wrapped his neck in a precautionary brace,
strapped him onto a Gurney, and headed out the door, with Skinner
tagging along.

"How's he look?" Skinner asked.

"Well, he's going to need surgery to extract that weapon and sew up
the rectal lacerations," one of the paramedics answered. "And he'll
need x-rays, or an MRI to determine what other injuries he's
sustained. Dr. Scully noted a couple broken ribs, but he may have
other subtler fractures, and, possibly, a concussion. All in all, I'd
say he was pretty lucky you found him when you did.
Otherwise, he would have bled to death."

"Eh. 'M harder t' kill 'n a cockroach," Krycek slurred dismissively.

"Nah, more like a rat," Skinner corrected with gruff  affection.

"Huh! Vermin is vermin," the paramedic said.

"No. Rats have fur," Skinner said. "They can be cuddly when they want
to be. Cockroaches may have their fans, but there's not a one you can
cozy up to. Furthermore, rats are trainable and sometimes, if they
have a good pedigree, they can be helpmeets to mankind. Not to mention
they don't chase wild geese like certain species of foxes tend to do,"
he said pointedly.

Alex smiled shyly. "Why, Walter, I do believe that was a compliment."

"Say what you will, I'll deny every word," Skinner grinned back.
"Listen: I have to wrap up here and hold a debriefing, but after that
I'll grab a ride to the hospital and set up a security detail, OK?" he
promised. "You're not out of the woods, yet."

Krycek smiled wryly. "Not out of the tobacco field, you mean."

Skinner nodded.

They both knew that, with Kapustcha dead, Skinner had no legitimate
reason to place a guard on Krycek, and every reason to think he might
need one, especially if the Smoker blamed Kapustcha's loss on his
semi-rogue spy. But they couldn't tell Lloyd about Spender without
exposing more information about Kapustcha than was healthy. So that
left Skinner, Mulder, and Scully to take up the slack and try to not
look suspicious doing it.

Hopefully, they could get Krycek on a transport back to D.C. without
too long a delay, or Skinner would have to explain why he was
neglecting his duties as Assistant Director on top of everything else.

The ambulance pulled out, code three, taking Krycek off to a waiting
OR.

It didn't take Skinner long to wrap up the operation, take Krycek's
goods, which had been collected from the entire crime scene, boat
included, into custody, or, at least, all of those possessions Skinner
could legally, safely, and positively identify, and head back to the
PD for the anticipated inter-agency debriefing.

As an agent of the F.B.I., Skinner was not required to hand over his
badge and gun pending a review board hearing of the incident as a
policeman would have been. In fact, the incident would not be reviewed
by the OPC until he returned to D.C. At least he wouldn't have to
explain himself to Kersh. Walter wasn't fond of the OPC, but they
didn't *appear* to have an ax to grind with him, unlike the Deputy
Director.

After the debriefing, Wong  accompanied Scully, Mulder, and Skinner to
the hospital to retrieve his transmitter from Krycek's stump, and he
took the opportunity to check on his condition, as well. And, just as
his culture demanded, he bought a bouquet of flowers from the hospital
gift shop so he wouldn't show up empty-handed.

They stayed at the hospital until Krycek came out of surgery and was
assigned a room of his own. Then Skinner sent Wong back to the Federal
Building to check the transmitter back into the inventory, and used
his influence as an AD to limit the number of hospital personnel
allowed inside to treat 'Mr. Tucci.' The fewer new faces Krycek's
'guards' had to memorize, the less likely an assassin could sneak in
wearing hospital garb and finish the job Kapustcha had started.

Once those personnel had been identified by name or in person, Skinner
told Mulder and Scully to go back to the hotel and get some rest
before they took their turn guarding their ward. He settled into the
only chair, facing the door, and took turns glancing between it and
Krycek's sleeping face.

Since Alex had no kin available, Skinner took the surgeon's report.
There was a concussion, multiple limb and rib fractures, multiple
broken ribs, bruised organs, as well as bruised and lacerated flesh,
and a sprained wrist. But the worst injury by far was to the rectum
and anus, which had been sliced open with the four bladed knife. They
had gone in and cleaned out the pelvic area and sutured the
lacerations, but they didn't know if the resulting scar tissue would 
impede the bowel's functioning in the future.