It Never Rains...

Rating: NC17 for violence, language

Classification: MT

Date: November 30, 2001

Spoilers: Takes place in the pre-X-Files universe of Fox Mulder. 

Disclaimers: Mulder belongs to Chris Carter, FOX and 1013 Productions. 
I just borrowed him and will put him back later. The characters from 
"Star Wars" belong to George Lucas and 20th Century Fox. Yeah, right, 
this has nothing do with a crossover, but I couldn't help using 
comparisons.  

Summary: To save himself from prison, a wealthy man uses a gang to 
kidnap Mulder.

This is my first try with a fan fiction story in English (my native 
language is German), so, please, be patient with me! 

Many thanks to Mori for her suggestions and beta-reading. You did a 
marvellous job!



It Never Rains... 

By Timmy

First Mulder noticed the odor. It reminded him of small alleys in 
which street people relieved themselves; garbage that stood too 
long rotting in the sun; motel rooms which needed to be cleaned; 
houses near the harbor with their stink of dampness and fish. 
Then there were muffled sounds -- quiet in the beginning. Cars 
passing by, voices of a woman, then a man, arguing. A horn 
honking to someone who blocked his way. The voices grew louder, 
more distinct. The man said, "There was no other way, dammit! I 
say we see it through." A female voice snapped back, "You're 
absolutely nuts! Do you really believe this will work? Mick has 
been drowned by now. Or they shot him right in the head. Do you 
think they wanna know what you believe or not? They are not 
*that* stupid!" "If we don't get Mickey back, we'll kill the 
fucker. Then they'll see how it works." "Bullshit."

For a moment Mulder thought he was lying in complete darkness and 
that this had to be a very strange dream. He moved his head on 
the stinking mattress and felt the firm cloth and duct tape over 
his forehead and temples. He was blindfolded. That definitely 
kicked the rest of unconsciousness out of his brain. He raised 
his head, trying to rest on his elbow and felt the traction of 
handcuffs and a chain around his wrists. The chain clanked on a 
pipe nearby. He could reach it with his hands bound to his back. 
It was cold. He felt the same chilliness in himself. His heart 
raced. He tore at the chain wrapped around the handcuffs -- 
'probably my own', he mused bitterly. The chain was wrapped 
around the pipe, then around his torso. He felt the heavy padlock 
on his left hip. His situation was suddenly as clear to him as 
was Hans Solo's defeat against Darth Vader. He was in deep 
trouble and whoever brought him here, would -- like Boba Fett -- 
sell him for a good price. 

Tom, Linda, Randy and Nestor stood in the hallway adjacent to the 
only room with an intact roof. Tom still insisted that they did 
the right thing. What other choice had there been for them to get 
Mickey back? But Linda shook her head, staring at the dirty 
floor, kicking the mortar aside that Nestor, restless as ever, 
scraped out of the ruined wall. Tom made a last effort, pushed 
back his ash blond, spiky hair, and pressed, "We can do it. I 
know we can. These guys with their leather shoes und cashmere 
coats -- they have no idea how good we are. If they don't do what 
we want, we just blow 'em away."

"Bullshit," Linda said for the fourth, fifth or maybe sixth time. 
"You have *no* idea. They've got these powerful weapons under 
their coats, and you're 'deader than a doornail' before you can 
make your statement, get it?"

Tom ruffled his hair again. Nestor, who worked toward the further 
destruction of the building, would be of no help. He rolled with 
it if he had nothing better to do, but he wouldn't side with 
anyone. He hated it. Making a statement that meant something 
wasn't one of his virtues, if he had any. In his 22 years of 
living on planet Earth he had represented a picture of 
'I-know-nothing, I-don't-want-to-know-nothing' and stuck with it. 
He played hooky, had fled his home long ago, and lived through 
the day hanging around and stealing if necessary. Most of the 
time he was accompanied by Linda, Tom, and Randy because they 
didn't know anything better to do with their time, either. But 
since the day Mick had seen something -- they didn't know what it 
had been -- and had first been taken into custody, and then taken 
away, by those men in leather shoes and cashmere coats, Tom was 
possessed with the idea of getting Mickey back -- somehow. 

Nestor shared Linda's opinion that Mick was long dead at the bottom of 
the Potomac, weighted down by a concrete block. He scraped more mortar 
out of the wall and hoped that Tom would stop babbling. He glanced at 
Randy. The young Afro-American bit his already destroyed fingernails 
and seemed to really think about Tom's proposals. More than the others 
he was befriended by Mickey. They had started two years ago with 
holdups, stealing, break-ins and escaped the police together. At that 
time the other 'friends' had not been with them. They had survived in 
rat holes like this one and imagined how it would be to sit with a 
real family at a real table at Thanksgiving, eating turkey from 
plates, not like beggars from the garbage of others. Randy missed 
Mick. Without him he was only half a person, and that was why -- 
Nestor sighed inwardly -- Randy would easily follow Tom's ideas and 
try to exchange this FBI agent for Mickey. 

"We already have him," Tom insisted. "Do you wanna shoot him 
right now or see if there are any other options?"

"They *will* kill us instantly," Linda replied gloomily. She 
chewed on her tasteless gum and pulled back a strand of her, in 
former times, wonderful long brown hair. It must have been two, 
maybe four weeks since she had washed it. But living on the 
street made her forget about time -- days, weeks, months -- 
nothing was of great importance. She lived through the day, ate 
when she found something that wasn't too rotten, stole when she 
could, and slept somewhere on the floor, hopefully dry and free, 
like this house, soon to be demolished.  So for two weeks this 
was quite a cozy place. She'd had worse. "Or -- we do something 
else," she added looking up.

"And what?" Tom asked uninterested. Once upon a time he had been 
interested in Linda, but she had made it clear that she was no whore 
and that she would never *ever* fall in love with someone like *him*. 
Gritting his teeth Tom had accepted that his sex appeal had run 
aground.

"We demand ransom. I call his wife, his parents -- whoever -- and then 
we let 'em pay."

"I want Mickey back!" Randy screamed at her. "Exchange, okay!" He 
gestured with his short fingers. "Don't ya get it? This is an 
ultimate. Till Thursday. They'll shoot our asses if we do anything 
else."

"Ultimatum, you idiot," Linda corrected harshly. "OK, fine. And what 
if Mick is *dead*?"

"You don't know that!" Randy whined, gnawing his nails. "You don't 
know," he repeated even quieter and finally took his fingers out of 
his mouth. "I go with Tom. I'll see it through. And you are traitors."

"Whoa, calm down," Nestor grumbled, looked at his fingers white with 
mortar and grimaced. To Randy it looked like an attempt to smile while 
being pressed against the wall by a madman. "Don't say I sit on my ass 
here, yeah? Tom, you wanna do it. OK. Got an idea?"

Surprised by Nestor's question Tom wet his lips. Sure he had an 
idea. He always had an idea, and when he had none, he convinced 
these beggars he called his friends that he had one nevertheless. 
This time the idea existed. After all he had planned the Mulder 
kidnapping. He had told his friends where to wait, what to do. He 
had planned it meticulously. He hadn't been at school for a long 
time in his 24 years, and he doubted that he would ever sit in a 
classroom again. But because the rats outdoors had more 
intelligence than his so-called friends in here with him, he was 
the chosen one. The leader. And Mick was his friend, too -- that 
last made him a kidnapper and a slave trader in a certain way. 
Not a good thought. He put it aside and explained to Linda, 
Randy, and Nestor what he had come up with for the moment of the 
exchange.

*****

The name, Jonathan Gabriel, could be read on his cards.  He 
adjusted the cuffs of his expensive coat and took a look at his 
immaculate leather shoes. Not patent-leather for they were out of 
fashion, and the 48 year old man had always intended to live 
within the fashionable limits. He wore his gray hair short, the 
thin moustache as well, and compared to other men his age, he 
looked healthy due to enough sleep, working out and very little 
alcohol. The nice rich ladies from Washington's upper class 
appreciated him as a conférencier, not to mention all the charity 
institutions which took his money. He had always lived within the 
upper class and his behavior and manners made it clear that he 
would have long been awarded  the title of 'Sir' had he lived in 
the British Empire. That was one thing he found missing. He 
sighed. 

No, there was one more thing that made him feel uncomfortable.  He had 
to get rid of that FBI Agent who intended to uncover his many illegal 
businesses, which earned much of the money he spent. If uncovered it 
would break his neck and both legs and -- last but not least -- ruin 
his immaculate reputation within a second. As he was told, the devil 
himself had played the cards and made that young boy -- Mick -- a 
witness to his meeting with a well-known mafia boss. And  worse than 
that, Mick ran into two policemen escaping his own guards. As far as 
his men knew Mick was taken into custody for questioning in a case of 
robbery. Quite a bad joke.

He took his gloves, left the house and sank into the leather seats of 
his Mercedes 500 SL, which left the estate a moment later.

At the police station Mick had not only confessed everything he knew 
about some other young men connected with the robbery, but also about 
the well-suited men and the guards who had followed him. This made 
that FBI Agent Mulder all ears and brought him what he had lacked 
before -- hard evidence.

The man in his expensive coat grimaced.  He hadn't hesitated but acted 
like he always did with problems: pragmatic and determined. There were 
people working for him without asking questions. It had been easy to 
get Mickey after he had left the police station. His knowledge was 
explosive to say the least. Mr. Gabriel's advisers told him to kill 
that boy instantly, but the exclusively dressed man had not lived 48 
years because he took orders. Yes, he would kill Mick, but at a time 
chosen by him. And yes, he would get Mulder and find out who he had 
told about the boy and the evidence. With both dead no charge would be 
brought to court.

So he took advantage of the fact that Mick had four friends living on 
the street and he let his men threaten them, and convince them to 
kidnap Mulder, with the promise of exchanging him for Mick. If they 
failed there would still be no trace leading to Mr. Very-Wealthy 
Gabriel.

He smiled slightly. Around an hour ago he had been notified that these 
four beggars had Mulder in their hands.

Now he just had to concentrate on his official businesses and appear 
in nice and legal company to establish an alibi in case he was 
questioned by the law for the disappearance of Mick and Special Agent 
Mulder.

*****



With cold fingers Mulder fumbled along the heating pipe hoping to find 
a rusty spot and try to summon his strength to tear the chain through. 
He wouldn't be free instantly, but maybe it would be enough to get his 
hands in front of him, take off the tape and see where he was. He 
shifted a little further. His head touched the wall. He fumbled again 
eager to find rust under the old lacquer. He needed a glimmer of hope 
to go on. 'Come on, it's not the first time you've been in trouble, so 
what the heck are you waiting for? Nobody knows you're -- wherever! 
Move your ass out of here as fast as you can.'

He got nervous. He remembered Mick, a slack young man who had watched 
Mr. Gabriel and Mr. Belini some days ago. If his kidnapping was 
related to Gabriel his trouble jumped on the scale of dangerous 
situations from 10 to 100! Suddenly the chain tore hard at his wrists; 
he had reached the end of his limited freedom of movement. "Shit! 
Shit!" He cursed quietly, forced himself to calm down, try again. If 
there was no rust to the one side then maybe on the other side. There 
had to be rust, damn it! He wouldn't sit here until someone put a 
bullet in his head.

With difficulty he pulled himself back on his heels and shifted his 
weight again. The chain clanked loudly, and he asked himself why 
nobody showed up to check on him. He usually knew instinctively if 
someone was near him. But either the hard blow to his head had dimmed 
his perception, or he really was alone while those people outside 
still discussed him.

The 'other' way ended abruptly. He grasped the nuts connecting the 
pipe with the heater, but due to the years and lots of lacquer they 
would be unmovable even with tools. With his bare hands, more useful 
to work at a computer desk than to do handiwork, he could do nothing. 
Frustrated he stopped his efforts, put his head down on the old 
mattress trying to think clearly which was as easy as deep-diving 
without oxygen. He had to wait, concentrate, and attack at the right 
moment. They sounded young though -- whoever they were. They had to 
free him from the chain to... really? What if they left him here -- if 
he was expendable because of circumstances yet unknown? Or those young 
people just waited for Gabriel's men to pick him up? He was sweating, 
and his hands were damp and cold. He moved his wrists to gain more 
scope, but whoever chained him had thought he was second to Houdini. 
Mulder exhaled. 'You won't it make that way. OK. Next option.' He 
inhaled deeply. His mouth was dry, but he managed to shout.

Linda heard Mulder's, "Hello, anyone there?" and looked at Tom, 
twisting a corner of her mouth.

"Your beloved policeman longs for ya."

Tom nodded like the rooster on his manure heap, rubbed his hands, and 
said, "Yeah, yeah, right. We'll need to hold him for two days. We can 
do it. And then we have Mickey back. Yeah?"

Randy nodded. Nestor pretended to play along when not scraping mortar 
from the wall. Only Linda shook her head spitting out her most beloved 
word "Bullshit."

Tom entered the room. His steps echoed on the floor boards of the 
empty room.. He squatted down in front of his prisoner. "What d'ya 
want, old man?"

'Not a day older than twenty,' Mulder thought. He was in the hands of 
youths. Youths had waylaid him when he left his parked car, had 
knocked him unconscious and kidnapped him? That sounded too much like 
a B-picture. And he didn't want to believe that he had not even 
noticed the danger.

"Why did you bring me here?" he asked, convinced he would get no 
information anyway

"Too long a story, old man. Keep cool and we might let you live."

"I'm a police officer," he stated. "I work for the FBI, and this 
kidnapping is a federal crime. So..."

"Shut up!" Tom knew all that. He knew too well. But Mickey...

Mulder closed his mouth and decided to try another strategy. Obviously 
these young people were nervous which convinced him that a mightier 
hand was playing the better poker. He had worked a long time as a 
negotiator so he knew when to step back and wait for a better chance. 
If he appeared too superior he would only earn resistance.

"I'm thirsty. Could I have some water?"

"This ain't no fucking hotel!" the female voice shouted from another 
place in the room. Mulder turned his head, couldn't see Linda who 
stood there with crossed arms staring down at their victim scornfully.

"If you free me I'll get it myself," Mulder said, before thinking. He 
knew the voice, had heard it the night before right at his car in 
front of his home.

'Cute, asshole,' Linda thought. She wished Tom hadn't hidden the 
pistol the agent had been carrying. Then she would have taken it and 
used it to get rid of that threat lying on the floor. She didn't want 
to wait till Thursday. She didn't want to wait at all. She wanted to 
be with Nestor, talk to him, snuggle up to him and get cozy. But 
Nestor was as deaf to her longing as she was to Tom's.

"I'll get water," Randy offered, and Linda asked herself what he would 
bring. Water and electricity were long gone from this building. Only 
dirt, rats and some old furniture in the cellar were left. They had 
tried to enter the cellar, but unfortunately part of the ceiling had 
crumbled so they decided not to risk going in. That's why they slept 
in the hallway on covers and mattresses they brought before moving in.

"What do you want from me?" Mulder asked, bracing himself to be kicked 
by a boot from that woman. She sounded the most hostile. 

"Shut up or I'll kick your teeth through your skull! Got it?" Linda 
glared at Tom, who was desperately thinking of what to say. A tantrum 
from the victim would have been much better than this very *mature* 
reaction. 

"One word and you're a dead man," he threatened, knowing he wasn't 
convincing. He wanted Mick back. He wanted these two days to pass 
quickly. He wanted no more trouble. He had enough of it already. He 
was afraid Linda was right and they would never see Mick again.

Mulder could feel Tom's insecurity as well as Linda's hatred. He had 
to use this to his advantage.

"Hey, I just wanna get out of here, OK?"

"Shut the fuck up!" Linda screamed.

"Hey, quiet!" Tom shushed her. "Or do you want them to find us?`"

"I'll kill that asshole if he twitches!" she added in a lower voice, 
sounding threatening as well.

"I w-want Mick back," Randy said from behind. "That's why we're doing 
this shit here, right?"

"Yeah. Right now. Give it to me." Tom took the little plastic bottle 
with water. He was surprised. It looked quite clear. He shared his 
surprise with Nestor who thought Randy not even capable of leaving the 
house without getting lost. Obviously he was a better pathfinder than 
he would've given him credit for. "Here. Drink." Tom held the bottle 
to Mulder's lips. He drank all of it, thankful to get it, not knowing 
when there would be more.

"Thanks." 

Tom could barely hold back a fitting response like, "No problem" or 
"You're welcome," relics of a time long gone. He put the bottle aside 
and stood up. Linda watched their victim with cold eyes, then followed 
the others into the hallway.

"Kill him and let's get outta here," she hissed. Randy's face tensed 
at her hostile tone.

"I want Mick back," he repeated stubbornly, pushing his lower jaw out. 


"They'll *kill* us," Linda shouted back. "Why don't you get that in 
your thick head?"

"We follow the plan," Tom interrupted quietly, though he was as 
nervous as a fish on a hook. It was one thing to rob a gas station, 
another to tangle with men carrying SMG's under their cashmere coats 
-- who would recklessly use them if the deal was of no more use to 
them. 

Mulder couldn't follow the conversation in detail but understood that 
his kidnappers disagreed about what to do with him. He had to find the 
weakest of the group and convince him to help him out. His hands were 
numb, his shoulders ached with the slightest movement. He couldn't 
turn on his belly. The chain was too short for that. So he slowly sat 
upright, pressed his back against the heater and stretched his legs. 
The headache, pushed back by things of more importance, came back like 
a wave dashed against a cliff, hitting back with the same intensity. 
He moaned, felt like throwing up. Probably he had a big swelling on 
the back of his head and could be glad if there was no concussion. The 
water in his empty stomach considered  whether to stay or leave, then 
abated. He swallowed but didn't dare to lean his head against the 
heater, fearing he might doze. He felt weak and had no idea when and 
how he could free himself from this damned situation. 'Keyla.' He 
breathed heavily, ordered his mind to run on stand-by for a while and 
thought about the woman he had met just a week ago. 

On an FBI observation tour of Mr. Gabriel's estate Mulder had seen the 
dark blue BMW driving in and coming back an hour later. He had 
followed her downtown to check out who she was. The car was registered 
to the Treasury Department, but he somehow doubted that she worked 
there. She pulled over at a coffee shop, stepped out and went inside. 
He followed her through the glass doors, ordered a coffee with milk 
and turned around -- just the moment she chose to pass by. His coffee 
followed gravity and swing and spilled over her pants and shoes. He 
stuttered an apology, while she laughed and said that jeans have to 
sustain everything. And the shoes were brown anyway. He had been so 
embarrassed he almost forgot to put down his coffee (the rest of it) 
and get napkins for her. But she covered it up, accompanied him to a 
small standing table, asked him who he was, what he did for a living 
and where he came from.

Within half an hour she knew some parts of his life, he knew no more 
than her name -- Keyla Mahooney.  That she had recently moved to 
Washington and, yes, that she worked for the Treasury Department. She 
didn't say anything about Gabriel, and Mulder didn't press the 
subject. Impressed by her spirit and good mood he finally decided to 
take his heart into his hand and ask her out. To his amazement she 
agreed without hesitation, just as if she had waited for that move to 
come. 

The prospect of meeting her again had brightened his whole week, 
though his work didn't change. He had changed, pleased with the little 
things he normally overlooked -- maybe just a friendly cabdriver 
amidst Washington's traffic jam. He had asked himself if he was -- 
maybe -- about to fall in love with that dark-skinned beauty. He had 
shaken his head in disbelief. 'You're the only male on this earth 
expecting love to come from an unknown woman in a coffee shop.' Well, 
after all -- she had accepted his invitation.

Their first real date took place at a restaurant -- a demand she'd 
made. She wore a red, slender evening gown with spaghetti straps, and 
her black hair was done in long curls held by two silver combs. She 
gave him a warm welcome -- 'Nice to meet you again' -- and covered his 
speechlessness for a second time. In jeans, cardigan und walking shoes 
she had been pretty; in that gown she was a knock-out. He found words 
somewhere in his stunned mind for a compliment, feeling stupid like a 
college boy on his first date. Overwhelmed with hormones there was no 
place for rational behavior. But, well, it had been a long time since 
he'd had his last date. On the other hand, he was in his late twenties 
and it had been a long time since a woman had put him out. Keyla 
Mahooney made him a college boy again. They sat down, ordered wine and 
he couldn't help staring at Keyla. "That's quite nice, Mr. Mulder," 
she had said, "but I would prefer you to talk with me. Otherwise I'll 
run an endless monologue and drink gallons of water until the evening 
is over." She had laughed and carried him away.

Mulder couldn't exactly fix the moment his emotions put everything 
else aside -- including his mature behavior. With a look into her 
beautiful face it had begun, her gown had done the rest. He had 
imagined how it would be to caress her soft, brown skin and kiss her 
full lips. Aside from her outer appearance there was much more that 
was interesting and fascinating about her. She was intelligent, 
humorous, could handle his own dry humor brilliantly, and finally, in 
the parking lot, she had taken the initiative, pulled him close and 
kissed him. No shy kiss to say good night, but a kiss at full 
throttle. His hormones and everything beyond his common sense reacted 
in an instant and he would have taken her right on the spot.

She had drawn back, using her thumb to clean her lipstick from his 
lips and cheeks, a gesture he found deeply erotic; then declared with 
her low, deep voice that she would go now. 'Crash halt!' Mulder had 
thought. 'Why?' He'd had difficulty regaining his mental balance 
again. She had smiled and answered that they could meet again the next 
evening. Then she would take him out. And it had sounded like a great, 
exciting adventure. She had left into the night in her dark blue BMW. 

Mulder had needed a few minutes and deep breaths to lower his 
excitement level enough that he could see where he was driving. He 
remembered that he had forgotten to ask Keyla why she was at Gabriel's 
estate, but that wouldn't matter. He would meet with her again in less 
than twenty hours. He was thinking about Keyla's lips, her gown, her 
laughter, the kiss, when he parked the car at the curb and got out.

A second later, everything went black.

*****

Keyla Mahooney had discussed the day at Gabriel's house, where she 
worked under cover, with her boss.  Later, at home, she took a shower 
and called Mulder. His machine answered. She left a message, but got 
no call from her date. Being the person she was she had already found 
out his office number, but the lady at the FBI told her that Agent 
Mulder hadn't shown up for work at all and didn't report out sick. 
Keyla dressed in jeans, pullover, Reeboks and raincoat and left the 
house. 

With her inconspicuous Mazda she reached Mulder's apartment complex an 
hour later.

She went up to his apartment. No reaction to her knocking. She opened 
the door with a credit card -- a slight push would have been enough, 
too -- and looked around. No indication that he had been here last 
night. Frustrated she ran down on the street again.

She walked around the his car, kneeled on the ground and gave the 
pavement a close inspection. She was used to making a thorough job of 
it, and an instinct told her that something had happened here. She 
looked under the car. Something flashed when the beam of her 
flashlight hit it. She reached out and grabbed the button. One off the 
jacket Mulder had worn the night before. She was sure about it. Of 
course it could be coincidence and mean nothing -- or maybe she had 
torn it loose before she had decided to let him wait one more night. 
She didn't believe in coincidence though. Disturbed, she searched 
under the adjacent car, an old Dodge which dripped oil on the cement. 
A little piece of paper was stuck in the oil. She unfolded it. 
'Mulder, 2630 Hegal Place, Apt. #42, Alexandria, Virginia'. She 
frowned. Someone had needed this information. She stood. No blood on 
the ground, no hint of a fight. Shaking her head she tucked the piece 
of paper in her jeans.

Intuition and the evidence told her that Mulder had been kidnapped 
right beside his car. Considering that no one noticed and called the 
police, she supposed there were two men at least. One had knocked him 
out and they had carried him away -- quickly and without rousing 
suspicion. They had been quite careful -- taking his keys, locking the 
car -- but made the mistake of leaving the paper with his address 
behind. And the button.

Keyla left the apartment and ran down the stairs. She cared for Mulder 
though she hardly knew him, and at the same time she was well aware 
that she had almost no details to find him. Behind the wheel of the 
old Mazda she studied the paper again. She thought she had seen the 
handwriting before. She couldn't tell where, but instincts told her 
not to leave this evidence behind. She drove back to her apartment and 
called the police.

*****

Mulder heard two of the young people say goodbye with a noise that 
would make the walls crumble. Above him, through the broken window, 
the sounds of the distant alley floated in. Engines running, cars 
passing by. Then again he heard the shuffling of shoes on the floor. 
He asked himself if it would mean anything to cry for help, but they 
surely were in a district of town where people would rather kill him 
or rob him than call 911.

He moved his numb hands, tried to turn his shoulders, flinched when 
the chain cut into his belly, and pulled back to avoid any traction. 
His colleagues would miss him today. He was not reported sick or on 
vacation. If they couldn't reach him at home they would call his 
partner, then his mother. But until 24 hours had passed they could not 
report him missing. Sullen but still hopeful he reacted to the steps 
closing in.

Nestor regarded the man on the mattress and asked himself how much 
trouble they would all be in from this kidnapping. All right, no one 
had seen anything, they had been thorough, had left nothing behind; he 
himself had picked up all butts. He was clever -- he knew it -- not to 
leave behind any trace of saliva to give the police a clue. He had 
left behind the burned matches, that was all. Well, Tom had planned it 
the best he could, and they all had done what they were told. At that 
time there had been no discussion. They started the moment the men 
with leather shoes and cashmere coats told them about the exchange. 
Linda was scared stiff. He knew that. And Tom's talk couldn't convince 
him, either. It wouldn't be only the men in cashmere coats searching 
for them if anything went wrong. They would have the police on their 
heels. Their hideout was fine, but not perfect. Someone could sneak 
through the broken windows. The cellar would have been perfect, but no 
one wanted to go down there not knowing if he could come out unhurt.

Nestor unfolded the briefcase they had found in his -- 'Yes, 
everyone seemed to have one!' -- expensive coat. 'Special Agent 
Fox William Mulder, FBI'. 'Probably he always uses his full name 
to impress people,' Nestor snorted. 

Nestor's dad had been a sheriff in a small town using everyone's 
mistakes to his advantage, blackmailing every man and woman he needed 
something from. He had accused them of crimes, too, however small. And 
his family was tyrannized by him until it broke. He, Nestor, fled the 
town. He didn't know what became of his younger sister and his mom. He 
supposed that his dad had taken bitter revenge for his escape. His 
father had always wanted to dominate everybody. And Nestor was 
convinced that every policeman was the same. He just knew it. Now he 
had one at his mercy. "You're the asshole I waited for," he murmured.

Mulder raised his head trying to figure out who the man in front of 
him was. "You kidnapped *me*. Why? What did I do to you?"

Nestor seemed 'laid back', most of the time, but the impression was 
wrong. "What you *did*?" he screamed at the top of his voice, 
connecting his boot forcefully with Mulder's stomach. "What you did? 
You fucking motherfucker!"

Mulder winced in pain, curled as far away as he could, trying to ban 
the pain by simple force of will. He was almost deaf to Randy's, "Hey, 
Nestor, don' t kill him!" 

He concentrated on breathing, clenched his teeth and hoped Randy would 
distract Nestor from using his boot once more except for walking. 

"We need him," Randy pleaded.

"Oh, yeah?" Nestor spit on the floor. Randy retreated defensively. 
"That asshole asked what he did to me, huh? You know, Randy?" 
Intimidated, Randy shook his head. "Cops -- they're all bastards! Save 
people, hmm, protect 'em. Hmm? They make 'em crawl, beg... You got it? 
They have the power, and if you do wrong they shoot you."  Randy 
nodded hastily not knowing what brought Nestor, who normally refrained 
from doing more than was absolutely necessary, to such extreme anger.

Nestor starred at the agent writhing in pain and could hardly refrain 
from hitting him again. He ripped the briefcase apart. Credit cards, 
photos and visiting cards flew around. Nestor was in a rage with 
himself that he hadn't taken some money first to buy cigarettes. He 
needed cigarettes, otherwise he would flatten this FBI-goody-two-shoes 
this evening.

Mulder revised his opinion that only the woman was hostile. The young 
man called Nestor would love to kill him because he thought every cop 
was corrupt. And if anything went wrong with the exchange Nestor would 
be glad to deliver a bullet right through his head. Randy, however, 
was the light at the end of the tunnel. He only wanted to get his 
friend back. Mulder urgently wanted to talk to him alone. When the 
pain subsided he felt the need to relieve himself. 'Bad joke,' he 
thought, 'they will have as many functioning toilets here as they have 
a heating system.' "Randy?" he tried, for he knew that he would be 
near by. But Nestor was as well. 

"What ya want, asshole?" Nestor flared.

Mulder feared to take the next hit and stiffened himself. "I need a 
bathroom. Right now. Or there'll be a flood."

"So what, asshole?  They're your pants."

"Hey, *you* chained me here! You think I'm a wizard and can escape 
through the drainpipe?" Mulder exclaimed, against his better judgment.

"Shut the fuck up!" Nestor was with him in a second, eager to hit him 
again when suddenly three voices came closer to the window. Mexicans 
arguing about money. Nestor kneeled and pressed his dirty hand over 
Mulder's mouth. "One fucking sound, Mr. FBI, and you're dead," he 
hissed. That was no pointless threat. He wouldn't go to prison for 
Tom's stupid ideas. And he would be in prison if FBI man Mulder got a 
chance to point his finger at him. Even in the dark, he knew too much. 
Nestor cursed under his breath and held fast until the three men 
disappeared. Mulder gasped for air when Nestor gave way.

"I'll do it," Randy said from behind.

Nestor turned on his heels. "He stays put, OK?"

"He's handcuffed."

"He *stays put*." Nestor repeated it decisively so Randy swallowed and 
accepted. 

In that moment, Randy missed Mick much more than before. Mick always 
stood at his side against the others. And even in an argument he had 
always known what to do. He had been the leader for Randy. Without him 
Randy felt -- lost. Alone. He was only an errand boy for them. And due 
to that role he went outdoors and came back with a cooking pot, old 
and rusty but whole. He kneeled in front of Mulder and opened his 
belt. Mulder backed up against the heater.

"So -- wanna pee, old man?"

"Come on, Randy, let me get up, okay?" Mulder asked while Randy 
unzipped his pants. Nestor laughed in the background so Randy was more 
insecure than before. 

Randy pressed his lips tight shut as if otherwise he might make a 
concession Nestor and Linda would kill him for. Smash him in a junk 
press, throw him in front of an Amtrak... he had hundreds of pictures in 
his mind. So he just helped Mulder to relieve himself and zipped his 
pants again. Mulder rested his head on the mattress. His stomach 
ached, his arms, his back. The list grew longer. He wished for the 
strength the super heroes always had. The only thing he had was hope. 
But he did not have the power he needed and no ideas.

And he truly was no wizard.

*****

Keyla talked to a police officer who was a friend of hers. She gave 
him the piece of paper and the button, and after a short lunch, left 
for Gabriel's estate. Jonathan Gabriel loved to set himself into the 
middle of the greater attractions of Washington's public life. For 
that reason he taught young men and women in American and English 
literature. And Keyla played her role as one of the students.

Under different circumstances she had enjoyed being in his class. He 
was a good, qualified teacher. He could have made a living from it if 
there had been no other income, including cleaning money, smuggling 
diamonds, and tax fraud. That was where Keyla entered the picture. She 
could gain Gabriel's trust and get the chance to take a private look 
at his safe and what else she might find in his villa.

It wasn't easy. Within two months she had only managed to attract his 
attention. She was a fast learner and she read a lot. So he invited 
her to his home without other classmates. Every time the subject was 
literature. If she mentioned his businesses he always found a way to 
avoid an answer. She asked herself why he walked on the wrong side of 
the law. Only money? Or was there more to it than she knew ?

The BMW turned onto the estate. In the beginning she had thought about 
living on an estate like this, but that thinking had faded when she 
met Mulder. His embarrassment had been a long searched for diversion 
from all the yuppies she had dated before. Mulder was honest, witty 
and had the irresistible charm of a self-confident but also sensitive 
man. He was a real man, and did not pretend to be more than that. She 
wanted to meet him again.

Sighing she got out. Ten minutes until the next literature lesson 
began.

*****

Linda and Tom returned with groceries and -- Nestor was delighted -- 
cigarettes.

"I thought of it," Linda stated proudly. Nestor simply nodded, lit up 
and was the first to blow smoke rings of pleasure into the air. 
"Anything happen while we were away?" she asked, nodding to Mulder. 
Nestor shook his head chewing on a hard piece of sausage that somehow 
made its way into Linda's coat pocket. 

"Wanted... kill him," Randy said, stubbornly lifting his chin when 
Nestor glared at him.

"What?" Tom's head spun around.  "What happened?"

"That asshole asked for it!" Nestor pressed between clenched teeth. 
"Roughed him up a little. Now he's quiet."

Linda nodded approvingly and sipped a Pepsi. That's what she loved 
about Nestor. Couldn't be hushed by Tom. No way. She wanted to say 
something, a compliment maybe, but she resisted. If Nestor had killed 
that agent they would've been rid of the problem. But she kept those 
words inside also.

"He okay?" Tom demanded to know and jumped to his feet. Mulder still 
lay on his side. He was thirsty, hungry and wanted nothing more than 
to escape from this rat hole. It wouldn't be long and the rats would 
gnaw on him. "You awake, old man?"

Mulder swallowed, wet his lips, nodded. Only a conversation with Randy 
would be useful . He seemed to be the weakest link of the chain. 
'Another bad joke.' Tom bent over to check the chain and handcuffs.

"Can't you loosen them an little? I can hardly move at all."

"No." Tom repeated, resting his hands on his hips. 

'Kidnapping, slave trading, assault and battery,' Tom thought. He 
closed his eyes for a moment, glad neither Mulder nor his friends 
could see him. He must not lose control. Not think about the penalties 
for these crimes because then he would free the FBI agent and run and 
hope not to be caught by the police.

"Listen, if you put my hands up front..."

"No. Shut up!"

Mulder exhaled deeply. 'All right, so much for finding a compromise.' 
"Can I get something more to drink? And something to eat?"

"Yeah -- sure." It sounded apologetic, so he added with more force to 
his voice, "But don't do anything stupid! No shit, got it?"

Mulder remained silent until Randy came and gave him something to 
drink -- Seven-up to his surprise -- and bread which was hard but OK. 
"Thanks," he said, when Randy stopped feeding him.

"You're welcome," Randy replied quietly, surprised. He wasn't used to 
being recognized at all if Mickey wasn't with him. He watched the FBI 
agent for a moment. He was a very worthy piece of exchange.  

"You are a friend of Mickey?" Mulder asked in a low voice. Randy 
swallowed hard. 'No talking!' Tom had ordered him before he entered 
the room. Randy's heart jump-started. He just breathed. "You want him 
back, right? And I'm the bait."

"Exchange." Randy's correction was barely audible; then he stood and 
turned. Linda waited at the door and he quickly avoided her stare 
thinking she would know his thoughts. And he had thought that he was 
probably the only one around with an interest in keeping their 
prisoner alive.

*****

Keyla was one of the best students Gabriel had ever had, but that 
didn't satisfy her. The time she spent here without gathering 
evidence was much longer than she had hoped in the beginning. 
Security in and around the building was tight, and she hadn't 
managed to get into Gabriel's private chambers yet. As all the 
other students who came here she wasn't allowed to enter some of 
the hallways on the first floor. 

Her boss had said that the fish sometimes is bigger than the rod, but 
somehow she had to get him. More likely the boat would capsize, she 
had answered, and her boss had given her two more months. With a sigh 
she had left the office. She had wanted to do more than hunt 'small' 
criminals who tried to avoid taxes by any means. The suspicion that 
Gabriel's tax fraud counted by millions of dollars had seemed to be 
made for her. And she loved to work undercover. She hadn't thought of 
it being so difficult.

Keyla drove back, called her friend at the police, but FBI and 
the police department had just started their investigations. 
Keyla didn't want to wait until the police found some clues. It 
was against her nature to let others do the job. With her Indian 
background she'd never had an easy life. She had struggled to 
educate herself and was accepted at the Treasury Department. And 
she worked efficiently. 'You're a tax investigator, not a police 
man,' she told herself. 'You did what you could, the rest is none 
of your business.' But she didn't convince herself.

*****

Tom assigned the guards for the night. He and Linda would sleep first. 
Nestor stood guard on the hallway and Randy in the room. "But don't 
let him talk to you," Tom warned his friend.

"And don't play the waiter for him," Linda hissed. Stubborn as before.  


Randy stared at the dirty floor. He didn't want to be commanded like 
this, but she would make fun of every reply. 'Idiot' she had called 
him. She would never had done that with Mickey present. He knew that. 
Disgruntled, he sat on the left side of the wall able to see every 
shadow approaching the window. But he didn't think anyone would come. 
Randy could hear almost like a cat. If someone wandered around the 
alley he would have to be quieter than a mouse.

Linda and Tom lay down in the hallway. Nestor, somewhere outdoors, lit 
the second cigarette and let the cold night wind ruffle his hair. 
Nestor was in good health, otherwise he would have died on the streets 
of Washington years ago. 

Randy hugged himself, then stood to fetch an old blanket, riddled with 
holes, and covered his feet, legs and lower part of his body with it, 
drawing up his shoulders. In the dark he saw the outlines of their 
prisoner, shaking with cold. One part of Randy -- that one who 
remembered better times when houses had heating systems and people who 
took care of each other -- wanted to get up and get a blanket for 
Mulder. The other part of Randy was too afraid of being mocked if 
Linda was still awake. Or the next morning when Linda would ask who 
played mommy for the cop. Randy remained seated.

Mulder was freezing miserably. Through the open window cold October 
air was oozing in, and the thin mattress beneath him was no help. His 
kidnappers had taken his coat off and he was freezing in just his 
shirt and jacket. "Randy?" he whispered, in the prolonged darkness. 
"Randy, are you there?" He waited, got no response. If they were in 
the room, the other three would have either cursed or hit him, so he 
relied on Randy sitting at the wall. "Randy, it's awfully cold. My 
coat. Do you know where my coat is?" He heard a slight rustling on the 
floor. Nothing more. 

Randy sat at the wall and revised his options. Help him and be mocked 
or ignore the pleading? He himself wasn't that cold anymore. And why 
should he care about the agent? Randy raised his head, heard the 
chattering teeth and cursed that he had the first watch. If Linda came 
to look... The cop had to be kept alive though. At least until they 
could exchange him for Mickey. Once Randy had seen a dead old man in 
winter; frozen to death. That seemed to happen easily. Randy sighed, 
unwrapped the blanket and stood. Somewhere on the other side he found 
the coat, spread it over Mulder, earned a soft, "Thank you" and found 
himself answering, "You're welcome".

"Randy, whatever they told you -- you don't have to do it," Mulder 
continued quietly, causing new unease in Randy. He was told not to 
listen to any rubbish. But what the hell should he do? Stop up his 
ears? Then he wouldn't hear what happened outdoors. "You'll serve a 
long time in prison for kidnapping. If you help me out of here I'll 
see that you don't have to go to prison. OK?"

Randy swallowed. He knew that it was not right what they did -- though 
they were forced to get Mickey back -- but Tom hadn't said anything 
about prison. "I want Mickey back," he murmured.

Mulder gained new hope. "I will help you to find Mickey. He's your 
friend, right?" Randy nodded, disregarding the fact that Mulder 
couldn't see anything. "I have friends, too, that I want to see again. 
I do understand you."

"No."

Mulder wet his lips. 'Easy now. Don't say something wrong and make him 
withdraw.' "All right, maybe I can't fully understand you. But I -- I 
long to see my friends again. You miss your friend as well. You've 
known Mick for a long time?"

"Long," Randy nodded and what longing was he just learned the hard 
way.

"He's your best friend? Will you tell me what happened?" he asked 
carefully, though he could figure out quite easily what happened after 
Michael Tucket's questioning. Mulder had been thankful to finally get 
hard evidence against Gabriel and Belini, so he hadn't stopped the 
officer who had allowed Mickey to leave the police station.

"Don't know. Mick was gone. Didn't come back. Two men  -- long coats."

"What men?"

"Don't know. Rich. Expensive stuff. Fancier than yours."

"That's easy. I don't earn as much as they do." Randy reflected a 
moment about that statement. Didn't Linda say something about ransom? 
He had already forgotten about it. "What did those men want?" Mulder 
encouraged him.

"One said, 'We have your friend.' Then he gave Tom a piece of paper, 
said, 'Bring him on Thursday or Mickey is dead.'" The last words Randy 
could only whisper. He was so frightened that his friend could be 
killed if they didn't do what those men demanded. 

"And then? Did they leave? Did they come back?"

Heavy footsteps roared through the room. Mulder held his breath. 
Instinctively he knew something terrible was about to happen. He tried 
to curl up, hide his head.

Nestor bent down like a star destroyer hovering over a counselor's 
ship and, breathing hard, pressed the muzzle of Mulder's weapon 
against his temple, crooking his finger around the trigger. "Shut the 
fuck up, asshole!" he shouted at the top of his voice. Mulder closed 
his eyes, held his breath, didn't dare move. The fear of getting shot 
was overwhelming, pushing everything else aside. He felt sick and 
cold, shivered, waited for the last sound he'd hear -- the pulling of 
the trigger. "You bastard, I'll kill ya!" Pressing harder, then, 
suddenly, Nestor draw back the muzzle, hit Mulder hard in the face. 
Mulder's cheekbone exploded with pain. He screamed, a tortured sound 
echoing off the empty walls. Linda and Tom were instantly alarmed. 
Nestor put the weapon back into his belt, turned from the moaning and 
coughing prisoner to face Linda and Tom who bathed the room in soft 
light with their flashlights.

"What happened?" Tom demanded to know, shining the light past Nestor's 
grim face to Mulder. He saw the blood on the agent's face, quickly 
turned back to Nestor. "What did ya do? Are you fucking crazy?" He 
hated his shrill voice but couldn't help it. All the blood. He didn't 
know if the agent would survive this attack. Then he saw the weapon in 
Nestor's belt, tore it out and tucked it in his own belt. "I'll keep 
that, damn it. You've no right to take it!"

"Who gave you the right then, idiot? That asshole bargains with Randy, 
so he gets what he wants! Anymore questions, greenhorn?"

Tom hated being called a 'greenhorn' especially by Nestor. He was 
angry. Angry because Nestor offended him, but also angry with Randy 
who had been fooled by the agent. And he was angry with himself that 
he hadn't watched the weapon more carefully -- and angry with Linda 
for her sweet, rewarding looks at Nestor as if he had performed a 
miracle.

"Go get some sleep," Tom said to Nestor. "You too, Linda. Randy, you 
take over outdoors. I'll stay here."

"Don't get soft-soaped," Linda teased and followed Nestor who gave her 
an admiring look. 'Maybe,' Linda thought, 'not everything is lost.' 

His head bent, Tom 'tore his hair' when Randy left the room, . He 
wanted to add something but decided otherwise and kneeled beside the 
agent. Took a deep breath. Mulder moaned softly, and Tom knew he had  
reason to. Mulder's cheekbone was bruised. Blood had run freely down 
to his chin. Where the skin had resisted the fierce blow, the whole 
cheek would turn purple by tomorrow morning. 'This has to be taken 
care of,' Tom thought, without knowing how. He had only wanted to 
kidnap this man to make the exchange. To get Mickey back. To live 
happily ever after -- or something like it. Maybe in another town. 
'Shit, I don't know what to do.' Behind him he heard Linda and Nestor 
talk quietly with each other, but he didn't want to know anything 
about it. He took Randy's blanket and sat at the wall.

With a cigar in his right hand, Jonathan Gabriel mused about Keyla 
Mahooney. She was intelligent, no doubt, but the more often they had 
met, the more he had recognized that he was not only interested in her 
intellectual comments about literature. Of course, she had asked him 
about his business, a matter he would never talk about with a 
stranger, but maybe Keyla could become more than a stranger. He asked 
his butler, William, to invite her for Thursday afternoon. It gave him 
a kick to know that the FBI agent would be under the same roof when 
she accompanied him for a nicely arranged dinner.

*****

Wednesday afternoon Tom let Randy guard Mulder again. Linda had 
forcefully made her point that Randy must not talk with that man and 
that he shouldn't do anything for him. "And no services -- like 
putting a coat over him, OK?" Linda added, before leaving, increasing 
Randy's anger and defiance. Saving the FBI man from freezing to death 
was important for they couldn't exchange a dead body. But Linda didn't 
understand that. For the first time Randy felt like doing something 
that would anger the others. Maybe they would hit him. But he had to 
do it. For himself. And for Mickey. Determined, he sat on the floor 
next to Mulder. 

"How you help find Mickey?" he whispered, for he thought Linda might 
hear him. 

Mulder licked his lips trying to gather his thoughts which slipped 
away like wet soap. The night had been awful. The left side of his 
face was aflame and the pain paralyzed him, triggered holes in his 
brain. He knew the skin of his cheek was torn, needed stitching, but, 
of course, there was no help in sight. He pulled himself together. If 
there was anyone to help him it was Randy.

"I'm a police officer. I have many colleagues and friends who can 
search for Mickey, turn every stone to find him." He hesitated to 
explain further, not knowing whether Randy would understand. "Mick is 
important to the police, too. He saw something very important. And he 
was very courageous to tell us... tell me about it."

"What?"

"About the man in the alley."

"Mickey? Help the police?" Randy couldn't understand. Didn't they 
always run from the police?

"Yes, Randy." His throat was sore and speaking became difficult. "I 
have no idea why they want to exchange me for Mickey. The threat's the 
same."

"Me neither." Randy answered with that school boy's tone. 

"Help me to get out of here," Mulder repeated in a husky voice. "I 
promise to find your friend." He paused and waited, his heart racing. 

Randy grimaced. He wasn't good at thinking and deciding. He didn't 
know how far he should go. "I get Mickey when we exchange you," he 
simply said.

"But..." The wound sent another nauseating wave of pain through the 
agent. He gave a loud moan. Something had to happen. "Randy,  you got 
a first aid kit here?" he asked with little hope. Randy shook his 
head. He didn't even know what it was. "Randy?"

"Hm -- no."

"Randy, help me out of here, please. I can do much more for Mickey 
when I'm free." He didn't know if that would be true, but he also 
didn't know what Randy would believe. Or wanted to believe.

"I... I can't."

"Yes, Randy, you can." The pain intensified with every movement. He 
felt sick even though he'd had little to eat. He moaned again, 
clenched his teeth. If he could only move... "Randy, please, help me."

"I..." Randy stroked his short, curled hair. "I can't... the others... 
Tom... no. They will... I don't know." Randy stood, went a few steps away 
to catch his breath and compose himself. He just wanted Mick. Nothing 
more. Was Tom telling the truth or the agent?

Mulder felt his heart and hope sink. "Randy, think about it," he tried 
again, but heard steps drawing near.

Tom looked around the corner. "Hey, everything okay?"

"I... shit, I... I have to get out." Panicky, Randy ran out, right 
into Linda. She cursed, got her belongings together, and cursed again 
which helped little with her anger. Then she entered the room behind 
Tom.

"Nothing but trouble, hm?" Her words cut like a chainsaw. 

Tom had no power left to contradict. He didn't know what to do. It was 
Wednesday afternoon. Only 24 hours more and the police officer would 
be gone. Time seemed to stretch like bubblegum. "I'll take care of 
him." Linda went to Mulder. Tom frowned but said nothing. Linda had 
opposed him too often. He didn't want any more arguments. 

Mulder heard Linda getting close, swallowed hard. Fear rose in him 
like an evil monster cramping up his guts with long, fierce arms. He 
had gooseflesh on his whole body, his heart beat fast, his breathing 
was shallow, and the monster said:  "You'll keep your dirty mouth shut 
for a while."

Mulder retreated to the heater, but, of course, to no avail. Linda put 
her boot on his chest so he had to turn somehow on his back, hurting 
his wrists and arms, while she took the coil of duct tape out of her 
pocket. "Be really still, asshole, or I might press your windpipe -- 
just by chance."

"Please... no gag," Mulder managed to say and turned his head to the 
mattress. Linda pressed her knee on his throat. Mulder couldn't 
breathe, fought effortlessly against Linda's weight on his throat and 
chest.  "Linda..."

She simply overruled Tom. Nestor would be proud of her. She tore a 
broad strip of tape with her teeth, pressed her knee against Mulder's 
bloody chin and fastened the tape over his mouth, happy about his 
violent but short resistance. She stood, let the duct tape slip into 
her pocket again.

"Linda, what when he... when he has to throw up?"

"He suffocates," Linda replied with glee.

Mulder blew air through his nose, moaned. His heart hammered, a sound 
as if it were somewhere outside his body. His arms ached, feeling like 
they were torn from their joints. The wound on his cheekbone had 
opened again, blood trickled down his chin, dripped on his shirt. He 
could hardly breathe, forced himself to take calm breaths until his 
pulse went back to normal. He swallowed. He was thirsty, but how could 
he make that clear to anyone now? Linda had made him blind and mute. 
'One day left,' he told himself. 'One day.' But what would follow?

Randy stood outside in the alley. He was aware of what Linda was 
doing. He knew she did this to impress Nestor. It angered him. And his 
own indecision made him uneasy. He wanted to do the right thing to get 
Mickey back. He wanted him back to just be with him, laugh with him. 
Mickey was so humorous, always knew something to make Randy feel 
better when he had done or said something stupid.  He stared down the 
alley thinking about the options he had. Exchange or free the agent? 
What should he do? And how was he supposed to proceed if he decided to 
free the officer? He would have to steal the key from Tom. And he 
would have to get that man out without the others noticing the escape. 
Hard. Damn hard.  What would Mickey have done?

*****   

Thursday morning Gabriel was informed by William, his butler, that 
everything worked as planned. The gang was told the place of delivery, 
and his men were instructed on how to handle the situation: Kill all 
the youths and bring Mulder in. It was risky even though the place was 
remote. William, a strong supporter of Gabriel's methods, had lifted 
an eyebrow not allowing himself to openly criticize his master's 
decision. But Gabriel had to know in detail what happened to the 
information Mick had given to the police. This was of vital importance 
to Gabriel and his immigrant Italian partner. At the moment the 
knowledge was only smoldering. It must not become a forest fire. 

William also told him that the young lady named Keyla Mahooney 
accepted the invitation to dinner. "Very well," Gabriel praised. He 
had meant the whole day.

*****

Tom had given Mulder some water while Randy stood and silently 
watched, his hands tucked in his pockets. The wound on the agent's 
cheekbone looked worse by daylight, and Randy preferred not to know 
how painful it was. He had heard the moaning the whole night so he got 
the picture. The moment the gag was removed Mulder asked for something 
for the pain, but Tom had said nothing, gagging him immediately after 
the bottle was empty.

But Randy had seen Tom's insecurity. Both wanted to make the exchange 
quickly. Now they knew where -- a very remote place. Somewhere in the 
middle of nowhere. They should be glad about it because the police 
wouldn't hang around there, and he really didn't want to go to prison, 
but he doubted that the police would be their biggest problem. They 
had tangled with opponents they... He stopped the thought. That was 
exactly what Linda had said. And Tom had told the well-suited man, who 
told him the point of delivery, that the FBI man would be shot if 
Mickey wasn't returned safely. The other man hadn't even twitched. For 
the first time Tom had the idea that it wouldn't be too bad for those 
strange men if they got Mulder more dead than alive. He'd had 
gooseflesh all over on his way back to the ruin.

"Let's go," he said to Nestor, who entered the room smoking. He had 
put one hand around Linda's waist and she seemed to melt like fat 
cheese in hot sun. Tom ignored that possessive gesture. "Nes, come on 
over and help me." Nestor kneeled beside Mulder and quickly brought 
him into a sitting position. Mulder felt his head split open with 
pain. He moaned, and felt a nauseating wave come over him, nearly 
fainted. But he stayed conscious to hear Tom open the padlock, pull 
the chain from under the heater, only to wind it around Mulder's waist 
and close it again. 

"Good grip. Can't get away so easy," Nestor grinned, yanking at the 
chain to prove it. Mulder jolted forward, another wave of pain 
flooding his throbbing head. He retched, then doubled up.

"Get the fucking gag off!" Randy screamed. Tom reacted fast, pulled it 
off. Nestor jumped to one side, disgusted. 

"Shit!" He rose to his feet. "Motherfucker! Wanted to puke on my 
pants!"

Mulder still retched, vomiting water and finally bile. He felt dizzy, 
found it hard to breathe. Pain seemed to be everywhere, in the back of 
his head, in his bruised body, in his stomach... He coughed, got out the 
word "water," but no one seemed to listen.

"Is he done now?" Linda asked impatiently. "If we don't wanna miss the 
time we gotta go now."

Tom looked up at Linda. Never before had he found her so -- cold. He 
was shaking at the thought that this was the person he once had tried 
to love.

With no compromise Nestor had brought Mulder to his feet, more 
dragging him out of the room than letting him walk. A stolen car 
waited outsideand Tom slipped behind the wheel.

During the ride Mulder had been crouched in behind the passenger seat, 
trying in vain to find a suitable position where the pain would be 
tolerable. Tom hadn't replaced the gag afraid the agent would 
suffocate -- which would have brought much pleasure to Linda and 
Nestor, he was sure. Linda had placed her boots on Mulder's back 
because Nestor sat beside Tom in front of her and she wanted to prove 
to him how despicable she was. She'd do everything to please Nestor. 
She was in heaven -- Nestor had put an arm around her. Maybe, if this 
worked out well, she would take him a little further.

*****

Gabriel's men were present on time. They knew the area, they knew 
where the enemy could hide; they knew it was only a gang of kids 
coming, not knowing what to expect.

When William's colleague Hutch -- who didn't look like the PI on TV 
and thus had to live through many related jokes -- watched the stolen 
car arrive, he gave a short command on his walkie-talkie to the others 
waiting. He got Mickey from the front of a car and pushed him forward. 
The young man's hands were bound and he had a black hood over his 
head, and if Hutch wasn't completely mistaken, the youngster knew he 
was about to die. But he walked with him. Getting near the sound of 
that stolen Ford indicating the arrival of his friends.

Randy awakened from his gloomy thoughts about finding Mickey. Even 
though he couldn't see his friend's face, he knew it was Mickey. Had 
to be Mickey. He was tall and slim and wore the same dark green 
sweater he had worn when he last saw him. "That's Mickey!" he shouted 
as if the others would look for spaceships instead. 

Tom stopped the car. He mistrusted the scenery. Like his heartbeat, 
this was going much too fast. But Randy jumped out of the car, 
sprinting to his friend. "Mickey! Mickey!"

"All right then," Tom said exhaling. They all got out. Nestor pulled 
Mulder out to make him stand beside the car. The fresh air put new 
life into the agent though he still felt the nausea.

"Mick!" Randy shouted again. His friend turned toward Randy's voice.

"Send him over!" Hutch shouted to them lifting, his SMG from under his 
coat.

"There's nothing I like better," Tom murmured, and took Mulder's arm. 
"Take off, buddy.."

"Where to? Where are we?" Mulder asked weakly. He had gooseflesh all 
over from the strange situation. 

"Get away, fucker!" Nestor gave him a kick.

Mulder stumbled, but didn't fall. The chain rattled around his hip. He 
hesitated to walk further. Mulder's thoughts were not only on his own 
fate -- ten or a hundred yards away. He knew instinctively that these 
five young people would be shot when he was gone, because they knew 
too much

"Randy! Mick! Get o'er here, now!" Tom shouted. .  "Get away. Now!" he 
screamed while Randy took Mickey into his arms, overflowing  with joy. 
Taking the hood off, he even kissed his friend on the cheek, he was so 
delighted. "Go!" Mulder didn't know what to do. He stood and hoped 
that the enemy would wait, and that the gang could escape.

Randy cut Mickey's shackles, gabbing away so much no real sentence 
came out, while the others watched impatiently, calling after them 
every second.

Mulder waited in place, waited to hear the motor roar again and hoped 
they would get out of reach any moment, but of course, this was 
nonsense.

Hutch fired as well as his colleagues at the moment when he knew no 
one would hit the FBI agent.

The flying bullets almost deafened him. Mulder dropped to the ground. 
He heard the bullets crash through the metal viciously. Big caliber 
for sure. And even if the young people inside weren't dead immediately 
they would be if the killers came to check.

In his perception it took a long time until he was pulled up firmly 
and dragged to a car where he was imprisoned in the trunk.

*****

Gabriel didn't enter the basement himself. He only watched the arrival 
of his men with Mulder -- handcuffed, chained and blindfolded, he 
noted with a smile. They brought him into the basement cell via a 
small stairway. His men knew how to handle a prisoner, so Gabriel 
wouldn't humiliate himself by asking questions or giving orders.. He 
was too much an aristocrat to think menial thoughts. He waited for 
results. And he was looking forward to a new meeting with Keyla 
Mahooney.

William and Hutch brought Mulder into the basement.  You said this in 
the para abv.

"My god, he stinks!" Hutch grimaced disgustedly. "I can't stand that!"

"Well, the smell of the big, ugly, miserable world," William replied, 
with something like a smile. "Proposals?"

Hutch pushed Mulder into the soundproof room and closed the door. 
"Take his clothes off, burn them -- clean the guy up." William didn't 
give a hint he listened. His contingent for mimic was exhausted for 
the day "I'll prepare it," he simply said.

Mulder fell on his knees, rolled over to one side and lay there 
breathing heavily. The floor was covered with linoleum which wasn't 
quite as cold as the wooden floor in the ruin. 'Aside from being in 
the hands of killers the situation *really* has improved,' he mused 
bitterly. He sat up again, moved on his knees. Hit a soft covered 
wall, turned and touched it with his fingers. Foam material. Formed 
like waves. He swallowed hard. He knew this from recording studios 
where they used it to avoid entertaining a whole block, but here... No 
entertainment planned. At least not for him. No band would appear to 
rehearse. He took a deep breath. On the open Mulder-scale of fear he 
had just reached a new high. Since he had been brought here alive 
meant he obviously knew something his kidnappers wanted to know. 

'Treason is an evil thing.' He remembered Keyla saying this, but he 
couldn't remember why or in what context. 'You're in deep shit, so 
don't wonder about quotes, think how to get out.' He rested his 
forehead against the wall trying to clear his mind of fear and 
thinking about a solution. Whatever information his present kidnappers 
wanted -- he could give it to them hoping it wouldn't harm anyone. But 
-- and his common sense told him so - if it would have been easy to 
access it they wouldn't have made all the effort to get him here. 'How 
can I get out? Or what can I do to stay alive?'

Hutch used his index finger and thumb to indicate the use of a 
clothes peg on his nose when opening the cell again. William 
didn't reward him with a smile for the joke. In all these years 
he had worked for Mr. Gabriel he had always kept to himself. He 
was quiet and effective. These were his strong sides. Hutch was 
just the opposite. He needed the acknowledgement of others. Of 
course, the other men liked him more, but that was unimportant. 
William stayed while others had come and were soon gone, one way 
or another.

"Up, get out!" Hutch commanded harshly and grabbed his arm, for Mulder 
couldn't get up quickly enough for him.  He threw him out into the far 
corner into a drainage ditch

"Who the fuck are you?" Mulder spat. "What do you want? Why did you 
shoot the others?"

Hutch snapped open his knife. It was a sharp sound like the knife 
itself, and Mulder held his breath. His reason told him that they 
wouldn't stab him if they had taken him for questioning -- he 
shivered.

"Hold still." Hutch cut the jacket into pieces, then the dress shirt 
and the T-shirt under it. Mulder breathed fast and shallowly, expected 
to get hurt and wanted to be prepared for the pain, as irrational as 
it sounded. A pain that would make him forget his split and bruised 
face. But the knife only cut the cloth with nerve-racking speed. Hutch 
pulled down the shredded clothes from Mulder's shivering body, looking 
disgusted again. "Only good for burning." Then he tucked the knife 
away and bent down to Mulder's shoes. Mulder jumped.

"Stop it! Stand still!" William ordered instantly, raising the club he 
brought. Expecting trouble as always, Mulder stood still, clenching 
his teeth.

"What's this about?"

"You stink," Hutch stated, and spat on the floor. "So we'll clean you 
up." He pushed Mulder against the wall, took away his shoes and socks, 
then the pants.

Gripping his boxer shorts, Mulder dodged again.  "No!" 

William hit Mulder's arm with the club. It hurt, but was of no 
importance. 

Mulder cried out. "Shit! Stop it!

"Stand still," William repeated calmly.

Mulder swallowed, clenched his teeth. Linda had been cruel, Nestor had 
been full of revenge, but they had been childish compared to these 
professional killers, at whose mercy he was right now. He had to 
permit Hutch to take his boxers, taking away with it every protection 
society normally granted.

"So..." Hutch threw the last piece of clothing on the pile and stepped 
back to pick up the water hose. He turned on the cold water aiming it 
at Mulder, who stumbled back, snorting. He turned, only to present his 
back as a target for the hard jet of water. It felt like being 
whipped. Mulder moaned loudly when the torture didn't come to an end, 
instead the water hit his head. He bent down as low as he could, but 
for a long time the ordeal went on. He was freezing, shivering; the 
chain clanked coldly around his waist. He hoped to get dry somehow, 
but the torturers would have ruined their reputation by giving him a 
towel.

Hutch pulled him out of the corner and dragged him along back to the 
cell, pushed him to the side where two blankets lay on the floor. Then 
he turned the key from the outside.

Mulder curled up in the blankets . The prolonged darkness around him, 
the handcuffed hands, and now the threat of more torture, drove him to 
desperation. He fought the thought of helplessness, but lost. Softly 
crying, he knew it would get worse. He knew he had only days, maybe 
just hours to live, and they would be horrible.

William was given clear orders how to deal with the FBI agent. 
Gabriel demanded to know how many people knew about Mickey's 
testimony. Then the corpse could be taken away -- with no trace 
left behind. But this was out of the question for William. He 
always knew what his employer wanted. But the first round of 
intensive questioning hadn't worked out as planned. William 
didn't know much about the training of FBI agents. If they were 
trained to resist capture and torture, but with the time running 
out, he was willing to believe it. He had gotten no answers. And 
it seemed as if the agent dared to mock William and Hutch. An 
outrageous occurrence. And more than embarrassing. Mulder should 
have been broken within minutes. William himself had seen via 
camera, that the man had cried. How could he manage to resist? 
Hutch assumed that they just had to lean harder on him. No-one 
could resist isolation and torture for a long time.

William switched on the neon lights in the cell. Hutch brought a 
gurney. The blows and kicks had left marks on Mulder's naked body. 
'Why didn't he talk?' Hutch asked himself. Even hardened criminals 
hadn't resisted that long.

He stopped the wheels of the gurney and waited for William. Together 
they pulled Mulder up from the floor. His head dropped onto his chest. 
He had lapsed into unconsciousness from the pain, but now, alas, he 
was awake enough to feel. He was put on the gurney and straps fastened 
over his chest and feet. His cuffed hands were pressed against his 
spine, but he had no room and no power to arch and relieve the pain 
and pressure. He moaned. He didn't know what had sustained him until 
now. He had never called himself strong enough to resist everything, a 
man who'd bear everything to not give away another. But now, being in 
the situation to either pay for his silence or give away his 
colleagues, he had surpassed himself. In addition, he feared that if 
he gave them the information, they'd kill him a minute later.

Maybe, even it was painful, he'd just have to hold on a little longer 
to give his colleagues time to find him. It was a faint hope, but the 
only one he had left. The gang was dead, and if the police found them, 
there was no connection between him and them. Or maybe... 

Everything he thought of; everything he was building hope upon, was 
blinded by the bright light the moment Hutch tore off the blindfold. 
He squinted.

"Showtime!" Hutch exclaimed. William rolled in a little generator, 
gave Hutch a cable with a clamp while he took the second cable and 
fastened the two by three inch metal square on Mulder's thigh. "Y'know 
what this is, cop?" Hutch didn't even sound like David Soul, and he 
couldn't sing either, but he knew how to intimidate a prisoner with 
words. He twisted the cable in his hand, held it so Mulder couldn't 
avoid seeing it. His eyes widened with fear. His breathing fast and 
shallow.

"No," Mulder managed to say, hearing his heart beat fast enough to 
jump out of his rib cage. Hutch thought he could hear it, too, a 
staccato of fear and despair.

Hutch clicked his tongue. "I didn't wanna hear that." Hutch gagged 
Mulder when he resisted. "And you don't wanna tell us anything else. 

Mulder closed his eyes for a moment, breathing heavily through his 
nose, opened his eyes again and still saw Hutch and that goddamned 
cable turning and twisting in his hand.

"Do you know how ninety volts feel on your body, cop?"

*****

Keyla's service car finally started after three tries, and when she 
drove she constantly thought about the way back. It was an easy drive, 
though, less traffic than she had expected so she arrived fifteen 
minutes early at Mr. Gabriel's estate. The BMW rolled slowly along the 
broad driveway, and she enjoyed the peaceful look of the park and the 
fountain opposite the main entrance of the estate. 

Something shone in the afternoon sun. She drove closer, leaned out of 
the car, picked up the watch and quickly closed the door again. In the 
parking lot near the villa, she took the watch out of her pocket for a 
closer look. Holding the watch, she saw that the leather was broken. 
Keyla swallowed. Sure, it could be anyone's wrist watch, but she knew 
Mulder had one exactly like it. She turned it. 'F.M.' was engraved 
underneath the face. She took a deep breath, trying to control her 
excitement. 'Mulder is here.' She slipped the watch under the seat and 
got out. 

If she was watched from the building she would have to find an excuse 
because she had no intention of going into the villa right now. 
Gabriel would not be waiting for her for another ten minutes. She took 
another look at the villa, thinking 'They won't keep him in the house 
-- too conspicuous.' 

She shouldered her small handbag and walked alongside the building. 
There were signs of something being dragged over the carefully swept 
gravel. She knew the guards might be watching her, but she forgot 
about them excited to find Mulder here. Somewhere. Her path led 
alongside the house to a small door which wasn't locked. She slipped 
in, closed it again, stood on the first step listening. Darkness. Just 
a small basement lamp threw shadows on the floor. Enough to reach the 
end of the stairs. She wet her lips, tried to remain calm. To 
concentrate on the surroundings. She had no pistol, only a bottle of 
tear gas which she took out now. 'That won't do anything against a 
revolver,' she thought, but put it aside.

She had had two choices: Find out if Mulder was here, or drive to the 
next telephone booth and call the police. But they would reach the 
remote estate maybe in an hour, but she didn't want to bet on it. 
'Stay calm,' she cautioned herself. 'You've got the element of 
surprise on your side.'

*****

William had started the generator and set it to ninety volts. Hutch 
had put the metal clamp on Mulder's rib cage. He had winced at the 
pain, though it hadn't been the hightest level they could set it to.

"What about a hundred and ten?" Hutch asked now. "That's like hitting 
the socket." He pressed the clamp on Mulder's stomach. Pain flooded 
the FBI agent. He couldn't breath, prayed to faint, but it didn't 
happen. He prayed they'd stop, but Hutch looked like the fun had just 
started. "So, come on, who's dealing with the case now?"

Mulder moaned and winced under the gag. Tears flowed over his temples. 
He couldn't go any further. He simply couldn't. There was no rescue. 
He only wanted the pain to *stop*. He looked at Hutch, lifted his chin 
to signal him to take off the gag. He would do his best to lie to 
them, even if it only meant gaining some time. Too much had happened 
to him within these three days. So much that he couldn't endure 
another evening and another night. William had put up the voltage, and 
Hutch just glanced over his shoulder to drive the prisoner into deeper 
despair.

"Wanna tell me garbage again?" he teased. Mulder shook his head, 
begging with his stare to take off the gag.

Hutch pressed the clamp into his abdomen.

*****

The humming of the generator puzzled Keyla. Step by step she fumbled 
her way into the half-darkness. Asked herself what she heard. A 
heating system? Has she found the basement where it was built in? On 
the left side she saw a small gap, where a little light slipped 
through. She went there, felt along the gap until she had a handle in 
her hand. She pulled open the door.

In the blink of an eye she had to deal with what she saw -- Mulder, 
bound on a gurney, one man pressing a clamp into his abdomen, a second 
man turning the voltage on a humming generator. The man looked up at 
once. 

Keyla raised the bottle, sprayed the tear gas into the man's eyes. 
William threw up his hands, covered his eyes with a startled cry. 
Hutch spun around, threw the cable at Keyla. She jumped back. The 
cable hit the floor, but she had lost the advantage she had needed. 
With two fast steps Hutch reached her, knocked the bottle out of her 
hand. Keyla confronted the taller opponent. She ducked the blow to 
follow and pushed her two fingers into Hutch's eyes, using all her 
strength. The man screamed, protecting his eyes with his hands. Keyla 
used that moment to drive her knee into his groin. He doubled over, 
fell on his knees, then to the side.

Keyla was bathed in sweat, but didn't waste a look at the fallen man.

In the cell William fought against his hurting eyes. He stumbled out 
and ran into Keyla's attack.

She stepped over the unconscious man, stood beside Mulder. After 
reacting as fast as she could, she now needed a moment to cope with 
the unbelievable. To breathe again. To control her trembling hands. 
She took the gag out of Mulder's mouth.

"Keyla, thank God, get me out of here! Fast! Now! Get me out!" Keyla 
couldn't find words, opened the bindings with numb hands. She took in 
Mulder's nakedness, but what she saw were the wounds, the chain, the 
burns on his chest. It hammered in her head that this couldn't be 
real. Men just didn't do things like this!

Her hands worked, though she had to renew her grip more than once. She 
only did what had to be done to help Mulder out of there as fast as 
possible. "I can't..." She gripped his armpits, helped him to sit up. 
"...can't walk." Mulder swallowed. The world turned into flashlights 
around him. The pain in his head rose intolerably; it mixed with the 
pain in his body, rising to a crescendo. "Oh,... God!"

Keyla glanced at William. "The keys...?"

"No." Mulder wet his lips. The pain in his abdomen tried to drop him 
into unconsciousness. He just wanted to fall to one side and hope that 
Keyla would make it alone. He had no strength left. She held him, 
pressed his arm.

"You have to stick it out, damn it! They don't have the keys?" He 
shook his head. "All right. Wait a moment." She bent over Hutch, took 
his pistol from the holster, came back releasing the safety. She had 
little experience with weapons, so today she'd learn something new. 
Mulder swayed, blinked. Keyla's heart still raced, knowing she had 
only minutes left before someone came to check. "Turn a little. I'll 
try to shoot the handcuffs off."

"No," he protested weakly, but she had no time for a vote. She pressed 
the chain of the handcuffs down with the muzzle and trusted her luck 
that the bullet hit the chain and nothing else -- including Mulder and 
herself.  The chain cracked open. Keyla thanked God. One problem 
solved.

"OK, let's get you out of here. Get up." He knew he couldn't. He would 
stumble and fall the moment his feet touched the ground. He shook his 
head again. "Pull yourself together. I'm not Supergirl, and we don't 
have time," she urged, putting a blanket around his bare shoulders. 
"Come on." It was dangerous for them to stay a minute longer. Her BMW 
waited in the parking lot. Just one guard to take a look outside... "We 
gotta go. Fast!"

"Can't..." Mulder clenched his teeth. Rescue had finally arrived. Just a 
few yards to cross, but he wouldn't make it. He would break down 
immediately.

Keyla bent down, put his right arm around her shoulder. 'He's cold, so 
damn cold.' He cried out.

"Mulder, what..."

"God, it hurts like hell!"

"You can make it!"

He stared at the floor. The pattern on the linoleum swirled like water 
down a drain. He took a deep breath, licked his lips and slowly slid 
down from the gurney. The chain clanked on the floor, and he stared at 
it like at a poisonous snake, which could bite him. The floor under 
his feet was cold. The cold reached up his legs, wanted to pull him 
down. Deeper. Deeper.

"No!" Keyla held Mulder securely. With her free hand she got a good 
grip around his waist. Adrenaline surged through her. "You can make 
it. I know it." He didn't seem to hear her. "The right foot, Mulder, 
the right foot," she ordered. "Go!"

For a fleeting moment Mulder thought about his trainer at Quantico, 
who had believed in him though he hadn't been the strongest. He felt 
Keyla's strength. She pushed him forward. The tunnel in front of him 
was huge; he was dizzy and sick with pain, but he got his right foot 
one step ahead, then the left followed.

They left the room.

Never before had Keyla wished so hard for anything as she did for 
their escape. It was absurd: She loved old villas, and now she wished 
for nothing more than to leave this damn estate.

For Mulder it seemed to be hours until they left the basement. He 
heard nothing but his spasmodic panting and his roaring heartbeat. He 
concentrated on pushing a little further through the huge tunnel 
before his eyes, until Keyla would say they'd made it. He fought for 
every step. His weakness delayed their escape. He knew that he 
endangered Keyla to become a victim of his torturers, too. That she 
had won against both men was a miracle to him. He would -- if he ever 
had enough breath for it -- make a remark about it.

Keyla saw her BMW, shining dark blue in the setting sun, and no car 
had ever been more beautiful. . She glanced back at the windows. She 
had hoped to reach the car unseen, but even a nearsighted person with 
no glasses could see them slowly walking over the gravel.  She simply 
didn't know what to do if a guard alarmed the others.

"We'll be gone in a second." She helped Mulder stand at the car and 
opened the rear door for him, helped him to get inside. He moaned, 
gritted his teeth, closed his eyes and lay down on the seat. She 
closed the door, ran around the car, got behind the wheel and turned 
the key in the ignition. The motor stuttered. She breathed, tried 
again, glancing in the rearview mirror to see if the guards were 
already alarmed and a horde of hyenas would rip them apart in a 
second. Nothing. No horde, no starting car.

"Shit! Shit!" 'Stay calm.' She was shaking inside, banned the thought 
of what would happen if that goddamned car --'Please, forgive me, nice 
car' -- didn't start.

Another stutter, then, finally... She thanked God once more. The motor 
roared. She backed up, put it in first gear and drove down the 
driveway, shifted into second gear, holding fast to the steering 
wheel. "All right, all right, we're outta here," she murmured. 
Adrenaline still surged through her, but she would only feel safe when 
she got Mulder into a hospital and put him under police security.

The wide gate slowly began to close.

"Shit!" Life hadn't prepared her for extreme situations. Until now she 
had taken calculated risks, like rafting or bungee jumping, but she 
had never encountered trained killers, who had tormented her friend 
with electric shocks and who would do the same to her, if she fell 
into their hands.

She headed for the gate, accelerated and hoped that either the gate 
was rusty or the BMW extremely sturdy. The motor roared. The gate was 
still wide open enough to let the hood pass. But the gate hit the 
fenders with an awful shrieking sound. The car jolted. Keyla floored 
the gas pedal, so the car jumped through, hit the street. She quickly 
hit the brakes to avoid a crash landing in the ditch, then turned the 
wheel, controlled the rolling and shifted to third gear as if hell had 
broken loose behind her. She didn't even slow down on the highway. 
When she saw a Highway Patrol car in the rear mirror she relaxed a 
little.

*****

The police officer who came to check was a man in his fifties, 
experienced enough and a good judge of character. He didn't ask many 
questions, but escorted Keyla to the nearest hospital.

Keyla telephoned her boss while Mulder was treated. She also spoke 
with her friend at the police station, who arrived half an hour later. 
He put a cup of coffee in her hand, looking inquiring but encouraging.

"How did you do that?" he asked. "I always thought investigators are 
people who look through papers -- or something like it. I never 
imagined you could handle that."

"Me too," Keyla replied softly. Her hands still trembled. She was 
shaken with the returning fear of what *could* have gone wrong. As 
long as she was high on adrenaline she had won against this fear, but 
now she thought of herself as a very crazy person, who almost fell 
from an open window. Out of the 80th floor.

"Keyla, I sent three units to the estate of that Mr. Gabriel. If they 
find something -- anything, we can take him down."

"I don't know if there's anything left." She looked up. "Jeff, he 
deals with the mafia. What I saw there was -- a torture chamber. Those 
two men..." She couldn't say it, shook her head and drank what was 
called 'coffee', but tasted like motor oil. She grimaced.

"You can do your statement later at the department."

"What if Gabriel is not taken into custody?" She asked, still numb. 
"What if he tries to kill everybody who knows about him?"

"He can't. You and Mr. Mulder are under police security." She nodded, 
but regarded it as a waste of time. He ran his hand over his dark, 
stubbly hair. "Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Pray," she said flatly. "Pray for Mulder and me."

Jonathan Gabriel wasn't only disappointed about the failure of his two 
best men. That would have been an understatement. He was in a rage. He 
wasn't interested in their wounds or what they told him. He had them 
put into a car and taken from the estate. Thinking about the next 
steps toward getting rid of the evidence in the basement, he heard the 
howling of police sirens near by. From the window he saw the car with 
William and Hutch get stopped by the police. No shot was fired; the 
officers outnumbered them.  Gabriel took a deep breath, waiting for a 
knock at the door.  He needed some serious reinforcements, and a very 
good attorney.

Keyla looked at Mulder's face. She didn't know how long she had been 
standing at the foot of the bed waiting for him to move. Over and over 
again the words of the doctor echoed in her mind: 'Burning due to 
electric shock, two broken ribs, bruises and a laceration on his 
cheekbone. All would heal, but would surely leave some scars.' He 
didn't say anything about the psychological consequences, but the look 
he had given her was a prediction of the long-term therapy he would 
have to go through. 

Mulder was sleeping. The doctor had given him a strong sedative to 
relieve his pain and relax his nerves. Keyla tried to relax, too. She 
didn't want to go home, sure she wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. And 
Gabriel knew where she lived. He didn't know who she worked for. She 
took in deep breaths; usually she calmed down. Trekking or rafting 
breathing techniques always helped her to concentrate. Now it didn't 
work at all. She was confused, and she felt insecure. She was afraid 
the enemy was more powerful than they had thought. And she was afraid, 
too, that Mulder would need a long time to recover.

THE END