Magy la Magnifica

About Z

Commander AND Chief

Country Eastern

PART ONE

NEW YORK

CHAPTER ONE

THE INCIDENT

Magdalena San Martino breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction as she stood up after tying her tennis shoes. In her mind she could still hear, and even more savor, the shouts of Ma-GY--Ma-GY that had so exhilarated her nearly exhausted body a little more than forty-eight hours earlier.

U.S. Open Champ, she thought, Dios Mio, can it really be true? She shook her head and smiled reassuringly. It had been a straight set victory over the reigning title holder and number one player in the world. It had been an incredible victory: salvaging a rather disappointing year.

She glanced back down at her Reeboks, shuffled them and then threw her shoulder length, dark black hair to the left and right. God, that was a moment to remember she mused. My first...I hope it's only my first, major title.

The young woman looked around for her bulging equipment bag, blue and yellow with several racket handles sticking out of the top. She glanced again at her feet and slowly rose off the bench. She had an athlete's build, and was dark skinned to the point that many a pale American girl would kill to match.

Magdalena (Magy to her millions of fans globally) San Martino glanced at the full-length mirror on the wall and frowned at the sight of her five-foot-seven inch, 130 pound frame. In the last few months, under her new coach, she had shed some of the baby fat that had lingered on too long in spite of her grueling training regime of the last six years. She was a newly turned twenty years of age, and easily the most attractive, yet enigmatic, female on the professional tennis tour. Still, she feared she'd become too muscular and way too broad shouldered to suit the men of her homeland: Argentina.

But fans all over the world saw her with more appreciative eyes. Magy was not the best tennis player in the world, but she had become the most popular. She was the one the promoters wanted more than any other to headline their draw. Win or lose, she packed them in and held their rapt attention. That reality often discomfited Magy. She was bothered by the fact that her innate beauty and earthy sensuality had garnered her more attention than her won-lost record. Indeed, it had been widely reported that the towels Magy had used at her last Wimbledon appearance had been sold by ball boys to male admirers, of all ages, for more than fifty dollars each.

Magy jumped up and down a couple of times and rechecked her shoes for proper tightness. She did a couple of torso twists left and right and then reached down for her bag. Just as she bent downward, the locker room suddenly darkened.

What the hell? Magy muttered in that deep sultry voice that seems so prevalent in Latin women. She often spoke English, even when talking to herself, but a strong Argentine accent persisted, and in interviews she still felt insecure in this emerging second language.

Magy groped for her bag. All right, all right find the damn light switch someone, she thought. Ouch! A slight cry of pain escaped her lips as she almost tripped over the sought after bag.

CHICO! She yelled out as loudly as she could. Chico! Chico! Are the lights out--out there? Chico! Can you hear me? Damn!

Slowly, with her hands out in front of her, the newly crowned U.S. Open Ladies Champion began to edge toward the direction she thought led to the locker room door. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness, and she was able to barely make out the wooden benches and the lockers.

Chico, where are you? I can't see a damn thing.

Still moving forward, she started to ruminate about how she'd opposed this late night workout anyhow. It was Eduardo, her coach's fault. He wanted her to practice volleys and serve. She wanted to take another day or two off and just enjoy her greatest victory before they had to fly off to Germany and the next tournament.

Magy had talked Eduardo into canceling her play in the tourney that regularly followed the US Open, and that meant she would have almost a week to enjoy her unexpected triumph. But after only two days, her coach had insisted she hit the practice court. So, at ten p.m., the only time they had been able to reserve the whole club so that she could do her regular routines without having to dodge the balls of the amateurs, here she was and now even less happy about it.

CHIIICO! This time Magdalena yelled at the top of her lungs, Ooops, she bumped into the wall and began searching for a door handle. That damn thing should be here somewhere, she muttered to herself, this time in her native Spanish.

Suddenly, a beam of light streaked into the room. Chico's all tied up right now, a strange voice uttered. It was a male voice, a bit high and slightly nervous sounding. The speaker followed his comment with a stress-laden laugh.

Magy was blinded momentarily when the light moved over to her face. She'd turned to her left, toward the sound and the light. She thought she had heard the door swing open from that direction, and her hand instinctively rose to her eyes to block the beam of light from them.

Will they have the lights fixed soon? She glanced downward to avoid the bright beam, and as she did so briefly received the impression that she'd caught a glimpse of a pair of cowboy boots.

Wow! You really do look even more sensational in person, that same male voice added. Then, Magy's hair was grasped and jerked violently forward.

What? She tried to pull back, and pushed away with both hands. Let me.... she yelled, but never finished the sentence.

The beam of light darted up, back, and then down. Something hard smashed into the left side of the young woman's head. It sent her reeling back against the bench, which she then tripped over and fell to the floor. Stunned and startled, she vaguely sensed that someone bent over her and spoke. Sorry, that very same unfamiliar voice muttered. Then, Magy was struck again and everything grew all fuzzy and dark.

Time passed. The reigning U.S. Open Champ felt as if she was coming out of a dark tunnel, sort of floating along, first slowly and then faster and faster. She groaned and instinctively tried to reach up and hold her aching head. But her hands couldn't rise--indeed they tugged on her ankles. Her eyes fluttered open and closed several times and finally came open to stay. It was bright. Oh good, the lights are back on, she thought. She was down on her side and on a floor. Well, not exactly a floor, the surface felt more familiar than that. Yes, it was a synthetic tennis court. Magy tried to raise her head and look around her, but the top of her skull hurt so much she had to slow down and move very gingerly.

She tried to sit up and moaned at the effort; her head swam dizzily. It's my head not my hair that hurts, she slowly fathomed. She wanted to put her hands down by her side to steady herself as she rolled into a sitting position, but they wouldn't--couldn't respond.

Magy stared at her wrists, but it was difficult to get her eyes to focus. She was bent over like someone just finishing a sit up. Her head was tilted forward, her feet out in front of her and her hands grasped together. Well not actually grasped, she finally figured out, but connected at the wrists and somehow attached to her ankles or legs. A rope had been wound around her ankles and run up to her wrists, locking them together. She was puzzled by this strange reality and struggled to collect her senses.

Shit, she actually muttered the Spanish version of the S word and began to pull on the rope and twist her wrists and hands. As she so struggled, the rope seemed to tighten. Magy raised her head and looked around. She did not know the Sportsmen Tennis Club very well, having played there only once before, but it looked like she was still there.

Chico? She cried out again for her trainer. Her coach had had to take care of some business arrangements that night, so he had sent Magy and Chico off alone to the workout with instructions to follow.

Chico! Again she screamed and then twisted her body around looking for any sign of another person. She sort of bounced herself around in a circle. Chico, Help!

Magdalena surveyed the premises between inward demands to close her eyes in order to fight the dizziness and that nagging, reoccurring pain in her head. Damn, is my head bleeding? She sensed that it was, and jerked again at her bonds, trying now with some desperation to free her hands so that she could feel her head.

You'll just make them tighter by pulling on them, that strange voice intruded into her ears again. It's a simple cowboy noose. If you pull on it, it gets tighter. It works great for cows and goats.

From behind her, a man's face suddenly appeared--just inches in front of her face. Evening, Magy la Magnifica. Great win the other day. I watched it all on TV.

What you done to Chico? What you want with me? Who are you? Magy tried to sound stern, but she suspected the fear that was creeping up from her gut to her brain was evident in her voice. Damn it, let me go, she cursed him in combination English-Spanish.

I told you Chico's all tied up; just like you. He's also gagged, so he couldn't answer you even if he heard you. But I don't think he does. He's still unconscious. Have to hit a man a little harder, you know. How's your head?

Ouch, Magy instinctively cried out as she felt a probing hand touch a very tender and sore part of her head.

It's not a bad cut and the bleeding's already stopped. There's some blood clotted in your hair, but we can wash that out later. You'll be fine. Hell, it makes you even more sexy when you look vulnerable like that.

Magy pulled her head away from the touch of the blonde skinny-faced man. Leave me alone. What do you want? You...you can't get away with this. There's a guard....

He chuckled. I am the guard. A tall, lanky man moved around in front of her, and Magy was crushed to see that, indeed, he was wearing a security guard's uniform.

The cops won't come here unless the alarm's triggered, and I don't intend to do that. Relax, I don't want much. Just a little harmless fun--like a kiss from the world's most magnificent tennis player.

The wiry cowboy-cut male leaned over and kissed Magy on her lips. She tried to turn away from him, but he grabbed her by the hair and held her face tightly in place.

Damn, that hurts, she spit out as he finished his buss and let go of her hair. Hijo de puta, she cursed.

Don't know for sure what that means, Magy, but I bet I get the drift. My name's Clayton. But most times folks just call me Clay. I was here last year when you practiced, but you ignored me and that pissed me off. I'm your biggest fan, and it was damn disappointing when you acted so unfriendly. I figured we'd get better acquainted if you came back this year--and damned if you didn't.

Well, I sorry if I seem no so unfriendly to you. Last time I here, I played poorly, for sure. My focus must be only on tennis when I practice. Sorry, but I not remember seeing you.…

Clay interrupted her. He rocked on his toes and looked down on her as if from a high and haughty position. He stood about five- feet-eleven. Maybe even a tad taller in his boots, yet he likely did not weigh much more than Magy. "I watched you every second you were on this court. God, you matched that nickname of yours perfectamente. He drug out his attempt to speak a Spanish word. I never saw such provocative movements--except by dancers. Whether you're serving, running down a ball or toweling off, lady, you sure as hell know how to keep folk's eyes riveted on you. And I love that look you get in your eyes. It's like you're...you're, shit, I can't think of the word, but it's as if you're willing yourself to win.

As the would-be cowboy spoke he was eyeing Magy's long copper-toned legs. His eyes slowly worked their way up to her thighs, hips and then her especially lovely face, pausing only briefly on her thick chest yet surprisingly small breasts. I knew right then we wuz gonna get together the next time you came here.

Look, I beeg sorry if you I ignore before. Let me go, and I you give autograph...picture? Whatever you want. Please.

Magy paused, realizing she'd mixed her English word placement. Por favor, she tried to smile and use her feminine guile. Something her father and mother accused her of doing far too frequently. Her deep dark eyes pleaded. Please...?

Maybe we CAN make a deal? If you'll play some tennis with me, I'll let you go. You know, just you and me: one on one."

I no can play tennis. You hurt me. You can't tie people up and then ask them play. She tugged at her bonds angrily. Let go me!

OK, it's your choice. You can just lie there then, and since you're already down, I'll just settle for a little lovemaking. It's your choice. We can play tennis, and you'll get untied, or we can do what folks do on the ground: a little game them ropes won't hinder.

Clayton smiled at his victim cockily. Come on, Magy. Let's hit. Surely a great athlete like you can't be slowed down by a little cut on the head.

Magy looked around as if desperately seeking help, but there was no one around. She heard nary a sound other than the hum of the powerful overhead lights.

You'll let me go if we play, for sure?

Sure

Magy sighed in resignation. OK, but just for leetle time.

Bravo, Clayton quickly moved over to a couple of equipment bags, one of which Magy recognized as hers. He came back and bent over her with a lightweight chain and a large hunting knife. He began placing the chain around her tan ankles.

What you doing?

Making sure you don't try to run away. I've seen how fast you can run. I might never catch you without these.

Jesus, you crazy? I can't play tennis with chains on me feet.

Clayton smiled at what he considered her cute mix-up of personal pronouns. Sure you can. There'll be plenty of slack between your ankles. See? The man showed Magy the length of chain between the two leg irons. A great athlete like you, Magy la Magnifica. Hey, you can adjust.

I no play. Magy's face twisted into an obvious pout. This estupido.

Suit yourself. We'll do the thing one does lying down then. Clayton flopped down beside her and began fumbling at Magy's breasts.

The young woman pulled away as best she could. OK, OK, I play.

Good decision. Clay picked up the knife and cut the rope around her ankles. He brought the blade up to her throat and smiled. Don't get any cute ideas, honey. This cuts skin just as easy as it does rope.

Magy pulled her head away. Terror rose up in her throat and was exposed in her eyes. She choked back the angry words on the tip of her tongue.

Magy's oppressor slipped the loop off from around her wrists, stood up and offered his hand to help her to her feet. Let's hit. Here's your racquet.

Magy rubbed her fingers alternately over her wrists and stiffly stood up. As she did so, she instinctively extended her hand to Clayton's. She found his grip strong but wet and clammy. It dawned on her for the first time that her abductor, too, was nervous. Perhaps, he was even afraid.

She looked him in the eyes, stifled an almost automatic thank you for the hand, and proceeded to brush off her buttocks and legs. Magy took her racquet and carefully tested her movement with the leg chains. She discovered she could move best if she shuffled along the floor, never really lifting her feet totally off the ground. A wave of dizziness accompanied her first effort, so she stopped and raised both her hands to her head. It felt crusty at the point of the throbbing. She instinctively fingered the gold cross that was her constant companion around her throat and so often featured in tight TV shots of her tennis service motion.

See, nothing to it, Clayton urged. He picked up a racquet and jogged over to the other side of the court where a bucket of balls, which Magy recognized as the one Chico had brought, was sitting in the middle of the service line.

Magy glanced around, feeling light-headed and elated now that there was a greater distance between her and her tormentor. She focused on the door through which she had entered from the parking lot. It was closed, but not that far away from her. He's right, she thought, I bet I can outrun him. Maybe even with these damn chains on. If I can get out that door…. For the first time she began to think there was some hope of escaping this man.

Argentina's pride and joy stared at Clayton as he picked up the container of balls and headed to the baseline of the opposite court. Better test my movement out first, she concluded.

Clayton turned, picked a ball out of the bucket and stoked it toward her with his forehand. It was a truly amateur stroke, she observed. Magy stepped around, remembering the chain, and drove the yellow ball back toward him with her powerful top spin. The ball hit and leaped right over his head. He swung clumsily at it and yelped.

Wow, you really do put some extra movement on the ball, don't you? Those commentators are always talking about how you hit the ball with more top spin than anyone else." He picked up another ball and tried to hit it toward her harder. But he stroked it too hard and the ball flew past the lines of the court. Nonetheless, Magy intercepted its flight in mid-air and volleyed it back, easily and firmly.

Clayton's return shot was off to her left and Magy slid over, feeling the chain stretch. As she neared the ball, she leapt into her famous drive backhand: the shot that almost single-handedly had won her the US Open title. Instinctively, her right foot shot forward, and she dropped into a crouch with her left foot acting as her push off point. Wham! Just as Magy tried to stoke through the ball, her forward foot hit the limit of the chain. It threw her off balance as her weight came forward and pitched her down onto the court surface.

Shit, she muttered, catching herself with her left hand and then dropping the racquet as her right hand too was needed to avoid a nasty spill.

Clay laughed. Forgot the chain, didn't you? He picked up another ball and readied it to send to her. You'll get used to it. He deliberately aimed the next ball back to her right. But Magy was up to it. She shuffled over quickly, inwardly smiling at her ability to adjust her movement to the chain. I have to remember my limits on stretching out, she reminded herself. That expression of determination Clayton had referred to earlier slowly crawled over Magy's face as she began to concentrate on ball, movement, stroke and now stride as well.

They rallied for several minutes with Clay inevitably the one to miss. The tennis professional began to take his measure. How far could he range? What did he most often do when a ball got by him? Which balls did he retrieve after a miss, and which ones did he forget and turn to the bucket for a replacement?

Magy tripped to the ground once more, harder this time. But she got up quickly, eager now that a plan was forming. We'll use up the bucket, she decided, and then if he starts to chase balls, I'll make my move.

It didn't take long for the bucket to empty since Clayton seldom hit more than three shots back across the net without a miss. He kept up a line of patter trying to make it seem like a normal evening outing between friends. Of course, he would have preferred the term lovers.

Great shot, he repeated time and time again, after Magy's smoothly stroked hits. Hey, lighten up. Don't look so grim. This is supposed to be fun. I read in the paper where your new coach has turned your workouts into fun. Pretend it's like that. Come-on, smile.

Magy was not interested in fun. She was planning a run for her life, but she responded to the smile comment in an effort to lull him into relaxation. It wasn't a very sincere smile, but it did show her famous, almost perfectly white teeth.

Within minutes, Clay pulled what Magy figured just might be the last ball from the bucket. She decided to confirm her theory by hitting it back gently and right to him.

Is that the last ball? I need a break...some water, she yelled.

Only about two more, he replied, and then groaned as he hit another ball badly into the net. Shiii--yit, he yelped.

This is it, he shouted back at her. Run this one down and you can have that drink.

Magy smiled, this time with sincerity. She felt her adrenaline surge in anticipation of the implementation of her scheme. He hit the ball right to her and fortuitously, also in the direction of the door. It was almost as if she had willed him to do so by crowding to the left of the centerline of her court.

Not too fast, shorten that stride, she muttered to herself in Spanish as she glided over, almost too quickly. She felt the chain jerk, stumbled but recovered. She reached the ball and looped it back. She hit it with excessive topspin and at a very sharp angle. Clay was going to have to cover a lot of ground to get to that ball, and Magy was willing him to try.

The ball was moving just slow enough and spinning so wildly that Clayton was enticed to try and run it down and bang it back across the net even though an experienced player would have considered it a sure winner. He darted to his right, pretty much lumbering along in his riding-heeled cowboy boots.

Shiii--yit, he repeated, as he lunged at the ball but missed it by several inches. Then he turned and instinctively began chasing after the ball, as would most of us who are used to playing with only a can instead of a bucket of balls. Clayton's back was now toward Magy, and he was farther away from her than he had been at any time since their encounter had begun.

The Latin lovely turned and began quickly, but purposefully and cautiously, sliding, almost floating, toward the door. Once she almost fell, but pushed herself back up with her right hand, dropping the racquet as she did so. She glided on without it.

Magy was only a stride or two from the door, when Clayton retrieved the ball, turned, looked for her, and shouted when he spotted her off the court and charging toward the exit. Hey! Clay dropped the ball and his racquet and began dashing after her. But he slowed as he watched her grab the doorknob, give it a twist and pull, and then slump against it, her head lowered in defeat. The locked door hadn't budged.

Magy's abductor stopped his pursuit, smiled a smug grimace, and maliciously teased her. Did I ferget to tell you that door's locked, and I've got the key? He pulled an object out of his pocket and held it up for her to see. I also have a gun. he pointed toward the holster on his right hip. You ain't going nowhere without me, Magy. Relax; warn't we having fun?

Clayton slowly approached Magy, watching to see if she tried to dart away again.

The frightened and now sorely disappointed female had turned at the sound of his voice, still slumped against the door and desperate. Goddamn him, she thought, surprised she was thinking in English. An icy, eerie feeling crept up her spine as he mentioned the gun. You dumb ass, she thought, he could have killed you. Get smart, Magy, she muttered under her breath. Still, something else inside of her told her this was a crucial moment, and that she had to get aggressive. That was what her new coach, Eduardo, had been constantly hammering into her. Be aggressive, Magy. You've grown up. You're now bigger and stronger and a better athlete than almost anyone you play. Attack, attack, even if sometimes you lose the point. That's the way to win.

And it had worked, had she not just won her first grand slam event by being aggressive? Magy's natural nature was to be a typical laid back Latina. Her tendency was to be a defensive player, a human backboard who got the ball back time and time again until her opponents missed. She was also a stylist who preferred to win by a drop shot or a dramatic topspin lob rather than by the prevailing style: the power game. But Eduardo had finally convinced her she had to become more offensive minded.

With those thoughts flashing through her mind, Magy steeled herself and awaited Clayton's approach, almost ignoring his words.

Come on, Magy, I'll forget that you violated our agreement. Let's just hit a little more. Clayton tried to sound soothing as he strode toward her, cautiously, yet menacingly.

Vete a la mierda. No, No more. Magy was surprised by the firmness of her tone and the deepness in her voice. We're through with games now. You're going to let me go, release Chico, and leave us alone. You surprised me back there in the locker room, but I'm ready for you now.

The athlete doubled up her fists threateningly. She spread her feet out as widely as the chain permitted, and challenged Clayton with an expression that reflected anger and determination as well as momentarily hiding her fear.

You're being foolish, girl, Clay responded, I don't want to hurt you again, but I will if you force me. You're breaking the deal not me. He moved forward--inexorably.

Magy pep-talked herself. I can take him, she thought, trying to ignore the reality that as strong and athletic as she was, she knew nothing about fighting people. Indeed, she hadn't fought anyone since some childhood wrestling matches with her best friend, Carlos, more than ten years ago.

As Clayton drew within three feet of her, Magy shouted, NOW, VAMOS! She screeched those words out at the top of her voice and almost catapulted herself off the wall, charging into the man and alternately swinging her fists at his face. Clayton was so surprised by her new found aggression he was unable to avoid her and the two collided. The fury of the female's attack drove him backward. He gave ground, and as he did so felt a stinging smash to the side of his face. By God, he thought, this is a heckuva powerful woman. I can't remember being hit much harder than that by anyone, and Clay had had his share of fistfights. He grabbed at her fists, clutching her left arm and her blouse as he continued to give ground under pressure.

Luckily for the would-be cowboy, giving ground was exactly the right move. Judo practitioners would have applauded his wisdom, but in fact he was doing so almost in panic. His unexpected quick backward movements, pulling her with him, caused Magy's stride to exceed the limit of her ankle chains. She tripped, lost her balance and tumbled to the floor at his feet, arms flailing.

Harumph! The sound Magy made as she fell on her chest reverberated throughout the huge hall. The youthful athlete had barley managed to get her free right hand down to the floor and thus ever so slightly break her fall.

Damn! She cursed. Then, out of the corner of her eye, Magdalena spied the racquet she’d dropped on her dash for the door. She tried to frantically crawl toward it, slightly off to Clayton's left. The top of her two piece tennis ensemble was torn, and Magy felt pain in both legs and her chest. Instinctively, she saw the racquet as a potential weapon. But even as she scrambled toward it, Magy's brain warned her to anticipate a booted kick to her head. She hunkered down for protection from that expected blow.

But now Clayton surprised her. Instead of grabbing for her torso or lashing out at her with his feet, he bounded around behind her. Then, just as Magy's fingers began to close around the racquet, the male reached down, grabbed the chain that connected her ankles, and jerked her feet up in the air.

Smiling at her ungainly plight, he began dragging her back towards the court surface. Magy, penned on her stomach, tried to kick her way loose, but Clayton had a secure grasp on the chain. Periodically, he jerked her legs and raised them higher off the ground to prevent her from rolling onto her backside. With sweat pouring off his brow, he leveraged the female back onto the court surface and over to the middle of it. Once there, Clay stopped, braced himself and began, slowly at first, swinging her around in a circular pattern like an adult might do with a child held by the ankles. Inexorably, he built up speed until Magy's whole torso was spinning several inches off the ground.

Magy shrieked. Her arms moved out from her sides seeking balance and then, straining against her weight and the momentum of the whirl, Clayton let go of the chain--sending the young woman flying through the air, and then crashing into the ground as she collided with the net.

On impact, the net tore loose from its supports and fell down around her. Magy was stunned, dizzy, gasping for breath and struggling to somehow extricate herself from the netting.

Clay walked over, surveyed her plight, and said. Good flight, Magy. But enough of this shit. The riding heel of his boot then clipped her right on the chin. Magy's head snapped to the right, and then sagged to the floor. She left this world again and found refuge in darkness and quiet. Magy's great reflexes had almost enabled her to avoid his kick. Clayton had aimed his boot toe at her face, but had almost, but not quite, missed her totally.

Clayton extricated his prey's lifeless body from the netting. He rolled her over onto her back and stared at her contemplatively. Aww hell, it wouldn't be any fun if she's not conscious, he decided. Still, he was powerfully tempted to satiate an urging in his groin right then and there.

With obvious passion, Clay admired the curvaceous contours of the tennis star's body: firm and brown hips, trim thighs and that spectacular but now bruised face. He sighed and walked over to retrieve the ropes he'd tied her up with earlier. He returned to her limp body, tied her wrists behind her back and ran the chord down from there to her ankles. He caressed her muscular legs appreciatively. Then, he bent them up over her back and secured her ankles to the same line that bound her wrists. Magy was trussed up much like a calf prepped for branding. Clayton let go of her legs, and the unconscious tennis star toppled over onto her side. Her attacker checked his victim's throat for a pulse and smiled as he felt a reasonably strong one.

Don't want to lose you, honey. I have exciting plans for us, he ruminated. The captor then strode away, picked up the bags and headed for the entrance door. He purposefully went outside and tossed the bags into an old beat up VW wagon. He made note of the light traffic out on the main road, looked at his watch and winced when he noticed that it was already just past midnight. Clay went back inside the tennis halle, stepped into a room marked Equipment and checked on another bound body. This one was a small, wiry male, and Clay seemed disturbed by the fact that the man's face had dried blood stuck to his mouth. It was a small Hispanic man, and he was very quiet, deathly so.

Shii-yit, Clayton growled, checking for a pulse. Nothing. The God damned old Spic's checked out on me. Now what the hell am I going to do? Well, first, I'd better get the fuck outta here. Something down inside him urged that he dart immediately out of the room and race directly to the van, but after a few hesitant strides he stopped and reconsidered. Shit, you ass hole. If they find that fucker here, that'll lead the cops straight to you. I've got to dump him somewhere else.

So, the now even more nervous Texan stepped out of the room and glanced hesitantly over at Magy. He was pleased to see that she, too, still appeared unconscious. He ducked back into the room where Chico lay, lifted the elderly man to a partial standing position, and laid his shoulder into the middle of the limp torso. When he let go of Chico, the dead man collapsed over Clay's shoulder. The panic was rising in the first time murderer's whole fiber as he carried the victim out to the van and dumped him onto the floor.

He hastened back inside for Magy, again glancing at his watch. It was now 12:15. It had been almost two hours since he'd first knocked Chico out. As he approached victim number two, Clayton pulled a red bandanna out of his pocket, folded it over several times, and applied it to her rather large mouth as a gag. He pulled it tight around the back of the woman's head, and checked to insure that it had dug into her mouth. He tried to brush it off with the palm of his hands and decided it was secure.

Next, he tried to tote Magy over his shoulder as he had Chico, but decided his wrists-ankles connection and her weight made that style of loading impractical. As he fumbled and fretted about how to maneuver her, he noted that her muscles were beginning to quiver and tense, and that some muffled groans were sneaking out from behind the kerchief in her mouth.

Shit, she's coming out of it. I've got to get moving. Clayton trudged behind the head of his trussed up package and hoisted her partially off the ground by putting his arms under hers and lifting. He began walking backwards, dragging her toward the door while lecturing to her.

Didn't want to hurt you, you know. You brought this on your self. We could be walking out of here arm in arm if you'd just used your fucking head.

Slowly Magy fought her way back to full consciousness and realized that she was tied up again, gagged and being dragged--somewhere. She resisted: kicking, twisting, and straining against her ropes and the kerchief.

Knock it off, damn you. The kidnapper banged her on the head with his right arm, almost dropping her as he tried to steady her with just his left.

Magy momentarily stopped her struggles in reaction to the pain from the blow, but then renewed her efforts. I can't give up, she thought, this bastard's going to kill me.

Knock it off, babe, Clayton repeated, but then obviously changed his mind about striking her again. He knew he could continue to manhandle her no matter how hard she struggled. I don't know why you're fighting it so, he said to her between gasps for breath. "I already doodled you while you were out, and it was terrific. Besides, you're no cheery--so why fight if it ain't the first?" Clay chuckled as he spun out his little fantasy.

The meaning of the words he spoke only slowly penetrated into Magy's addled brain. But as they did so they had the opposite effect of their intention. She struggled against him and his ropes even harder, and simultaneously tried to fight through the blurring and fear clouding her thought processes.

Had this bastard already raped her? Did it feel like it? She hurt so much everywhere, she couldn't really be sure. But why would he lie? She renewed her struggle with greater effort and actually succeeded, momentarily, in wresting herself loose from his grip.

An Oooofff leapt from her throat as she banged onto the floor. Not much gain from that success, she quickly realized. Clay cursed her, reseized her, and struggled a bit himself while trying to turn the gym light out with one hand and control her with the other. Magdalena's resistance efforts fizzled when she realized that all they had brought her was more pain.

Clayton dragged his now listless victim through the deserted parking lot and over to his van. With effort, he tossed her onto the floor in the back next to the lifeless Chico.

There, you've been yelling your head off for that old fart. Now you've got him. But I don't think he's gonna make for very good company.

CHAPTER TWO

THE PLACE

Magy never forgot the terrible ride that ensued. She rocked back and forth on the van floor with every stop, start and turn, often laying on top of Chico or having him tumble over against her. She sensed her friend was dead but refused to accept it. He had been such a kind supporter and great cheerleader.

He'd been an animated and warm man, but now he felt so cold. While she tried to communicate with him in spite of her gag, Magy never detected a muscle movement, not even a quiver from her friend. She finally figured out that fighting against her bonds was totally useless and only made them tighter. Her muscles ached from the cramped position the ropes penned her body into, so she finally just resorted to merely wiggling her feet and fingers in an effort to keep her blood circulation active. Her wrists and ankles hurt, and were now bleeding from her pervious foolish efforts to break loose.

A couple of times during the miserable trip, Magy truly panicked. She felt as if she couldn't breathe. The gag had become so wet with sweat and saliva that she felt unable to suck air in through her mouth, and in her state of terror that seemed mandatory in order to supply the air her body demanded. However, she survived those frantic moments. She called on all her willpower and forced herself to relax. The young Argentine concentrated on the fact that her nostrils were unclogged, and convinced herself that she could get sufficient air from her nose alone.

The kidnapper stopped his old vehicle once, after spending what seemed to Magy to be an eternity on a bumpy, rough road. Shortly after Magy heard the engine cut off, Clay opened the van's side door and pulled Chico's body out.

Say adios to the old fucker, the killer said to Magy, and then banged the door shut.

Magdalena lay there,