Programmed for Peril

of breaking her. A surge of inward glee bubbled up in Champ’s heart.
    This was going to be fun!
    “We can go back whenever you’re ready,” he said. “Just tell me you’re going to resign from PC-Pros.”
    Her eyes narrowed. “So it is.... Pm not mixed up in anything that has to do with Trish Morley!”
    “You are, Samantha Swords. You work for her. That is, up until you decide you don’t want to anymore. That should be jn”—Champ shrugged—“two or three hours, maybe much less.” He showed her the knife, waved it. “Up the hill, please.”
    Halfway up she bolted. The arrogance! The thrill of the chase rose up and gave wings to his thick legs. He bounded by branch and bower. She was faster than she looked, prepped no doubt by yuppy health club muscle machines. She screamed. Let her. Only small islands in American Micronesia were more isolated than this carefully chosen spot. She was a super screamer. Lots of diaphragm power in that big chest. Scream on, scream on... He accelerated. Tree trunks flew by. Luke Skywalker revisited! Hearing him behind, she tried to dodge and dart. Fit she was, but no NFL running back. He brought her down with a tackle worthy of a Steeler linebacker.
    The collision of bone and flesh and the scented sweat of her exertion and fear swung Champ’s lash of lust. He felt heaving breasts beneath his chest, each one no doubt two handfuls. He lay on bulky Samantha Swords, the sky above, the grass beneath whirling in a tornado of scarcely checked emotions. Had she been... Queen of My Heart. He thought the unthinkable, shoved those ideas brutally away. No! Not even if she were. And she was not.
    He fumbled in his pocket for the roll of strapping tape. Zip, zip, rip! Her ankles were trussed together like a holiday bird’s drumsticks.
    He stood and dragged her to her feet. They faced each other, panting. “Let me go,” she said. Her gaze was frank, determined. A woman of character, no question.
    “Quit your job,” he said.
    She hesitated, weighing a lie. Whatever she said now he wouldn’t believe. She knew it, too. No dummy here. She had to be convinced. The enjoyable part. He put her over his shoulder and ambled on up the hill.
    He found the hole and his shovel and spade. It was hard work digging a hole six feet deep anytime. Yesterday had been hot. He had spilled much sweat onto the heaped dirt. It would be worth it. It wasn’t so much a hole to him as it was... the Convincer.
    Complicated tools were overrated.
    He pointed at the hole. “Get in,” he ordered.
    She looked sharply at him. He knew she was wondering, Is this it? What now? What would happen to her once in the hole? She didn’t move.
    Cat-quick he slipped a half-nelson on her, put knife to neck. No more Mr. Nice Guy. “In the hole!”
    He levered her over the edge. She stood and looked up at him. Her head was about four inches from the top of the hole.
    Perfect!
    “You are going to leave PC-Pros, Samantha,” he said.
    “Why, what do you want from us?” she pleaded, lacking the energy of old, he noted without answering her.
    He picked up the shovel, adjusted his cap’s workmanlike angle. He filled the blade and sprinkled the soil carefully so it fell around her feet. Her eyes widened. “You’re going to bury me alive!”
    “Only if you’re determined to keep your job.” He shoveled in more dirt. She jumped to stay on top of the fresh soil. He banged her head with the shovel bottom. “No hopping!” he shouted.
    Samantha whimpered and covered the top of her head with hands now smeared with moist soil. “My God!” she cried. “My God!”
    Champ plied his shovel with the vigor of Fred C. Dobbs in the Sierra Madre. Shortly the dirt was waist-deep and rising. He had been forced to tap Samantha’s head twice with the shovel bottom to keep her passive. Time now for a meeting of the minds.
    He leaned on the stout hickory handle. The healthy tone of Samantha’s face had drained to wedding-cake white. Rivulets of sweat ran down from her temples. Her eyes had widened, giving her a hawklike stare of fright. Nonetheless she fixed a boldish eye on him. “I know who you are. You’re the man who’s trying to ruin Trish. I saw your picture. You’re Carson Thomas.”
    Oh, no, I am the Masked Marvel, he thought. I am not Carson! To her he said: “Of course. And you’re...“ He chuckled. “In a bit of a hole right now.” Silly giggle, uncontrollable at that moment. “You can climb out anytime. Just promise