Zenobia acknowledged Beckett's arrival with a curt nod and a guttural grunt. She had been intently studying her opponent as she carefully worked her way down the stone steps to the theater floor, and she wasn't impressed. The American's chest and stomach area lacked the muscular definition of the Sicilian. Her long legs, glistening in a sheen of fine sweat, looked strong enough, but lacked the thickness of her opponent. The Sicilian's breasts were clearly larger and more pronounced, but Zenobia knew from experience as a bar bouncer on the mainland that large breasts, rather than being an advantage in a close order fight, were oftentimes merely lucrative targets for flashing nails and driving fists.

Beckett stopped on the final step before reaching the floor of the amphitheater and turned to remove her running shirt. Almost instantly she realized her mistake, but it was too late. Quickly the callused, dark-skinned hands of the quick-moving Sicilian rudely grasped her ankles, and forcefully jerked inward. Beckett fell flat on her face and chest as she felt herself being dragged on to the floor of the arena. With the now-hampering shirt riding up over her head her legs kicked fruitlessly as she tried to put some distance between her and her attacker. But her efforts failed. Two sharp stabs of pain to her kidneys followed by savage blow to her left side told her the Sicilian bitch had either foreknowledge of, or had spotted, the remnants of her wounds at the hands of Cole Maddox. Clearly she was intent on inflicting a degree of fear and helplessness in her opponent, just like Maddox had done four months ago.

Knowing that to be the case, and being the very reason she had requested Artemis to arrange this contest, Beckett rose to a higher level of energy than she had felt in months. Sensing a third blow inbound to her kidneys, she raised her upper body off the floor, rammed her head back into her opponent's groin, and quickly twisted sideways, her long, slender yet powerful legs ensnaring the Sicilian's thicker, heavyset thighs.

Her opponent was surprised at Beckett's quick response to the unceremonious beginning of their contest. But as she kicked away the American's legs, rolled to her left and regained her feet, she realized that looks were deceptive. This woman, though less muscular and clearly weighing much less than her, was skilled in martial combat. Rather than some sort of pervert getting off on being beaten up (and she had had more than one man who enjoyed that kind of recreation, and paid very well for the pleasure), this woman had something to prove to herself. And Zenobia, apparently, was the final test. Fine, she would make it worth the American's time and money, and perhaps enjoy it. It would certainly be better trying to get off flaccid male tourists awash in their own fantasies of being dominated.

For her part, Beckett recognized that she had gotten what she asked for…and paid for. Someone who would be brutal, would fight dirty, and had little concern on beating up someone smaller than her. As the detective ducked a wide swinging right fist, but then felt the Sicilian's knee ramming hard into her abdomen, knocking her back down to the arena floor, fear began to fog her thinking and actions. She was no longer on Menos, but instead atop the Rossyln Hotel. Visions of Cole Maddox, and his beating of her on the hotel roof now merged with that of the woman before her, who dropped a right knee hard into Beckett's groin. Forcing her thighs apart, the Sicilian dropped down atop her opponent, her arms scrambling to pin the American's hands to her sides.

Beckett struggled in vain to roll free. But Zenobia was simply too heavy, with her legs spread wide to resist any turning movement. The Sicilian lowered her head close to Beckett's and smiled, her breath moist and reeking of garlic. But the detective did not see a bar bouncer, but rather Cole Maddox stating coldly, "You have no idea what you're up against."

As Beckett struggled to keep her arms from being forced into her sides, Zenobia suddenly drove her head, mouth wide open, between the American's breasts and bit down hard. Coming on top of her gunshot scar, the pain was excruciating. Beckett screamed in pain as the Sicilian rend her teeth back and forth like some rabid dog. But the running shirt and sports bra were too thick for deep penetration, so the bar bouncer raised her head, laughed gleefully at her opponent's pain, and kneed her again in the groin. But the shift in location afforded Beckett, while crying out in anguish, the opportunity to fold her left leg up nearly under her buttocks, and pushing down hard, flipped her torso to the right, throwing Zenobia off and into the dirt.

But the bouncer did not stay down long. Quickly regaining her feet, as Beckett raised her arms to remove the tattered remnants of the running shirt, Zenobia drove a crushing fist into her abdomen, followed by a quick blow to her chest, and two strikes to her face. Beckett paused, half upright, ensnared in her shirt, and toppled to the arena floor, stunned and now bleeding from mouth and nose, in addition to the excruciating pain between her breasts.

In a flash the Sicilian was on her, flipping her over on her stomach. Callused hands grabbed the American by the throat and drove her head brutally into the arena floor, filling her mouth and nose with sand. Choking and gasping for air, the detective sought in vain to pry her tormentress' hands away from her throat.

Zenobia released her chocking grasp of Beckett's neck, not wanting to render her opponent helpless so early in the contest. Instead she elected to pursue a slower, and more painful path to victory. Half rising above her prostrate victim, the Sicilian drove her right knee into Beckett's lower back. Then quickly reversing her position, she straddled the detective's narrow waist just above her buttocks and clasping her fists together drove clubbing blows into the upper thigh areas of her victim. Muffled gasps of pain indicated the effectiveness of this tactic, and after repeating the blows, the bouncer rose to a half crouch, spun around on Beckett's back, and laced her thick fingers beneath the detective's chin. Pulling backwards and upwards, the bouncer forced Beckett's head back at an acute angle to the rest of her body, immobilized under the weight of her Sicilian tormentor. The pressure on the detective's spine was intense, the pain excruciating, and as Zenobia arched further away, her muscles quivered under the strain. With her full weight now bearing on Beckett's lower back, she bent the American nearly in half, her victim's breasts straining against the confines of the sports bra, wanting to jut outward, free from this unnatural position. The searing pain evident in the American's contorted face and strangled gasps for air signaled to Zenobia that her opponent was nearing the brink of surrendering to her dominatrix.

Sweat was coursing from both nearly nude bodies now, and mixed with the arena dirt and blood freely flowing from the American's nose and mouth, each combatant was now shrouded in a thin brown patina, with only the areas remaining in direct contact with their opponents remaining relatively free of the concoction.

Through the miasma of pain clouding her head, Beckett sensed that not only was she nearing defeat, but would most likely incur an injury that would end her career as a cop, and perhaps leave her with some permanent disability. As the American woman neared unconsciousness, the Sicilian released her grip, dropped the seeming lifeless body into the dirt. She arose, flipped her victim's body over on her back, and surveyed the results of their intense combat with disdain. "Is this the most this fucking American bitch has to offer?" she muttered in Italian.

Lying near defeat in the dirt Kate had no idea what her tormentor was saying. But she could see her lips moving, the scorn on her face, and the barely concealed body language of a superior woman warrior that conveyed nothing but contempt for her hapless, prostrate victim. She could hear what her victorious adversary was saying: "You're wasting your time detective." And the haughty vision of Cole Maddox danced before her eyes; the sneer, the leering half smile, the sense of overwhelming physical power that had rendered her, Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD, Badge Number 41319, helpless before his invincible power. Once again, she felt like a kitten being tossed, thrown around, beaten and destroyed by a ferocious bear.

Through the dirt, sweat, and blood obscuring her vision, she saw the Sicilian's right leg draw up to deliver another driving blow to her groin. Beckett rolled to her left, and her opponent's foot struck only a glancing blow on her buttock as she rolled clear. Yelling in frustration, the bouncer leaped on the American's back, as the American drew her powerful thighs in tight to her body under her upper torso. Zenobia sensed the traditional wrestling tactic, and feeling her adversary's body slowly rising beneath her all the while supporting her own weight, she sought a purchase in Beckett's short hair.

Now all those conditioning exercises and leg strength workouts paid off for the detective. Having regained the use of both hands and knees, and momentarily free of those pulverizing blows to her groin and kidneys, Beckett half rose bearing the weight of her adversary on her back, then quickly pulled her arms beneath her, dropped to her knees, thrust her lower back and buttocks as high as possible and threw Zenobia forward off her back and into the stone blocks that marked the outer perimeter of the arena floor.

The Sicilian only partially shielded her head as she struck one of the stones. Momentarily stunned, she was draped over the offending granite block with her back vulnerable. Spying the opportunity, Beckett quickly regained her feet and half-walked, half-limped over to her opponent. Thinking the bouncer might be feigning a greater injury than she had sustained to lure the American too close, the detective carefully raised her left leg and drove her foot, heel first, hard into her tormentor's kidneys, followed by two savage stomps to the nape of the Sicilian's neck.

As Zenobia writhed in pain, Beckett put one foot under her stomach and kicked her off the stone, rolling her over on her back on the arena floor. Moving towards the bouncer's head, the detective drove her left heel down on to her opponent's forehead, followed by three sharp blows to the groin area, hard on the Sicilian's pubic mound.

Not wanting to give the bouncer any respite to gather her senses, Beckett dropped down on her prostrate foe, straddled her stomach, and wedged her thighs tightly against her opponent's ribs. Zenobia attempted to rise, but a clubbing fist to her face knocked the stunned woman back into the dirt. Beckett gazed hungrily at the bouncer's cleavage, but shook such thoughts from her concentration, and as if in retribution for the allure of her opponent's breasts drove a fist hard into her right breast, followed immediately by another hard blow into the fleshy area beneath it.

Zenobia cried out in pain, sensing for the first time that she might actually lose this contest. The woman astride her chest was a relentless machine, striking repeatedly into her face and chest. She seemed almost beside herself in rage, almost demonic in her unceasing actions. When the bouncer managed to free one of her arms and partially cover her face, the American quickly rose and drove another foot into her groin. Half retching, her mouth now filled with her own blood and dirt from the arena floor, Zenobia rolled to her right and attempted to rise. The American assisted her in her efforts, gaining purchase in her breasts, and lifting the hapless Sicilian to her feet by them. As the bouncer attempted to relieve the painful grip on her breasts, the detective quickly released her grip and chopped down hard on both shoulders. Zenobia fell to her knees, and then doubled over when two savage kicks thundered into her abdomen and groin.

But Beckett was not done. When she had trained with Royce as a rookie policeman in the 12th Precinct's gym, her mentor had cautioned her that in closely fought hand-to-hand combat she could easily fall prey to what he termed "killing time," when her desire to incapacitate and destroy an opponent would overcome any rational thought as to what was required to simply immobilize and cuff the perpetrator. In New York City that could get a cop into big trouble with the lawyers and courts. But Melos was not the City, and Beckett realized she was in "killing time." So be it. Royce was long gone…and she had nearly died twice…fighting for her life against Maddox's rifle and fists and knees. And now this bitch was trying to kill her also. Beckett wanted to hurt her…really hurt her…for the four months of fear…four months of envisaging and hearing Cole Maddox taunting her as she lay sprawled, gasping for breath, a driving pain in her gut, on the roof of the Rosslyn Hotel.

"You're wasting your time detective…we know exactly who we're up against…" She could hear Maddox haughty voice as if he were here in the ampitheater with her now.

"East shit, asshole!" Beckett screamed and drew her opponent back on her feet only to slam her into a taller section of the perimeter stone wall. Close in body work on a heavy bag was one of the detective's favorite workouts, and so she reveled in delivering repeated hammering blows to the Sicilian's chest area, drawing pleasure from the feel of Zenobia's breasts flattening against her chest accompanied by choking cries of pain from her victim.

A feeble attempt by the Sicilian to kick up with her right leg into Beckett's groin was easily parried by the detective, who responded to the move by wrenching the leg up high, nearly lifting the Sicilian off the arena floor, and driving extended, rigid fingers hard into the bouncer's pubic mound. "You want to fight dirty cunt?" Beckett yelled. Well, she knew how to fight dirty with the best of them.

The ensuing shriek of pain from her opponent was accompanied by a desperate attempt to head but her tormentress, but instead served to only further enrage the American. Beckett wrenched up the leg even further and drove a forearm down hard across the lower thigh. The resulting sound and scream of pain told her she had likely dislocated the bouncer's knee, and through the blood, dirt, and sweat that encrusted her face Beckett smiled. "It was a good day to die."

With her opponent nearly unconscious and unable to do anything to protect her vulnerable body from the vicious onslaught of the New York detective, Beckett decided to take the risk and spun right behind Zenobia's back. Her hands move quickly up towards the Sicilian's thick arms, and with a grunt she maneuvered her hapless opponent into a perfect full nelson. The bouncer grimaced as her arms were forced outward, Beckett's arms snaking under her own arms and locking tightly behind her neck.

Beckett's flat belly started to twist and pulse as she flung her helpless opponent from side to side. The carefully honed muscles of her abdomen rippled, the smooth muscles of her thighs knotted and bulged as she lifted Zenobia off her feet, putting all her dead weight on a neck bent over at nearly right angles to the body below. Spittle foamed from the bouncer mouth as she bucked and twisted to escape the hold. But it was to no avail. The Sicilian was trapped in one of the classic wrestling holds that dated from ancient times, and had doubtlessly been performed by Greek wrestlers over the centuries in the same arena where the two women were currently engaged in mortal combat.

Beckett sensed that the bouncer's greater weight, even with all her strength conditioning, would soon wear her down, setting her up for a possible counterattack. She remembered Royce telling her to never take an opponent for granted; a wounded perp was more dangerous than an unharmed one. And this bitch was dangerous…no doubt about that…so the detective suddenly released the hapless Sicilian, who slumped to the arena floor. Beckett quickly dropped behind her and swung her right arm around the bouncer's neck and locked on to her own left bicep. A sharp choking sound emanated from the larger woman's mouth as the American applied the strangle hold with ruthless determination. "Royce, you were a good teacher" Beckett mumbled through the blood and dirt encasing her face. As she arched her back and spread out her long, sleek legs for additional leverage, she smiled: "Payback was indeed a bitch."

Both women twisted and squirmed, but the choke hold was beginning to have its effect on the Sicilian. The American's widespread legs prevented her opponent from rolling on her back in either direction, and the bouncer sensed it was increasingly hopeless for her to escape.

Beckett herself was in no rush to release the hold. She could sense the pain and fear in her opponent. She had been there…done that. The New York cop reveled in countering the straining muscles of her opponent. She was actually beginning to enjoy hurting this bitch!

Zenobia made a final effort at breaking the hold, heaving her body up and down, but the American was relentless in maintaining the hold unbroken. The larger woman slowly sank into a stupor, succumbing to a lack of air. When she sensed her opponent was unconscious, Beckett released the hold, and warily regained her feet, all the time watching to ensure that the bouncer was really out.

Raising her leg to deliver some final, humiliating blows to the Sicilian's abdomen and groin, the detective sensed movement above her and a restraining hand on her shoulder. Pausing, she looked up into the wizened features of Artimus, who was standing on the first level of the amphitheater seats. "Have you not had enough?" he asked. "It's over."

No damn it. She had not had enough. Her blood lust was up, it was "killing time," and Beckett wrenched away from his grasp, drawing herself up to renew the attack. But seeing the concern on Artimus's face, she paused. For what she wanted to do would probably get him in trouble with the local authorities, as the presence of a crippled or near dead female bouncer in the ampitheater would be difficult to explain. She owed him, and so she stopped, taking in deep breaths and shaking out her arms and legs; killing time was over.

Artimus had done right by her. The earlier pain and damage inflicted on her body by this Sicilian bitch who clearly had sought to destroy her had been exactly what she wanted…and had paid for. Zenobia was merely fulfilling her end of an unwritten contract. Her success was evident in the killing lust that had driven the detective to the extreme violence now evident on the arena floor. For Kate Beckett had been beaten, like before, in excruciating physical pain, like before. Once again she had been atop the wind swept Rosslyn Hotel, facing a seemingly invincible adversary. Once again she had been beaten, ravaged, near defeat…but this time the detective had come back. She had overcome her fear; she was no longer afraid. Near defeat, she had risen off the floor and fought back, to the point where she now was beyond feeling pain, only wanting to inflict it. At last, and once again, she was experiencing the thrill of victory in brutal hand-to-hand combat, well beyond the confines of the 12th Precinct gym and its protective rules and regulations. Here in the arena favored by the ancients, it had been much simpler: kill…or be killed.

"Son of a bitch," Beckett shouted, "I'm back."

With that recognition, and now somewhat remorseful, she moved toward the downed Sicilian bouncer who, misinterpreting her movements, looked up at her with terrified eyes. Artemis quickly stepped between victor and vanquished, interjecting a firm, "Enough. Leave her alone."

Beckett raised her arms. The gymnasia owner recoiled in fear, but the New York detective simply brought them down on both his shoulders. "You're right…it's over…at least here on Melos." Artimus smiled and moved to the edge of the arena, where he had secured a bucket of warm bucket and a large sponge.

Beckett followed, then stood still and erect as Artimus began to wipe her sweat-slick and bloodstained body clean of the accumulated filth of the morning's conflict. Pausing only briefly in his labors to admire the swell of her perfectly proportioned breasts still encased in the sports bra, he gently wiped down her long legs and scraped sweat caked dirt from the dark juncture of her hips and thighs. The bruising would take several days to heal, and the pain of the body blows she had suffered would only become more acute later in the day. But for now she had some flesh wounds that would have to be treated, some cuts on her face and a busted lip, but nothing requiring more intensive, modern treatment.

Kate shuttered and briefly trembled when he wiped down her groin area. Years ago the Greek gymnasia owner would have jumped at the chance to bed this American princess, but those days were long past. Now he could but admire her magnificently sculptured body as he diligently worked to cleanse it of the morning's labors.

When somewhat clean, Artimus motioned her to follow him up the ancient stone steps out of the Melos amphitheater. Gaining the top, Beckett followed him into the modern gymnasia building, where he directed her towards a nearby massage table. "Lay down," he directed, "and remove all your gear. You are hurt and I have some work to do. Mr. Castle will not want his woman returned damaged."

Kate smiled at the thought and remembered Castle's concern when he had seen up close the damage inflicted by Cole Maddox. It had taken almost a week for him to adjust to his lover's bruises and pains, though it didn't seem to effect his performance in bed, on his desk, kitchen table, or poolside in the Hamptons. "Oh, now we wouldn't want to make Mr. Castle angry," she replied and carefully removed her bra and running briefs. The pain in removing her bra in particular told her Artimus's concerns were justified. She had no concern on him seeing her nude. She had been too long in Greece to be concerned about such issues now. Guess the ancient Greeks had it right about nudity. She'd love to vacation here one day with Rick; he'd never want to leave!

So she stretched out to her fullest extent on the table, purring contently as Artimus worked strong fingers into her deltoids, biceps, trapeze and thigh and lower muscles. Strong, callused hands lathered with scented oil massaged her legs, groin, and breasts. He knew his job well, and Beckett reveled in the pleasure of warm flesh kneading her tired body.

After a delicious interval, a light tap on her shoulder told her to roll over and the gymnasia owner worked her neck, shoulders and back. Warm hands on her buttocks and gentle pressure spread her legs apart. Now moaning part in appreciation and part in lust, she felt the heat gathering in her core. She smiled at the thought of asking for additional "services" from this talented man, but then repressed the thought. She had already tempted the devil once this morning. Next time she might not come out ahead. So she turned her head to the side, muttered a grateful thank you, and drifted off into a healing slumber.

When awaked by the gentle prodding of Artimus she raised herself into a sitting position. Men were now filing into the gymnasia for their morning routines. Though completely nude, Beckett's body elicited little more than polite interest from the male athletes that were here at this early hour. Although many admired the woman whose incredibly long legs and beautifully proportioned breasts were more than enticing for those so sexually oriented, they all knew the rules of the gymnasia. In an area where ancient civilizations had trod for centuries, nudity had a different context than in today's world. So no one thought it unusual that a woman would be here at this early hour, one whose statuesque beauty was in keeping, in a modern context, with that of Venus de Melos whose image was considered the epitome of womanhood in the ancient world. Besides, many had seen Beckett in sports bra and briefs, running at dawn in the warm sands of the Aegean beaches, or working out on the heavy bag in the gym's strength and toning room.

Beckett was now used to being largely ignored, her actual identity and Nicki Heat celebrity unknown on this isolated island in the Greek world. Town gossip said she had come here to be healed and rehabilitate herself after a severe accident in the United States, and that same gossip said she was not to be approached or engaged in conversation. She might be some American gangster's moll ran the conventional wisdom. "Castle would love that!" she inwardly smiled.

Beckett lowered herself off the massage table, leaned on the table's edge, stretched her long legs out before her, and smiled gamely at her male companions. Now walking towards the locker room, she wished Castle were here to see her. "Not today boys," she muttered, "show's over," and politely waved to a few admirers; exit stage left.

Gazing down at the arena floor on the way to the locker room, she noted that Zenobia's body no longer lay forlornly in the pit. Artimus had clearly been busy while she slept, and no evidence of their brutal encounter remained for the men arriving at the gymnasia's regular opening hour to discern. The pit was swept clean, the dirt seemingly undisturbed since last night's duties by the owner.

Artimus appeared at the locker room entrance with a light body wrap to encase her from knee to shoulder. The appreciative detective smiled her thanks and quickly drew the wrap around her. "I'll go to my hotel room and change, and bring it back."

Artimus touched her arm. "Beckett, there is someone here to see you…a man."

Beckett stopped, eyes alight, pulse suddenly racing. "Castle?" Maybe his book tour had ended early...maybe he just couldn't stand to be away from her…maybe he just wanted to grasp her warm body, feel her breasts pressed up against his chest, pleasure her as only he could, feel her warm and soft lying next to him.

Artimus shrugged his shoulders. "I'm afraid not. That's not the name he gave me. He says you and he know one another, and that you both have a mutual friend. He is in the veranda outside my office. In this heat, I have set some refreshments on the table. You can have some privacy."

Beckett, struggling to conceal her disappointment, nodded her head in appreciation and quietly walked through the office, intent on seeing who it was before presenting herself. A momentary concern that it might be Cole Maddox or one of his henchmen was assuaged when she saw a familiar profile. Walking out into the bright sunlight she ducked under the umbrella where he sat sipping an ice-encrusted drink.

"Special Agent Danberg, what brings the Central Intelligence Agency to the island of Melos?"