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LOCATION: UNREGISTERED CARGO VESSEL
AREA: NORTH ATLANTIC OCEAN
COORDINATES: 47.0000° N | 34.0000° W
DATE: SEPTEMBER 20, 2026 | TIME: 0200 HOURS
Grim spent the next two days after Mallory's shooting working on a plan of his own. Between the meticulous efforts of the FBI and the support offered by UN Security, the shooter was found just six hours after the incident.
As soon as he got word the man had been arrested, Grim pulled a few strings of his own. He called Nathan Rourke, Director of Clandestine Operations at the CIA.
"Nathan," Grim said, his voice gruff and all business.
"Grim, I was so glad to hear of Mallory's recovery. I'm sorry—"
"Save the apology," Grim said, interrupting. "Here's what I need…"
And three days later, Grim was aboard an unregistered cargo vessel, sailing in the North Atlantic over international waters.
Viktor Malenkov awoke with a start. He looked around.
The room was dingy, wet, and rusty. The heavy smell of metal and saltwater permeated everything, and the not-so-gentle swaying in the choppy waters made it unmistakable that they were at sea.
Just as Viktor noticed the two men standing in front of him, he also realized he was tied to a metal chair. His arms were behind his back, through the space between the top of the chair and the support bar.
The ropes chafing heavily at his wrists ran under the chair, around more support bars, and around his ankles.
Viktor struggled against his restraints, and fell over onto his side with a loud clang.
Grim laughed.
"Struggle all you want, Viktor. I was in the Navy, and you'll never break out of my knots."
Grim knew these knots were designed to tighten further, the more one struggles.
Samir stepped forward to pick the prisoner back up, but Grim stopped him.
"Nah, he seems to like the floor. Leave him there."
The puddle Viktor now covered with half his body was cold, and the metal floor made it even more uncomfortable.
"Mmmffff pffff…"
"Yeah," Grim said, looking at Samir, "I may have tied that gag a little tight. What do you think?"
Samir shrugged.
"Eh, he'll calm down. Eventually. Let's go."
Grim laughed and followed Samir out of the room.
They turned out the lights on their way out, making the room completely black. Moments later, heavy metal music began blaring from loudspeakers in each corner of the room.
Viktor closed his eyes, trying to meditate to calm himself down.
He almost laughed at the irony.
How many times had he been the one on the other end of such scenarios? A hundred? More?
His background in Spetsnaz and the mercenary groups he'd spent the last two decades in had led him into a lot of colorful experiences.
But how was it that this was his first time being captured?
Should have known my luck would run out eventually. I guess I had a good run.
He tried banging his head against the floor, thinking maybe he could end it all here and now, but the restraints were too tight, and he couldn't bend his head far enough to do any damage beyond giving himself a splitting headache.
That was when he actually laughed.
The American was definitely not lying.
Total respect for the sailor's knots.
The long instrumental at full blast gave way to War Pigs by Black Sabbath. Then to Enter Sandman by Metallica. Once in a while, in between the heavy, pounding rock music, they would have a full-length slower song, like Sailing by Christopher Cross.
Viktor would almost drift off to sleep, but just as he was almost there, Raining Blood by Slayer would shake him from it and grate on his nerves.
Not to mention, he'd dislocated his left shoulder when he fell. Not that he'd give those smug bastards the satisfaction of letting them know.
At 4:00 AM, Grim opened the door and entered again. Samir waited outside.
Grim turned on the lights, and the music stopped.
He leaned over and lifted Viktor back upright. The prisoner let out a grimace, despite his efforts not to.
"Aww," Grim said, "did you dislocate your shoulder when you fell?"
He laughed.
"That must have been uncomfortable laying on it for so long."
He punched Viktor in the chest. Hard. And to Viktor's surprise, the shoulder snapped back into place.
The look of respect in his eyes deepened, even as the frustration grew.
Grim stood there for a minute, just staring.
Viktor tried maintaining eye contact, but eventually looked down at the floor.
"That's what I thought," Grim said. "Little bitch."
He walked back to the door, turned out the lights again, and exited. The music filled Viktor's ears again.
At least he was upright again. And while his shoulder hurt, the American had put it back in joint.
With a punch. How did he do that?
Samir entered the room a few hours later. He had a small tray of water and meat.
He set the tray on the ground and untied the gag.
"I'm going to fucking—"
SLAP!
Samir backhanded him.
"Not a fucking word, or else I throw this overboard."
Viktor scoffed.
"As if I care about your shitty American meat and piss-water. Keep it."
Samir laughed.
"Don't mind if I do."
He picked up the glass of water and gulped it down, ending with a satisfied "Ahhh."
Then he picked up the hunk of meat and tore into it.
"Mmhmm, halal meat is so tasty."
He let the scent of the cumin drift across the small room.
With his high Perception, Samir noticed the drool forming at the sides of Viktor's mouth. He took his time eating the meat, acting as if it was a Grade A Wagyu steak.
Then he reached for the gag. It had fallen into the rusty puddle on the floor, and was soaked through and through.
"You didn't want to eat, so the gag goes back on. Sorry, those are the rules."
"Wait, I—"
Samir yanked it hard across Viktor's mouth just as the man opened to speak. He tied it tightly, and Viktor coughed, then choked, as the rusty seawater filled his mouth and went down his throat.
"Da svedanya," Samir said as he left again, turning out the lights.
The music blared.
Viktor sighed.
Nothing else to do about it, he pissed himself right there in the chair.
For an entire day, Grim and Samir came in every few hours, turning out the light each time they left.
Sometimes they would leave the music off, and Viktor would catch an hour or two of blessed sleep.
Eventually his thirst and hunger surpassed his pride, and he ate what was brought for him.
They never loosened his restraints, but Viktor found it strange that they never loosened on their own.
He knew, from experience, of course, if you have a prisoner tied up, you need to untie and redo the restraints every ten to twelve hours, or else they will naturally loosen.
But something this American had done was keeping the knots just as tight as they were when he first woke up in the hell hole of a box.
It was just another mystery. In addition to the obvious: what do these men want? And what can Viktor do to get himself out of this?
So far it had been.. Two days? Three? And they hadn't asked a single question.
How shitty were these fucking amateurs at torture?
He laughed to himself, but after however many days now, he had to admit this was working.