The handcuff bit into Voss's wrist like a cold, metallic serpent. He had been cuffed before—once, after a bar fight in his twenties that had ended with a night in a holding cell. But that had been a brief, bureaucratic indignity, a misunderstanding that vanished with the morning light. This was different. This was a promise.
Korzh led him along the deck, past the winches and the net drums, toward the bridge. The mist had thickened again, swallowing the Gorgon in a white shroud, though Voss could still hear the distant clang of metal and the low murmur of voices from the other ship. The Aethelred had slowed to a crawl, her engines ticking over like a resting heart.
Captain Sonder was on the bridge wing, his hands still resting on the railing in that unnatural, gloved stillness. He did not turn when Voss was brought forward, but his reflection in the glass of the bridge window showed a smile that did not reach his eyes.
"Mr. Voss," he said, his voice carrying the same preacher's warmth as the first night. "I trust you have been enjoying your tour of the lower decks. I understand you have a particular interest in our—logistics."
Voss said nothing. His mind was racing, trying to calculate distances, angles, opportunities. The pipe was still in his waistband, but Korzh was too close, and his free hand was a useless, aching weight.
"We are about to conduct a transfer," Sonder continued. "It is a simple operation. Our friends on the Gorgon will send a boat across. We will open the lower hold. The cargo will be moved. And then we will all continue on our separate ways." He turned, finally, his slate eyes meeting Voss's. "The problem is you, Mr. Voss. You have seen too much. You have asked too many questions. And you have a conscience, which is the most dangerous thing a man can have on a ship like this."
"I don't want trouble," Voss said, his voice rough. "I just want off this boat."
"And you will be. Off it." Sonder's smile widened. "But not in the way you imagine. You see, the Gorgon is bound for a port that does not ask for passports. The cargo—my cargo—will be delivered, and the captain of the Gorgon has agreed to take on one additional passenger. A man who knows how to keep his mouth shut. A man who has already been—prepared."
Voss felt the blood drain from his face. He understood. Sonder was not giving him a choice. He was giving him a sentence.
Korzh tightened his grip on the chain, and Voss felt the metal bite deeper into his skin. "You will go below, Mr. Voss. You will be loaded with the others. And when you arrive at your destination, you will be someone else's problem." Sonder gestured toward the ladder that led to the main deck. "Korzh will show you the way."
They descended. Voss's boots clanged on the rungs, and he felt the cold air of the freezer hold rise to meet him. Korzh unlocked the bolt on the main hatch and pulled it open, revealing the dark maw of the lower hold. The red bulb still burned, casting its bloody glow over the chained men. They looked up as Voss was pushed forward, their eyes registering the new arrival, the one who had come with the key that was no longer a key.
"Get in," Korzh said, and shoved him.
Voss stumbled down the short ladder and landed on the steel deck of the hold. The smell hit him first—human waste, stale sweat, the metallic tang of fear. The young man with the scar—the one who had made the tapping signal—was the first to move. He shuffled aside, making room for Voss on the floor.
Korzh stood at the top of the ladder, his silhouette framed by the freezer hold's dim light. He raised a hand, and Voss saw the key glint again. "You will stay here until I return. If anyone tries to move—" He patted the holster at his hip. "I have been told to make an example."
The hatch slammed shut. The bolt slid home. And Voss was alone with the cargo.
For a long moment, no one spoke. Then the scarred young man shifted closer, his bound hands resting on his knees. "You are the one from the tunnel," he said, his voice hoarse, barely a whisper. "I saw your face."
"Yes," Voss said. He looked at the man's wrists, raw and chafed from the zip ties. "I tried to get you out. I didn't have a plan."
"No one does." The young man smiled, a thin, bitter curve. "We have been here for three weeks. They feed us once a day—dehydrated bricks, no water until the last hour. They have taken three of us already. The sick ones. They did not make the transfer."
Voss felt a cold rage settle into his chest. "What is your name?"
"Omar." The young man gestured with his chin toward the others. "We are from twelve countries. Senegal, Mali, Somalia, Yemen, Pakistan. They told us we were going to Europe. We paid for passage. We paid with everything we had."
"You were trafficked."
"Yes." Omar's voice held no emotion. "But that is not the worst. The worst is that tomorrow—or today, I do not know the time—they will move us to the Gorgon. And then we will be taken to a camp. A holding facility somewhere in the desert. They will sell us to the highest bidder. Some for labour. Some for—" He stopped, his jaw tight. "I have heard stories. About the clinic. About what they do to people who are no longer useful."
Voss looked around the hold. The prisoners sat in rows, their chains connected to a central cable that ran the length of the space. Forty or fifty men, some asleep, some staring at nothing, some with their lips moving in silent prayer. He thought of Amadou, hiding in the galley pantry. He thought of Jacques, smoking his bitter cigarettes. He thought of the word scratched into the rust, and he understood that HELP was not a request. It was a testament.
"I am going to get us out," Voss said. The words came before he had planned them, emerging from somewhere deeper than reason. "But I need to know everything. The hatch. The guards. The layout of this ship. Tell me everything you have seen."
Omar's eyes widened, a flicker of something like hope crossing his gaunt face. "You are one man. One man with a broken hand and no key."
"I have a pipe," Voss said, pulling the length of metal from his waistband. "And I have a tunnel. And I have tomorrow." He paused, thinking. "The transfer—will they chain you together or separate you?"
"Separate. They will lead us up in groups of five. The chains will be unlocked one group at a time."
"And the guards?"
"There are only two. The snake-faced man and the Bosun. The captain stays on the bridge. The crew—most of them are too afraid to interfere."
Voss nodded slowly. A plan was forming, thin and fragile, but a plan nonetheless. He needed Amadou. He needed Jacques. And he needed the element of surprise. The transfer would be the moment of vulnerability—the hatch open, the prisoners moving, the guards focused on the cargo rather than the threat.
He leaned closer to Omar. "When they come for you, I want you to do something. When they unlock your chains, do not move. Stay seated. Make them drag you. Buy me time."
Omar frowned. "What will you do?"
Voss looked at the hatch above. "I will be on the other side of that door. And when the door opens, I will make sure it stays open."
He spent the next hour memorising the faces of the prisoners, learning their names, their home countries, their stories. There was a Somali fisherman named Ali, a Pakistani farmer named Raza, a Yemeni mechanic named Salim. Each one had been promised a future, and each one had been sold a lie. Voss made them repeat his instructions: when the hatch opens, stay down. Wait for the signal. Move only when he told them.
Then he felt the ship shift. The engines changed pitch again, and he heard the distant sound of a boat engine—small, diesel-powered, approaching from the Gorgon. The transfer was beginning.
He scrambled to the watertight door at the far end of the hold, the one that led to the crawlspace. It was still unbolted from his previous visit. He slipped through, pulling it closed behind him, and crawled through the darkness toward the engine room. The pipe was in his hand, his heart pounding a rhythm that matched the ship's thrum.
He emerged from the maintenance hatch and crept through the engine room. MacTavish was nowhere to be seen—likely on the deck, supervising the transfer. Voss climbed the ladder to the main deck and peered through a porthole.
The Gorgon's boat was alongside, a small inflatable with an outboard motor. Four men in black balaclavas stood on the Aethelred's deck, their hands resting on weapons—pistols, a shotgun. Korzh was at the hatch, the key in his hand, his face expressionless.
The Bosun was counting down a line of prisoners. Five men, chains still on their ankles, shuffling forward like cattle. Omar was not among them.
Voss ducked back into the passageway. He had minutes, maybe less. He needed to find Amadou. He needed to find Jacques. He needed to—
A hand grabbed his arm. He spun, pipe raised, and saw Jacques, his face pale, his eyes wide.
"Voss," Jacques hissed. "I saw you come out of the hold. What are you doing?"
"Saving them. Or dying trying." Voss pulled free. "Where is Amadou?"
"Galley pantry. I told him to stay." Jacques gripped Voss's shoulder. "There are four of them—Korzh, the Bosun, and two from the Gorgon. They have guns. You cannot fight them with a pipe."
"Then I don't fight them. I distract them." Voss pulled Jacques close. "When I open the hatch, I need you to run to the bridge. Cut the satellite cable. Disable the radio. Can you do that?"
Jacques stared at him, his face a mask of fear and desperation. Then he nodded. "Yes. But I do not know how you will survive."
"Neither do I," Voss said, and walked toward the ladder.
He reached the main deck just as the third group of prisoners was being led out. Korzh was at the hatch, the key still in his hand, his back to Voss. The Bosun was herding the prisoners toward the inflatable. The Gorgon's men were watching the horizon, their weapons loose but ready.
Voss stepped out from behind the net drum and walked toward the hatch. His boots were loud on the steel, and Korzh heard him. He turned, his face hardening.
"You are supposed to be in the hold," Korzh said.
"I was," Voss replied. He lifted the pipe, not as a weapon, but as a distraction. "But I found a way out. And I found this."
Korzh's eyes flicked to the pipe, and in that moment, Voss moved. He lunged, not at Korzh, but at the hatch, slamming his shoulder into the wheel and spinning it. The bolt retracted. The hatch swung open.
"Now!" Voss shouted, and from the hold, Omar's voice rose—a sharp, commanding cry in Arabic that sent a ripple through the prisoners. The chained men surged forward, not attacking, but moving, flooding toward the hatch, their bodies a wave of desperation.
The Gorgon's men raised their weapons, but they could not fire without hitting the prisoners. Korzh lunged at Voss, his hand reaching for his holster, and Voss swung the pipe. It connected with Korzh's forearm, and the gun clattered to the deck. Voss swung again, but Korzh caught the pipe, twisted it, and sent a searing bolt of pain through Voss's right hand.
They fell to the deck, grappling in the chaos of shouting men and clanging chains. Voss felt Korzh's fingers at his throat, pressing, squeezing. The world began to narrow, to darken at the edges.
Then a sound cut through the noise—a high, piercing whine from the bridge. Jacques had reached the radio. The satellite cable was being cut. And in the sudden silence, Voss heard a voice—Sonder's voice, amplified by the megaphone.
"Belay that order! All hands, repel boarders!"
Voss looked up. Through the mist, through the chaos, he saw a shape emerging from the fog. Not the Gorgon. Another ship. A grey, angular shape with a flag that snapped in the wind. A flag he recognised.
Royal Navy.
Voss had no time to process it. Korzh's grip tightened, and the darkness closed in. The last thing he saw was the outline of a frigate, cutting through the mist like a blade, and the last thing he heard was the crack of rifle fire—not from the Gorgon, not from the Aethelred, but from the grey ship, aiming at the water, a warning shot.
Then nothing.
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