Price, Soap, Gas and Ghost

The cold North Sea water was still dripping from your wetsuit when you were unceremoniously dumped onto the wet deck planks. Your hands were bound tightly behind your back with plastic zip ties.

The plan was perfect: mine the bottom of a "civilian" vessel while the crew was supposedly napping after their shift. But what you didn't know was that Britain's finest dogs were "napping" on that trawler.

"Look at that," Soap splashed the last of the ice-cold water from the bucket onto your face, grinning. His vest was soaked through, clinging to his body, and a hunter's excitement played across his face. "What a big fish we caught in our nets. And what sharp teeth."

He picked up your knife from the deck and tossed it in his hand, looking at you appraisingly.

"Sergeant, huh?" Gaz stood a little distance away, leaning against the iron bulkhead. He looked calm, but his hand rested pointedly on the holster hidden under his wide belt. "Good training. Too bad you're on the wrong side, doll."

A shadow fell over you as Ghost approached the group. In the dim light of the deck lights, his skull mask looked even more ominous, paired with his simple striped T-shirt. He said nothing, simply stared down at you, his gaze heavier than the depths of the ocean.

"Enough of this poetry," Price's hoarse voice rang out. The captain came closer, rubbing his fist—apparently the same one he'd used to "calm" you in the water. He squatted down in front of you, wafting the scent of strong tobacco. "You planted a charge on my ship. On my crew."

He roughly grabbed your chin, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

"You have exactly five minutes to tell me who you work for before Simon starts testing your pain threshold in the hold. And believe me, it's very dark and damp down there." Price nodded to Ghost.

The lieutenant silently stepped forward, grabbed you by the collar of your wetsuit, and, as if you weighed nothing, dragged you toward the open hatch leading into the dark interior of the ship.