Ken ran into Miranda in the downstairs hall. She had thankfully been asleep when he had arrived back at the estate. He had had just enough time to get Tina set up in the upstairs bathroom in the opposite wing of the house, and then drive Malone out to the outbuilding up the dirt road at the back of the property. He then drove back to Jackson airport, leaving the stolen van in long-term parking, being careful to avoid any camera angles, and returned with the Bronco. He had removed any evidence as far as he could tell. Hopefully, it would be weeks before anyone even noticed. There shouldn't be any way to connect the stolen van back to him.

He pulled Miranda into the nearby study and had her sit down with him. He knew she wasn't going to like what he was about to tell her. He hadn't shared this part of his plan.

"So, how'd it go with the Bradley's?" she asked.

"Miranda," he started.

Miranda didn't like the look on her husband's face. It was one she hadn't seen before and couldn't quite place.

He continued. "I need you to listen to me. I'm going to need some time to bring Michael, and then his wife, around. I need you to not ask questions, and to not let anyone onto the property, and to stay out of the East wing and not go up the dirt drive, no matter what. I need you to promise me."

Miranda just looked at her husband like he had lost his mind. He had at least forgotten who he had married.

"Ken," she paused, "What, did, you, do?"

"Miranda, I said no questions."

"No."

"What?"

"No. Whatever it is that you're doing, I need to know what's going on. I am your wife, that means I am your partner, and I'm not about to let you do something insane, especially in our home, on my grandparents' property."

"Are you defying me?"

"Seriously? Do you want to try that one again, bud? I may allow you to have your way with me in the bedroom, but the rest of this is my show and you'd better remember that I am not some object that you can push around!" She really couldn't believe his attempted chauvinistic audacity. There was no way she was putting up with that shit.

"Miranda, I refuse to get you involved."

"Newsflash, genius, I'm already involved! Now tell me what the hell is going on!"

Ken opened his mouth to argue his point further, took one look at his wife's face, realized there was absolutely no way she was going to budge, and closed it again. So, instead he told her what she wanted to know. He made her promise that she would let him handle it. That Tina was safe and relatively comfortable, and that he needed Malone in one piece, but he also knew what he was doing. He needed Malone's submission, or his entire plan wouldn't function.

So that was how Miranda found herself, sneaking around after her husband to check on their apparent two hostages. She had gone to Tina first, after she watched him disappear up the dirt path the next morning on the ATV. Walking down the upstairs hall in the East wing, it didn't take long to figure out which room he had her in. A coded lock was on one of the doors. What the hell was her husband thinking? She always knew he was a little crazy, but this was, well, nuts. What if there was a fire? She stared at the keypad for the lock. Ok, Miranda, you know your husband. At least you thought you did, said another less helpful voice in her head. "Ok, let's concentrate on what we can do," she said out loud to herself. Numbers. What numbers would Ken pick? She tried her birthdate. Nope. She tried their birth years together. Nope. Their ages. No. Tina, the wife. I wonder. She keyed in their anniversary date. Their real anniversary date, from the beach wedding. The lock clicked open.

She entered the room. The outer room looked like it hadn't been touched. No one was there. She crossed the room. A noise came from the bathroom. The door was open. Inside, sitting on a mattress, book in hand, was a woman in a plain cotton nightgown, shackled to the wall. She had shoulder length light brown hair that fell in soft waves, a nice figure, a pleasant face, and striking nearly aqua colored eyes. She was lovely, but her eyes were easily her best feature.

"Um, hello?" Miranda started and she swore her voice cracked.

"Who are you?" the other woman answered.

For a moment, Miranda just stared at her. How does one answer that question? Hi! I'm the wife of the insanely misguided man who got you into this mess. He's really not evil incarnate, at least, I don't think he is. Please don't press charges when I actually get you out of this, and somehow, I will.

Instead, she answered, "I'm Miranda."

Ken pulled up the ATV to the small outbuilding at the back of the property. It was really more of an old storage shed than anything. He tucked the ATV to the back, behind some shrubs. He certainly wasn't expecting anyone to be on his and Miranda's land, but he wasn't taking any chances. He punched in the security code to the lock on the door. Storage shed, yes, but it also had a basement. A basement that he had been able to easily convert into a holding cell. Malone was right where he had left him, or at least, nearly so. Limbs locked in metal shackles, chains connected to bolts in the floor, on his side, on top of a fatigue mat. Ken wanted him miserable, but needed to avoid crippling the man. After all, his physical prowess was one of his major values. He had left him on his side as it was the safest position to avoid aspiration in case he vomited. Malone had managed to shimmy the hood at least part way over his head. Ken was impressed. It couldn't have been easy. He would need to fix that.

Malone stared at him. Surprisingly, it wasn't a stare of pure hatred, but it was a stare of examination. Ken knew exactly what he was doing because he would be doing the same thing if their places were reversed. What can I learn in order to get free? If Ken was to compare Malone to an animal right now, a caged lion would be the most apropos. An intelligent, strong, well-trained, male lion.

"You sober, yet?" Ken asked gruffly.

Michael debated about remaining silent. Deciding it gave him no real advantage, he answered, "Enough."

"Good," Ken answered. "Then I can put you on your back."

Ken crossed over to the bolt that he had the chains from Malone's wrist shackles connected to. Undoing the one he needed, he held the chain and walked it over above Malone's head, staying well out of reach, to the far side of the cell. Malone pulled back with his arm as he did so, but his one arm was nothing against Ken's full body weight. Ken reconnected the chain to the new bolt, pulling Malone onto his back as he did so.

Malone grunted, shifting the little he could, settling onto his back on the matt with his arms pulled out to either side and his legs held down straight. He noted that he was on a matt, so at least his captor had some interest in his comfort. Some, but not much.

Ken twisted the top off a bottle of water, dropping a straw into it, and bent down to Malone's head. "Drink," he commanded.

Michael paused, again not seeing a better option, he put his lips around the straw. It was pulled away from him about halfway through.

Ken stood to pull a protein bar out of his back pocket. Breaking off about a third off it, he bent back down to Malone. Holding the other man down by his forehead, he directed, "Open your mouth."

Mike did as asked, noticing that his captor kept his head pinned and his own fingers well out of the way. Unfortunately, so far, not an idiot. He finished the bar, which tasted like dry sawdust, but he knew he needed his strength if he had nay hope of getting out of this. The rest of the water followed. When he was done, the man pulled the straw out, putting it in his back pocket and moved down to Mike's midsection. "What the fuck?" he bit out, as he felt his fly opened and his penis pulled through the opening.

Ken looked up at him, directing the tip of the other man's dick into the empty bottle. "Piss."

Mike closed his eyes. He did need to go. This was probably a better option then miserably soaking his pants and having to lie in it. He let out a breath and filled up the bottle. He kept his eyes closed while he felt his penis being tucked back into his pants. God damn hell. That was uncomfortable. He opened his eyes again only to be greeted by the blackness of the cloth being dropped back over them. Shit, here we go again.

A stinging slap to his left cheek followed a second later. The only benefit was that it took the focus off his pounding head for a minute or two. He could hear the man stand and move to leave. "What do I call you?" he called out, desperate for something.

The man paused but only for a moment, "You can call me Commander."

Retreating steps on stairs followed and then a door being opened and closed from above him. He was alone again.

He hadn't been asked any questions. He hadn't been told anything. Why was he here? Where was his wife? Was his kid ok? Was he still at the summer camp Tina had insisted on sending him to that he knew they couldn't afford? Was this some kind of military secret program? What the hell was happening to him?

Michael had no idea how much time had passed before he sensed the Commander's return. The pain from his head was a dull but constant ache. He had been lying so long with his limbs in the same position they no longer felt attached to his body. He had to pee again. His mouth was dry. The cloth over his face was moist from his breath. His sanity was already feeling shredded, and he doubted that it had even been a day. He could hear his capturer moving around him. There were the sounds of light metal on cement, and fabric on metal, but nothing he could be certain of from the sounds. After a few minutes, he felt the metal cuffs pull roughly on his wrists, but instead of being pulled away from his body, they were being pulled together and up. "Sit up," he heard the other man order.

Michael managed to do so with way more effort than he cared to admit. His abdominals could barely handle the strain. He was so weak already. Once he was up, he could feel his hands could move together and he was able to pull the offending hood off his head. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.

The commander was in front of him, leaning on the side foundation wall. Malone looked down, his wrists and ankles were still locked in the metal shackles which were attached to two separate bolts in the floor next to him. He judged the chain length and the other man's position. There was no way he could reach him. He glanced to his side and behind him. A cot had been set up just behind him and what appeared to be a camping potty seat to his left. It seemed he had enough mobility to reach both and to stand, but that was about it. To his right was a tray of food that actually looked quiet appetizing and two bottles of water.

His eyes returned to the man in front of him. "Get comfortable, you're going to be here awhile. I'll see you soon," and with that the man currently in charge of his destiny, left him alone once again.

He stayed where he was for a few moments. Deciding he needed to try and take care of basic needs, he stood. Rather than having to smell his own piss for God knows how long, he managed to down one of the bottles of water, and then filled it back up with urine. That sapping a good amount of his strength, he sat on the cot. There was a little light from one small basement window high and to his left. He was guessing it was approaching twilight. Once he sat for a few minutes, his abdominal cramps from holding his previously full bladder started to ease. His head still throbbed. What he really wanted was a pain killer, but he hadn't been brought any. Figuring getting some food in his stomach was currently his only option for anything that might eventually make him feel better, he picked up the tray. The food was lukewarm, but otherwise everything had good flavor. He did consider that it might be poisoned, but his capturer didn't seem to want him dead, so he ate. The plate contained some fluffy scrambled eggs, lightly buttered toast, fresh orange slices, and even a few strips of bacon. At least he couldn't complain about the cuisine. The accommodations on the other hand, well…

With that thought, he burst out laughing, the laugh progressing into a full-on belly guffaw. Before he knew it, he had tears in his eyes, and then his laughter shifted to sobs that racked his gut in a whole 'nother way. Good God he was already losing it. He swiped a large hand across his face, wiping away tears and trying to calm himself. He forced himself to finish eating nearly all of the offered food, and then lay down on the cot. It was at least more comfortable than the matt on the floor. His wrists and ankles were already protesting from the metal bands wrapping them. He closed his eyes, concentrating on his breathing and tried to use any relaxation techniques he'd ever been taught. Eventually, after was seemed like forever, he managed to fall asleep.

A similar pattern continued for what he approximated to be about three days. The Commander would come once, bringing him just enough water to keep him hydrated and a plate of food. He would take his waste away and would leave again. He didn't offer him anything else, or ask him any questions, and Michael had decided he would just keep his mouth shut. He hadn't been able to figure out any way out of the hell hole he found himself in. The locks were more than secure, and the Commander never gave him any opportunity to gain the upper hand. He thought about inquiring about his wife and son, but then was too scared to endanger them if by some fortune his capturer was unaware of their existence.

On approximately the fourth day, the Commander came earlier in the day. He had in his hands what appeared to be two camping shower bags. He tossed a heavy rope up over a hook in the ceiling and then planned to use the rope to haul Michael's hands up over his head once he had unattached his hands from the bolt in the floor. The split second that the Commander had released the chain from the bolt, Michael made a lunge towards him, but the Commander was prepared with a taser. The darts lodged into his chest and fire ripped through his body, dropping him to the ground.

When he regained any form of situation awareness, his arms were lifted over his head with his ankles still shackled to the ground. Even if he had any strength to move, he didn't have more than a few inches of mobility in any direction. The Commander cut and ripped his clothes from his body, till he was naked in the shackles, hanging completely incapacitated. The Commander strung up the first shower bag of lukewarm soapy water, spraying him down, and then rinsed him with the second. Michael just stood there in his binds, watching the water swirl down the drain in the floor below him. Sadly, it still felt good to get some semblance of clean. He was left to hang there, dripping dry.

Breaking their collective silence for the first time in days his captor finally spoke to him. "Malone," he addressed him, "all this ends when you submit to me and give me your allegiance. You pull anything like that again and what you just experienced will feel like a fuck'in tickle."

Michael managed to lift his head enough to glare his hatred back at the man who had stolen him from his wife and child. "Never."

The Commander sighed. Michael watched as he picked up the now familiar black hood from a nearby old wooden chair. He reached to drop it over his head, and left him hanging right where he was.

Ken's patience was wearing thin. Tina had been a piece of cake compared to her husband. Granted, he had left her in a much more comfortable environment. She ate her meals. Kept herself clean. Read the books he had left her and didn't say much of anything to him other than actually thanking him when he brought her a fresh tray and removed the old one. Of course, he was also feeding her two to three times a day. Malone he was keeping calorie restricted to keep him weak.

Ken returned to him in less than an hour. He figured that was long enough to leave the man naked and stretched out. He had to be even more uncomfortable than usual. Getting tased was also no joke. When he got back, he snapped a set of basketball warmups on his lower half to cover him, and that was it. It was the only option he could think of, besides a kilt, to work around the cuffs, and that would have been even more ridiculous. Once he lowered Malone's chains back down from the hook, he half expected the man to charge him again. Instead, he lay down on the cot and didn't budge when Ken resecured his wrists to the floor bolt. Ken turned to leave when Malone's voice stopped him. "What do you want anyway?" he asked, his voice raspy.

"I told you, your submission," Ken responded.

"Why?"

"Give it to me and I'll tell you."

"No."

Another week followed. Another week of misery.

At the start of the third week, Malone stopped eating. Ken figured his strike would cease when he got hungry enough. He even made the food trays extra appetizing. Two days later, Malone stopped drinking.