AN: I know this is the shortest chapter so far, but if I didn't end it here, it would end up being the longest chapter ever because of what happens next (well technically what has already happened, but that'll make sense in the next chapter). I really wanted to get the next chapter out, so I didn't want to stick the two things in the same chapter. Anyways, I hope you enjoy, and please leave a review!

WARNING: The violence goes up a good amount in this chapter, a little bit more than what we see in the show.

Malcolm was pretty sure that he was not going to be okay. He'd dealt with personal cases of near-torture before, but this would be the first true torture session that Malcolm had ever had to endure. Watkins was close, but did a single stab wound while chained to the floor count as torture? After all, Malcolm was the one who shattered his own hand, not Watkins. But, being tied down to a chair by duct tape, with two mafia men standing menacingly over him with brass knuckles and a power drill, gave Malcolm the distinct impression that he was in fact about to be tortured for real, which didn't necessarily make sense. As a general rule, the mob was cruel, but not sadistic. Most men in the mafia didn't get any sort of real pleasure from inflicting pain on others. Pain dealt was simply part of the business, nothing more and nothing less. So why torture him? The mafia had already tried to have him killed, so how did torture fit in after that? Was he just so unlucky to get stuck with the two members of the mob that just so happened to be sadists?

Except, these were the Albanians he was dealing with. They weren't just any other mafia. Malcolm knew, both from his FBI training and his personal experience with them, that the Albanians were quite prone to using violence for the sake of vengeance, and torture was all too often a part of that. He hadn't died in the plane crash, and now he and JT had killed more of their men - at least three more, but Malcolm couldn't be sure. That was reason enough for them to make his death as slow and painful as possible.

Despite his imminent torture, Malcolm's mind kept going back to JT. Where was he? Malcolm hadn't seen him since they got separated, and could only hope that the man was still alive and had gotten away. JT didn't deserve to suffer for Malcolm's past.

"So your plan is to, what? Kill me with brass knuckles and a power drill?" he guessed. It wasn't as if he could really get himself into a worse situation. They were already planning on making him suffer before killing him.

"Something like that," Gjokaj answered with a shrug, as casually as if they were discussing the weather. "Dedja is in contact with the boss to see what he'd like to be done with your body, but until then, we get to take vengeance for our brothers." He slipped the brass knuckles onto his hand and flexed his fingers.

"And your boss, who would that be? Nikollaj?" he asked, getting no reaction. "Dervishaj?" he tried. This time, Gjokaj halted his movements, and Dedja glared at him. Bingo. Malcolm would have guessed it was Dervishaj over Nikollaj anyway, having played a crucial part in taking down many of his lieutenants five years earlier. The man had been wanted for almost fifteen years, and always seemed to be one step ahead of law enforcement. He operated from the shadows, rarely being seen and even more rarely letting a lead on his location escape. Malcolm almost took him down in a raid, the closest anyone had been to catching him since he fled New Jersey. Dervishaj went back into hiding after that, but clearly he thought things had settled down enough for him to get his revenge, which definitely didn't bode well for Malcolm. "He's coming here?" he asked. If he could make it out alive, with a solid lead on Dervishaj, then maybe whatever torture he was about to endure would be worth it.

"I think that's enough questions from you," Dedja said, then nodded to Gjokaj, who took the first swing at Malcolm with the brass knuckles, catching him at the temple, right where the butt of a gun had earlier. From that single hit, Malcolm's vision went almost completely black, and he nearly passed out. As the hits continued to rain down, again, and again, and again, Malcolm wished that he had. The pain was nearly overwhelming as Gjokaj repeatedly struck him on the torso and the side of his head. Most of the hits were concentrated on the left side of his body, since Gjokaj was right handed, but that didn't stop each blow from making something so simple as breathing nearly impossible. Brass knuckles were designed to inflict maximum damage to the victim while protecting the perpetrator from major hand injury, and they were doing just that. Malcolm was able to keep his groans of pain to a minimum until Gjokaj got him right on the ribs, where he was already injured. He screamed as he felt his rib break, squeezing his eyes shut against his tears as the men began to laugh, a deep, low chuckle that sent shivers down his spine.

"Now that's more like it," Gjokaj said, stepping back and seemingly admiring his handiwork. Malcolm knew the cut on his hairline had been reopened, as well as the gash on his ribs. He was in too much to pain to feel blood running down anywhere else, but he would have guessed that those weren't the only bleeding wounds. Most of the hits were to his center of mass, with a few at his head - if he didn't have a concussion already, the brass knuckles had certainly changed that, possibly adding some skull fractures too. Gjokaj thrust his hand out and grabbed a fistful of Malcolm's hair, forcing his head up. Malcolm grit his teeth against the pain and glared up at the men. "Ready for a change of pace, boy?"

He knew what that meant. It would be the drill instead of the brass knuckles. No, Malcolm was absolutely not ready for that. He would do anything for that not to happen.

"I don't think you really care about my vote, but for what it's worth, I'd rather stick with the current method if it's all the same to you," he groaned out, trying to keep his voice strong despite the fear building in the pit of his stomach.

Gjokaj kept his grip with one hand still in Malcolm's hair, and brought his other hand up to the side of Malcolm's face. Malcolm's heart started beating even faster in panic as the man gently caressed him, running the backs of his fingers through the blood trailing down from his hairline. His hand went further down, to his bared and exposed neck, and that's where the faux gentleness stopped. Gjokaj gripped Malcolm's neck, quickly and suddenly cutting off his air, pushing his thumb and forefinger into either side of his neck with such force that Malcolm again wished for the bliss of unconsciousness. Malcolm started to struggle again, but to no avail. He was still tied down to the chair, and Gjokaj still had an unyielding grip on both his hair and neck. No words could escape his mouth, and no air could come in.

Finally, Gjokaj let go with another highly unsettling chuckle. Malcolm took a great heaving breath in, his head pounding from lack of oxygen in addition from all the hits he'd taken.

"You're right," Gjokaj said. "I don't care. Go ahead, Dedja."

The other man stepped forward with a smile on his face. He held up the drill and gave it a test, the noise piercing Malcolm's heart. Dedja took another step closer to him.

"How about you don't go ahead?" Malcolm suggested, his voice raspy from the abuse his throat had taken. He cringed back from the man, but tied down with duct tape, there was nowhere he could go. "You really, really don't need to go ahead." His voice was shaking, and his heart was beating out of his chest.

"That's where you're wrong, Mr. Bright," Dedja said. "You and your friend didn't die like you were supposed to, and then you had the audacity to kill my friends. And that's all on top of what you did to Dervishaj. That's not something that can be so easily forgiven." He took one final step forward, and turned the drill on.

"Don't, don't, please," Malcolm rushed out, fear and pain winning out over his pride, but it didn't make a difference. Dedja took a grip on Malcolm's shoulder with one hand, holding him down even more as he continued to struggle and plead with the man, and drilled down into the fleshy part of Malcolm's shoulder with the other.

Malcolm screamed. Someone was literally drilling a hole into his body with a power tool, and he felt every single agonizing moment. Even after Dedja removed the drill, the pain didn't stop, not even for a moment. Malcolm knew he was crying, but all he could focus on was the pain. It was worse than getting stabbed, worse than shattering his own hand, worse than anything Malcolm had experienced.

"Oh, that's lovely," Dedja said. Malcolm could vaguely hear Gjokaj chuckling in agreement. "Let's have another one, shall we?" He put the bloody drill against Malcolm's thigh.

"No, don't, please," he begged, but Dedja didn't care. He turned it on again, driving it into the outside of Malcolm's leg, wringing another scream from his throat. Dedja held the drill in his leg longer than he had in his shoulder, long enough that Malcolm's scream collapsed into a drawn out sob. He let out a keening wail as Dedja pulled the drill out. "Please stop," Malcolm choked out through his tears.

"We'll stop eventually," Dedja replied with a shrug. "I'll drill into your brain and heart, and then, it'll be over." Part of Malcolm wished he would just do it already, if only to end the agony. The basement with Watkins seemed like a walk in the park compared to this.

Once again, Malcolm weakly struggled against his bonds as Dedja held the drill against his upper wrist. But Dedja just held it there, not turning it on, and watched Malcolm struggle.

Gjokaj chuckled. "You're really building up the suspense this time," he said, creeping in closer, watching Malcolm like he was a science experiment.

"Look at the fear in his eyes. The anticipation, the pain, the panic," Dedja went on. Malcolm closed his eyes and turned away. There wasn't much he could do to stand against them, but if they wanted to see the fear in his eyes, then they wouldn't get to see his eyes at all, no matter how much it worse it was to not see what was going on around him. The men laughed again as he squeezed his eyes shut, but with his fun over, there was nothing holding Dedja back from drilling into him yet again.

And drill into him again he did. Malcolm screamed again, the agony in his wrist demanding to be heard. The pain got impossibly worse as Dedja's drill hit Malcolm's radius, and just kept going, all the way through the bone and through his arm. Malcolm had never been shot, but it couldn't be worse than this. Even as Dedja kept the drill in his arm, Malcolm's scream once again broke off into a sob, his throat giving up. He sobbed as Dedja moved the drill back and forth, and finally took it out.

Why couldn't he pass out? Why wasn't his body giving in to the pain and dragging him into unconsciousness? Why did he have to stay awake and suffer through it all? Why wouldn't they just kill him already and make it end?

Malcolm fought to catch his breath as he sobbed. It just hurt so much, so much more than anything he'd ever experienced. He was supposed to be at a psychology conference in DC, with the greatest minds in the field, not tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere, being tortured for doing his job. If this was how his life was supposed to end, then Malcolm wished it would just end already. If he was never going to leave that cabin, never going to see his team and family ever again, then Malcolm wanted them to just kill him already. He hung his head as he finally got his breathing back under control. He never got to tell Gil what he meant to him, how much he loved the man as his dad. At least he would see Jackie again, hopefully. Whatever awaited him in the great beyond, it had to be better than his current situation.

"What do you say, Gjokaj? Should we start on the lobotomy?" Dedja said. Malcolm whimpered at the mere thought. He could only pray that the pain and blood loss would take him before they did anything else.

"I think the boy looks ready for it," Gjokaj responded. A hand was in his hair again, pulling his head up.

"Please don't," Malcolm muttered, his voice broken and raspy.

"Go get the camera," Dedja said. "We need proof of death for the boss."

Malcolm opened his eyes to see Gjokaj walking away, towards the other end of the cabin. Dedja still had a hand in his hair. That was the only thing keeping his head up. Every passing moment, Malcolm felt weaker and weaker. The constant pain and blood loss were taking their toll on his battered body.

Dedja rest the power drill against his temple, and Malcolm knew his time was coming to an end. There was nothing he could do. He let his tired eyes slip shut, and waited for the final stab of pain to send him into oblivion.

A deafening crash took oblivion away from him as the far end of the cabin collapsed. The final stab didn't come, and neither did unconsciousness.