[Brooklyn 99] Ch: 10 [Gold, Organs, Drugs] (Patreon)

AN: Torture scene ahead. Well, there's more than just torture. Words: +2.5k.

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[NYPD Nine-Nine – Observation Room | 11:13 AM]

Captain Holt stood with his hands behind his back, expression unreadable, staring through the one-way glass into the interrogation room.

Jake, Amy, Rosa, and Boyle stood beside him.

Jake leaned in. “Wait, wait, wait. You’re saying we get to watch the interrogation? Like, live?”

Holt didn’t look away from the glass. “Correct. Officer White has requested to personally interrogate Mikhail Sidorov. I approved it. Given the subject’s psychological profile and international affiliations, this will be an advanced demonstration. Educational. I want you all to observe closely. High-level interrogations require precision, control… and sometimes, horrifying creativity.”

Jake’s face lit up like a kid on Halloween. “Ohhhh, my god. This is going to be awesome. I feel like we’re about to watch someone interrogate a Bond villain with a Batman villain's budget.”

Boyle whispered, “I brought snacks, but I’m now realizing this was a mistake.” He slowly hid the chips in his coat.

Amy folded her arms. “I still say we should be doing this by the book. We don’t even know what’s in that duffle bag. But I completely trust you, Captain, and I'm sure it'll be educational.”

Rosa said, “If he pulls out a car battery, I’m taking notes.” She stood beside Amy, one arm stitched and bandaged, the other crossed over her chest. Her expression was pure stone. 

Inside, Raymond entered the room wearing his usual blank expression and dragging a duffel bag the size of a body. The thing thunked across the tile like it had bones in it.

Sidorov, seated and cuffed to the interrogation chair, glanced down at his leg chains and then at the bag. He smirked, despite his bruised and broken face.

“I've been tortured by some of the best, Ghost... CIA. Mossad. One guy in Ukraine used jumper cables and a car battery. You think you can scare me?”

Raymond didn’t respond. He just unzipped the bag with the slow, deliberate care of a man about to set up a camping trip or a ritual sacrifice. Could go either way.

Inside the bag: a truly disturbing array of gear. Not just tools. Options.

Blowtorch. Surgical scissors. Pliers. Wire. What looked like an immersion blender. A giant pair of hedge clippers. A single garlic bulb. Nobody knew what it was for, and Raymond didn’t explain.

Jake stared through the glass. “Okay, so... are we in a horror movie now? That’s a Saw starter pack. That’s... I think that’s a medieval dentist kit. Is that a turkey baster?”

Amy’s face turned pale. “That’s an actual bone saw. I just Googled the brand.”

Boyle was beaming. “God, he’s so prepared. I love his commitment to craft.”

Raymond pulled out a red stress ball and a surgical roll of duct tape.

Jake squinted. “Is that… a real stress ball?”

Rosa deadpanned, “Where's the axe?”

Inside, without a word, Raymond grabbed Sidorov's lower jaw, yanked it, and shoved the stress ball directly into the man’s mouth before taping his mouth shut.

Sidorov made a muffled grunt.

Raymond adjusted his sleeves and muttered, “That’s to keep you from spitting. Or smiling. Either one pisses me off.”

Then he pulled out a hammer.

Followed by five long, shiny nails.

Sidorov’s eyes widened.

Outside, Jake screamed. “Oh no. OH NO NO NO. He’s gonna do it. He’s really gonna...”

Inside, Raymond grabbed Sidorov’s left hand. The Russian jerked and tried to pull back, but the chains held. Raymond held the hand down with his elbow, lined up the first nail with Sidorov’s pinky finger...

WHAM.

The nail went through like it was punching into butter-covered plywood. The hammer hit clean and fast. Bone crunched. Blood sprayed.

Sidorov screamed through the squeeze ball, eyes bulging.

Raymond nodded, satisfied.

“One.”

WHAM.

“Two.”

WHAM.

“Three.”

WHAM.

“Four.”

By this point, blood was dripping off the edge of the table like a leaky faucet.

Raymond lined up the fifth nail for the thumb. He looked Sidorov dead in the eye.

“You think jumper cables are scary? I’ve done recon inside cartel labs where they used acid tanks as punishment chairs. You ever seen what hydrochloric acid does to a face? That smell never leaves you.”

WHAM.

“Five.”

Raymond reached for the bag and took out a juice box. He then sat down across from him and casually opened it. He sipped through the tiny straw while staring dead-eyed at the whimpering Russian.

Outside, Rosa just nodded. “Clean technique. Ten out of ten.”

Jake blinked. “Rosa. You’re cool with this?”

She didn’t look away. “He’s only using five nails. That’s restraint. I would have used an axe to cut his hands off.”

Boyle was crying softly. “That craftsmanship... so fast... so clean...”

Holt said, “He hasn’t even begun yet. This is the opening act.”

Amy had her hand over her mouth. “He didn’t even ask a question.”

Inside, Raymond just sat there, watching him bleed.

Sidorov twitched violently in the chair, the blood from his fingers soaking the armrest, pooling on the floor beneath him. His muffled screams were more breath than sound now, drowned by the tape and the red rubber stress ball still lodged in his mouth.

Then, after exactly 30 seconds...

Ray stood up with the juice box and took out the straw.

"Lemonade," he said softly. "Organic. No added sugar. But still... citrus has a way of waking up the nerves and taste buds. But, I'm pretty sure, this is synthetic shit. But I wonder if there's any trace of lemon juice in this, like real lemon. Well, only one way to find out."

Then, he squeezed the rest of the juice directly onto the exposed nail wounds.

The acid hit the raw nerves instantly.

Ray reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of pliers. Thick. Heavy. Old. The kind you don’t buy... You inherit from your grandfathers, who fixed tractors during wars.

He set the pliers down on the table. Gently. Then he picked up the hammer again and held it with casual familiarity.

"I'm going to take the tape off your mouth," Raymond said. "But you need to understand something first."

He leaned closer, whispering just loud enough for the surveillance mics to catch it.

"If you scream, if you cry, if you say a single word that isn't an answer to the specific questions I ask, I will nail your other hand to the table. Then I'll pull out your teeth. One by one. From the front. No anesthesia. No numbing. No stopping."

Sidorov whimpered behind the tape, head twitching like he was trying to nod.

Raymond continued.

"You don’t get to lie. You don’t get to stall. You don’t get to negotiate. You speak, and I listen. Or you bleed. That's how this works."

He moved back around, peeled the tape slowly, pulled the stress ball from Sidorov's mouth, and dropped it onto the table with a wet slap.

Sidorov gasped for air, lips trembling, face soaked with sweat and pain. He held back his screams.

Raymond sat down again, calm as ever, elbows on the table.

"First question. How many moles are there inside the Nine-Nine precinct?"

Sidorov’s breathing was erratic. He fought to steady it, blood running from his hand. His lips trembled, but his voice was hoarse.

"Th-three... maybe four... two were handlers, one sleeper… I only knew faces."

Raymond didn’t blink.

"I don't fucking care. I want names."

"Orlando, a cop. The other... last name Chuvas, works in tech or data. I only saw him once. The third was a runner, never used a real name. Just a tattoo, snake curled around a dagger, left wrist. The last one's name is Nelson. Works for the fire department."

Raymond gave a slow nod. He didn’t look impressed. Just processing.

"Next. Who supplied the weapons, bombs, and RDX for Westcourt?"

Sidorov swallowed hard.

"A man called Garin. Ex-military. Works out of the docks. Red Hook. Pays off customs. Moves gear in medical crates. One contact inside the warehouse district... name’s Viktor Spirov. He’s the one who prepped the RDX."

"And the plan?"

Sidorov’s voice dropped even lower.

"Multiple targets. Yesterday was just one piece. Trial run. Others waiting. Disrupt, distract, drain. Target police, government nodes, and emergency services. Make the system buckle. They want fear... chaos... full collapse."

Raymond nodded again, just once.

"Where's Ivan Preston?"

Sidorov’s lip quivered. He hesitated.

Raymond’s hand moved toward the duffel again.

"No... wait!" Sidorov blurted. "I swear, I don't know his exact location. He moves every week. But his last known safehouse was under a dry cleaning business in East Flatbush. Real name of the place is M&T Cleaners. They run signals through the laundry machines. You’ll need spectrum taps to catch them. That’s where the messages come in."

Raymond stared at him for a moment longer.

"Now the final question," He cracked his knuckles. "I doubt that fuckhead is planning to create all this mess just to mess with the system. So, out with it."

"He'll kill me," Sidorov whispered in fear.

"Yeah, well, I'm gonna pull out your teeth, nail your fingers, cut them off, cut your ears next, and maybe if I'm in a good mood after that, I'll shatter your knees and cut your ligaments. Imagine a life without teeth, arms, and legs. You'll eat with a pipe and shit in a pipe. A life far more painful than death. That I promise I'll give you if you don't tell me the truth.... Haaa..." Ray said and took a deep breath. "You know what, fuck it. Don't answer."

He took the hammer and slammed it down on Sidorov's right knee.

"Arggggggg!"

Ray raised the hammer again and aimed for his left knee.

Sidorov fought the pain and screamed, "STOP! THEY PLANNED TO SMUGGLE 90 BILLION DOLLARS WORTH OF GOLD, ORGANS, AND DRUGS. BROOKLYN IS JUST THE MID-STOP. HE PLANS TO USE THE CHAOS TO SHIT IT TO ANOTHER PLACE."

He huffed after saying that in a single breath as tears rolled down his cheeks.

"See, that wasn't so hard," Ray said as he threw the hammer into the bag.

Outside the glass, Jake was slack-jawed.

Boyle whispered, “I think I just peed a little.”

Amy shook her head. “That wasn’t an interrogation. He nearly killed him.”

Rosa’s arms were crossed. Her voice low.

“He warned him.”

Captain Holt remained perfectly still. Then, after a long moment, he said:

“I believe our rookie just dismantled an international terror cell before lunch.”

...

[NYPD Nine-Nine – Meeting Room | 12:37 PM]

The precinct briefing room had undergone a transformation. Files were stacked three deep on the center table. A city map stretched across the whiteboard, covered in red dots, post-its, and strings. Tablets showed aerial views, warehouse schematics, and port manifests.

Captain Holt stood at the head of the table. A whiteboard marker rested between his fingers like a weapon.

Behind him, Amy was organizing intel into folders. Terry reviewed the list of captured moles, reading each one aloud with visible anger. Rosa sat near the window, chewing on the end of a pen. Jake paced in the corner, his excitement barely contained. Raymond leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning the map without blinking.

Holt spoke.

“One hour ago, based on Sidorov’s confession and Officer White’s extraction of intel, we arrested all four internal moles. Orlando was the trigger. Chuvas was the tech breach. Nelson, from FDNY, funneled traffic info. The tattooed courier is still missing.”

Amy nodded. “I’ve got an APB out on all transport hubs. He’s not walking out of the city.”

“Good,” Holt said. “Now we come to the critical question.”

He pointed at the board where three words were circled in red.

GOLD. ORGANS. DRUGS.

“That’s what Preston is moving. Sidorov said Brooklyn is just a stop along the route. Which means the cargo is already here, or en route, and the chaos from the attacks was designed to mask its arrival.”

Rosa leaned forward. “So what’s our play, Captain? Do we chase Preston’s people, or go for the stash?”

Jake stopped pacing. “Why not both? Come on! This is it! If we get the names and the cargo before the feds show up and steal the headlines, the Nine-Nine becomes legendary. We’re talking TV interviews. Podcast deals. Maybe, just maybe... a bigger budget and a nice raise.”

Boyle nodded, eyes wide. “I heard the 7th precinct got new vending machines after their drug raid. Like, with real food. Muffins and hummus!”

Amy spoke up. “Jake’s right. If we break this open ourselves, we’re not just cleaning up our own mess. We’re punching above our weight. We become untouchable.”

All eyes turned to Holt.

Holt, in turn, looked to Raymond.

“You’ve seen this kind of operation. You’ve faced Preston’s people. What do you recommend?”

Raymond didn’t move for a second.

Then he stepped forward and pointed at the city map.

“Sidorov gave us more than names. He gave us a timeline. He just didn’t know it. He said Preston moves every week. That means he has a rhythm. An exit plan. They’re not hiding this haul in lockers or basements. Ninety billion in gold, organs, and narcotics? You need real estate. Space. Isolation. Tight security.”

Jake raised a hand. “So, like… underground vault?”

Raymond nodded. “Maybe. Or shipping containers. Old subway tunnels. Private hangars. Cargo depots with paperless control systems. Places where questions don’t get asked and bodies don’t get counted.”

Terry added, “We still have access to the NYPD logistics grid. We can cross-check which warehouses haven’t been inspected in the last month.”

Amy started typing furiously. “Adding filters for temperature control, because of the organs and heavy freight clearances.”

"Morgue," Rosa said with a blank expression as usual.

Everyone paused.

"Morgue?" Jake repeated, turning toward Rosa.

She nodded, tapping her pen on the table. "Think about it. What do you need for gold? Weight tolerance. For organs? Cold storage. For drugs? Controlled movement with low suspicion. A city morgue or private mortuary, especially one with outdated oversight, can tick all those boxes."

Amy frowned. "But wouldn’t there be paper trails?"

Rosa shrugged. "Not if the paperwork’s fake or you put in enough bribes. Or if the place is technically shut down but still operating off-book. Or they could simply buy out that place and operate in secret."

Raymond stepped forward again and circled a few red pins on the map. “There’s a triangle here. See it? Medical center. Industrial zone. And the East Flatbush safehouse. Dead center? Van Nuys Memorial Storage.”

Terry squinted. “That place was shut down last year. Violation of health codes, rat infestation. No one's touched it since.”

Raymond looked at Holt. “We check it. Now.”

Holt nodded without hesitation. “Jake and Raymond, gear up and check out the site. Amy and Boyle, go to the Medical center and find out if there's anything suspicious. Terry, mobilize a secondary unit for sweep and crowd control. Be on standby.”

Jake pumped a fist. “Yes. Time to hit the crypt.”

Amy stood, snapping her holster into place. “Just once, I’d like to do an op that doesn’t involve body fluids or shadow empires.”

Rosa narrowed her eyes, "What about me?" She asked.

"You are injured. Don't push yourself and take rest," Hold said.

"That's bullshit, I can still..." She tried to argue, but against Holt's glare, she gave up. "Fine." 

Raymond was already halfway out the door when she stormed past him with an angry face.

Jake followed, mumbling under his breath, “Please don’t be filled with zombies. Please don’t be filled with zombies…”

...

AN: 2 more chs left before this case closes. Then some light slice of life fun.