Betrayed by his brother

 

Liam stared at his brother holding lengths of hemp rope. The realization struck him with sickening clarity: he was going to be tied up. His bare arms tensed beneath his white undershirt as his younger brother avoided his gaze, making an unnecessary show of testing the rope's strength for the three gang members watching from the shadows.

"Turn around," his brother said, voice pitched unnaturally low. When Liam hesitated, one of the gang members stepped forward, hand drifting toward his waistband.

Liam's mouth opened, but before he could speak, his brother lunged forward, shoving a wadded cloth between his teeth. The taste of motor oil and dust flooded his mouth as Jake secured the gag with a strip of duct tape, pressing it firmly across Liam's lips with exaggerated pressure.

His seventeen-year-old brother glanced toward the gang members, then back at Liam with eyes that contained something beyond anger—something rehearsed. Jake made a theatrical display of stretching the rope between his hands, his movements unnecessarily rough.

The ceremonial way Jake handled the rope made Liam's blood run cold. This wasn't just a kidnapping. This was an initiation, and Liam was the sacrifice his brother had offered to prove his loyalty.

Jake circled behind him, a predator claiming its prey. The first loop of hemp around Liam's wrists bit into his skin, rough fibers catching on the fine hairs of his forearms. His brother pulled the rope taut with a sharp jerk that was entirely for show, eliciting approving nods from the watching gang members.

With each additional loop, Liam felt his options diminishing. Three coils. Four. Five. The pressure increased with each layer, the edges of the rope creating distinct lines of fire across his skin. When Jake cinched the binding with a final knot, Liam's fingers tingled as blood flow constricted.

"Tighter," ordered one of the gang members, a lanky man with tattoos crawling up his neck. "Make sure he can't work free."

Jake hesitated for only a fraction of a second—so brief that only Liam noticed—before yanking the binding even tighter. The rope's savage bite made Liam's vision swim, pain radiating up his arms as he instinctively tested the restraint. The unyielding fibers merely dug deeper, etching their pattern into his flesh.

Not satisfied with just securing his wrists, Jake uncoiled more rope and moved to Liam's upper body. He wrapped the hemp around Liam's biceps, pulling it across his chest in a figure-eight pattern that restricted his breathing. Each time the rope completed a circuit around his torso, it compressed his ribcage slightly more, making each breath shallower than the last. When Jake suddenly cinched the knot between his shoulder blades, the hemp dragged across Liam's forearms, ripping hairs from the root and leaving burning trails of raw skin behind.

Liam couldn't suppress the muffled grunt that escaped around the gag as patches of hair tore free, the sharp sting bringing involuntary tears to his eyes. Jake paused, his expression flickering between practiced cruelty and genuine surprise at the pain he was causing. The moment passed quickly as one of the gang members stepped closer to inspect his work, and Jake's features hardened again.

His brother moved to his ankles next, kneeling with exaggerated focus on his task. Jake's hands trembled slightly as he wrapped the rope around Liam's ankles, crossing the bindings in an elaborate pattern that seemed practiced, learned specifically for this moment. Each twist and knot performed with deliberate showmanship, transforming what could have been a simple restraint into a demonstration of commitment.

Liam stood motionless, the reality of his situation crystallizing with each passing second. The gag muffled his breathing, forcing him to draw air slowly through his nose as panic threatened to overtake him. He closed his eyes, refusing to give his audience the satisfaction of seeing his fear.

The gang members exchanged glances, a silent conversation passing between them as they assessed Jake's handiwork. The tallest one, clearly their leader, stepped forward and circled Liam like a predator inspecting its captured prey.

"Not bad for your first time," he said to Jake, clapping him on the shoulder. "Your old man better pay up quick if he wants to see his boy again in one piece."

He pulled out a phone and snapped several photos of Liam—bound, gagged, and helpless—before typing rapidly on the screen. "Sent the first message. Let's move him before someone comes around."

Two of the gang members hoisted Liam by his arms while Jake gathered the remaining rope. They half-dragged him through a rear door into a waiting van, the vehicle's interior stripped bare except for a metal ring bolted to the floor. They secured Liam to this anchor point with another length of rope before slamming the doors shut, plunging him into darkness broken only by thin ribbons of light from the street lamps outside.

Through the metal partition, Liam could hear muffled conversation:

"Your dad's got 48 hours."

"What if he doesn't answer?" Jake's voice betrayed a hint of uncertainty.

"Then we move to plan B, and things get a lot worse for your brother."

The van lurched forward, each bump in the road sending jolts of pain through Liam's restrained body. They drove for what felt like hours but might have been only twenty minutes, taking so many turns that Liam lost all sense of direction. When they finally stopped, the engine died but no one opened the doors. Minutes stretched into what must have been hours as the temperature inside the van gradually dropped with the night air.

Liam fought against the ropes periodically, but each attempt only seemed to tighten them further. His efforts to call out through the gag produced nothing but pathetic, muffled sounds that wouldn't carry beyond the van's walls. Eventually, exhaustion overtook him, and he drifted into an uneasy sleep punctuated by moments of painful awareness.

He awoke to the sound of raised voices outside the van.

"It's been a full day! He hasn't even responded to the ransom!"

"Maybe he didn't get the message. Send another one."

"We sent five! He's seen them. He's ignoring us."

"So what now?"

A long pause followed, then: "Time for the kid to prove he's really one of us."

The van doors flew open, flooding the space with harsh daylight that left Liam momentarily blind. As his vision adjusted, he made out four silhouettes—the three gang members and his brother, whose stance had changed entirely overnight. Jake stood with the others now, shoulders squared, chin lifted in a posture Liam had never seen before.

"Get him out," ordered the leader, his voice flat.

They dragged Liam from the van into what appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. Dust motes floated in shafts of light streaming through broken windows high above. They propped him against a concrete pillar, the rough surface scraping against his already raw skin.

The leader turned to Jake. "Your dad thinks we're bluffing." He rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. "Show him we're not."

Jake didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, a cold calculation in his eyes that Liam didn't recognize. This wasn't the brother he knew—this was someone else entirely, someone who had erased their shared history overnight.

"Make sure you get his face," Jake said to the leader, who was already positioning his phone to record. "Dad needs to know we're serious."

Liam stared at his brother in disbelief, searching for any sign of the boy he'd grown up with. But Jake's eyes were empty, as though he'd locked away whatever humanity might have given him pause.

The first blow caught Liam by surprise—not because it happened, but because of its precision. Jake's fist connected with his solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs in a way that spoke of practiced technique. Liam's body jackknifed forward against the ropes, eyes watering as he struggled to breathe through his nose.

"That's it," the leader encouraged, circling to get a better camera angle. "Show us what you're made of."

Jake's expression remained impassive as he delivered a sharp uppercut that snapped Liam's head back against the concrete pillar. The impact sent a burst of stars across Liam's vision, momentarily disorienting him. Before he could recover, another blow connected with his ribs—precise, calculating, designed to hurt without breaking.

"Not bad," one of the other gang members commented. "Kid's a natural."

There was no mercy in Jake's eyes as he continued the assault, no hesitation or remorse. Each blow was delivered with mechanical efficiency, targeting vulnerable areas with unexpected knowledge of how to cause maximum pain. He worked Liam's body methodically, avoiding his face at first—focusing on ribs, kidneys, stomach—before finally landing a series of strikes that split Liam's eyebrow and bloodied his nose despite the gag.

Through it all, Jake didn't speak. Didn't taunt. Didn't explain. The silence was somehow worse than any words could have been, the quiet concentration of someone performing a task they'd committed to completely.

When the leader finally called for him to stop, Jake stepped back, breathing only slightly elevated. He flexed his bloodied knuckles, examining them with detached interest rather than remorse.

"Didn't think you had it in you," the leader said, clapping Jake on the shoulder with newfound respect. "Guess blood isn't always thicker than water."

Jake glanced at Liam, whose consciousness was fading, head lolling forward as blood dripped from his swollen face onto his torn undershirt. "Blood got nothing to do with it," he said flatly. "We past that now."

The leader nodded, apparently satisfied with both the beating and the transformation in Jake. He tucked his phone away after sending the images. "Let's lock up. We'll check if Daddy's more motivated in the morning."

As they prepared to leave, Jake approached Liam one last time. He grabbed a handful of Liam's hair, lifting his head to look into his battered face. For a brief moment, something unreadable flickered in Jake's eyes. Then it was gone, replaced by cold indifference as he let Liam's head drop.

"Should've been there when I needed you," he muttered, too quietly for the others to hear. Then he turned and walked away with the gang, leaving Liam alone in the gathering darkness.

Pain brought Liam back to consciousness—a symphony of it, different notes playing across his body. The warehouse had grown dark, moonlight now replacing sunlight through the high windows. How long had he been out? Hours, at least. The cold had seeped into his bones, making his battered muscles seize and cramp against the ropes.

He tried to swallow but couldn't past the gag. His mouth was desert-dry, his lips cracked and split beneath the duct tape. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue. Breathing through his swollen nose took conscious effort, each inhale a shallow victory.

The gang had left him secured to the pillar, the ropes cutting deeper as his body weight sagged against them. His arms had long since gone numb, but his shoulders burned from supporting his weight in their unnatural position.

Liam tested his bindings with a careful shift of his weight. No give. Jake had done his work well.

Jake. His brother's face swam in his memory—not the cold-eyed stranger who had beaten him, but the gap-toothed kid who had once followed him everywhere. What had happened? When had everything changed? The questions circled in his mind, distractions he couldn't afford.

Focus. He needed to escape. No one was coming for him—not his father, certainly, and not Jake. If he was going to survive, he had to save himself.

Liam twisted his wrists against the rope, searching for any weakness in the binding. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through his shoulders, but he persisted, methodically testing every inch of rope he could reach. Nothing. He tried rocking his body, hoping to loosen the knots with the movement, but succeeded only in scraping his back raw against the concrete pillar.

As his initial rush of determination faded, despair threatened to overwhelm him. He was alone, injured, bound, and had no way to call for help. Even if he somehow freed himself, he had no idea where he was or how to get home. No phone, no money, nothing.

Home. The thought brought a bitter laugh that died in his throat. What home? His father wouldn't even pay to save his life. His brother had beaten him unconscious. Home was a concept that had died sometime in the past twenty-four hours.

The moonlight tracking across the warehouse floor became his clock, marking time's passage as he drifted between consciousness and a twilight state of semi-awareness. It was during one of these lucid moments that he noticed something: a broken bottle, lying about six feet away, its jagged edge catching the moonlight.

It might as well have been six miles. There was no way to reach it—not tied as he was.

Unless.

Liam looked up at the pillar he was bound to, following its length to where it met the ceiling. The concrete was old, weathered. In places, chunks had broken away, revealing the rusted rebar beneath. If he could somehow use the rough surface...

He began rubbing the ropes against the pillar, using what little movement his bindings allowed. Each scrape was barely perceptible, the hemp fibers fraying microscopically against the abrasive concrete. The process was agonizingly slow, the pain in his shoulders and wrists nearly unbearable as he worked.

Hours passed. The moon completed its arc across the narrow windows. Liam's wrists were raw and bleeding, the skin torn away by the combination of rope and concrete. But beneath the pain was something else: a slight loosening. Not freedom, not yet, but possibility.

He redoubled his efforts, ignoring the fresh blood that made the ropes slick and his grip tenuous. Just a little more. Just a little longer.

The sound of the first fiber snapping was so faint he thought he'd imagined it. But then another followed, and another. The rope was weakening.

With a final, desperate surge of effort, Liam threw his body weight against the binding. Pain exploded through his shoulders and back as he twisted violently, feeling something tear in his shoulder. But the rope gave way, sending him sprawling forward onto the concrete floor.

For several minutes, he could only lie there, the agony in his dislocated shoulder eclipsing all other pain. His hands were still bound in front of him, but the rope connecting him to the pillar had broken. It was a start.

Using his teeth and bound hands, he managed to peel the duct tape from his mouth, wincing as it took skin with it. He spat out the wadded cloth, drawing deep, desperate breaths through his mouth for the first time in what felt like days.

"Water," he croaked, his voice unrecognizable even to himself.

Slowly, painfully, he dragged himself toward the broken bottle, his dislocated shoulder screaming with each movement. When he reached it, he carefully positioned the sharpest edge and began sawing at the ropes around his wrists, mindful of the glass's proximity to his already bleeding skin.

The work was painstaking, requiring concentration he could barely muster through the fog of pain and dehydration. Twice he cut himself, adding fresh blood to the dried layers on his hands. But gradually, inevitably, the rope frayed and finally parted.

Freedom brought a new kind of pain as blood rushed back into his hands, the sensation like thousands of needles piercing his flesh. He lay curled around his agony, waiting for it to subside enough for him to continue.

When he could move again, he turned his attention to the ropes around his ankles. These came away more easily, his fingers clumsy but determined as they worked the knots Jake had tied.

Standing was another ordeal entirely. His legs, cramped and weak from hours of immobility, threatened to buckle beneath him. He leaned heavily against the pillar, the irony not lost on him that his former prison now served as his support.

His shoulder hung at an unnatural angle, and he knew what needed to be done. Bracing himself against the pillar, he took three deep breaths, then slammed his shoulder against the concrete with as much force as he could muster. The pain was blinding, drawing a hoarse scream from his raw throat, but he felt the joint slide back into its socket with a sickening pop.

Liam stood in the center of the warehouse, taking stock of his situation. He was injured, dehydrated, and disoriented. But he was free. And somewhere in the darkness, there had to be a way out.

He began moving toward where he thought the exit might be, his pace slow but determined. Each step was a victory, each breath a reminder that he was still alive.

Whatever came next—finding help, reaching safety, confronting the new reality of his life without family—those were problems for later. Right now, all that mattered was putting distance between himself and this place before Jake and his gang returned.

Liam had no illusions about what would happen if they found him gone. There would be no more "lessons," no more chances. Next time, they'd make sure he couldn't escape. Next time, they might not leave him alive.

One foot in front of the other. One breath, then another. Freedom was a direction, not a destination, and Liam began walking toward it with grim determination.

Dawn was breaking when Liam finally stumbled onto a road. His body moved on autopilot, each step an act of will against the pain that threatened to drop him. The warehouse had been farther from civilization than he'd thought, hidden among abandoned industrial buildings at the edge of town.

A car approached, its headlights cutting through the morning mist. Liam stepped into the road, waving his arms despite the agony in his shoulder. The vehicle slowed, then stopped. An elderly man rolled down his window, eyes widening at Liam's appearance—blood-crusted face, torn clothes, rope burns visible on his wrists.

"Jesus, son. What happened to you?"

Liam opened his mouth, but found he had no easy answer. What could he say? My brother sold me out? I don't have a family anymore?

"I need a phone," he managed instead.

The man hesitated only briefly before handing over his cell phone. Liam's fingers trembled as he dialed the only number he knew by heart.

Miguel answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

"It's me." Liam's voice cracked. "I need help."

No questions. No hesitation. Just: "Where are you? I'm coming."

Liam handed the phone back to the stranger, who insisted on waiting with him despite Liam's assurances that he would be fine. Twenty minutes later, Miguel's car skidded to a stop on the shoulder. He jumped out, face tight with concern that broke into shock when he saw Liam's condition. He crossed the distance in three long strides and stopped just short of embracing him, clearly afraid of causing more pain.

"Who did this to you?" Miguel asked, his voice low and dangerous as he helped Liam into the passenger seat.

Liam shook his head slightly. "Not yet." Every word felt like glass in his throat.

The drive to Miguel's apartment passed in silence. Liam knew he should go to a hospital, but hospitals meant questions, reports, and eventually, confrontations he wasn't ready for. Miguel helped him inside and gently cleaned his wounds, his touch careful around the worst bruising.

"Your brother," Miguel finally said as he applied antiseptic to a cut above Liam's eye. It wasn't a question.

"How did you know?"

"The way you're not saying his name." Miguel's fingers were gentle despite the anger in his voice. "Plus, who else could get close enough to do this much damage?"

Liam told him everything then—the kidnapping, Jake's transformation, the gang, the escape. Miguel listened without interruption, his expression darkening with each new detail.

When Liam finished, Miguel sat back. "We need to call the police."

"No."

"Liam—"

"They'll kill him." Despite everything, the thought of Jake in prison—or worse, targeted by his own gang for failing—twisted something in Liam's chest. "He's still my brother."

"He stopped being your brother when he beat you unconscious," Miguel countered, but his tone had softened. "What's your plan, then?"

Liam looked out the window at the city sprawling below, the place that had been his home his entire life. Every street held memories now tainted by betrayal. Every familiar landmark was a reminder of what he'd lost.

"We need to leave," he said finally. "Not forever. Just... until I figure things out."

Miguel studied him for a long moment. "I have a cousin in Mexico City. Says it's beautiful this time of year." A pause. "You sure about this?"

Was he? Liam thought about Jake, who had chosen a gang over family. About the life he'd be leaving behind—college plans, friends, everything familiar.

But when he looked at Miguel, he saw something he hadn't found in his own family: unwavering loyalty. Someone who had dropped everything to come when called. Someone who didn't ask if helping was worth the risk.

"I'm sure," Liam said. "There's nothing for me here anymore."

Three days later, they crossed the border with what little they could pack in Miguel's car. Liam watched the American landscape recede in the side mirror, each mile putting distance between himself and the warehouse, between himself and the brother who had tied him up and beaten him unconscious.

His body would heal. The rope burns would fade to scars. The bruises would disappear. But something fundamental had changed inside him—a shift in understanding about what family meant, about who deserved his loyalty.

"You okay?" Miguel asked, glancing over.

Liam turned away from the mirror, facing forward toward the unfamiliar road ahead. "I will be."

As they drove south under a vast open sky, Liam felt something unexpected beneath the pain and loss—a fragile, tentative sense of freedom. Not just from the ropes that had bound him, but from the expectations and obligations that had defined his life until now.

He had survived being bound. He would survive being broken. And somehow, someday, he would rebuild himself into someone stronger than before—someone defined not by the family he had lost, but by the family he would choose.