CAPTIVE
Eighteen-year-old Jesse lay unconscious in the back of the van. The beer the new coach gave him worked fast—spiked with knockout drugs. Coach Mike looked back at him: innocent in his white beater, jeans, and baseball cap. Asleep. He wondered how Jesse would react when he regained consciousness all tied up.
Mike's hands trembled on the steering wheel as he drove through the darkness toward his grandparents' abandoned farm. The threatening text from his bookie still illuminated his phone: Final deadline: 4 days. Pay or consequences.
The basement of the old barn was ready. Chair, ropes, duct tape, burner phone. Everything needed to convince Jesse's wealthy parents that their son's life was worth $200,000.
Jesse's head pounded as consciousness returned. He tried to open his eyes but saw only blackness. Duct tape. The realization that he couldn't move his arms or legs hit him in waves of panic. His wrists were bound behind the chair, pulled up to the top rung. His biceps were lashed tightly to the sides. His legs were bound together, feet pulled under the chair and hogtied to his wrists. Ropes crunched across his chest and gut over his sweat-soaked wife beater.
"Mmmmph!" His scream died in the gag.
"Finally awake." Coach Mike's voice came from somewhere in the darkness. "Don't bother yelling. We're in the basement of an abandoned barn. Nobody for miles."
Jesse thrashed against the ropes, earning only burning pain as they tightened.
"Your parents are very rich, Jesse. And I'm in very big trouble. So we're going to help each other out."
Mike suddenly ran his fingertips lightly along Jesse's exposed neck and shoulders. The unexpected tickling sensation made Jesse jerk and struggle helplessly against his bonds.
"Always so ticklish at practice," Mike taunted, his fingers dancing across Jesse's face and behind his ears. "Remember how the team used to get you? Can't protect yourself now, can you?"
Jesse twisted his head away, a muffled sound of frustration rising from behind the gag as Mike continued the maddening, feather-light touches along his hairline and down to his collarbone.
"Just a little reminder of who's in control here," Mike whispered before finally stopping. "Get used to it. We've got days ahead of us."
"Has anyone seen Jesse?" Coach Peterson asked at morning practice.
The team captain, Dylan, looked around the field. "Not since yesterday. And where's Coach Mike?"
After practice, the team gathered in the locker room.
"Jesse's parents called. He never came home," Dylan said. "They've called the police."
"Did anyone see him after practice yesterday?" Tyler asked.
"Coach Mike was giving him some extra batting practice," Ryan said. "I saw them as I was leaving."
Dylan's eyes narrowed. "And now they're both missing."
By the second day, Jesse's throat was raw from screaming into the gag. His shoulders burned from the unnatural position. The ropes had chafed his skin raw, thin trickles of blood staining the hemp fibers where they crossed his wrists and ankles. His white beater was now translucent with sweat, clinging to his trembling torso.
Mike had removed the blindfold occasionally to force water down his throat and take photos with Jesse holding the day's newspaper. The cold water mixed with his sweat, running down his chin and neck in rivulets.
"Your parents need more convincing," Mike said, showing Jesse the video he'd just recorded of Jesse bound and gagged in the dim light. "They're stalling."
Jesse glared with all the hatred he could muster, his eyes bloodshot and swollen from crying and dehydration.
"Don't look at me like that," Mike snapped, wiping sweat from his own forehead with a shaking hand. "You think I wanted this? They're going to break my legs if I don't pay."
Mike pulled a hunting knife from his belt, the blade catching the dim light. Jesse's eyes widened above the gag as Mike moved behind him, out of his line of sight. The cold metal suddenly pressed against his neck, just below his ear.
"So fragile," Mike said, tracing the blade lightly down Jesse's neck to his shoulder, not cutting but applying just enough pressure to dimple the skin. "One slip is all it would take."
The knife continued its journey down to Jesse's chest. With a sudden motion, Mike sliced through the front of Jesse's wife beater, the blade parting the sweat-soaked fabric with a ripping sound. Jesse flinched violently in the chair, a muffled cry escaping through the gag.
"Relax," Mike said, using the knife to tear the fabric further, exposing Jesse's chest and stomach. "Just making you look more pathetic for the next photo. Your parents need to see how vulnerable their son really is."
The cool basement air hit Jesse's exposed skin, raising goosebumps across his torso. Mike used the knife to cut away the sides of the wife beater until it hung in tatters, held in place only by the ropes crushing across Jesse's chest.
"Much better," Mike said, circling back to face Jesse. He traced the flat of the blade across Jesse's stomach, watching him try to shrink away from the cold metal. "Now you really look like a victim."
After sending the latest proof-of-life photo, Mike stood behind Jesse, out of sight. Without warning, his fingers began lightly dancing across Jesse's now exposed shoulders and up his neck to his ears. Jesse bucked against the ropes, unable to escape the torturous tickling.
"That's right, keep struggling," Mike said, his voice taking on an unsettling playful tone as he continued to tickle Jesse's most sensitive spots. "The more you fight it, the tighter those ropes get. Your helplessness is the whole point, rich boy."
Jesse's muffled protests only seemed to encourage Mike, who continued the psychological torment until Jesse's eyes streamed with tears of frustration.
On the third day, Mike paced the basement, staring at his phone. The last message from Jesse's parents questioned proof that their son was still alive.
"They think I'm bluffing," Mike muttered, his voice rising with panic. "They want proof I'm serious."
He set up the tripod with shaking hands, positioning the camera to frame Jesse in the chair. The hunting knife glinted in his hand as he approached.
"I didn't want to do this," Mike said, removing Jesse's blindfold. "But your parents need motivation."
Jesse blinked in the sudden light, eyes widening at the sight of the knife, pliers, and a car battery with jumper cables on the table. His face was gaunt, cheeks hollow from dehydration, dried blood caked at the corners of his mouth where the gag had cut into him. The tattered remains of his wife beater hung limply against his bruised torso.
"This is going to hurt," Mike said, removing the duct tape gag. A thin string of blood-tinged saliva stretched between the tape and Jesse's cracked lips as it came away.
Jesse's dry lips cracked further as he tried to speak. "Please... don't..."
"Give me something to tell them, Jesse. Beg them to pay."
Mike pressed record and held up the knife first, tracing it slowly across Jesse's exposed chest, leaving a thin red line that beaded with blood droplets. Jesse gasped, his body tensing as the blade moved across his skin, creating a network of shallow cuts.
"Just decorative," Mike said to the camera. "But we can go deeper."
He switched to the pliers. "Your son's fingernails or the money. Their choice."
Jesse's scream when the pliers clamped down on his fingernail echoed off the basement walls. Blood spurted from the nail bed, splattering onto his jeans and the concrete floor. Mike flinched but kept recording.
"Tell them," Mike demanded after the first nail was gone, blood pulsing from Jesse's finger and dripping between his bound hands.
"Mom, Dad," Jesse sobbed, his voice barely recognizable. Sweat and tears mingled on his face, dripping onto his chest, stinging the knife cuts. "Please just pay him. Please..."
After the second fingernail, Mike switched to the jumper cables, touching them to Jesse's chest where the skin was already raw from the knife's passage. The bound teenager's body convulsed against the ropes as electricity coursed through him. Fresh blood seeped from his wrists and ankles where the violent motion tore open his wounds. A dark stain spread down his jeans as his bladder released.
When Jesse lost consciousness, Mike splashed water on his face and continued filming. Jesse's head rolled forward, blood from his bitten tongue dripping onto his chest.
"You have until tomorrow," Mike said into the camera before sending the video. "Next time will be worse."
Before replacing the gag, Mike put down the camera. His hands moved to Jesse's face, fingers lightly tracing his eyebrows, temples, and the sensitive spot behind his ears. The tickling sensation brought Jesse back to full consciousness, making him twist his head desperately to escape the tormenting touch.
"That's right," Mike whispered, continuing to tickle along Jesse's hairline and down his neck to his exposed collarbone. "Remember who's in charge. I can hurt you—" he dug his thumb painfully into the burn wound, making Jesse yelp, "—or I can just drive you crazy." His fingers returned to their feather-light taunting along Jesse's shoulders.
He picked up the knife again, running the flat of the blade across Jesse's stomach. "Or I can get creative," he said, using the point to slice through what remained of Jesse's wife beater until the garment fell away completely, leaving his upper body entirely exposed except where the ropes bit into his flesh.
He replaced Jesse's gag and blindfold, leaving him sobbing in the darkness.
On the fourth day, Mike pressed the heated metal spoon against Jesse's arm. The bound teenager's scream penetrated even the duct tape gag. The stench of burning flesh mingled with the metallic smell of dried blood and the ammonia reek of stale urine.
"I'm sending this video to your parents," Mike said, filming the burn and Jesse's muffled screams. Blisters formed instantly, clear fluid weeping from the wound. "They need to understand I'm serious."
Mike's phone buzzed with a text from his bookie: Time's up. We're coming for you.
The teammates approached the barn at sunset, rifles in hand. Dylan had assigned positions surrounding the decrepit structure.
"Remember, Jesse is the priority," Dylan whispered. "We get him out safely."
They moved silently, using the skills honed through countless hunting seasons. The basement window glowed with faint light.
Ryan peered through a crack in the boards. "I see him," he whispered into his radio. "Jesse's tied to a chair. Mike's pacing with a phone."
"We go in now," Dylan commanded.
The door splintered as Dylan kicked it open. Mike whirled, raising a pistol.
"GET AWAY FROM HIM!" Dylan shouted, his rifle trained on Mike.
The gunshot echoed in the confined space. Mike dropped, clutching his thigh as blood pumped through his fingers, spattering the concrete floor. His pistol clattered across the floor.
"Don't move," Tyler warned, keeping his rifle aimed at the wounded kidnapper while the others rushed to Jesse.
Dylan gasped seeing the extensive restraints. Jesse's eyes, wild with hope and disbelief above the duct tape, locked onto his teammates. Blood had seeped through the tape from where he'd bitten through his lip. His bare, lacerated torso was covered in a crosshatch of shallow knife cuts, burns, and bruises.
"Jesus Christ," Ryan whispered, taking in the elaborate rope work, the burn marks, the bloodied fingers, the destroyed wife beater in tatters on the floor, the four days of accumulated sweat, blood, and filth.
"It's okay, Jesse. We got you now," Dylan said, his voice breaking as he gently began removing the duct tape from Jesse's eyes. Fresh blood welled where the adhesive tore at his raw skin.
Jesse tried to speak as the gag came off, but could only manage a rasp. A mixture of blood and saliva drooled from his cracked lips.
"Take it slow," Ryan said, working on the chest ropes. "We've got to be careful."
It took fifteen agonizing minutes to free Jesse from the restraints. His limbs spasmed painfully as circulation returned. Each rope removed revealed new wounds—red welts and bloody abrasions where Jesse had struggled against his bonds.
"C-coach," Jesse finally managed to croak, looking at Mike bleeding on the floor. A pool of dark blood was spreading beneath the coach.
"He can't hurt you anymore," Dylan assured him, supporting Jesse's weight. His friend's sweat immediately soaked through Dylan's shirt where they touched. Dylan quickly removed his own jacket and wrapped it around Jesse's bare, wounded torso.
While Tyler called 911, the others helped Jesse up the basement stairs and into the fresh air. The sound of approaching sirens grew in the distance.
Police cruisers surrounded the barn. Officers took the wounded Mike into custody while paramedics assessed Jesse's condition. They quickly inserted an IV into his arm, clear fluid flowing to combat the severe dehydration.
"He needs immediate medical evacuation," a paramedic announced, wiping blood from Jesse's hands to place a pulse oximeter.
As the medical helicopter descended in the adjacent field, Dylan squeezed Jesse's hand one last time. "You're going to be okay."
Jesse nodded weakly as they loaded him into the helicopter. Blood and sweat stained the stretcher beneath him. The rotors spun faster, drowning out all sound as it lifted into the darkening sky, carrying him away from his ordeal.
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