Revenge plots

 

JESSE

The Brothers

His abductors brought 20-year old Jesse into the old barn. “You mother fuckers will never get away with this!” Defiantly he stood there. His muscular arms were at his side, his veins showed he was lean and fit. The wife beater shows his chest hairs under his chin. He was sweaty… the hairs on his forearms seemed wet. He started at the masked man holding a pistol at him, standing next to a large amount of barn rope. “Come on, Jesse said looking at the rope, just lock me in here, you don’t have to tie me up!” Those were his last words before a bank on his head knocked him out.

The heavy thud of Jesse's body hitting the barn floor echoed through the cavernous space. Blood trickled from where the blow had connected with his skull, his eyes rolled back and body completely limp. He was utterly oblivious to what would happen next.

The abductors worked in calculated silence. They roughly grabbed his unconscious form, positioning him face down on the filthy hay-strewn floor. One held his shoulders down while another began the methodical binding process.

The coarse barn rope slid around Jesse's wrists first, pulling them together behind his back with unnecessary force—his unconscious state offering no resistance. The rope continued its journey, winding tightly above his elbows, creating the first of six distinct binding points. Each new loop of rope bit deeper into his flesh, the abductors working without concern for the bruising already forming beneath the hemp fibers.

"More here," the leader gestured, and another length of rope crossed Jesse's biceps, then his forearms. The fifth and sixth bindings crossed his upper arms and between his shoulder blades, completing the elaborate restraint. Jesse's bound arms were wrenched into an unnatural position, though he couldn't feel the strain—yet.

With efficiency born of practice, they hoisted his unconscious body upward by the ankles, securing his feet to the ancient rafters overhead. Blood immediately began its gravity-driven journey toward his head, his face slowly reddening despite his pallor.

In the final act of their grim tableau, they pulled his bound arms outward from his suspended body. Twin sickening pops echoed through the barn as both shoulders dislocated simultaneously. Jesse's body swung slightly from the impact, but he remained unconscious, mercifully unaware of the torture his body was enduring. They secured his outstretched arms to posts on either side, leaving him hanging in a grotesque X-shape.

His tormentors stepped back to admire their handiwork—Jesse suspended and splayed, completely vulnerable, with no idea of the agony that awaited him when consciousness finally returned.

Consciousness returned to Jesse in waves of increasing agony. First came the throbbing behind his eyes, then the searing pain radiating from his shoulders. His eyelids fluttered open to reveal the world inverted—the barn floor above, rafters below. Disorientation gave way to horrific clarity as his nerve endings screamed in unified protest.

"Wha—" The word died in his throat, replaced by a guttural howl that tore through the barn. His body instinctively tried to curl inward, a primal response to extreme pain, but the restraints held him fast in his splayed position. The movement only wrenched his dislocated shoulders further, intensifying his agony to unbearable heights.

His scream reached a fever pitch, echoing off the rotting wooden walls. One of his captors stepped forward, a filthy rag in hand.

"Shut him up," came the cold command.

Rough hands grabbed Jesse's jaw, forcing his mouth open despite his thrashing. The rag—tasting of oil and dirt—was stuffed deep, muffling his screams to desperate, animal-like grunts. A strip of cloth followed, tied tightly around his head to secure the improvised gag.

The pain was relentless. Every heartbeat sent fresh waves of fire through his shoulders and arms. His breathing came in ragged gasps through his nose, panic and pain fighting for dominance in his mind.

Sweat began to pour from his body—a physical manifestation of the trauma he was enduring. The white cotton of his wife beater darkened as it absorbed the moisture, clinging to his heaving chest. First around his armpits, then spreading across his torso until the entire garment was soaked through.

Gravity pulled the sweat from his suspended body. It beaded on his forehead, ran down his face, and dripped steadily from his hair and chin. Below, on the barn's dirt floor, a small puddle began to form, growing incrementally with each drop that fell from his suspended form.

Through tear-blurred vision, Jesse watched his own sweat splashing into the puddle beneath him, each droplet marking another moment of his torment. His muffled groans continued, but the fight in him remained unbroken, even as his body betrayed his suffering.The tallest captor pulled out a burner phone, its plastic casing scratched and worn. He positioned himself beside Jesse's suspended form, angling the camera to capture the full horror of their handiwork.

"Look at the camera, pretty boy," he taunted, grabbing a fistful of Jesse's sweat-soaked hair and yanking his head up. Jesse's eyes, glazed with pain yet burning with defiance, stared directly into the lens. The flash illuminated his tortured form for a brief moment—the dislocated shoulders, the complex rope work cutting into his flesh, the soaked wife beater clinging to his heaving chest, and the puddle of sweat beneath him growing larger by the minute.

Click. Click. Click. Three photos in rapid succession.

"Perfect," the captor muttered, reviewing the images with grim satisfaction. "These ought to get his brothers' attention."

The leader stepped forward, pulling off his mask to reveal a face marked by a jagged scar running from temple to jaw. "You know, Jesse," he said, circling the suspended man, "this isn't just about you. This is about teaching your entire family a lesson." He paused, watching Jesse's eyes widen behind the tears of pain. "Your brothers think they're untouchable. That they can cross anyone and walk away unscathed."

Jesse struggled against the gag, desperate to respond, to defend, to understand—but only muffled grunts escaped.

The second captor typed a message to accompany the photos: "Jesse's pain is just beginning. You have 24 hours to surrender yourselves at the coordinates below. Come alone, unarmed. For every minute you're late, another joint gets dislocated. For every cop you bring, a finger gets broken. Your choice, gentlemen."

The message sent with a soft ping that belied its sinister content.

"Now we wait," the leader said, sliding the phone into his pocket. "Your brothers fancy themselves as heroes, Jesse. Let's see how heroic they feel when they're strung up beside you." He leaned in close, his breath hot against Jesse's ear. "You're just the bait. The main event hasn't even started."

Jesse's eyes closed briefly, not in surrender but in calculation. His brothers were smart, resourceful. And if his captors were underestimating them, that might be the only advantage he needed. Despite the excruciating pain, a plan began to form in the recesses of his mind—his first act of resistance.

The burner phone vibrated on the kitchen counter of the Murphy family home. Ethan Murphy, 19, snatched it up with calloused hands. His broad shoulders tensed as he stared at the screen, the blood draining from his face.

"Tyler! Get over here," he called, his voice cracking.

Tyler Murphy, 18, fresh out of high school just two weeks ago, emerged from the garage, wiping engine grease from his hands onto his already stained jeans. His graduation cap still hung on the wall, the tassel swinging slightly from the breeze of his movement. Like his older brothers, Tyler had the build of someone who'd spent years in both the weight room and doing hard labor—his forearms corded with muscle, his chest and shoulders stretching his plain white t-shirt.

"What is it?" Tyler asked, then froze when Ethan tilted the phone screen toward him. "Jesus Christ."

The brothers stood in shocked silence, their nearly identical blue eyes—a Murphy family trait—fixed on the horrific images of Jesse.

"Those bastards," Ethan growled, his fist clenching so tight around the phone that his knuckles whitened. A vein pulsed in his neck, a telltale sign of his rising fury.

Tyler paced the kitchen, running his hands through his short brown hair. "We need to think. Jesse would think before acting."

The irony wasn't lost on either of them. Among the three Murphy brothers, Jesse was actually the most impulsive. It had been their shared weekend adventures—hunting, climbing, testing their limits—that had forged their unbreakable bond. Those same adventures had often ended with their peculiar way of settling bets and challenges.

"Remember when Jesse lost that climbing race last month?" Tyler said suddenly, his mind working through something.

Ethan nodded grimly. "Yeah, he was tied to that tree for two hours before he managed to get free."

It had started years ago as a test of strength and cunning—one brother would tie up another, and the challenge was to escape. What began as simple knots evolved into elaborate restraints as their skills grew. Jesse currently held the record at escaping from five different binding positions. Ethan was the most skilled with rope work, while Tyler had developed an almost supernatural ability to find weaknesses in any restraint.

"If anyone can survive being tied up like that, it's Jesse," Tyler said, a spark of hope igniting in his eyes. "And if anyone can get him out of there, it's us."

Ethan studied the coordinates in the message, his jaw set with determination. "These guys have no idea who they're dealing with. They think the rope is their advantage."

"But it's ours," Tyler finished, already moving toward the closet where they kept their climbing gear and ropes. "They want us to surrender and end up like Jesse."

"They'll get half their wish," Ethan replied darkly. "We're coming, but not to surrender."

The Murphy brothers had been training their whole lives for this moment—they just never knew it.

Night had fallen by the time Ethan and Tyler approached the decrepit barn. They moved through the underbrush with practiced stealth, their forms barely visible shadows in the moonlight. Years of hunting had taught them how to move silently through woodland terrain.

"Two guards," Ethan whispered, pointing to the men patrolling the perimeter. "One at the main entrance, one by the side door."

Tyler nodded, adjusting the backpack filled with rope, climbing gear, and first aid supplies. "I'll take the one by the side. On your mark."

The takedown was quick and efficient. Tyler slipped behind the first guard, wrapping his forearm around the man's throat in a sleeper hold he'd perfected during their wrestling days. Ethan dispatched the second with similar efficiency. Within minutes, both guards were bound and unconscious, hidden in the underbrush.

"Too easy," Ethan muttered, unease creeping into his voice.

"Yeah," Tyler agreed. "Almost like they wanted us to get past the perimeter."

Still, with Jesse's life at stake, they pressed on. The side door's rusty hinges protested softly as they eased it open. The interior of the barn was dimly lit by a single hanging lantern, casting long shadows across the dirt floor. And there, in the center, hung Jesse—still suspended upside down, his body a roadmap of suffering.

"Jesse," Tyler breathed, starting forward.

Ethan grabbed his brother's arm, holding him back. "Wait. Something's not right."

Jesse's eyes widened upon seeing his brothers. He tried to make noise through his gag, shaking his head violently.

"He's trying to warn us," Tyler realized.

Too late. The barn door slammed shut behind them with a resounding crash. Lights blazed on from all corners, temporarily blinding the brothers. When their vision cleared, they found themselves surrounded by six men, all armed.

The leader stepped forward, scarred face twisted in a cruel smile. "Right on time. Didn't even need the full 24 hours, did you? Brothers to the rescue." He slow-clapped mockingly. "Very touching."

"Let him go," Ethan demanded, his voice dangerously low. "Your quarrel's with us."

"Oh, I intend to," the leader replied. "Just as soon as you two join him in our little party." He gestured to two empty spots on either side of Jesse, where ropes already hung in anticipation.

Tyler and Ethan exchanged glances—a silent communication born of years together. In that fractional moment, a plan formed. Tyler lunged forward, a diversion, while Ethan reached for the hunting knife concealed at his lower back.

The leader anticipated the move. He stepped aside from Tyler's charge, striking him hard across the back with the butt of his pistol. Tyler crashed to the ground, momentarily stunned. Simultaneously, one of the other captors fired a taser at Ethan, the barbs finding their mark. Ethan's body convulsed as electricity coursed through him, the knife falling uselessly from his spasming fingers.

"Predictable," the leader sighed, standing over the fallen brothers. "Did you really think we wouldn't be prepared for you? We've been planning this for months."

From his suspended position, Jesse watched his brothers' failed rescue attempt with despair washing through him. But beneath the despair, a tiny spark ignited. They had come for him—just as he knew they would. And if his brothers could find him once, they could find a way again.

The leader bent down, grabbing Ethan's face and forcing him to look up at Jesse. "Now you get to watch as we make your brother's situation even more uncomfortable. Then you'll join him. One big family reunion."

Tyler spat blood onto the dirt floor. "You're dead men. All of you."

The leader just laughed. "Brave words from someone who'll be hanging upside down in about five minutes."

What none of them realized was that during the brief struggle, Tyler had managed to slide a small blade—no bigger than a razor—into a crack in the barn's floorboards. It wasn't much, but it was something. A tiny seed of resistance, planted for future use.

As the captors descended on them with rope and restraints, the Murphy brothers locked eyes with each other, then with Jesse. A silent pact formed between them: this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

The captors moved with practiced efficiency, forcing Ethan to his knees first. Two men held him while a third bound his wrists behind his back, using the same methodical six-point binding technique they'd employed on Jesse. The rope bit into Ethan's flesh as it wound around his wrists, above his elbows, across his biceps, around his forearms, and finally between his shoulder blades. Each new binding was pulled tighter than the last, eliciting an involuntary grunt of pain.

"How's that feel, hero?" taunted one of the captors, yanking the final knot secure with unnecessary force.

Ethan remained silent, his jaw clenched so tight a muscle twitched visibly beneath the skin.

Meanwhile, Tyler fought harder, requiring three men to subdue him. He bucked and twisted as they forced his arms behind his back, managing to land a solid headbutt that split one captor's lip before they finally gained control. The leader watched with amusement as Tyler's resistance was methodically crushed beneath layers of hemp rope, his arms secured in the same elaborate pattern as his brothers'.

"String 'em up," ordered the leader once both brothers were thoroughly bound.

The captors worked in tandem, hoisting first Ethan, then Tyler by their ankles until they hung suspended on either side of Jesse, forming a grotesque triptych of suffering. The same sickening pops echoed through the barn as each brother's shoulders were dislocated, their bound arms pulled outward and secured to posts in the same X-configuration as Jesse.

Tyler's scream was primal, tearing from his throat in a raw expression of agony. Ethan managed to suppress his pain to a strangled groan, veins bulging at his temples from the effort.

"Now," the leader said, drawing a large hunting knife from his belt, "let's get a better look at the famous Murphy brothers."

He approached Jesse first, sliding the knife beneath the sweat-soaked wife beater. With a quick upward motion, he sliced the fabric open from hem to collar, then roughly tore the remnants away to expose Jesse's torso. Jesse's chest rose and fell with rapid, shallow breaths, a light coating of dark hair matted with sweat across his pectorals and trailing down his abdomen.

The leader moved to Ethan next, similarly slicing through his plain white t-shirt. Ethan's chest was broader than Jesse's, his muscle definition more pronounced from years of competitive wrestling. A thicker mat of hair covered his chest, sweat already beginning to bead across his skin from the exertion and pain.

Tyler was last, his struggling renewed as the cold steel of the blade pressed against his stomach. His shirt parted beneath the knife's edge, revealing the youngest brother's lean but powerful physique. His chest hair was lighter than his brothers', but still visible across his pecs and down the center line of his abdomen.

All three hung side by side now, their muscular torsos exposed, chests heaving in pain and defiance. Sweat glistened on their skin in the harsh light, highlighting every contour of hard-earned muscle built from years of physical labor and training.

"The family resemblance is striking," the leader observed, standing back to admire his handiwork. "Three brothers, all so strong, all so helpless."

He circled them slowly, like a predator savoring the moment before the kill. "And now, gentlemen, the real fun begins."

The leader twirled the hunting knife between his fingers, the steel catching the light as he approached Jesse once more. "Let's make sure Daddy recognizes you when we send the next batch of photos."

He grabbed a fistful of Jesse's hair, sawing through it with the blade. Dark locks fell to the dirt floor as he worked, leaving patchy, uneven scalp exposed. Jesse's muffled protests intensified behind the gag as the knife occasionally nicked his scalp, leaving thin trails of blood that mingled with his sweat.

"Your turn," the leader said, moving to Ethan. The eldest brother thrashed violently as his hair met the same fate, chunks of it hacked away with cruel imprecision. Tyler was last, his youthful features transformed by the degrading haircuts that left all three brothers looking like prisoners of war.

Not satisfied with this humiliation, the leader turned his attention to their exposed chests. "Let's toughen you boys up a bit more." With methodical cruelty, he used the edge of the blade to scrape across Jesse's chest, removing hair and the top layer of skin in painful strips. Jesse's body convulsed from the pain, fresh sweat erupting from his pores as his chest was reduced to a raw, bloody canvas of suffering.

Ethan and Tyler received the same treatment, their chests transformed into maps of agony, streaked with blood where the blade had dug too deep. The floor beneath them darkened with a mixture of blood, sweat, and hair—physical evidence of their ordeal.

"Now for the real show," the leader announced, pulling out the burner phone again. He dialed a number, putting it on speaker as it rang. Again. And again. No answer.

"Daddy must be busy," he sneered, but an undercurrent of unease had entered his voice. He tried again. Still no answer.

Outside the barn, hidden in the surrounding woods, six men in tactical gear moved with military precision. At their lead was Robert Murphy, a former Marine Force Recon operator whose weathered face was set in a mask of cold fury. The phone he had found in Tyler's bedroom—dropped in the brothers' haste—had revealed everything, including the GPS coordinates.

"Six tangos inside," whispered the point man who had just returned from reconnaissance. "Your boys are strung up in the center."

Robert nodded, hand signals communicating the plan to his team—all former Marines who had served under him, men who owed him their lives and had dropped everything at his call.

Inside, the leader was growing increasingly agitated. "Something's wrong. Check the perimeter again."

Before his order could be carried out, the barn doors exploded inward. Flashbang grenades detonated in blinding, disorienting bursts. The Marines stormed in with military efficiency, neutralizing the surprised captors before they could even raise their weapons. Two went down with precise shots to the knees, another took a rifle butt to the temple. The leader managed to fire once—a wild shot that splintered a support beam—before Robert himself tackled him to the ground, driving a combat knife into his shoulder and pinning him to the dirt floor.

"My sons," Robert growled, his voice barely human.

The Marines secured the remaining captors with their own restraints while Robert rushed to the suspended brothers. His combat knife made quick work of the ropes holding their ankles, carefully lowering each son to the ground with the help of his team. Jesse was first, his eyes glazed but focusing on his father's face with dawning recognition. Ethan followed, then Tyler, all three unable to stand, their dislocated shoulders rendering their arms useless.

"Medic!" Robert barked, and one of his team members was already there, administering pain medication and preparing to relocate the brothers' shoulders.

An hour later, the situation had transformed completely. The brothers, shoulders reset and wounds treated, sat wrapped in blankets at the edge of the barn, watching as their father and his team worked with ruthless efficiency.

The captors had been stripped to their underwear and hung upside down in the same configuration they had used on the brothers. Their arms were bound behind their backs with their own rope, shoulders dislocated and arms spread in the same excruciating X-formation.

"An eye for an eye," Robert said, his voice devoid of emotion as he addressed the leader, who now hung where Jesse had been. "But we're not savages." He gestured to one of his team, who produced a satellite phone. "The authorities will be here in exactly one hour. That gives you sixty minutes to consider what prison will be like for men who torture young boys."

The leader spat blood, his defiance undiminished despite his position. "You think this is over?"

Robert stepped close, his voice so low only the leader could hear him. "This was over the moment you touched my sons. You just didn't know it yet."

He turned to his boys, who were watching with a mixture of relief, gratitude, and lingering trauma in their eyes. "Let's go home, sons."

As they walked out of the barn, Jesse paused at the threshold, turning back to look at their captors now experiencing the same torment they had inflicted. It wasn't satisfaction he felt—nothing so simple. It was the knowledge that resistance, even in its darkest moments, had not been futile. Their father had found them. They had survived.

And in that survival lay the true victory.

Six months later, the Murphy brothers returned to the barn. The structure stood unchanged against the darkening sky, a monument to what they had endured and survived. This visit wasn't about closure or therapy—they'd tried that approach already. Tonight was about something their therapist would never understand or condone.

"Draw," Jesse commanded, his voice hard as he held out three sticks in his fist.

Each brother selected one. Tyler opened his palm to reveal the shortest piece and nodded grimly. "Let's do this right."

Inside the barn, Tyler stripped to the waist without ceremony. His chest hair had grown back thicker, his physique more defined from the brutal training regimen he'd adopted since their ordeal. The scars from the knife were still visible—faint white lines across his pectorals that he wore like badges.

"No safety words tonight," Tyler said as he placed his hands behind his back. "Make it real."

Jesse exchanged a look with Ethan. They'd discussed this extensively—Tyler's need to face this on his terms, to test his limits beyond what their weekly rope challenges typically allowed.

"You sure about this?" Ethan asked one final time.

Tyler's jaw set with determination. "Those bastards didn't ask if I was sure. Do it."

The first binding came fast and tight, hemp rope biting into Tyler's wrists with an intensity that made him hiss through clenched teeth. Jesse worked with methodical precision, each new loop of rope tighter than the last. By the third binding, Tyler's arms were already burning from the strain, but he didn't protest.

"Tighter," he demanded when Jesse hesitated at the fourth binding. "Make it like before."

Jesse complied, pulling the rope with brutal force across Tyler's biceps. The rough hemp cut into flesh, instantly raising angry red welts. Tyler's breath came in short, controlled gasps, but his eyes remained clear and focused.

The fifth and sixth bindings were applied with the same merciless efficiency. When it was done, Tyler's arms were secured in a position nearly identical to the one he'd endured during their captivity—a position that sent waves of remembered pain through his shoulders.

"Now the rest," Tyler said, his voice steadier than his trembling body would suggest.

Ethan produced another coil of rope. "Last chance to back out."

Tyler's response was to drop to his knees, presenting himself for what came next.

The brothers worked together, recreating the rest of the elaborate restraints that had been used on them. The difference was that Tyler remained conscious through every moment, feeling every pull, every constriction, every breath becoming slightly more difficult as the ropes tightened around his torso.

When they finally stepped back, Tyler knelt in the center of the barn, bound so securely he could barely twitch a muscle. Sweat already beaded across his chest and forehead from the strain and exertion.

"How long?" Jesse asked quietly.

"All night," Tyler answered, his voice strained but determined. "I need to know I can take it."

Ethan and Jesse exchanged glances, communicating silently as only brothers could. They understood. This wasn't about reliving trauma—it was about conquering it completely, about proving that what had been done to them against their will could be faced willingly and overcome.

"We'll be right here," Ethan said, settling against one of the support beams. "The whole time."

Tyler nodded, then closed his eyes, focusing inward on the burning pain across his arms and back. In his mind, this was no longer about what had been done to him. This was about what he chose to endure—his resistance transformed into resilience, his past trauma into present strength.

The ropes bit deeper with each passing hour, but Tyler remained silent, his breathing eventually settling into a meditative rhythm. His brothers kept their vigil, witnessing his ordeal without interfering.

By morning, when they finally cut him free, Tyler's body was covered in rope marks that would take days to fade. But the look in his eyes was something else entirely—clear, calm, resolved. He had taken back something essential that had been stolen from him in this very place.

"Next month," he said as they walked toward the car, his voice hoarse but steady. "Ethan's turn."

It wasn't healing in any conventional sense. It was something darker, more primal—a brotherhood forged in shared suffering and tempered by chosen pain.

This was their resistance now: not against captors long gone, but against fear itself.