TAKEN

"OK Kid. Strip to the waist and remove your boots and socks!"

Eighteen-year-old Ryan Johnson stared at the guns pointing at him, heart hammering against his ribs. The van had appeared from nowhere as he walked home from his friend's house.

"What the fuck are you doing to me?" His voice cracked, betraying his terror.

"Holding you for ransom, boy." The leader's voice was eerily calm, businesslike. Three men in ski masks surrounded him, their movements precise and practiced.

Ryan's fingers trembled as he pulled off his designer jacket, then his shirt. The basement air was cold against his bare skin as he bent to remove his expensive boots and socks.

"Hurry up!" One of the men shoved him forward.

"Please, my father will give you whatever—"

"Shut up and turn around."

They yanked his arms behind his back, crossing his wrists before binding them with coarse rope. The fibers bit into his skin.

"What the fuck... are you tying me up too?" Panic surged through him as the reality of his situation sank in. His words were cut off when a syringe plunged into his arm. A burning sensation spread through his veins before darkness claimed him.

When Ryan awoke, he was lying on a cold concrete floor. Disorientation hit him in waves as his consciousness returned. His shoulders screamed with pain. Three of his abductors entered carrying coils of sisal rope and duct tape. He was still dazed from the drug when they began to rope his arms and legs, methodically binding him. The leader wrapped duct tape around his head, blindfolding and gagging him.

As they worked, Ryan kicked and fought against the restraints. His resistance earned him a vicious blow to the ribs that left him gasping through his nose.

"Hold him tighter," the leader ordered.

They secured his forearms together behind his back, then worked the ropes around his biceps until they were only inches apart. The unnatural position strained his shoulder joints beyond their limits.

Ryan heard the sickening pop as both shoulders dislocated. White-hot pain exploded through his upper body. He tried to scream through the gag, but only muffled whimpers emerged before he mercifully lost consciousness.

He came to on the cold basement floor, disoriented and in agony. Every breath sent shooting pain through his dislocated shoulders. The concrete chilled his bare skin, and he realized with horror that he'd lost control of his bladder. Warm urine soaked his jeans and pooled beneath him, the acrid smell filling his nostrils.

Shame washed over him, more painful than his physical injuries. He was Ryan Johnson, son of tech billionaire David Johnson, varsity athlete and honor student. Now he lay broken, pissing himself like a child.

The kidnappers returned, their footsteps echoing on the concrete.

"Christ, he's pissed himself," one of them muttered with disgust.

"Hose him down," the leader ordered.

The shock of cold water hit Ryan's skin, making him gasp and choke against his gag. They weren't gentle, the high-pressure spray bruising his already damaged body.

"String him up," came the next command.

Rough hands grabbed his ankles, removing his wet jeans. Nearly naked now, they hoisted him upside down, securing his bare ankles to a hook in the ceiling. Blood rushed to his head as he dangled helplessly.

One of the kidnappers moved closer. Ryan could sense him even through the blindfold.

"Hold still," the man said, his voice different from the others—curious, almost intimate.

The flash of a camera. Then another.

The man's fingers traced the rope patterns where they dug into Ryan's skin, lingering over the deepening bruises forming on his pale flesh. Ryan squirmed against the unwanted touch, making muffled pleading sounds behind his gag.

"Look how the rope marks his skin," the man said softly. "Rich boy's probably never felt anything like this."

More photos. Close-ups of the intricate knots, the contrast between rough hemp and soft skin, the angry red lines slowly darkening to purple.

Ryan's mind, desperate for escape, suddenly flashed back to Boy Scouts, six years earlier. The older boys had tied him to a tree during a camping trip, laughing as they tested their knot-tying skills on him. He remembered the panic, the rope burns on his arms, the helplessness. He'd never been able to escape on his own; the scoutmaster had found him hours later and untied him.

The memory intensified his terror. Then, as now, he was completely at someone else's mercy. His body trembled uncontrollably as past trauma merged with present horror.

Hours stretched into an eternity as he hung suspended, his world reduced to pain, disorientation, and the occasional terrifying approach of the fascinated kidnapper who seemed to delight in documenting his suffering.

Six days of hell passed before the ransom was paid. They cut him down only to hogtie him on the floor, his body now decorated with deep bruises from the ropes that had held him.

Six hours later, they placed an anonymous call.

When the police and his father burst into the abandoned basement, they found Ryan bound and gagged, but alive. As his father gently removed the blindfold, Ryan blinked against the sudden light, his eyes reflecting a broken innocence that would never fully heal.