verytoughdudesintrouble

 

Chapter 1

The late afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the isolated construction site, turning the air thick and stifling. Rick Renzo wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his work glove, leaving a streak of dust across his brow. At nineteen, he was built for this kind of work—broad shoulders, strong back, and the kind of stamina that made his older brother Ray shake his head in mock envy.

"Jesus, Rick, slow down or you'll give us both heat stroke just watching you," Ray called out from where he crouched near the foundation forms, his own white t-shirt already damp with perspiration.

Rick grinned, hefting another bag of concrete mix like it weighed nothing. His gray printed t-shirt was soaked through, clinging to his chest and showing the dark line of sweat that ran down his center to where it disappeared into his camo work pants. "Someone's gotta do the real work around here, old man."

"Old man? I'm twenty-two, you little shit." Ray stood up, brushing dirt from his jeans, his hairy forearms flexing as he stretched. "Besides, brains over brawn—that's why I do the measuring and you do the heavy lifting."

The brothers had been working this remote site for three days now, laying the foundation for what would eventually become someone's dream cabin. Miles from the nearest neighbor, surrounded by nothing but pine trees and silence. Their white Renzo Brothers Contracting van sat parked nearby, its windowless back doors open to reveal their tools and supplies.

That's when they heard the car approaching.

Both brothers looked up as an old sedan came bumping down the dirt access road, moving slowly like the driver was looking for something. Rick set down the concrete bag and wiped his hands on his pants.

"You expecting anyone?" Ray asked.

"Nope." Rick squinted at the approaching vehicle. "Maybe someone's lost?"

The car pulled to a stop about twenty feet away, and two men got out. Even from a distance, something felt off about them—the way they looked around, the way they moved with too much purpose for people who were simply lost.

"Excuse me," the taller one called out, walking toward them with his hands visible but his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. "We're looking for Route 47. GPS has us all turned around."

Ray felt his gut tighten. Route 47 was back the way they'd come, clearly marked. These guys weren't lost.

"You boys do good work," the second man said, but he wasn't looking at their foundation. He was looking at their van.

That's when Rick noticed the shorter man's hand moving toward his waistband, and everything went to hell.

Chapter 2

"Don't fucking move!" The shorter man had a gun out, sweeping it between the two brothers while his partner circled behind them. "Hands where I can see them!"

Rick's hands shot up instinctively, his heart hammering against his ribs. Beside him, Ray raised his hands more slowly, his eyes never leaving the gunman's face.

"Easy," Ray said, his voice steady despite the situation. "We're not looking for trouble. You want the van? Take it."

"Shut up." The taller man was already at their vehicle, peering into the open back doors. "Perfect. No windows, plenty of space." He paused, spotting something inside. "Well, look at this, Miguel. Christmas came early."

Miguel kept the gun trained on them while his partner reached into the van and pulled out a massive coil of hemp rope—300 feet of quarter-inch line they used for hauling and securing loads.

"This'll work a lot better than zip ties," the tall man said, testing the rope's strength. "Turn around. Hands behind your backs."

"Look, you don't need us," Ray tried again. "Just take the van and—"

The gun barrel cracked against the side of his head, dropping him to one knee. Rick lunged forward, but Miguel swung the weapon toward him.

"Your brother's got a big mouth. You want to keep it shut for him?"

Rick's fists clenched, every muscle in his body screaming to fight, but the gun was steady in Miguel's hands. He looked down at Ray, who was shaking his head clear, blood trickling from his temple.

"We'll cooperate," Rick said through gritted teeth.

"Smart boy." Miguel gestured with the gun. "Both of you, turn around."

The hemp rope was rough against Rick's wrists as it was wound around them—tight, methodical loops that bit into his skin. Too tight. His hands were already starting to tingle. Ray grunted as his own wrists were bound with the same merciless precision.

"In the van," the taller man ordered, holding the remaining coil of rope. "Move."

They were shoved toward their own vehicle, stumbling with their hands bound. The back doors yawned open like a mouth waiting to swallow them. Rick hesitated at the threshold—once they got in that van, everything changed.

"I said move!" A hard shove sent him sprawling onto the metal floor. Ray tumbled in after him, landing hard on his shoulder.

The taller man climbed in after them, uncoiling more rope. "Can't have you rolling around back here," he said, wrapping line around Rick's ankles, then Ray's. "This should keep you nice and secure."

The doors slammed shut, plunging them into darkness thick with the smell of hemp and their own fear-sweat.

Outside, they heard the two men talking in low voices, then footsteps moving away. A few minutes later, an engine started—not their van, but the sedan. It drove off, leaving them alone in the suffocating darkness.

"Ray?" Rick whispered. "You okay?"

"Head's ringing, but I'm alive." Ray's voice was tight with pain. "You?"

"This rope is already cutting into my wrists." Rick tried to shift position, but his bound ankles made movement nearly impossible. "What do you think they want?"

"They're running from something. Need transportation that can't be seen into." Ray was quiet for a moment. "We're not getting out of this easy, Rick."

The van rocked slightly as footsteps approached outside. Both brothers went silent, listening as the front doors opened and closed. The engine turned over.

"Where we headed?" Miguel's voice carried clearly from the front.

"North. I know a place we can hole up for the night."

"Wait," the taller man said. "They're gonna be talking back there the whole time. Hand me that tape."

The back doors opened again, letting in a harsh shaft of light. Miguel climbed in holding a roll of black Gorilla tape from their tool supplies.

"No, please—" Ray started, but Miguel was already tearing off a long strip.

"Open your mouth," Miguel ordered Rick.

When Rick pressed his lips together, Miguel grabbed his jaw and squeezed until Rick gasped. The tape went between his teeth first, pulled tight, then wrapped around his head multiple times. The adhesive bit into the corners of his mouth, and Rick could taste blood where it cut into his lips.

Ray tried to turn his head away, but it was useless. The same process—tape between the teeth, around the head, cutting into the corners of his mouth.

The doors slammed shut again, and they were back in darkness.

This can't be happening, Rick thought, working his jaw against the tape. This can't be real.

The van lurched into motion, and the Renzo brothers began their journey into hell, now unable even to speak to each other.

Chapter 3

The van finally stopped after what felt like hours of driving. Rick had lost all feeling in his hands, and his shoulders burned from being pulled back at an unnatural angle. The tape had worked loose enough that he could breathe through his mouth, but every slight movement sent sharp pains through its jaw where the adhesive had torn the skin.

Where are we? he wondered, listening to the muffled voices outside.

"This'll work," Miguel's voice carried through the metal walls. "Nobody comes out here this time of year."

The back doors opened, and both men stood silhouetted against the darkness. They were somewhere rural—Rick could smell pine trees and hear the distant sound of water.

"Out," the taller man commanded. "Carlos, grab that rope."

So that was his name. Carlos pulled the massive coil of hemp from the van while Miguel kept his gun trained on them. Rick tried to stand but his legs had gone numb. He fell hard on his knees, earning a kick to his ribs.

"Get up, pendejo."

Can't feel my legs, Rick thought desperately. Can't feel anything.

Ray was in worse shape, barely conscious as they dragged him from the van. The brothers were hauled toward what looked like an abandoned hunting cabin, its windows boarded up and roof sagging.

Inside, the cabin reeked of mold and animal droppings. A single kerosene lantern cast dancing shadows on the walls. Carlos was already uncoiling the rope.

"Look at them," Miguel said, taking a long drink from a bottle of whiskey. "Already soaked in sweat and we haven't even started."

Rick's gray t-shirt was still damp from the day's work, now mixed with fear-sweat. His camo work pants were stained with dirt and perspiration. Ray's white shirt was translucent with moisture, clinging to his chest.

"Now the fun begins," Carlos grinned. "You boys are gonna learn what happens when you're in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Miguel began working with the rope, cutting away their original wrist bindings only to immediately force Rick's elbows together behind his back. The rough hemp bit into his skin as it was wound tight, forcing his shoulder blades together painfully. More rope went around his forearms, then his wrists again.

"Hand me that duct tape," Miguel said to Carlos. "We need to make sure these arms stay put."

The silver tape was wound around Rick's forearms from elbow to wrist, pulled tight. Rick screamed through his gag as the adhesive ripped away chunks of hair from his arms where it adhered to his skin.

Oh God, oh God, Rick thought as the pain shot through him. Ray's muffled cries told him his brother was getting the same treatment.

Miguel continued with the rope, weaving it between Rick's upper arms to pull his biceps about eight inches apart, then wrapping coils around his chest and gut, forcing his taped forearms deep into his back.

"Legs next," Carlos said, wrapping rope around Rick's thighs over his work pants, then his knees, then his ankles. "There. Now you're not going anywhere."

They were left on the cabin floor, completely immobilized, watching as Miguel and Carlos settled in with their whiskey bottle.

"You know what we're gonna do tomorrow?" Miguel asked conversationally, taking another drink. "First thing, we're gonna cut your dicks off. Nice and slow. Let you watch each other bleed."

Carlos laughed, already drunk, pulling out a rusty knife and testing its edge. "Then we gouge out your eyes. One at a time. Save the best for last."

"Maybe we'll make you watch while we do your brother first," Miguel grinned, his eyes glittering in the lamplight. "See how much you can take before you go completely insane."

No, no, no, Rick's mind reeled with terror. They can't be serious. This can't be happening. But the casual way they discussed it, the detail in their voices, made his blood turn to ice.

Ray was making desperate choking sounds through his gag, his eyes wide with absolute horror.

"You know what the worst part is?" Miguel asked, leaning closer. "We haven't even started yet."

This is just the beginning, Rick thought, tasting blood where the tape cut into his mouth. God help us.

The kerosene flame flickered, casting their shadows like twisted puppets on the cabin walls.

Chapter 4

Rick woke to the sound of his own whimpering. His entire body was on fire—shoulders screaming from the rope binding, arms completely numb from the elbows down. The duct tape had loosened slightly overnight, but every small movement sent fresh waves of agony through his joints.

How long have we been here? The cabin was filled with gray morning light filtering through the boarded windows. His gray t-shirt was now soaked with sweat, fear, and something else he didn't want to think about. The smell was getting worse.

Ray was barely conscious beside him, his white shirt yellowed with perspiration and stained with bodily fluids. His breathing was shallow, labored.

He's not going to make it, Rick thought with growing panic. Neither of us are.

"Rise and shine, boys," Miguel's voice cut through the silence. Both men had been drinking all night, empty bottles scattered around their makeshift camp. "Time for some fun."

Carlos stood up unsteadily, his eyes bloodshot and mean. "I've been thinking about what we discussed last night."

No, please no, Rick's mind raced. They were just trying to scare us. They weren't serious.

But Carlos was pulling out that rusty knife again, testing its edge against his thumb. A drop of blood welled up.

The next few hours were a blur of pain and humiliation. Miguel would slap them across the face, hard enough to leave their ears ringing. Carlos would kick them in the ribs, not hard enough to break bones, but enough to leave them gasping.

"Sit up," Miguel commanded, hauling Rick into an upright position. The rope binding made it impossible to balance, and Rick toppled over immediately.

"I said sit up!" Another vicious slap across the face.

Can't... can't do it, Rick thought desperately, trying again. The rope around his chest and arms made any movement excruciating. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled apart.

They were forced into stress positions—made to balance on their knees with their bound arms pulling them backward. When they fell, they were kicked and slapped until they tried again.

By afternoon, Miguel was getting nervous. "We've been here too long. Need to move."

"Where to?" Carlos asked, still drunk.

"I know another place. About an hour north." Miguel started gathering their bottles. "Get them in the van."

The brothers were dragged outside, their legs barely able to support them after hours of being bound. The sunlight was blinding after the dark cabin.

"In the back," Miguel ordered, shoving them toward the open doors of their own van.

The van, Rick thought as they were thrown inside. Someone might be looking for the van.

The engine started, and they began moving again. Through his pain and exhaustion, Rick felt a tiny spark of something that might have been hope.

GPS, he remembered. The van has GPS for job tracking.

But that hope faded as quickly as it came. Even if someone was looking, they'd have to be lucky enough to check at exactly the right time.

The van stopped after what felt like an eternity. This time they were dragged into an abandoned warehouse, its broken windows letting in shafts of dusty light.

As night fell, Miguel and Carlos opened fresh bottles of whiskey. The drinking made them meaner, more violent.

"Look at them," Carlos laughed drunkenly, kicking Rick hard in the stomach. "Sweating like pigs."

Rick's camo work pants were dark with moisture, clinging to his legs. The smell in the warehouse was becoming unbearable—sweat, fear, and worse. Ray had lost control of his bodily functions.

We're animals, Rick realized with shame and horror. They've turned us into animals.

Miguel grabbed a piece of broken wood from the floor, testing its weight. "Let's see how tough these construction boys really are."

The beating that followed was methodical, calculated. Hard enough to cause agony, but not hard enough to kill them. Miguel would strike Rick's legs with the wood while Carlos punched Ray in the kidneys.

"Scream for us," Miguel demanded, raising the board again. "Come on, let us hear you scream."

But the gags made their cries muffled, pathetic sounds that only seemed to amuse their captors more.

"Tomorrow," Miguel said finally, his speech slurred as he tossed the bloodied wood aside, "tomorrow we really start having fun."

Carlos was sharpening the knife again, the scraping sound echoing in the empty warehouse. "I can't wait to hear them scream properly."

How much more can we take? Rick wondered, his body wracked with pain. Ray's eyes were glazed, barely focusing.

The warehouse fell silent except for the sound of their labored breathing and the distant scraping of steel on stone.

Chapter 5

The third day began with another move. Miguel was increasingly paranoid, constantly checking the windows and pacing the warehouse floor.

"We can't stay here," he muttered, already gathering their bottles. "Too exposed."

Another move, Rick thought through his haze of pain. His gray t-shirt was now stiff with dried sweat and filth, reeking of fear and human waste. Ray was barely responsive, his white shirt translucent and stained beyond recognition.

They were dragged back to the van, their bodies wracked with agony from two days of torture. This time the drive was shorter—only about thirty minutes before they stopped at what looked like an abandoned auto repair shop.

Inside, rusty chains hung from the ceiling beams. Carlos looked up at them and grinned.

"Perfect," he said.

Within an hour, both brothers hung upside down, suspended by ropes around their ankles. The blood rushed to their heads, making everything spin. Their bound arms, still taped and roped behind their backs, hung toward the floor, completely useless.

This is it, Rick realized with crystal clarity. We're going to die here.

Ray's face was purple from the blood pooling in his head, his eyes bulging. Neither could speak through their gags, but Rick could see the same terrible acceptance in his brother's eyes.

We'd rather be dead than go through another night of this.

The thought came to both of them simultaneously. Death would be mercy compared to what these animals were doing to them.

Hours passed. Miguel and Carlos drank and laughed, occasionally spinning the hanging brothers like punching bags. By evening, they were running low on alcohol.

"I need more beer," Carlos slurred, stumbling toward the door.

"There's a gas station about ten miles back," Miguel said. "Get a case. And some food."

They're leaving, Rick thought desperately. Maybe someone will find us.

But he knew it was too late. Even if someone found them now, they were too far gone. Ray was barely breathing, his face a sickening shade of purple.

The van's engine started outside, and they heard it drive away.

Twenty minutes later, it returned.

"Look what I got," Carlos announced drunkenly, holding up not just beer, but a bottle of tequila. "Time to celebrate."

They drank for another hour, getting meaner with each swig. Finally, Miguel stood up unsteadily and pulled out the rusty knife.

"You know what?" he said, his words badly slurred. "I'm tired of looking at these pieces of shit."

"Me too," Carlos agreed, also pulling out a blade. "Let's end this."

They approached the hanging brothers, knives glinting in the dim light.

"Hold still," Miguel laughed. "This will only hurt for a few seconds."

He raised the knife toward Rick's throat, the blade touching his skin.

That's when the doors exploded inward.

"POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"

A dozen officers in tactical gear flooded the building, rifles trained on Miguel and Carlos. Both men were too drunk to react quickly, standing frozen with knives in their hands.

"DROP THE KNIVES NOW!"

The blades clattered to the floor as both men were tackled and cuffed. EMTs rushed to the hanging brothers, carefully cutting them down and checking for vital signs.

"We need ambulances NOW!" one of the medics shouted into his radio. "Two victims, severe dehydration, possible circulation damage, they're barely conscious."

As Rick felt gentle hands cutting away his bonds, he looked over at Ray. His brother's eyes were open, tears streaming down his face.

We're alive, Rick thought as darkness closed in. Somehow, we're alive.

The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was one of the officers speaking into his radio: "GPS ping came through at 9:47 PM. Got here just in time."

The Renzo brothers had been found.

Chapter 6

One month later, Rick stood in the morning sunlight outside the new Renzo Brothers Contracting office, still adjusting to the feeling of freedom. The physical therapy had helped with his shoulders, though he still couldn't lift his arms completely overhead. The rope burns had faded to thin white scars around his wrists and forearms.

Ray emerged from the building, moving slowly but steadily. The doctors said his circulation had returned to normal, though both brothers still woke up some nights in cold sweats, phantom ropes binding their arms.

"You ready for this?" Ray asked, gesturing toward the line of brand-new white vans parked in front of their expanded facility.

Rick nodded, running his hand along the side of the nearest vehicle. "Still can't believe it."

The transformation had been overwhelming. What started as a few supportive phone calls from neighbors had turned into an avalanche of contract offers. Everyone in the county, it seemed, wanted the Renzo brothers to work on their projects. The local news coverage of their ordeal had made them reluctant celebrities.

"The Martinez house foundation starts Monday," Ray said, consulting his tablet. "Then we've got the Johnson renovation, the new Barnes deck, and that commercial job downtown."

"Ten crews," Rick shook his head in amazement. "Remember when it was just you and me arguing over who carried the concrete?"

Their new employees—experienced contractors they'd carefully vetted—were already arriving for the morning briefing. Each crew had their own van, their own tools, their own GPS tracking system that headquarters monitored closely.

Never again, Rick thought, watching the GPS monitors in their new office. We'll always know where everyone is.

Mrs. Patterson from down the street walked over, carrying a plate of homemade cookies.

"For our local heroes," she said, beaming at them. "My Harold says you boys are the toughest contractors in three counties."

Ray accepted the cookies graciously, though Rick saw him glance toward the office door—still uncomfortable with the attention.

"We're just glad to be back to work, Mrs. Patterson," Rick said.

As she walked away, Ray pulled out his phone and showed Rick the screen. "Seventeen new contract requests came in yesterday. We're booked solid through Christmas."

Rick looked at the thriving business around them—the new vans, the bustling office, the crew leaders getting their assignments. All of it built on the foundation of three nights of hell they'd somehow survived.

"You know what the strangest part is?" Rick said.

"What's that?"

"I actually missed the work. Even after everything, I missed getting my hands dirty, building something."

Ray smiled—the first genuine smile Rick had seen from his brother since the rescue. "Yeah, me too. Though I could do without the rope for a while."

They both laughed, and for the first time in a month, it didn't hurt.

The Renzo Brothers were back in business.