Mistaken Identity

 

Chapter 1

Ryan Benson (22) leaned against the door of the abandoned ranch house they had brought him to. He had stripped to the waist, removed the belt from his jeans, emptied his pockets, and removed his work boots and socks. "So what's next, you tie me up?"

"That's right Benson, nice and tight. Now, turn around and put your arms behind your back."

Ryan turned and his muscular torso faced the door. He put his arms behind his back and two persons grabbed his hairy forearms and pushed them together while a third roped his wrists and elbows together, cinching the rope tight against his skin.

"Come on, not so tight! This fuckin' hurts. You want to torture me?" A laugh came from the three men and sent a shiver down Ryan's spine.

"Turn around."

Ryan shuffled around, his shoulders already aching from the unnatural position. One of them held up a dirty bandana.

"No, wait—what are you—"

The blindfold was yanked tight across his eyes, plunging him into darkness. His breathing quickened.

"Where's our money, Ryan?"

"What money? I don't know what you're talking about!" His voice cracked slightly.

A sharp slap across his face made his head snap to the side. "Don't lie to us. Three million dollars. Where is it?"

"Three million? Are you insane? I work construction! I don't have that kind of money!" Ryan's voice rose in panic.

Another slap, harder this time. "You cleaned out our accounts. Every penny."

"I didn't clean out anything! I don't even know who you are!" Ryan pulled against the ropes, feeling them bite deeper into his wrists. "Please, there's been some mistake—"

"The only mistake was trusting you." A fist connected with his stomach, doubling him over as much as the ropes would allow.

Ryan gasped for air. "Please... please just listen to me. I work for Morrison Construction. I make thirty-eight thousand a year. Check my bank account—I've got maybe eight hundred bucks!"

"Nice try. We know all about your little game."

"What game? I don't know what you're talking about!" Tears of frustration mixed with fear began soaking into the blindfold. "Please, I'm begging you. There's been a mistake. I'm not whoever you think I am!"

The silence stretched long enough that Ryan thought maybe—just maybe—they were starting to believe him. Then another voice spoke, cold and certain.

"He's good. Real good. But we're not buying it, Ryan. You're going to tell us where our money is."

Chapter 2

"Get him on his knees."

Ryan felt rough hands grab his shoulders, forcing him down onto the cold concrete floor. His knees hit hard, sending a jolt of pain through his legs.

"What are you doing? Please, I'm telling you the truth!"

"Hold still." More rope appeared. They wrapped it around his chest and shoulders, pinning his arms even tighter against his back. Then they bound his ankles together, the rope biting into his bare skin.

"Jesus Christ, please! I can barely breathe!"

They yanked his bound arms higher behind his back, pulling his elbows together until his shoulders burned. One of them grabbed a fistful of his hair, forcing his head back.

"Three million dollars, Ryan. That's all we want to hear."

"I don't have it! I swear to God, I don't have it!" His voice broke as he struggled against the layers of rope. The concrete was already cutting into his knees. "Please, my shoulders... I can't... this is killing me!"

"Tell us where the money is and the pain stops."

Sweat poured down Ryan's face as he fought to keep his balance. His knees ached against the rough floor, and every movement sent fire through his shoulders and arms. "I work construction! I drive a fifteen-year-old pickup truck! Look at my apartment, look at my bank account!"

"We did look, Ryan. All those offshore accounts. Very clever."

"What offshore accounts? I don't even have a passport!" His voice cracked into a sob. "Please, I'm begging you, there's been a mistake!"

One of them stepped closer. Ryan could hear the scrape of something being dragged across the floor.

"You feel that?" Cold metal pressed against his temple. "This is your last chance, Ryan. Where. Is. Our. Money."

"I DON'T KNOW!" Ryan screamed, his voice raw. "I DON'T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT YOUR MONEY! PLEASE, I'M BEGGING YOU!"

The click of the gun's hammer being pulled back echoed in the room.

"NO! NO! PLEASE! I'M TELLING THE TRUTH! I'M TELLING THE TRUTH!" Ryan's words dissolved into incoherent sobs. "Don't kill me, please don't kill me! I'll do anything! I'll help you find whoever took it, just please don't kill me!"

The gun stayed pressed to his head for what felt like an eternity. Ryan's entire body shook as he sobbed, his weight shifting painfully on his knees.

The gunshot exploded next to his ear. Ryan's scream tore through the air as plaster rained down from the wall behind him. His ears rang, and he couldn't tell if the wetness on his face was tears, sweat, or blood.

"PLEASE! PLEASE! I'M TELLING THE TRUTH! I'M TELLING THE TRUTH!" He was hyperventilating now, his chest heaving against the tight ropes.

"He's either the best actor in the world," one voice said, "or..."

"Or nothing. Tighten the ropes. We're just getting started."

Ryan felt the rope around his wrists being pulled tighter, cutting off more circulation. His hands were going numb. "Please... please, I can't feel my hands anymore. Please..."

But no one was listening.

Chapter 3

"Bring the knife."

Ryan's blood ran cold at the words. He heard footsteps, then the sound of metal being unsheathed.

"No, no, no... please, don't cut me! I'm telling you the truth!"

"We'll see about that." The cold blade touched his chest, just above his heart. "You feel that, Ryan? One little slip and this is over."

Ryan's breathing became shallow, rapid. "Please... I swear on my mother's grave, I don't know anything about your money!"

The knife moved slowly across his skin, not quite cutting but leaving a thin red line. Ryan whimpered, his body trembling uncontrollably.

"Still nothing to say?"

"I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT FROM ME!" His voice cracked into a sob.

The blade pressed deeper, opening a thin cut across his chest. Ryan screamed, his back arching as much as the ropes would allow.

"That's just the beginning, Ryan. We've got all day."

More cuts followed—shallow slices across his abs, small nicks on his arms. Each one drew fresh screams and pleas.

"Please, I'm begging you! Stop! I'll do anything!"

"Tell us where the money is."

"I CAN'T! I DON'T HAVE ANY MONEY! PLEASE!"

One of them grabbed a fistful of his hair. "Maybe we should clean you up first."

The knife moved to his scalp. Ryan felt chunks of his hair being sawed off, falling to the floor around him.

"NO! Please, not my hair! Please!"

They moved to his forearms, the blade scraping against his skin as they cut away the dark hair. Ryan sobbed, his body shaking with each rough stroke.

"You're going to tell us eventually, Ryan. We can do this all day. All week if we have to."

"I don't know anything! I'm just a construction worker! Please, I'm telling you the truth!"

The knife returned to his chest, tracing new patterns across his skin. Ryan's screams echoed off the walls of the abandoned house.

"Please... please, I can't take anymore. I'm telling you the truth. I'm telling you the truth..."

His voice was barely a whisper now, broken and raw. Then something inside him snapped.

"I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T KNOW! I DON'T KNOW!" The words came out as inhuman shrieks, his voice cracking and breaking. "I'M NOT HIM! I'M NOT HIM! I DON'T KNOW WHO YOU WANT BUT IT'S NOT ME!"

His screams became wordless, animalistic sounds of pure terror and desperation. His body convulsed against the ropes as he shrieked until his voice gave out entirely.

The silence that followed was broken only by his ragged breathing. Then even that stopped as Ryan's head slumped forward, unconscious.

Chapter 4

Ryan remained unconscious, his head slumped forward, blood from the cuts on his chest slowly congealing in the cool air of the abandoned house.

"Look at this," one voice said, rustling through papers. "Ryan Michael Benson, born April 15th, 2001. Morrison Construction, two years employed."

"Check the address."

"1247 Oak Street, Apartment 3B. Shit, I drove past that building yesterday. It's a dump."

"Bank records show his last deposit was $847.32 from Morrison Construction. Before that, $823.15 two weeks ago."

"That's it?"

"That's it. No offshore accounts. No shell companies. Nothing."

One of them walked over and lifted Ryan's head by his hair. His face was slack, breathing shallow but steady.

"We found your wallet. Your real wallet. Driver's license, construction union card, pictures of your family." He let Ryan's head drop back down. "Jesus Christ, he was telling the truth."

The silence stretched on.

"So what do we do with him now?"

"We can't just let him go. He's seen our faces, heard our voices."

"But he's not our guy. The real Ryan—whoever the hell he is—he's probably long gone with our money."

"Doesn't matter. He knows too much."

More rope appeared. They wrapped it around his unconscious form, pulling his arms even tighter against his back. Then around his thighs, binding them to his calves until he was completely immobilized.

"We're not going to kill him. But we're not going to make it easy for him either."

They checked every knot, every binding, ensuring nothing could work loose. Ryan was trussed up like a package, unable to move anything except his fingers.

"Someone will find you. Maybe."

Footsteps moved toward the door. The door slammed shut. An engine started outside, then faded into the distance.

Ryan remained unconscious, alone in the darkness, bound and abandoned in an empty house.

Chapter 5

Ryan's consciousness returned slowly, like swimming up from the bottom of a dark pool. The first thing he noticed was the pain—everywhere. His shoulders, his chest, his knees. But there was something else. Something different.

More rope. Much more rope.

His arms weren't just tied behind his back anymore. They were welded there, wrapped in what felt like layers of rope from his wrists to his elbows. His legs were folded back, his ankles bound to his thighs. He could barely move an inch in any direction.

And his mouth... there was something in his mouth. Not the blindfold. Something else. A gag. But he could see.

The blindfold was gone.

Ryan blinked in the dim light filtering through a broken window. The abandoned ranch house looked even more decrepit than he'd imagined. Rotting floorboards, peeling wallpaper, debris scattered everywhere.

He looked down at himself and nearly retched. His chest and stomach were a bloody mess—dozens of cuts crisscrossed his torso, the dried blood mixed with sweat and dirt from the filthy floor. The wounds had crusted over in places, but others still wept slowly. His body hair, what remained of it, was matted with blood and grime.

And there, spread across the floor near his feet, were the contents of his wallet. His driver's license. His construction union card. His bank card. Family photos. Everything that proved he was exactly who he said he was.

They knew. They finally knew he was telling the truth.

But they'd left him anyway.

Ryan's eyes swept the room desperately. There—on a table across the room, maybe fifteen feet away—his cell phone. The screen was cracked but it looked intact.

Fifteen feet might as well have been fifteen miles.

He tested his bonds. The rope around his torso was impossibly tight, pinning his arms against his back. His legs were completely immobilized, folded and bound in a way that made any movement agonizing.

But he had to try.

Ryan began to rock, trying to shift his weight. The movement sent lightning bolts of pain through his shoulders and legs, but he kept going. Inch by inch, he worked his way across the rough floorboards. The rope cut into his skin with every movement, and splinters from the floor tore at his bare chest.

Hours passed. The sun moved across the sky, changing the angle of light through the broken window. Ryan's progress was measured in feet, then inches, then fractions of inches.

The gag was killing him. His mouth was dry as sand, his jaw aching from being forced open. But every time he tried to work it loose, the rope around his head tightened.

By the time he'd covered half the distance to the table, his body was screaming. Blood from his cuts had dried and cracked, reopening with each movement. His shoulders felt like they were on fire.

But he kept going.

The gag came loose first, after what felt like hours of working his jaw and tongue against the knots. Ryan gasped, his voice nothing more than a croak.

"Help... somebody... please..."

But his voice was too weak, and he was in the middle of nowhere.

The phone was still five feet away. Five feet that might as well have been five miles.

Ryan looked at the device, its cracked screen reflecting the fading daylight, and steeled himself for the final push toward what might be his only chance at survival.

Chapter 6

Ryan's bloody fingers finally closed around the cracked phone. He couldn't see the screen from his position, but he could feel the emergency button. His numb fingers found it and pressed.

The phone rang. One ring. Two rings.

"911, what's your emergency?"

"Help me," Ryan croaked, his voice barely recognizable. "I've been kidnapped... tortured... I'm tied up in an abandoned house..."

"Sir, can you tell me your location?"

"I don't know! Somewhere... somewhere outside the city. Ranch house. Old, falling apart..."

"Okay, stay calm. I'm getting a GPS lock on your signal. Are you injured?"

Ryan looked down at his bloody, cut-up torso. "Yes... badly. They cut me up, tied me with ropes... I can barely move..."

"Help is on the way. Can you tell me about your captors?"

"Three men... they thought I stole money from them... three million dollars... but it wasn't me, they had the wrong person..."

"Sir, I need you to stay on the line. I have units en route to your location. Are you still restrained?"

"Yes, ropes everywhere... I can't move my arms or legs... they left me here to die..."

"You're going to be okay. I've got your location locked. Emergency services are approximately eight minutes out."

The line went dead.

"Hello? HELLO?" Ryan screamed at the silent device.

Terror flooded through him. The phone was dead. Had they gotten enough information? Did they really have his location? Eight minutes—but when had that countdown started?

In desperation, Ryan smashed the phone against the floor. The screen shattered completely, leaving sharp fragments of glass scattered around him.

One piece was particularly sharp and long. Ryan maneuvered his body until he could grab it with his fingertips. The glass cut into his fingers, but he managed to angle it against the rope around his wrists.

He sawed frantically, the glass cutting through both rope and skin. Blood mixed with the existing wounds, but slowly, strand by strand, the rope began to give way.

After what felt like an eternity, his arms suddenly broke free. Ryan gasped as circulation returned to his hands. He looked at his forearms in horror—raw, bloody patches where they'd scraped away his hair and skin with the knife. The wounds were infected and oozing.

But he was free.

Ryan worked frantically to untie his legs when he heard it—the distant sound of engines. Multiple vehicles approaching fast.

"POLICE! SEARCH WARRANT!"

The front door exploded inward. SWAT officers in full tactical gear poured into the house, weapons drawn.

"HERE! I'M HERE!" Ryan screamed, his voice breaking.

The first officer to reach him immediately lowered his weapon. "Jesus Christ. Medic! MEDIC!"

Ryan collapsed, sobbing with relief as the SWAT team secured the house and paramedics rushed to his side.

He was alive. Barely, but alive.

Chapter 7

Three weeks later, Ryan sat in the passenger seat of his father's pickup truck, his left arm still in a sling and bandages visible beneath his shirt collar. The physical wounds were healing, but the nightmares came every night. Still, today felt different. Today felt like a beginning.

His mother sat between him and his father, while his brothers Jake and Tommy rode in the back. They turned up the driveway to Morrison Construction headquarters, and the smell of barbecue smoke immediately hit them through the open windows.

"HOLY SHIT!" his younger brother Tommy shouted from the truck bed.

"Tommy!" his mother scolded, but her voice trailed off as she saw what he was looking at.

The entire back lot was transformed. A massive hand-painted sign stretched across the building: "WELCOME BACK TO WORK, RYAN!" Twenty-five workers and their families filled the space—wives, kids running around, everyone holding red Solo cups. Three enormous grills were going full blast, loaded with brisket, ribs, sausages, and burgers. The smell of barbecue smoke floated heavy in the air, mixing with the sounds of laughter and country music.

"My God," Ryan's mother whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Look at all these people..."

"We thought it would just be a few guys from your crew," his father said, his voice thick with emotion as he parked the truck.

Before Ryan could even get out, his coworkers surrounded the vehicle. Mike, Jimmy, and three other guys carefully helped him down from the passenger seat.

"SURPRISE!" the entire crowd erupted.

"No way we're letting you walk, kid," Mike grinned. "You're riding in style."

Before Ryan could protest, four of his strongest coworkers hoisted him up onto their shoulders. The crowd cheered as they carried him across the lot, past the smoking grills where the rich smell of barbecue filled the air, straight to the beer kegs.

Mike filled a red Solo cup to the brim and handed it to Ryan. "Here's to surviving, kid!"

"To Ryan!" the crowd shouted.

Ryan tilted the cup back and downed the entire beer in one go. The crowd erupted in cheers and applause as foam dripped down his chin.

Ryan's family followed behind, still in shock. Over by the fence, kids had set up an improvised baseball game with a plastic bat and tennis ball. Ryan's 8-year-old brother was already at the plate, connecting with a solid hit that sent the ball flying toward the grills. Wives were hugging Ryan's mother. The whole Morrison Construction family was there, plus neighbors, friends, extended family members Ryan hadn't seen in years.

Mr. Morrison stepped up onto a folding chair and raised his hands. "Ladies and gentlemen, if I could have your attention please!"

The crowd gradually quieted down. Someone turned off the music.

"Before we get this celebration started proper, I'd like us to begin as we always do." He gestured toward the American flag hanging from the building. "If everyone would face our flag for the Pledge of Allegiance."

The entire crowd turned toward the flag, hands over hearts, kids stopping their games. Ryan felt his father's hand on his shoulder as they recited the pledge together.

"I pledge allegiance to the flag of the United States of America, and to the republic for which it stands, one nation under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all."

A cheer erupted from the crowd. "USA! USA! USA!"

Ryan felt a tear roll down his cheek. Three weeks ago, he'd been tortured and left to die. Now he was surrounded by his community, his flag, his people. This was what he'd fought to survive for.

"Now, Pastor Williams from First Baptist has agreed to say a blessing over our meal and our celebration."

A gray-haired man in a polo shirt stepped forward. "Lord, we thank you for bringing Ryan home safely to us. We thank you for the bonds of friendship and community that sustain us through our darkest hours. Bless this food, bless this gathering, and bless this young man who has shown us all what true courage looks like. In Jesus' name, amen."

"Amen," the crowd responded.

Mr. Morrison stepped forward, holding an envelope. "Ryan, son, after what you've been through, my family and I wanted you to know we stand behind you completely." He pressed the envelope into Ryan's good hand. "This is from the Morrison family personally. Consider it a bonus for your courage."

Ryan opened the envelope with shaking fingers. The check was for $15,000.

Ryan's mother broke down completely, sobbing into his father's chest. Jake put his arm around Ryan's shoulders. "Jesus, little brother. Look what you mean to these people."

"I... I don't know what to say," Ryan whispered, looking around at the crowd.

"You don't have to say anything," his father said, his own voice breaking. "Just keep being our boy."

Mr. Morrison clapped his hands. "Now let's eat! Music, food, beer, and a good time for everyone!"

The music kicked back up, kids resumed their baseball game, and the smell of barbecue filled the air as people lined up at the grills. For the first time in weeks, Ryan smiled. A real smile.

He was home. Really home.