The torture chair

 

Chapter 1

They brought 22-year-old Ray Renzo down to the basement. Bare-chested, sweat trickling down his muscular pecs, abs and arms, he saw the 4-rung ladder back sturdy wooden chair.

Fuck. I'm going to be tied to that chair! he thought. Little did he realize then not only would he be tied to it with ropes and unable to move an inch, it would be his torture chair for ransom.

"Sit down," the masked man ordered, shoving him toward the chair.

Ray's eyes darted around the basement, looking for any escape route, but two more men flanked him. He had no choice but to lower himself onto the wooden seat.

They started with his neck, wrapping rope around his throat and the top rung. "Hey, that's too tight," Ray protested, his voice strained.

Slap.

The backhand caught him across the cheek, snapping his head to the side.

"Shut up," one of them growled.

They moved to his chest, binding his pecs to the second rung. The rope bit into his skin. "Come on, guys, why are you doing this? What do you want?"

Next came his gut, rope securing it to the third rung. Ray winced. "Not so tight, man. It hurts."

Slap. Harder this time.

They wrapped another rope around his stomach, binding it tight to the fourth rung. The systematic restraint was methodical, deliberate.

His legs came next. They forced his ankles apart, tying each one to the front legs of the chair with brutal efficiency. Ray could feel the rope biting into his skin as they yanked his knees together, binding them tight. His powerful thighs were pressed against the seat and secured with multiple wraps of rope that cut deep into the muscle. Every attempt to shift his legs was met with unyielding restraint.

Then they moved behind him. His arms were yanked back, wrists crossed and bound. But they weren't done.

They wrapped rope around his massive biceps, cinching it tight against the sides of the chair. Ray could feel the circulation being cut off immediately - his arm hair standing on end as the blood flow was restricted. His veins began to pop and bulge against his skin.

"That's cutting off the blood!" Ray gasped. "You're gonna--"

Then they pushed his bound wrists up high behind his back.

Ray let out a brutal scream of pure agony. The position forced his shoulders into an impossible angle, his biceps straining and bulging against the ropes that held them. The muscles looked like they might burst from the pressure, veins standing out like cords against his skin.

"PLEASE!" he gasped, panic finally breaking through. "Please, this hurts! Loosen the ropes! I can't... please don't hurt me!"

The begging poured out of him now, all pretense of toughness gone. "Please, I'll do whatever you want! Just loosen them! Please!"

Ray tested every rope, every knot, trying desperately to find any give. His legs were completely immobilized, thighs pressed flat against the seat. His arms were useless, biceps trapped and circulation cut off. He couldn't move an inch - not his torso bound to all four rungs, not his legs spread and secured, not his arms twisted behind him.

One of the men cut a piece from Ray's discarded shirt. Before Ray could protest further, they shoved the fabric deep into his mouth and secured it with rope, gagging him completely.

Ray's desperate pleas were reduced to muffled sounds behind the gag. His chest heaved as he realized the full extent of his helplessness.

He couldn't move. At all.

Chapter 2

One of the masked men pulled out a phone and positioned it on a makeshift stand, angling it toward the chair. Ray's heart pounded as he realized what was coming.

They're going to call Dad. They're going to make him see me like this.

The phone rang twice before a familiar gravelly voice answered. "Hello?"

"Mr. Renzo," the masked man said, his voice electronically distorted. "We have your son."

The camera showed Ray in full view - bound to every rung of the chair, his muscular frame completely restrained, sweat glistening on his bare chest and trickling down his abs. His biceps bulged against the tight ropes, and thin streams of blood had begun to seep where the circulation was cut off.

"Ray!" The anguish in his father's voice was unmistakable. "Oh God, Ray!"

Ray tried to stay strong, tried to project defiance through his eyes above the gag. Don't let them see you broken. Don't let Dad see you broken.

"We want five million dollars," the kidnapper continued. "You have twenty-four hours."

"Please," his father's voice cracked. "Please don't hurt him. I'll get you the money, I just need time to—"

The masked man pulled out a knife, the blade catching the dim basement light. He held it up so the camera could see it clearly, then slowly brought it down to Ray's chest.

Ray's eyes went wide with terror as the cold steel touched his sweat-slicked skin. The knife traced lazy patterns across his pecs, down his abs, the point just barely grazing him.

No no no no no...

"Your son is very... fit," the kidnapper said, pressing the knife point slightly into Ray's skin. "It would be a shame to damage such a perfect body."

Ray lost it completely. His muffled screams of terror filled the basement as he thrashed uselessly against his bonds. Tears streamed down his face as he sobbed into the gag, his whole body shaking with fear.

"Stop!" his father shouted. "I'll get you the money! I'll get it!"

"Twenty-four hours," the kidnapper repeated, pulling the knife away. "No police, or your son dies."

The call ended.

Ray continued sobbing, his chest heaving with panicked breaths. The tough rancher's son was gone, replaced by a terrified young man who had just broken completely in front of his family.

"We'll be back in twelve hours," one of the kidnappers said, heading for the stairs. "Think about what's coming next."

The basement door slammed shut, leaving Ray alone in the darkness with his terror and his imagination.

Chapter 3

Twenty minutes after the call ended, both of Ray's brothers sat in their father's study, faces grim. Marcus, the eldest at 28, paced behind the leather couch. Jake, 25, sat forward with his hands clasped, still processing what they'd just watched on the replay.

"Jesus Christ," Jake whispered. "Did you see his face when that knife touched him?"

"He broke," Marcus said quietly. "Ray fucking broke."

Their father, Thomas Renzo, stared at his phone screen, the image of his bound, terrified son burned into his memory. "Five million. I can get it, but it'll take time to liquidate that much—"

"Dad, wait," Marcus interrupted. "His phone. When they grabbed him from the north pasture, where's his phone?"

"What do you mean?"

"I tried calling him after he didn't show up for dinner. It rang but went to voicemail. If it was destroyed, wouldn't it go straight to dead? It's still on somewhere."

Jake's head snapped up. "You think they still have it with them?"

"Maybe. Or maybe it's still in his truck, or..." Marcus grabbed his father's shoulder. "Dad, if that phone is with him, the FBI can track it."

Thomas looked between his sons. "They said no police."

"They said no police before they fucking tortured him on camera," Marcus shot back. "You saw what they did to him. They're not letting him go even if we pay."

Jake stood up. "Dad, we call the FBI. Now. Let them trace the phone while we get the money ready."

Thomas was quiet for a long moment, then reached for his landline. "FBI field office. This is Thomas Renzo. My son has been kidnapped."

Two hours later, the ranch house swarmed with federal agents. Special Agent David Chen set up command in the dining room, his team working on trying to locate Ray's phone signal.

"Gunnery Sergeant Tom Renzo," Agent Chen said, extending his hand. "Staff Sergeant David Chen, Second Battalion. I served with you in Fallujah."

Thomas gripped his hand. "Dave. Jesus, I remember you. You saved my ass in that marketplace firefight."

"Now it's my turn to help save your son, Gunny." Chen's expression was grim. "We're trying to ping his phone, but so far nothing. If we can get a signal, we'll need at least ten to twelve hours to get the tactical equipment together and set up a proper rescue operation."

"What if you can't find the phone?" Thomas asked, his voice starting to crack.

"Then we wait for the next contact and hope we can trace the call."

The weight of it all suddenly hit Thomas. The image of Ray bound to that chair, the terror in his son's eyes, the knife against his chest. His legs gave out.

Chen caught him as he collapsed, pulling the older Marine into his arms. Thomas broke down completely, his body shaking with sobs.

"Please, Dave," Thomas wept into his shoulder. "Please find my boy. They're going to kill him. Please..."

"Hey, Gunny. Hey." Chen held him steady. "We're going to bring him home. I promise you. Semper Fi, brother. We leave no one behind."

Thomas pulled back, wiping his eyes. "Semper Fi."

Marcus stepped forward. "Agent Chen, if you find him, we're going with you."

"Dave," Chen corrected. "And that's not standard protocol—"

"That's our brother in there," Jake interrupted. "And we know this area better than anyone. You're going to need us."

Chen looked at the three determined faces, then nodded. "Okay, Tom. Your boys can come. But you follow my lead completely. No heroics."

The clock on the wall read 11:47 PM. If they could find Ray's location, they'd need every one of those twelve hours to mount a rescue.

Thomas stared out the window toward the dark horizon where his son was trapped, bound and terrified.

Hold on, Ray. We're coming.

Chapter 4

Ray sat bound in the darkness, every muscle screaming from the restraints. The silence was deafening. His mind raced.

They said they'd be back. What are they going to do to me?

His imagination began to spiral.

He pictured them returning with a blowtorch, the blue flame hissing in the dim light. They'd start with his toes, he thought, letting the flame lick at each one while he screamed into the gag. The pain would be excruciating, but they'd move slowly - up his shins, around his kneecaps, along his bound thighs. His skin would blister and peel while he thrashed uselessly against the ropes, the smell of his own burning flesh filling his nostrils.

They'll watch me cry. Watch me break. They'll laugh when I piss myself from the pain.

He could feel the imaginary heat crawling up his legs, could picture his muscles convulsing against the restraints as the flame reached his groin. Then they'd hold the torch directly against his balls, watching him convulse in agony as his most sensitive parts burned. His biceps would strain and bulge as he tried desperately to escape, but the ropes would hold him perfectly still for the torture.

I'm going to scream until my throat bleeds. And they'll keep going.

The fantasy shifted to something even worse. Now they had the ranch branding irons, red-hot from the forge. Ray knew exactly how they seared through cowhide, had smelled that acrid smoke countless times. But now he imagined them pulling the gag from his mouth just long enough to press the burning iron against his tongue, listening to him shriek as the metal destroyed his ability to speak.

They'll brand my face. Mark me forever.

He could picture the searing iron pressed against his cheeks, the "R" for Renzo burning into his skin while he sobbed. Then they'd move to his chest, the red-hot metal scorching his nipples as he thrashed against the restraints, the smell of his own flesh cooking filling the basement.

Dad will see the brands. Know what they did to me.

He imagined them taking turns, one holding the iron while another filmed his agony for his family to see. His body would convulse so violently against the restraints that the ropes would cut deeper, drawing blood from his wrists and biceps.

They'll mark every part of me. Turn me into their property.

But the worst fantasy consumed him entirely. They'd return with sharp knives and bolt cutters, the kind used for fence work on the ranch. Ray had seen how easily they cut through thick wire, knew how sharp those blades were.

No. Oh God, no. They wouldn't. They can't.

But his mind painted the horror in vivid detail. They'd position the camera so his family could see everything. They'd start with his ears, slicing them off while he screamed into the gag, completely helpless to protect himself. The blood would stream down his neck as they held up the severed flesh for the camera.

They'll send pieces of me to Dad. Prove they mean business.

Then they'd move to his fingers. He imagined the bolt cutters positioned around his index finger, the metal jaws closing slowly while he thrashed against his bonds. The sickening crunch of bone, the spray of blood, his muffled screams of agony echoing through the basement.

They'll take them one by one. Make me watch. Make Dad watch.

His powerful body, all that strength and muscle, utterly useless as they mutilated him piece by piece. They'd move methodically - finger after finger, sending each one to his family as proof of their seriousness.

I'll never be able to work the ranch again. Never be able to do anything.

Ray's breathing became rapid and shallow. Tears streamed down his face as the fantasy played out in excruciating detail - the pain, the blood, the permanent damage they could inflict on his bound, defenseless body.

I'm never getting out of here. They're going to torture me until I die.

The thought shattered what remained of his composure. Ray began sobbing uncontrollably into the gag, his whole body shaking with terror. Every shadow in the basement looked like a torturer returning. Every sound made him flinch against his restraints.

I can't take it. I can't. Please God, let me die before they come back.

His mind cycled through the fantasies again and again, each iteration more detailed and horrific. The blowtorch burning his balls. The branding iron searing his tongue and face. The knives and cutters taking pieces of him while his family watched.

I'm already broken. There's nothing left of me.

Ray's sobs turned to hyperventilation. His vision blurred. The tough rancher's son was completely gone, replaced by a terrified animal waiting for slaughter, bound helplessly to a chair in the darkness.

They're going to hurt me. They're going to hurt me so bad.

The mental breakdown was complete. Ray had tortured himself more thoroughly than his captors ever could, his own imagination becoming his cruelest enemy.

Chapter 5

Agent Chen crouched behind the abandoned warehouse, his tactical team positioned around the perimeter. The phone ping had led them here - a derelict industrial complex forty miles south of the ranch.

"Heat signatures show four individuals inside," the tech specialist whispered through his earpiece. "Three mobile, one stationary."

Thomas Renzo gripped his rifle, flanked by Marcus and Jake. All three had insisted on being part of the breach team.

"Remember," Chen whispered, "we go in fast and hard. Your boy's been through hell - he's going to be in shock."

Through the grimy basement windows, they could see movement. Masked figures descending stairs, carrying equipment.

---

Ray heard the footsteps on the basement stairs. His body went rigid with terror.

They're back. Oh God, they're back.

Three masked men entered, one carrying a video camera, another with a large knife that gleamed in the dim light.

"Time for the real show," one of them said, setting up the camera. "Let's see how much Daddy loves his boy."

The man with the knife approached Ray's chair. Ray's muffled screams of terror filled the basement as he thrashed uselessly against his bonds.

No no no no no please no...

The blade touched his chest, just above his left nipple. A thin line of blood appeared as the kidnapper pressed slightly.

"This is going to hurt," the man whispered.

The knife began to cut deeper.

---

"GO GO GO!"

The warehouse door exploded inward. Chen's team flooded through the main entrance while Thomas and his sons breached the basement access.

Gunfire erupted. The kidnappers, caught completely off guard, reached for weapons but never had a chance.

Thomas put two rounds center mass in the man holding the knife. Marcus dropped the cameraman with a headshot. Jake and Chen finished the third before he could draw his pistol.

The basement fell silent except for Ray's muffled, hysterical sobbing.

"Jesus Christ," Marcus whispered, seeing his brother bound to the chair.

Ray's eyes were wild with terror, not recognizing them through his panic. Blood trickled from the fresh cut on his chest. His biceps were purple from the circulation being cut off, rope burns raw around his wrists and ankles.

"Ray, it's us," Thomas said gently, approaching slowly. "You're safe now. We're here."

But Ray only screamed louder into the gag, thrashing against the restraints in pure terror.

"He doesn't recognize us," Jake said, his voice breaking. "He's completely gone."

Marcus pulled out his knife and began cutting the gag first. The moment the fabric came free, Ray's screams filled the basement - raw, primal sounds of absolute terror.

"PLEASE DON'T HURT ME! PLEASE! I'LL DO ANYTHING! DON'T HURT ME!"

"Ray, look at me," Thomas said, tears streaming down his face. "It's Dad. You're safe."

But Ray couldn't hear him through his panic. His brothers worked methodically, cutting each rope with infinite care while Ray sobbed and begged.

"Please don't cut me please don't hurt me please please please..."

When they freed his arms, Ray collapsed forward, unable to support himself. His shoulders had been dislocated from the restraint position. Jake caught him as he fell.

"I've got you, brother," Jake whispered. "I've got you."

Marcus cut the last of the leg restraints while Thomas called for the medivac helicopter. Ray curled into a fetal position on the basement floor, shaking uncontrollably.

"They were going to hurt me," Ray sobbed. "They were going to hurt me so bad."

"Nobody's going to hurt you ever again," Thomas promised, gathering his broken son in his arms. "Never again."

The helicopter arrived within minutes, but Ray screamed in terror at every new sound, every new face. It took both brothers holding him down just to get him onto the stretcher.

As they lifted off toward the trauma center, Ray finally passed out from exhaustion, his body and mind unable to take any more.

He was alive, but the tough rancher's son was gone. What remained would take a very long time to heal.

Chapter 6

Three months later, Ray still jumped at every unexpected sound. The slam of a truck door. A dog barking. Even the wind rattling the windows of the ranch house.

His brothers had reorganized their lives around his recovery. Marcus moved back into the main house, sleeping in the room next to Ray's. Jake took over most of the ranch operations, checking on Ray between morning and evening chores.

"You don't have to watch me every second," Ray said one afternoon, finding Marcus reading on the porch while Ray tried to fix a broken fence post nearby.

"I'm not watching you," Marcus lied. "I just like reading outside."

Ray managed a weak smile. It was the first one his family had seen in weeks.

The nightmares came every night for the first month. Ray would wake up screaming, convinced he was still tied to that chair. His father or brothers would find him curled in the corner of his room, shaking and soaked in sweat.

"They're coming back," Ray would whisper. "They're going to hurt me."

"Nobody's coming," Thomas would say, sitting with his son until dawn. "You're safe. We're all here."

Dr. Sarah Williams, the trauma counselor, visited twice a week. She was patient, never pushing, letting Ray talk when he was ready.

"Healing isn't linear," she explained to the family. "Some days will be better than others. The important thing is that he knows he's not alone."

By the second month, Ray could sit on the front porch without constantly checking over his shoulder. He started helping with small tasks - sorting ranch paperwork, organizing tools in the barn. Always with one of his brothers nearby.

The physical wounds had healed quickly. The rope burns faded to thin white scars around his wrists. The knife cut on his chest became just another mark among the various scars he'd collected over years of ranch work.

But the invisible wounds ran deeper.

Ray flinched when anyone approached from behind. He couldn't tolerate having his hands restrained in any way - even putting on a heavy winter coat made him panic. The sound of rope being uncoiled sent him into flashbacks.

"I used to be strong," Ray said one evening, sitting with Jake on the porch. "Now I'm afraid of my own shadow."

"You're still strong," Jake replied. "You survived something that would have broken most people. You're still here, still fighting. That's strength."

Gradually, the good days began to outnumber the bad ones. Ray started joining his brothers for meals more often. He laughed at Marcus's terrible jokes. He even helped his father with the ranch's financial planning.

One morning in late spring, Ray walked into the kitchen where his family was having coffee. The sun was streaming through the windows, and for the first time in months, his shoulders weren't hunched in defensive tension.

"Morning," he said, pouring himself a cup.

His brothers exchanged glances. Ray sounded... normal.

"Sleep okay?" Thomas asked carefully.

"Actually, yeah." Ray took a sip of coffee and looked out at the pastures where cattle were grazing peacefully. "You know what?"

The family held their breath.

Ray straightened his shoulders, and for a moment, they glimpsed the confident young man he used to be.

"I think it's time I get back to work."