Jake's desperate phone call.
"Pop, I've
been kidnapped. They're going to
tie me up. They tell me if you don't do as they say they plan to torture me!"
Jake's wrists burned as the rope bit deeper with each twist. One of the men—the taller one with the scar—yanked his arms behind his back and up toward his shoulder blades. The pain shot through him like electricity.
"Please," Jake gasped. "I can't—"
"Shut up." The man with the beard held Jake's phone at arm's length. "Look scared, rich boy."
Jake didn't need to act. His shoulders felt like they were being wrenched from their sockets. Tears blurred his vision.
Click.
"Perfect." Beard-man examined the photo, nodding. "Your old man needs motivation. Let's send him a little preview of what happens if he's late."
The tall one pulled Jake's arms higher. "Next photo's gonna make daddy cry."
Jake screamed as the world went white with pain.
Click.
The first photo showed Jake's wrists, bound tightly with quarter-inch hemp rope. The second captured the methodical progression—rope weaving between his forearms, forcing them together behind his back. By the third image, his elbows were drawn unnaturally close, the strain visible in his reddening skin.
Jake's father swiped through the gruesome slideshow with trembling fingers. Each image documented another step in his son's torment.
The rope work was precise, almost artistic in its cruelty. It spiraled up Jake's arms to his shoulders, limiting circulation and maximizing discomfort. Jake's biceps were forced mere inches apart, an unnatural position that strained every muscle and joint. Sweat glistened on his arms, hair matted to damp skin.
Later images showed Jake's torso encircled with rope, multiple passes compressing his chest while forcing his bound forearms against his spine. His legs hadn't been spared—thighs bound above and below the knees, ankles crossed and secured. The final, most distressing image revealed the complete stress position: legs bent back at the knee, tied to the rope between his biceps, creating an excruciating bow in his body.
The phone buzzed with a new message: "First payment in six hours or we add electricity. Clock's ticking."Jake's mind cycled between panic and a strange, detached fog. The ropes had transformed his body into a map of pain—sharp in some places, throbbing in others, and in a few spots, terrifyingly numb. Every attempt to move amplified the agony. The hemp fibers seemed alive, tightening like parasitic vines whenever he struggled.
His breath came in desperate snatches through his nose. The tape across his mouth—industrial-grade, wrapped three times around his head—sealed his lips and trapped the screams that built in his throat. Saliva pooled behind the gag, forcing him to swallow constantly or risk choking.
Time lost meaning. Minutes stretched into hours as the stress position wreaked havoc on his muscles and joints. His shoulders blazed with fire. His lower back spasmed. Every heartbeat pulsed behind his eyes. When darkness edged his vision, he almost welcomed it.
Michael Davidson stared at his phone as if it were a venomous snake. His weathered farmer's hands, usually steady even in the worst drought or financial crisis, trembled violently. The device slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the kitchen table where he'd been paying bills just hours ago, in another lifetime.
He lurched to the bathroom and vomited until nothing remained but bitter bile. Bracing himself against the sink, he avoided his reflection—he couldn't bear to see what he imagined was there: failure. Failure to protect his only child.
Back at the table, he forced himself to look at the images again. Clinical detachment was impossible; each photo was a hammer to his heart. But he needed to study them—to search for clues, to gauge Jake's condition, to understand what these monsters were capable of.
His fingers hovered over 911 on his phone, instinct urging him to summon help. But the kidnappers' warning echoed: "Police involvement signs his death warrant." He couldn't risk it. Not yet.
Michael traced the outline of Jake's face on the screen. "I'm coming, son," he whispered, his voice breaking. "Whatever it takes."
He reached for his rifle cabinet key, then paused. First, the bank. Then decisions.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Davidson, but a loan of this magnitude requires committee approval." The bank manager adjusted his glasses, his expression professionally sympathetic. "Even with the farm as collateral, we're looking at a minimum of two business days."
"I don't have two days," Michael hissed, leaning across the desk. "I need it today. This afternoon."
"May I ask what this is regarding? Perhaps there's another solution—"
Michael's fist clenched. How could he explain? "Family emergency" sounded trivial. "Life or death" would prompt questions he couldn't answer.
"It's personal," he managed. "Please."
The manager sighed. "I'll expedite the process, but regulations are regulations."
Back in his truck, Michael's trembling hands could barely type the message: "Working on it. Need more time. Please loosen the ropes on my boy. He's in pain."
The response came three minutes later. A video.
The taller kidnapper appeared on screen, smiling. "Daddy's asking for mercy." He turned the camera toward Jake, still bound in the agonizing stress position, face flushed with pain.
"Let's show Daddy what happens when payment is delayed."
A third man—one Michael hadn't seen before—stepped into frame. Built like a boxer, with hands wrapped in black tape. He held garden shears, approaching Jake with deliberate slowness.
Jake's eyes widened above the tape gag. His muffled screams penetrated the gag as the shears began cutting away his shirt, exposing his bare skin.
The boxer-built man handed the shears off-camera, then cracked his knuckles. "Your old man needs motivation," he told Jake conversationally. "Nothing personal."
The first punch drove into Jake's exposed abdomen with professional precision. Jake's body would have doubled over if not for the ropes holding him in that cruel bow. A second punch. A third. Each impact perfectly placed—sometimes to the solar plexus, sometimes lower, sometimes to the ribs.
Michael counted eleven blows before the video mercifully ended.
A text followed: "Now he knows what happens with delays. Clock reset. Six hours. Next time we use tools instead of fists."
Day One – Hour Twenty-Four
Michael's voice cracked as he pressed the phone to his ear. "I have one hundred thousand in cash. It's what I could gather immediately. Please... just release my boy. The bank committee meets tomorrow. I can get the rest then."
Silence stretched on the other end. Michael thought they'd disconnected until a new voice—deeper, calmer, clearly the leader—responded.
"A gesture of good faith," the voice mused. "Interesting proposition."
"Please," Michael begged, dignity abandoned. "You've made your point. He's just a kid."
"A hundred thousand buys some goodwill, not freedom," the leader replied. "But perhaps some... accommodation can be arranged."
Hope flickered in Michael's chest. "Anything. Name it."
"Your older son. Kyle. He'll make the delivery."
Michael froze. "How do you—"
"We know everything about your family, Mr. Davidson. Did you think we chose Jake at random?" A cold chuckle. "Kyle will come alone. No phones except the burner we'll contact him on. No tracking devices. No police. If we detect anything suspicious, we'll demonstrate our commitment."
The call disconnected before Michael could respond. Seconds later, a video message arrived.
The footage showed Jake, still bound in the stress position, head lolling forward in exhaustion. The tall kidnapper yanked Jake's head back by the hair, forcing him to face the camera. Jake's eyes were vacant, unfocused—no recognition, no fight, just raw suffering.
"Say hello to daddy," the kidnapper taunted.
Jake made a muffled sound behind the gag, but there was no message in it, no code, just animal pain.
The boxer-built man stepped into frame holding a soldering iron. Its tip glowed orange-red.
"This is to convince you we're serious about the delivery instructions," the voice behind the camera explained calmly.
The boxer placed the soldering iron less than an inch from Jake's exposed chest. Jake's eyes widened in terror as he registered what was about to happen. He thrashed against the ropes, but they held him immobile, the perfect canvas.
"One mark for each hour you've wasted."
The soldering iron descended. Jake's scream penetrated the gag, primal and devastating. Where the tool touched, skin sizzled and blackened instantly. The boxer repeated the process methodically, creating a row of perfectly spaced burn marks across Jake's chest. Five points of agony.
When it ended, Jake hung limp in his bonds, consciousness mercifully fled.
The camera panned to the taller kidnapper's face. "Kyle. Midnight. Phillips 66 on Highway 14. Alone. One wrong move and the next video will make this look like a caress."
Michael collapsed to his knees, the phone clattering to the floor. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think past the sound of his son's muffled screams. When he could finally move again, he lurched to the bathroom and vomited until nothing remained.
His hands shook violently as he dialed Kyle's number. His oldest son answered on the second ring, voice bright with the ignorance of ordinary life.
"Hey, Pop! What's up?"
"Kyle," Michael managed, his voice hollow. "Come home. Now. Tell no one. It's about Jake."
"What? Is he okay?"
"Just come. Please." Michael ended the call before breaking down completely.
He stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, haunted eyes looking back at him. These men weren't just criminals—they were monsters. And he'd just arranged to send his other son into their path.
Kyle arrived home just after sunset, his truck skidding on the gravel driveway. Michael met him at the door, face haggard, eyes red-rimmed. Before Kyle could speak, Michael pulled him into a crushing embrace.
"Pop, what's going on? Where's Jake?"
Inside, Michael showed him the videos. Kyle watched in silent horror, his face draining of color as the soldering iron descended onto his brother's chest. When it ended, he lurched to the sink and retched.
"We have to call the police," Kyle insisted, wiping his mouth.
"They'll kill him if we do," Michael said, voice hollow. "They want you to deliver the money tonight. Alone."
Kyle's eyes hardened. "Then that's what I'll do."
The Phillips 66 station stood like an island of harsh fluorescent light in the midnight darkness. Kyle sat in his truck, the duffle bag of cash on the passenger seat. His phone buzzed—a text from an unknown number.
"Drive north on 14. Three miles. Dirt road on left."
Kyle's hands trembled as he shifted into gear. Each mile felt like a descent into some private hell where his brother had been suffering for a day and a half.
The dirt road wound through dense woods, branches scraping against the truck's sides. Another text arrived.
"Stop. Flash headlights twice. Wait."
Kyle complied. Minutes later, headlights appeared behind him, blinding in his rearview mirror. A voice called out.
"Exit vehicle. Bring the bag. Walk toward the light."
Heart hammering, Kyle stepped out. The tall kidnapper emerged from the shadows, pistol aimed casually at Kyle's chest.
"The money?"
Kyle held up the duffle. "Where's my brother?"
"Soon. First, turn around."
Cold metal pressed against Kyle's neck. A sharp prick, then spreading warmth. The world tilted sideways as his legs gave way.
"Night night, farm boy," a voice murmured as darkness claimed him.
Michael paced the kitchen, checking his phone every thirty seconds. Kyle had been gone for over two hours. No messages. No calls.
His phone rang, startling him so badly he dropped it. The bank president's name flashed on screen.
"Mr. Davidson? Good news. The committee met in emergency session. Your loan is approved. We can transfer the full amount tomorrow morning."
Michael gripped the phone so hard his knuckles whitened. "Thank you. That's... that's wonderful news."
After hanging up, he tried Kyle again. Straight to voicemail.
Something was wrong.
Kyle awoke to the sound of muffled breathing. His head throbbed, mouth cotton-dry. He tried to move but found his arms pulled painfully behind his back, rope cutting into his wrists. More rope wrapped his torso, pressing him against something warm.
No, not something. Someone.
He twisted his head and found himself staring into Jake's swollen, bloodshot eyes. Their backs were bound together, rope spiraling around their torsos, fusing them into a single package. Jake's mouth remained sealed with tape; a fresh strip covered Kyle's. Jake's legs were still bent backward in that agonizing stress position; Kyle's had been arranged to mirror the position.
The burns on Jake's chest had blistered, angry red circles against pale skin. Kyle could feel his brother's ragged breathing, each inhale labored, each exhale a low moan.
"Both Davidson boys, wrapped up nice and tight," the leader's voice came from somewhere behind them. "Your daddy's got his money coming through. Congratulations."
Footsteps crossed the cabin floor. The tall kidnapper appeared, checking the binding where the brothers' wrists were lashed together.
"Leave 'em," the leader ordered. "Daddy can come collect tomorrow. We'll be long gone by then."
"What if they work free?" the boxer asked.
The leader laughed. "Not from Pete's ropework. But just in case..." He approached, something metallic gleaming in his hand. A needle. "A little insurance."
Kyle felt the prick in his thigh, then the spreading warmth again. Beside him, Jake received the same treatment.
"Enough sedative to keep them docile till morning. Pack it up."
As consciousness began to fade again, Kyle became aware of Jake's fingers against his own. Their bound hands couldn't move, but their fingers touched in the tight space between their wrists. Jake's index finger tapped weakly against Kyle's palm. Morse code, from summers at scout camp.
P-O-P. K-N-O-W-S.
Hope flickered dimly as darkness closed in.
The kidnappers had been methodical in their preparation but made one critical error. They'd assumed Michael Davidson was just a desperate father, not a veteran who'd tracked enemies through mountains halfway around the world thirty years ago.
The small tracking device sewn into Kyle's jacket collar had activated the moment he left the main road.
Miles away, Michael stared at the pulsing dot on his phone screen. His rifle lay across the truck's passenger seat, cleaned and loaded. The mortgage approval had come through. The money would save his farm.
But first, he would save his sons.
The truck's engine growled as he turned onto the highway, heading north. The kidnappers had taken his boys. Bound them. Tortured them. Left them sweating in fear and pain.
Time to return the favor.
END -
