Ryan went into the barn for his daily chores. The 18 year old was doing hay staking today. He was shirtless, knowing it was hot and humid and he would sweat a lot. His arms and abs refllected his powerful muscules, since he was doing chores since he was 13. It was hudid and he could feel the sweat starting on his brow. He wiped it with his arm and whent to get his gloves when he was jumped from behind. Somebody put him in a choke hold while another pounded his gut. T thirs gagged him with a kotted bandanna. He was pushed to the floor, a gun to his head. His arms were roped at the wrists and elboys behind his back. Duct tape circle his eyes and the bandanna gag. They pulled him up by his upper arms, his body now glistening with sweat, and pushed out of the back of the barn into a waiting pickup. Dumping im in, they tied his ankles and pulled back the black tarp cover. They began to drive, the hot sun baking his prision into a sweat box.
The pickup lurched over another pothole, slamming Ryan's bound body against the metal bed. Sweat poured from every inch of him now, the black tarp trapping heat like an oven. His bare torso stuck to the ridged floor, skin peeling away painfully with each jolt of the vehicle. The ropes around his wrists and elbows had already rubbed his skin raw, and each bump sent fresh waves of burning pain up his arms.
His mouth was cotton-dry behind the knotted bandanna, his throat contracting desperately for water. How long had they been driving? One hour? Three? Time stretched endlessly in his sensory-deprived state. Between the duct tape over his eyes and the tightly secured tarp, he was plunged into absolute darkness—a void that amplified every other sensation.
Ryan's muscles began to cramp, first in his calves, then spreading to his thighs and shoulders. He tried shifting position, but the tight bindings allowed almost no movement. His breath came in shallow gasps through his nose, the air under the tarp growing thinner and hotter as the sun climbed higher, baking his prison though he couldn't see it. The pickup bed had become a mobile torture chamber, amplifying every discomfort – the heat, the thirst, the restraints, the disorientation of complete blindness.
When they hit a particularly violent bump, his head snapped back and collided with something hard. Pain exploded through his skull as nausea swept through him. Unable to wipe away the sweat stinging his abraded skin or adjust his cramping limbs, Ryan's world narrowed to a single, desperate thought: how much longer could he endure this impenetrable darkness?
The pickup finally slowed, then stopped. Ryan's heart hammered against his ribs as the engine died. He heard muffled voices, then the creak of the tailgate dropping. A rush of marginally cooler air hit his sweat-soaked skin as the tarp was ripped away.
"Look at him, all slicked up like a greased pig," someone laughed.
Rough hands grabbed his shoulders and ankles. Ryan tried to struggle, but his muscles, cramped and weakened from hours of immobility, barely responded. He was heaved upward and thrown over someone's shoulder, his stomach colliding painfully with what felt like a bony collarbone. The blood rushed to his head as he dangled helplessly.
"Not so tough now, are ya, ranch boy?" The voice came from directly below him as the man carrying him began walking. Each step jolted through Ryan's aching body.
After what seemed like an eternity of being bounced against his captor's back, he was suddenly dropped. Ryan hit cold, hard-packed dirt with enough force to knock what little breath he had from his lungs. The shock of the cool ground against his overheated skin was momentarily relieving before the pain of the impact registered.
"Get the branch. Make sure it's sturdy," someone ordered.
Ryan felt something rigid and rough press against his back, positioned under his upper arms. The bark scraped against his skin as they maneuvered it into place, cutting into the tender flesh between his shoulder blades.
"Hold him still." Coarse rope wrapped around his right bicep, binding it tightly to the branch. The fibers bit into his muscle as someone pulled it brutally tight. Then came the frapping—crosswise turns between his arm and the branch that cinched with vicious precision, digging channels into his flesh.
"Harder," a voice commanded. "Make sure he can't move a damn inch."
The ropes constricted further as someone worked the frapping knots, pulling them so tight that Ryan could feel his pulse pounding against the restraints. Within seconds, the veins in his forearm began to distend, bulging blue-green against his skin as blood fought against the restriction.
"Bet those fancy muscles ain't much use now, huh?" Another voice taunted as they repeated the process with his left arm, circling the rope multiple times around his bicep before executing the same cruel frapping technique. Ryan's fingers began to tingle, then grow numb as circulation slowed to a trickle.
"Look at them veins popping," someone chuckled. "Like garden hoses about to burst."
"Flex for us, farm boy!" They laughed as Ryan involuntarily tensed against the bindings, which only made the ropes cut deeper and the veins swell more prominently against his increasingly discolored skin.
Hands grabbed his ankles next, bending his legs backward at an excruciating angle. Ryan grunted in pain behind his gag as they secured his ankles to the center of the branch between his arms, effectively hogtying him in a brutal arch that stretched his abdomen and chest.
"Let's make sure he can't move that pretty head," one of them said. Fingers tangled in Ryan's sweat-dampened hair, yanking his head back violently. He felt the scratch of rope against his throat as they looped it around his neck multiple times, cinching it just tight enough to make each breath a conscious effort. With a final brutal tug, they tied the end of the neck rope to his bound ankles, forcing his head into a permanent arch that exposed his throat and strained his neck muscles to their limit.
"That's right, keep squirming. Makes it more fun for us," someone said, running a finger down Ryan's exposed, sweat-streaked side. "Bet you're wondering what we want, ain't ya? Bet your daddy never thought his precious boy would end up like this."
The branch creaked as Ryan's body weight pulled against it, the rough wood digging deeper into his back with every labored breath. His arms, now mottled with patches of white and angry red where circulation was completely cut off, throbbed with a dull, persistent pain that promised worse to come.
Footsteps receded as his captors walked away, their laughter fading into the distance. Ryan strained to hear any clue of their intentions, but soon there was nothing—just the sound of his own ragged breathing and the distant call of birds.
Time stretched endlessly in his immobilized state. The branch beneath him dug relentlessly into his back, and every slight adjustment to ease one discomfort only worsened another. If he tried to relieve the pressure on his biceps, the neck rope tightened; if he attempted to ease the strain on his neck, the branch cut deeper into his flesh. The circulation to his hands had slowed to almost nothing now, his fingers swollen and throbbing with each heartbeat.
The sun, though he couldn't see it, beat down mercilessly. Sweat continued to pour from his body, stinging where it contacted his abraded skin and rope burns. Thirst had become a permanent agony, his tongue swollen and dry behind the knotted bandanna. How long had it been since he'd had water? Since before the morning chores—hours ago now.
He tried to make sense of what was happening. The ranch wasn't worth much—they were barely hanging on. His father had mentioned some interest from developers, but nothing that would inspire this level of violence. Was it personal? A grudge against his family? Or was it something else entirely?
The helplessness was perhaps the worst part. Ryan had always been strong, capable—the one his father relied on for the heaviest work. Now he lay trussed and immobile, unable to even wipe the sweat from his brow or scratch where the ropes bit into his flesh. His powerful muscles, once his pride, were now rendered completely useless by his bindings.
As the sun tracked across the sky, its heat penetrating even through the blindfold, one thought consumed him: what were they planning next? Would they return with demands? Or was this abandonment part of a larger, more terrifying plan? Each creak of a branch in the wind, each distant sound made his heart race with dread and anticipation.
Jack Mercer wiped sweat from his weathered brow and squinted at the kitchen clock—1:30 PM. Ryan should have been in for lunch over an hour ago.
"That boy still out stacking hay?" he asked, turning to his two younger sons who were finishing their sandwiches at the table.
Matt and Ethan, identical twins at seventeen, exchanged glances before Matt shrugged. "Haven't seen him since breakfast."
"Me neither," Ethan added, reaching for another sandwich. "But you know Ryan, Dad. Probably trying to finish everything before coming in."
Jack frowned. That was true enough—his oldest was nothing if not thorough. Still, a gnawing unease settled in his gut. "Finish up. Let's go check the barn."
The three Mercers walked across the sunbaked yard, the midday heat shimmering off the cracked earth. Their ranch had seen better days, but Jack was proud they'd managed to hold on when so many neighbors had sold out.
"Ryan?" Jack called as they entered the barn's shadowy interior. His voice echoed off the wooden beams. No answer.
The hay bales sat in the corner, untouched. The pitchfork leaned against the wall, exactly where it had been that morning.
"He never even started," Matt said, confusion evident in his voice.
"Split up. Check everywhere," Jack ordered, his unease morphing into something darker.
Ethan's voice came moments later, tense and urgent. "Dad! Over here!"
Jack and Matt rushed to the back of the barn where Ethan stood frozen, pointing at something on the ground. Ryan's battered cowboy hat lay in the dirt. Beside it, several lengths of cut rope and a strip of duct tape with what looked like hair stuck to it.
"Oh Jesus," Jack whispered, picking up the hat. His hands were shaking.
"Dad." Matt's voice cracked as he held out a folded piece of paper. "It was tucked in the hat band."
Jack unfolded the note, written in crude, block letters:
WE HAVE YOUR BOY. SIGN OVER THE DEED TO YOUR RANCH TO BLACKRIDGE HOLDINGS LLC. TRANSFER PAPERS WILL BE DELIVERED. YOU HAVE 24 HOURS. NO POLICE OR WE SEND HIM BACK IN PIECES. DON'T TRY ANYTHING STUPID, OLD MAN.
Jack's face drained of color. He staggered back against a support beam.
"Blackridge Holdings?" Matt asked, reading over his father's shoulder. "Who are they?"
Jack Mercer stared at the note, his world collapsing around him. "I've never heard of them," he whispered. "They want our land. The whole ranch."
"But why would they—" Ethan began, then fell silent as their father crumpled to his knees, still clutching Ryan's hat.
"The water rights," Jack said hoarsely, realization dawning. "It's the only thing of value left on this place."The sound of approaching footsteps jolted Ryan from his half-conscious state. Hours had passed—the air had cooled slightly as afternoon gave way to early evening, but the relief was minimal compared to his accumulated suffering. His mouth was desert-dry behind the gag, his muscles screaming from the prolonged, unnatural position.
"Well, look who's still with us," a gruff voice called from some distance away. "Thought you might've passed out by now."
Ryan tried to turn his head toward the voice, but the rope connecting his neck to his ankles made even that small movement impossible. He felt the vibration of boots on the hard-packed earth as someone approached, deliberately circling around him.
"Package has been delivered to your daddy. Now we wait."
A new voice, deeper and more controlled, spoke from another direction. "No reason we can't explain the situation to the boy." The voice moved closer, though Ryan couldn't see anything through his blindfold. "Listen up, ranch boy. It's pretty simple. Your father signs over your worthless piece of land to our employer, and you get to keep breathing. Twenty-four hours."
"We need transfer papers," Jack muttered, staring at the ransom note for the hundredth time. "Official-looking ones. These Blackridge people will be expecting something legitimate."
He glanced at the kitchen clock—four hours had passed since they'd discovered Ryan was missing.
Matt and Ethan exchanged looks across the kitchen table. "We can do it," Matt said finally.
Jack looked up. "What?"
"We can create the papers," Ethan clarified, already pulling his laptop from his backpack. "LegalZoom has templates. We've used them before for—" He stopped abruptly.
"For what?" Jack demanded.
Matt shrugged. "For getting into that 21-and-over coding competition last year. We created some pretty convincing IDs."
Under different circumstances, Jack might have been angry, but now he just nodded. "Do it. Make it look real."
The twins worked with focused intensity, their fingers flying across their respective keyboards. What they lacked in legal knowledge, they made up for in research skills and attention to detail.
"It needs to be notarized," Matt said after an hour of work, looking up from a property deed template. "That's standard for land transfers."
"Only one notary in town," Jack said grimly.
"Deputy Marshall," the twins replied in unison.
Thirty minutes later, Jack sat across from Deputy Warren Marshall in the small sheriff's substation that served their rural county. The twins waited in the truck outside, as Jack had insisted.
"Property transfer?" The deputy raised an eyebrow as he examined the documents the twins had created. "Whole ranch? To a company I've never heard of?" He looked up at Jack, whose hands trembled slightly. "You want to tell me what's really going on here, Jack?"
"Just need your signature and stamp," Jack replied, his voice tight. "That's all."
Marshall leaned back in his chair. "Jack Mercer, I've known you for fifteen years. You've said a hundred times you'd die before you'd sell that ranch. Now you're giving it away to some shell corporation? No sale price listed?" He shook his head. "Not happening until you tell me why."
"Warren, please," Jack whispered, desperation cracking through his composure. "I just need the papers notarized. Today."
"Where's Ryan?" Marshall asked suddenly. "Haven't seen him around. Usually comes with you."
Something in Jack's face crumbled. He covered his eyes with one hand, shoulders beginning to shake.
"Jack?" Marshall was on his feet now, coming around the desk. "What's happened?"
"They took him," Jack finally broke, the words tumbling out in a tortured rush. "This morning. From the barn. Said they'd kill him if I called you." He pulled Ryan's hat from inside his jacket. "Left this and a note. Said we have twenty-four hours to sign over the ranch or they'll... they'll start sending pieces of him back."
Marshall's face hardened. "Why didn't you come to me immediately?"
"They said no police!" Jack's voice rose. "They said they're watching! They have Ryan tied up with ropes, Warren. They're torturing him!"
The deputy pulled a chair close and sat, lowering his voice. "Tell me everything. Every detail."
Ten minutes later, Marshall had the complete story. He'd examined the original ransom note and had Matt and Ethan brought inside.
"This isn't some random crime," Marshall said, tapping the transfer paperwork the twins had created. "This is organized. Professional. They want your land badly enough to commit kidnapping, which means they know something about its value that they think you don't."
"The water rights," Jack confirmed. "I had a geological survey done last year when the southwest pasture well ran dry. Found an aquifer. Massive one. I didn't think much of it—water's water, we've always had enough."
Marshall nodded. "Except water in the West is gold these days. Developers, bottling companies, they'll pay millions for reliable water rights." He grabbed his phone. "I've got to call this in, Jack. This is beyond me."
"No!" Jack grabbed Marshall's wrist. "They said they're watching. They'll kill him!"
"Jack," Marshall's voice was steady, "if they're as professional as they seem, they've planned for every contingency except one—they don't think I know. That's our advantage." He pulled out a county map and spread it on the desk. "Where's Ryan likely being held? Think. They wouldn't risk moving him far."
The twins leaned over the map. "Abandoned Kelley place?" Matt suggested. "Or maybe Old Miller's hunting cabin?"
"Too obvious," Marshall said. "They'll want somewhere isolated but not immediately suspicious." He pointed to a section of the map. "The old fire watchtower on Freeman Ridge. Perfect sight lines. Can see anyone approaching for miles."
Jack nodded slowly. "Makes sense."
"Here's what we'll do," Marshall said, lowering his voice further. "I'm calling in the State Police tactical unit, but quietly. No sirens, no uniforms. We'll stage at the Wilkins farm, out of sight of the ridge." He tapped the map. "Meanwhile, you three go home, visibly. Make it look like you're waiting for instructions. If they call, stall. Say you need time to get the paperwork properly prepared."
"And Ryan?" Jack's voice cracked.
"I'll send my best team up that back trail," Marshall said, pointing to a thin line on the map. "They can approach from below the sight line. But we need eyes on the situation first."
Ethan leaned forward suddenly. "We've been flying that racing drone all summer. Has a camera. Four-mile range."
Matt nodded eagerly. "We could get a look without anyone knowing. See how many there are, where they're keeping Ryan."
Marshall studied the twins. "That's dangerous."
"So is doing nothing," Matt replied. "We can launch from the north pasture. They'd never see it coming from that angle."
The deputy was silent for a moment, then nodded. "Do it. But stay at extreme range. First sign of them spotting the drone, you pull back." He turned to Jack. "I need you to go home and act normal. Pace, worry—that would be natural. But stay away from phones and don't discuss anything important inside the house. Assume they might be listening."
"And the papers?" Jack gestured to the transfer documents the twins had created.
"Take them with you," Marshall said. "If they call, tell them you're waiting for your lawyer to review them. Buy us time."
Jack stood, but the twins remained seated, exchanging a determined look.
"We're going with the rescue team," Ethan said firmly.
"Absolutely not," Jack and Marshall responded simultaneously.
Matt leaned forward. "Ryan's our brother. We know that ridge better than anyone—we've been hunting it since we were fourteen. Every trail, every approach."
"This isn't a game," Marshall warned. "These people are dangerous."
"Which is exactly why you need us," Ethan insisted. "The tactical team won't know the terrain. We do. There's a hunter's blind on the northeast face that isn't on any map. Perfect spot for overwatch."
"And we've trained with rifles since we were twelve," Matt added. "Dad made sure of that."
Jack shook his head. "I can't risk losing all three of you."
"And we can't sit at home while Ryan's out there suffering," Ethan countered, his voice breaking slightly. "You wouldn't if it was one of us."
A heavy silence fell over the room. Marshall and Jack exchanged glances.
"Limited role," Marshall finally said. "Guide only. You stay with the officers I assign to you, and you follow every order without question. First hint of trouble, you're out. Non-negotiable."
The twins nodded solemnly.
"Jack?" Marshall asked.
Jack Mercer looked at his two younger sons, seeing the same determination that had defined his oldest boy. "They're right. Ryan wouldn't stay behind if it was them." His hands were steady now, his face set with grim resolve. "Let's get my boy back."Ryan growled against the gag, instinctively struggling against the ropes despite the futility and the pain it caused. The anger that surged through him gave temporary strength to his exhausted body.
"Ooh, he's got some fight left!" The deeper voice sounded amused. "You don't get it, do you? Your daddy's been sitting on something valuable all this time. Those water rights are worth millions to the right developers."
Ryan froze at this information. Water rights? His father had mentioned something months ago about their underground aquifer, but had dismissed it as nothing worth pursuing.
"That's right. Your family's been living like paupers on a gold mine. Too bad you won't get to enjoy any of it."
Ryan strained again, his muscles bulging against the ropes, veins standing out on his arms and neck as he pulled with every ounce of strength he had left. For a brief moment, he thought he felt something give—just slightly—in the binding around his right bicep.
"Save your energy, tough guy," came the gruff voice, now from directly behind him. "Nobody's coming for you. Your daddy has no idea where you are, and even if he did..."
"The nearest neighbor is miles away," the deeper voice finished from somewhere to his left. "And your family knows what happens if they call the sheriff."
Ryan sagged back against the branch, rage giving way to hopelessness. His father would sign—of course he would. The ranch had been in the family for generations, but Jack Mercer would never choose land over his son's life.
"Twenty-four hours," the deep voice said, sounding as though it was moving away. "We're not unreasonable people. Your old man signs the papers, you get a ride home. But if he thinks he can be clever about this..."
A brief silence hung in the air.
"We left him a little piece of your hair with the note. Next time it'll be something you'll miss a lot more."
The footsteps receded, leaving Ryan alone again with his thoughts and the growing realization of what was at stake.
The sound of a vehicle approaching broke the long silence. Ryan's head jerked up instinctively despite the neck restraint. Hours had passed since his captors had left him alone with his thoughts, and the temperature had dropped significantly with the setting sun. His muscles had long since progressed from painful cramping to a kind of numb resignation, though any movement still sent fresh waves of agony through his bound limbs.
The vehicle doors slammed, followed by loud, unsteady footsteps and raucous laughter. The sound of clinking glass bottles punctuated the approaching voices.
"Check on our investment," one voice slurred. It was the deeper voice from before, though now less controlled, the words running together.
"Money in the bank," the gruffer voice replied, followed by a harsh laugh. "Soon as the old man signs."
The footsteps grew closer, circling around to where Ryan lay immobilized. The sharp smell of whiskey preceded them, wafting over him in almost visible waves.
"Look at him," the deep voice said. "All trussed up like a Christmas turkey."
Something cold and wet splashed across Ryan's bare torso—whiskey, he realized, as the smell enveloped him and the liquid stung the abrasions on his skin.
"Thought you might want a drink." The gruff voice was directly above him now. "Oh wait, you can't. Gagged!" Both men erupted in drunken laughter.
Ryan tensed, preparing for what might come next. He didn't have to wait long.
A boot connected with his ribs, hard enough to force what little air he had from his lungs. He grunted behind the gag, instinctively trying to curl inward but prevented by his bindings.
"Not so tough now, huh?" Another kick, this time to his exposed side.
"Maybe don't break his ribs," the deep voice cautioned, though there was amusement rather than concern in the tone. "At least not yet. We might need him breathing tomorrow."
The laughter stopped abruptly. "You think the old man's gonna try something?"
"Nah," the deep voice dismissed the concern. "But if he does, we start sending pieces back. That's the deal."
Ryan felt a hand grab his hair and yank his head back as far as the restraints would allow. "Hear that, farm boy? Better hope daddy plays nice."
The sudden pressure on his hair released, and Ryan's head would have snapped forward if not for the rope connecting his neck to his ankles.
More whiskey splashed across him, some finding its way to his face, burning his eyes beneath the blindfold. The men's laughter grew louder, more unhinged.
"You know what? I'm gonna take a picture. Send it to daddy dearest. Show him what happens if he tries anything stupid." There was the sound of a phone camera clicking.
"Lookin' good, pretty boy," the gruff voice taunted. "Bet those girls in town wouldn't recognize you now."
Something hard—a bottle, Ryan guessed—smashed into the ground near his head, the glass shards cutting into his shoulder and neck. He flinched, which only pulled the ropes tighter.
"Whoops. Butterfingers." More laughter.
The drunken taunting continued for what seemed like hours but was probably only twenty minutes. Occasionally one of them would deliver another kick to Ryan's ribs or sides, though never with their full strength—just enough to cause pain without serious damage, as if they were toying with him.
Finally, the deep voice said something about getting more supplies from their vehicle. The footsteps grew unsteady as they moved away, punctuated by the occasional trip or stumble.
When they returned, their conversation had shifted to an argument about dividing the money they expected to receive.
"Fifty-fifty. That's what we agreed," the gruff voice insisted, louder now.
"You didn't do fifty percent of the work," the deep voice countered. "I set this whole thing up. Found the buyer. Made the connections."
"And I'm the one who grabbed him! I'm the one taking the kidnapping charge if this goes south!"
Their argument escalated, voices rising, until suddenly there was the sound of a scuffle, bodies hitting the ground.
"You ungrateful piece of—" The words cut off with the sound of a fist connecting with flesh.
More thuds, cursing, the sound of the men rolling in the dirt. A bottle broke, followed by a pained yell. Then, almost as quickly as it started, the fighting stopped.
Heavy breathing gave way to drunken mumbling. One of them staggered to his feet.
"Doesn't matter," the deep voice muttered. "Be over tomorrow."
Something heavy dropped to the ground not far from Ryan—one of the men collapsing, he guessed. A few minutes later, he heard loud snoring. Then a second thud and more snoring.
Both of his captors had passed out drunk, leaving Ryan bound and still suffering, but momentarily unwatched. For the first time since his abduction, a fragile seed of hope sprouted in his mind. If they were unconscious...
Ryan began working at the bindings again, focusing on the spot where he'd felt a slight give earlier. The rope around his right bicep. He flexed and twisted, ignoring the burning pain as the coarse fibers dug deeper into his skin. Blood made the rope slick, which might help—or might just make it tighten further.
His captors' loud snoring continued, occasionally interrupted by a mumble or snort. Ryan worked with renewed determination, the possibility of escape lending strength to his exhausted body.Despite his determination, Ryan's efforts proved futile. The branch secured across his back effectively immobilized him, preventing even the slightest rotation of his body. Each attempt to twist toward the broken glass just inches from his shoulder only tightened the rope around his neck, threatening to cut off his already labored breathing.
After twenty minutes of desperate struggling, reality crashed down on him. The frapping around his biceps had indeed loosened slightly from his blood-slicked skin, but not nearly enough. The branch, which his captors had chosen with cruel precision, made it physically impossible to reach anything that might help him. Even if he could somehow free one arm, the hogtie position would still render him effectively immobile.
Ryan slumped back against his restraints, chest heaving with exhaustion. The brief flicker of hope extinguished as completely as if it had never existed. His muscles trembled from the exertion, and fresh blood trickled down his arms where the ropes had cut deeper during his struggles.
The shattered bottle that had seemed like providence now mocked him with its proximity. So close, yet completely unreachable. He could feel its presence—one particularly sharp edge had nicked his shoulder during his captors' drunken assault—but he couldn't see it through his blindfold, couldn't reach it with his bound hands, couldn't even roll toward it.
His captors continued their unconscious symphony of snores and mumbles, oblivious to his failed bid for freedom. The night air grew colder, raising goosebumps on his exposed skin and making the wet patches where whiskey had soaked him feel like ice. His teeth would have chattered if not for the gag.
All he could do was wait. Wait for his father to somehow find him. Wait for his captors to wake up, possibly angrier and more violent than before. Wait for whatever fate had in store for him.
Time stretched endlessly in the darkness behind his blindfold. Ryan tried to focus on his breathing, on staying alive, on maintaining what little strength he had left. If rescue came—when rescue came, he corrected himself desperately—he would need to be ready.
His thoughts drifted to his family. His father would be frantic. His brothers would be demanding to help. He knew them too well to think they'd sit idly by. The thought brought both comfort and fear. What if they attempted something foolish and got themselves hurt? Or worse?
The gentle rustle of wind through the trees and the distant call of an owl provided the soundtrack to his imprisonment as Ryan settled into the grim reality of his situation. He couldn't escape. He couldn't even move. All he could do was endure and wait for whatever morning would bring.
"Two heat signatures inside the cabin. Third one outside, on the ground," Matt whispered, his eyes locked on the thermal imaging feed from their drone. The sleek, carbon-fiber quadcopter hovered silently a quarter-mile from the old fire watchtower, its military-grade camera capturing clear images despite the darkness.
The State Police tactical commander, Lieutenant Hayes, nodded grimly. "Can you make out any details on the third signature?"
"It's not moving," Ethan responded, manipulating the joysticks to zoom in slightly. "And the positioning is... unnatural. Has to be Ryan."
The twins, Deputy Marshall, and four state police officers were positioned in a dense copse of trees eight hundred yards from the watchtower. The moon had risen, casting enough light to navigate by, but leaving plenty of shadows for cover.
"We've got two hostiles, likely armed, and one restrained hostage," Hayes summarized. "Standard breach and clear, except our priority is protecting the hostage."
Matt shook his head. "The trail you're thinking of using approaches from the southwest. There's a better way." He pointed to an almost invisible line on the tactical map. "Game trail. Comes in from the northeast, completely blind from the tower's main windows."
"That's not on any map," Hayes said skeptically.
"We've been hunting these woods since we were kids," Ethan said. "Trust us. That approach will get you within twenty yards of the structure without being seen."
The lieutenant studied the twins for a moment, then turned to Deputy Marshall. "These boys reliable?"
"Absolutely," Marshall replied without hesitation. "And they know this land better than anyone."
Hayes nodded. "Alright. Matt, Ethan—you lead us to this trail, but once we're in position, you stay put. No arguments."
The twins exchanged glances, then nodded in agreement.
"Good. Let's move."
The small team advanced through the forest with practiced silence. What surprised the officers wasn't just the twins' knowledge of the terrain, but their natural instinct for tactical movement—always staying in shadows, testing each step before committing their weight, freezing at the slightest unusual sound. Their father had clearly taught them well.
Forty minutes later, they reached the game trail Matt had identified. True to the twins' word, it curved around to approach the watchtower from a blind angle, completely obscured from the cabin's main windows.
"Thermal shows the two hostiles haven't moved," Ethan reported, checking the drone feed one last time before powering down the remote control. "Still appear to be on the floor of the cabin."
"And the third signature?" Hayes asked.
"Still outside. Still not moving."
Hayes nodded to his team. "Alpha team, prepare for breach. Marshall, you and Torres cover the rear in case someone makes a run for it." He turned to the twins. "This is where you stay. We'll signal when it's clear."
"With respect, sir," Matt said quietly, "we can help with Ryan. He's going to be... badly restrained. Might be blindfolded, gagged. Seeing strangers burst in with guns might terrify him. He needs to hear familiar voices."
Hayes considered this, then nodded reluctantly. "Fine. You stay with Officer Diaz until we secure the hostiles. Then and only then do you approach your brother. Clear?"
"Crystal," both twins answered.
The team advanced, moving like shadows across the last stretch of open ground. At the lieutenant's signal, two officers positioned themselves outside the cabin door while Hayes and the fourth officer circled around to locate Ryan.
The radio crackled softly. "Target acquired. Restrained individual confirmed on north side. Proceeding with cabin breach."
What happened next was a blur of coordinated violence. The cabin door splintered under a battering ram, followed by shouts of "POLICE! DON'T MOVE!" Two flashbang grenades detonated with thunderous cracks, their disorienting light visible even through the cabin's dirty windows.
"Suspects secured!" came the call less than twenty seconds later. "Two males in custody, both intoxicated, minimal resistance."
"Clear to approach the victim," Hayes radioed from the north side of the building.
Officer Diaz nodded to the twins. "Stay behind me."
They rushed forward, hearts pounding. The scene that greeted them would be seared into their memories forever. Ryan lay on the hard ground, a thick branch secured across his back. His entire body was arched in an agonizing position, arms bound to the branch, ankles hogtied to the center, head pulled back by ropes around his neck. A blindfold and gag completed the cruel restraint system.
"Jesus Christ," Ethan whispered.
"We need to document this before you touch anything," Hayes said grimly, taking photos with a department-issued camera. "Evidence for prosecution."
Matt knelt by his brother's head, not touching him yet but speaking softly. "Ryan, it's Matt. Ethan's here too. We've got you, brother. You're safe now."
A muffled sound came from behind the gag—recognition, relief, perhaps a stifled sob.
"Sir," Ethan said to Hayes, "we need to cut him free. Now."
The lieutenant nodded, finishing his documentation. "Go ahead. Carefully."
The twins moved with gentle efficiency, their hunting knives razor-sharp and ready. They had spent countless hours field-dressing game, hands steady even in the most delicate operations.
"I'll start with the neck restraint," Matt said, sliding his knife with surgical precision between the rope and Ryan's skin. "Ethan, support his head. When this gives way, his head will drop forward."
Ethan positioned himself, hands ready. The rope parted with a soft snap, and Ryan's head would have fallen forward if not for Ethan's supporting grip.
"Easy, brother," Ethan murmured. "We've got you."
Next came the gag, which Matt removed with gentle fingers. Ryan gasped, drawing in desperate breaths through his parched mouth.
"W-water," he croaked.
Officer Diaz was already there, holding a canteen to Ryan's cracked lips. "Small sips," he cautioned.
The blindfold came off next, revealing Ryan's red-rimmed, disoriented eyes. He blinked painfully against even the dim moonlight.
"The ankles next," Matt decided. "They're pulling everything else tighter."
Working methodically, the twins cut through the complex system of restraints. Each freed body part required careful support to prevent sudden, painful movement after hours of forced immobility.
"We've almost got you," Ethan assured his brother as they worked on the bicep bindings—the most complex part of the restraint system. The frapping had cut deep into Ryan's flesh, and blood had dried and congealed around the ropes.
"This is going to hurt," Matt warned, beginning to peel away the ropes that had embedded themselves in the skin of Ryan's right arm. "Might need to wet it first."
Officer Diaz poured water slowly over the area, softening the dried blood. With painstaking precision, Matt worked his knife between the rope and flesh, millimeter by millimeter, while Ethan supported the arm to prevent any sudden movement.
After twenty minutes of careful work, the last of the restraints fell away. Ryan lay flat on the ground for the first time in almost twenty-four hours, his body trembling with shock, relief, and the sudden rush of blood to his extremities.
"Paramedics are on standby at the Wilkins farm," Hayes informed them. "Let's get him on the stretcher."
"Can you move at all?" Ethan asked his brother gently.
Ryan tried to lift an arm, but his muscles merely twitched in response. "N-no," he whispered.
"That's okay," Matt assured him. "We've got you."
With the officers' help, they carefully transferred Ryan to a tactical stretcher. The twins positioned themselves at either end, insisting on carrying their brother themselves. As they began the trek back through the forest, Ryan's eyes—clearer now—moved between his brothers' faces.
"H-how?" he managed to ask.
Ethan smiled grimly. "Nobody messes with the Mercers."
"Dad?" Ryan asked.
"Waiting at the farm," Matt replied. "He's okay. Everyone's okay."
Ryan's eyes drifted closed, exhaustion finally claiming him now that he was safe. The twins exchanged a look over their brother's battered form—a silent vow that whoever was ultimately responsible for this would pay dearly.
Behind them, the police led the handcuffed kidnappers down a different trail, the men stumbling and still dazed from their rude awakening. Lieutenant Hayes had already radioed ahead—they had names, they had a company, "Blackridge Holdings," and by morning, they would have the mastermind who had orchestrated the entire operation.
But for now, all that mattered was bringing their brother home.
THREE MONTHS LATER
The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting golden light across the Mercer ranch. Jack Mercer stood on the porch, watching his three sons finish their day's work. Ryan moved a bit more carefully than before, but each day brought more of his old strength back. The physical scars were healing, and though the nightmares still came occasionally, they were growing less frequent.
"Boys!" Jack called out. "Come on up here."
The three brothers exchanged glances, then made their way toward the house. Ryan walked between the twins, their shoulders occasionally bumping in easy camaraderie.
"What's up, Dad?" Matt asked as they reached the porch.
Jack's weathered face broke into a rare, full smile. "Got some news today." He gestured to the chairs. "Sit."
They settled into the worn wooden chairs that had been fixtures on the porch for as long as any of them could remember.
"The prosecutor called," Jack continued. "Final member of the Blackridge operation was sentenced today. Twenty years, no possibility of parole for fifteen."
A moment of silence fell over the family as the news sank in.
"It's over," Ryan said quietly. "Really over."
Jack nodded. "And that's not all. The water rights—turns out they're worth even more than those bastards thought. Western Aqua's competitor made us an offer this morning. Not for the land—" he added quickly, seeing the alarm on his sons' faces, "—just for managed access to the aquifer. We maintain ownership, they pay royalties."
Ethan leaned forward. "How much?"
Jack named a figure that made all three boys' eyes widen.
"Holy shit," Matt breathed.
"Language," Jack admonished, but without any real heat. "First payment's already in the bank. Enough to pay off the mortgage, upgrade the equipment, and put all three of you through college if you want."
Ryan looked down at his hands—still bearing thin white scars around the wrists where the ropes had cut deepest. "Guess something good came out of it after all."
Jack disappeared into the house, returning a moment later with a bottle of Jack Daniel's Single Barrel and four glasses.
"Dad?" Ethan questioned, surprised. Jack Mercer rarely drank, and when he did, it was never his prized whiskey collection.
"Some things deserve a proper celebration," Jack said, breaking the seal on the bottle with a satisfying crack. "And some things deserve acknowledgment."
He poured four measures, handing a glass to each of his sons. The amber liquid caught the last rays of sunset, glowing like captured fire.
"To Ryan," Jack said, raising his glass. "For a strength I never knew a man could have."
The twins raised their glasses too. "To Ryan."
Ryan shook his head. "To all of us," he countered. "To the Mercers. Nobody messes with us."
Jack's eyes glistened suspiciously as he nodded. "Nobody messes with the Mercers."
They clinked glasses and drank. The whiskey burned pleasantly, warming Ryan from the inside. For a moment, he was back in that hellish darkness, bound and helpless. Then he looked at his family—his father's proud face, his brothers' matching grins—and the darkness receded.
"Another?" Jack asked, already reaching for the bottle.
Ryan held out his glass. "Definitely another."
As the stars began to appear in the darkening sky, the Mercer men talked and laughed and remembered. The whiskey flowed, stories were told, and plans for the future were made. The ranch would continue. They would continue. Stronger than before, bound not by ropes but by something far more powerful—something their enemies had never understood.
Family.
