Kidnappers Remorse

Jake sat shirtless on the chair, his exposed skin prickling in the cabin's chill. The ex-SEAL approached with a thick wooden branch, roughly three feet long. "Arms back," he commanded. When Jake hesitated, rough hands forced his arms behind the chair. The man threaded the branch horizontally between Jake's back and biceps, creating an immovable bar that forced his shoulders into an unnatural position. "Standard procedure for high-value detainees," the man explained as he began wrapping rope around Jake's biceps, methodically binding them to the branch. Each loop was pulled painfully tight, the coarse fibers digging into his skin. "Are you going to kill me?" the 18-year-old asked, his voice trembling with fear. The abductor looked at him with cold eyes. "Not if Daddy follows instructions. But if he don't..." His voice trailed off as someone came behind Jake and duct-taped his head, seven times around his mouth and eyes. Jake was trembling now, breaking out in a cold sweat. His head slumped forward as he felt the ropes continuing down to his elbows, forearms, and wrists, the wooden branch ensuring he couldn't even shift his shoulders for relief.

The ex-SEAL circled around, surveying his handiwork with clinical detachment. "Legs next," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His movements were precise, almost ritualistic, as he knelt before Jake and began wrapping rope around his ankles. The binding was methodical—five tight loops, each one carefully placed, followed by several figure-eight patterns between his legs to prevent any lateral movement. Jake's breathing quickened behind the duct tape gag as the man threaded the remaining rope under the chair. With a sudden, forceful yank, he pulled Jake's bound ankles backward and upward, forcing his body to bend at an awkward angle. The rope was then secured to his bound wrists, creating a cruel connection where any movement of his legs would strain his shoulders, and any attempt to relieve his shoulders would pull painfully on his ankles. "Hogtied and helpless," the ex-SEAL commented with unsettling satisfaction, running his hand along the wooden branch to ensure it was securely positioned. "Even if you could somehow work those arms free, which you can't, that branch makes sure you'd dislocate a shoulder trying." Another kidnapper shifted uncomfortably in the corner. "Isn't that a bit much? We just need him secure, not..." His voice trailed off as the ex-SEAL fixed him with a cold stare. "This isn't excessive. This is thorough." His attention returned to Jake, who was now trembling continuously, his bare torso covered in nervous sweat despite the cabin's chill. "Now we wait for Daddy to get our message."Hours passed. Jake's muscles screamed from the unnatural position. Each minute stretched endlessly as the wooden branch dug into his back, the hogtie forcing his body into a painful arch. The ex-SEAL checked the bindings periodically, each time adjusting them slightly—never loosening, only tightening or shifting pressure points to create new discomfort.

"Still defiant?" he whispered during one check, noticing Jake's continued attempts to squirm. Jake could hear the smile in his voice. "Good. It's boring when they break too quickly."

The cabin had grown quiet except for Jake's labored breathing and the occasional creak of the wooden chair as he strained against his bonds. 

"Check his circulation," one of the other kidnappers finally said, breaking the tense silence.

"He's fine," the ex-SEAL responded dismissively.

"His fingers are turning blue."

"So?"

The exchange hung in the air, heavy with implication. Jake heard shuffling, then approaching footsteps.

"We said no permanent damage," a different voice insisted. "This isn't what we agreed to."

"You agreed to my expertise," the ex-SEAL countered. "This is how you secure a high-value target."

"This isn't Baghdad," the first kidnapper snapped. "He's a fucking farm kid, not an insurgent. Loosen the ropes."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop another ten degrees. Jake sensed movement behind him, could feel the ex-SEAL's presence like a coiled spring.

"You giving me orders now?" The ex-SEAL's voice had changed, become dangerously soft. "Maybe you forgot who's in charge here."

"We're partners," the second kidnapper insisted. "And the kid's no good to us damaged. Look at him—he can barely breathe."

A sudden crash made Jake flinch—someone had knocked something over. Shuffling footsteps, then a grunt of pain.

"Back off," the ex-SEAL warned. "Both of you."

What happened next came in a confused blur. A shout, bodies colliding, the splintering of wood. Jake's chair toppled sideways in the commotion, sending white-hot pain shooting through his contorted limbs as he hit the floor. Unable to break his fall, his head cracked against the wooden planks.

Through the pain and disorientation, Jake heard the struggle continuing—curses, the dull thud of fists connecting with flesh, a strangled cry of rage. Something shattered. Someone fell heavily beside him, gasping for breath.

"Get the rope," one kidnapper panted. "The one he used on the kid."

"Got it."

"Pin his arms!"

The ex-SEAL let out a stream of obscenities, his voice suddenly cut off by what sounded like a blow.

"You're fucking insane," one kidnapper spat. "You were going to cripple him."

More struggling, then the unmistakable sound of rope being pulled tight, followed by a muffled scream of rage.

"Use the branch," someone suggested. "Give him a taste of his own medicine."

Jake lay forgotten on his side, still bound and blindfolded, as the men wrestled the ex-SEAL into submission. The irony wasn't lost on him—his tormentor now receiving the same methodical treatment he'd inflicted.

Someone finally remembered Jake, righting his chair with unexpected gentleness.

"Christ, look at him," one muttered, fingers probing at Jake's bindings. "These are cutting off circulation."

The first thing they removed was the branch, sliding it out from behind his arms. The relief was immediate but painful, blood rushing back into compressed tissue. Jake couldn't suppress a whimper behind his gag.

"Loosen the rest, but don't untie him," came the instruction. "And check if the psycho did any permanent damage."

As his bindings were adjusted to allow blood flow without offering freedom, Jake heard the ex-SEAL's muffled threats from across the room. The man was now secured as thoroughly as Jake had been—perhaps more so, given what the kidnappers now knew about his predilections.

"What do we do with him?" one asked, once both captives were secured.

A long silence followed, broken only by the ex-SEAL's muffled rage and the howling wind outside.

"We show Daddy what happens when someone doesn't follow instructions," came the chilling response. "Let's see how much he enjoys being on the receiving end."The burner phone rang just once before the father snatched it up.

"I have the money," he said, his voice hoarse from sleepless nights. "All fifty thousand."

"Good," came the reply, the connection crackling with static as the storm worsened. "There's an abandoned lean-to at the north end of Cutter's Ridge. You know it?"

"I know it." Every farmer in the county knew that old hunting spot.

"One hour. Come alone. Cash only." The caller paused. "And Mr. Miller? We've had a... personnel issue. Your boy's fine, but our associate got a bit enthusiastic with his methods."

The father's grip tightened on the phone. "What does that mean?"

"It means we're professionals. We kept things under control." Another pause. "Once we confirm the money, we'll tell you where to find your son. And as a bonus, where to find the guy who wanted to hurt him. The choice of what to do with either is yours."

The line went dead.

---

The lean-to was barely visible, its weathered boards offering minimal shelter from the gusting wind. The father arrived five minutes early, duffel bag in hand, and waited in the increasingly brutal cold. At precisely the agreed time, two figures materialized from the white void, faces obscured by ski masks and scarves.

No words were exchanged. The father unzipped the bag, showing banded stacks of bills. One of the kidnappers stepped forward, inspected the money briefly, then nodded to his partner.

"Logging cabin, two miles east of Harmon Creek Bridge," he said, voice nearly lost in the wind. "Follow the service road until you hit the clearing."

The father stared hard at the men, searching for any hint of deception.

"And your friend?" he asked.

The kidnapper's eyes narrowed above his mask. "We strung him up. Left him there with your boy. A parting gift." He zipped the bag closed. "We never signed up for torture. This was supposed to be a simple job."

Before the father could respond, both men disappeared into the blinding snowfall, taking a different path than the one they'd arrived on.

---

 The father's truck came to a stop. He grabbed the hunting rifle from the back seat—he hadn't expected to use it on the kidnappers, but now there was this "enthusiastic associate" to consider.

The cabin door was unlocked, swinging open at his touch. The scene inside struck him like a physical blow.

Jake hung from a hook in the ceiling by his bound wrists, feet barely touching the ground, his torso bare and mottled with rope marks. Duct tape still partially covered his eyes and mouth where he'd managed to work some of it loose. But he was alive, turning his head at the sound of the door opening.

On the far side of the single room, suspended in similar fashion but with his feet completely off the ground, was a muscular man whose arms had been secured behind his back with what appeared to be the same wooden branch technique the father had glimpsed in the photo they'd sent. The man's eyes blazed with hatred above his gag.

"Jake!" The father rushed to his son, setting the rifle against the wall to pull out his pocketknife. He sliced through the ropes suspending Jake, catching him as he slumped forward.

"Dad," Jake croaked as his father gently removed the remnants of tape. "You came."

"Of course I came." He helped Jake to a chair, quickly cutting away the remaining bindings. "Did they hurt you?"

Jake's eyes drifted to the suspended man. "He did. The others stopped him."

The father draped his coat around Jake's shoulders, then retrieved the rifle, turning slowly toward the ex-SEAL. The man's eyes widened, then narrowed in defiance.

"The others said he was ex-military," Jake said quietly. "Got kicked out for torturing prisoners."

The father approached the suspended man, studying him with the same clinical detachment the ex-SEAL had shown Jake. Outside, the wind howled, shaking the cabin's walls.

"Can you walk?" he asked Jake, not taking his eyes off the prisoner.

Jake stood unsteadily. "Yeah."

The father handed him the rifle. "Watch him."

He moved with deliberate calm, gathering the scattered ropes that had bound his son. The ex-SEAL began thrashing against his restraints, muffled sounds of rage coming from behind his gag.

"He kept checking the ropes," Jake said, his voice stronger now. "Every hour. Tightening them. Said it was boring when they break too quickly."

Something cold and terrible settled in the father's eyes. He checked his watch.

"Storm's coming," he observed casually. "Road will be impassable soon. No one comes out this way until the logging season starts again. Months from now."

The ex-SEAL's struggles increased, his body swinging from the ceiling hook.

"You think he deserves mercy, Jake?" The father's voice was conversational, as if discussing the weather.

Jake met his father's eyes, something passing between them. "No."

The wind rattled the windows as father and son worked methodically, mirroring the techniques that had been used on Jake. Each binding was secured with precise, tight knots. Each time the ex-SEAL thrashed, the branch between his shoulders was jostled, sending visible waves of pain through his body.

When they finished, father and son stood before their handiwork. The ex-SEAL hung suspended, every limb secured in positions that ensured maximum discomfort with minimum risk of quick death.

"The storm's supposed to last three days," the father said quietly. "They won't find him for weeks."

Jake looked at his tormentor one last time. "He enjoyed it, Dad. Every minute of it."

The father nodded, his hand on his son's shoulder. "Let's go home."

They left the cabin door open to the storm as they departed. The howling wind immediately filled the space with swirling snow, the temperature plummeting as nature itself became the final instrument of justice.

Neither spoke of what they'd done as they made their way through the blizzard. Some forms of retribution exist beyond the reach of words—or law.

The kidnapping of Justin

 

Justin sat in the old barn. At 20 years old and a farm boy, he was well built. He had been forced to strip to the waist, showing off his pecs and abs, and powerful arms. He wondered why they forced him shirtless, then it came to him. "Shit, I'm going to be tied up!" At that exact moment they came in holding coarse rough hemp ropes.

The sight brought back memories of his two older brothers. They used to tie him up and leave him to escape on his own—their twisted way of "toughening him up." Those harsh lessons might finally pay off.

"Fuck," he thought, "if they tie me with ropes it will tear my skin to shreds." He spoke: "PLEASE JUST LOCK ME IN HERE...DON'T TIE ME UP WITH THAT ROPE...I'LL BE TORTURED!"

"That's the point, Justin. Now face the wall and put your arms behind your back!"

As the kidnappers approached, Justin immediately tensed his muscles and positioned his wrists—the old technique his brothers had taught him.

"Nice try, farm boy," the taller kidnapper sneered, noticing Justin's preparation. "We know all about those little escape tricks."

Instead of the simple binding Justin expected, they worked methodically. First, they wrapped the coarse hemp around his wrists several times, cinching it brutally tight. Then they ran the rope up his forearms in a complex pattern, securing his arms from wrists to elbows before wrapping it around his torso.

The rough hemp immediately bit into his skin. As they pulled each loop tight, Justin felt the coarse fibers scrape across his forearms, tearing away the fine blond hairs that covered his muscular arms. Each twist of the rope left a burning trail of raw skin in its wake.

"The more you struggle, the tighter it gets," explained the second kidnapper, threading the rope through itself to create a self-tightening system. "And this hemp? It's not just rough—it's been treated. Moves like sandpaper against skin."

"Now for those farm boy muscles," the shorter kidnapper said with a smirk.

They worked in tandem now, each grabbing lengths of the coarse rope. One stood behind Justin, the other in front, as they began wrapping his upper arms. They looped the hemp around each bicep individually, cinching the loops until the rope dug deep channels into his muscle. Justin bit back a groan as they pulled his elbows toward each other behind his back.

"Pull harder," one instructed the other. They engaged in a brief tug of war with the connecting rope, using their combined strength to force Justin's muscular arms inward. The rope burned against his skin as they dragged his biceps to within just two inches of each other.

"Good luck flexing out of that," the taller one taunted, knotting the rope where his elbows nearly touched. The unnatural position forced Justin's chest forward and shoulders back, making his pectoral muscles strain against the ropes crossing his chest.

A white-hot pain shot through Justin's shoulder joints as they were wrenched backward and inward. The unnatural position stretched his rotator cuffs to their limits. Within minutes, a deep, throbbing ache settled into the socket of each shoulder. He knew from wrestling that this kind of strain could tear ligaments if maintained too long.

"Hurts, doesn't it?" the kidnapper whispered, noticing Justin's clenched jaw. "Shoulder joints aren't meant to bend that way. By tomorrow, you'll be begging us to cut those ropes, even if it means you bleed out."

The kidnapper continued wrapping the rope around Justin's bare torso, the hemp abrading his taut stomach with each pass. The friction from the untreated fibers raised angry red welts wherever they touched. Justin winced as the rope crossed his abdomen, the rough texture catching and ripping out the trail of hair leading down from his navel.

When they cinched the final knot tight against his solar plexus, he could barely breathe without feeling the rope scrape against his skin. The brutal positioning had already numbed his fingers, and any attempt to adjust his posture sent waves of burning pain as the hemp sawed across his abraded skin and put even more torturous pressure on his screaming shoulder joints.

Justin tried to remain still, but even the slight movement from his breathing caused the hemp to shift minutely against his bare skin. He could already feel hot spots forming where the rope crossed over itself, creating pressure points that would soon become raw, bleeding wounds if he dared to struggle.

"Your daddy better pay up quick," the first kidnapper said, checking the bindings one final time. "Forty-eight hours in these ropes... well, let's just say there won't be much skin left on those pretty muscles of yours. And those shoulders? They'll never be the same."Justin fell to the floor, the dirt now covering his sweat. He had been quiet the whole time but when he fell he screamed, causing a tight gag. They removed his boots, socks and jeans, and got to work on his legs.

"Can't have you kicking, now can we?" the shorter kidnapper said, producing more of the abrasive hemp.

They started at his ankles, wrapping them together with the same methodical cruelty they'd shown with his arms. The rope bit into the sensitive skin above his feet, scraping against his ankle bones with each tightening loop. Justin's legs were powerful from years of farm work, but that only seemed to encourage them to use more rope and pull it tighter.

Next came his calves, bound together from ankles to knees. The kidnappers used their combined weight to press his legs together before cinching the bindings. The coarse fibers immediately began to irritate the hair-covered skin of his muscular calves, each small movement creating tiny abrasions that stung in the cool air of the barn.

"Thighs too," the taller one ordered. "Don't want him hopping around."

They worked their way up, binding his thighs together with multiple loops of the rough hemp. When they reached the tender skin of his inner thighs, Justin couldn't suppress a groan behind the gag as the rope scraped against areas that had never been calloused by physical labor.

With a final brutal yank, they secured his legs from ankles to upper thighs, leaving him completely immobilized on the dirt floor of the barn. The combination of the shoulder strain from his bound arms and the new pressure of the leg bindings created a full-body torment that left him struggling to breathe through his nose.

"There he is," the taller kidnapper said, admiring their handiwork. "All wrapped up like a Christmas present for daddy to buy back.""

Justin lays there suffering, sweat beading across his forehead and running in rivulets down his bare chest and back. He forces himself to remain absolutely still, understanding that even the slightest shift would cause the coarse hemp to saw against his already raw skin. His breathing is shallow and measured—each expansion of his chest causing the ropes to tighten incrementally across his torso.

The memories flood back unbidden. His brothers, Matt and Cody, tying him to the hayloft ladder when he was twelve. The loose, simple knots they used. The way they'd laugh when they returned an hour later to find him already free and plotting his revenge. "Better luck next time," they'd say, ruffling his hair. Even their most elaborate bindings had taken him less than twenty minutes to escape.

This was different. Professional. Inescapable. The knots were positioned precisely where he couldn't reach them. The rope pattern eliminated any possibility of creating slack. And the pain—the constant, abrading pain that worsened with each subtle movement—made focused effort impossible.

A sudden spasm in his cramping shoulder causes him to jerk involuntarily. The rope immediately bites deeper, scraping a new layer of skin from his forearms. Justin bites down hard on the gag, tears forming at the corners of his eyes as he forces himself back into absolute stillness. Forty-eight hours like this would be an eternity.

Hours passed—or was it minutes? Justin had lost all track of time. The pain from the ropes had become so constant, so overwhelming, that his mind began to disconnect from his body. A strange calm washed over him as he slipped into a dissociative state.

Suddenly, he was floating above himself, looking down at his bound form on the dirt floor. From this detached perspective, he observed his own suffering with an eerie clinical detachment.

He saw himself—a young man barely out of his teens—his muscular body grotesquely contorted by the elaborate bindings. His wrists were purple where the hemp had cut off circulation, the skin around the ropes rubbed raw and beginning to weep clear fluid. Dried blood traced thin lines where the fibers had cut deepest.

The bindings around his biceps had created deep furrows in the muscle, the tissue swelling around the constriction points. His elbows, forced unnaturally close behind his back, had distorted his shoulder joints to the point where the outline of the socket was visibly deformed under his skin.

The torso ropes formed a web across his chest and abdomen—each intersection creating pressure points that had turned white from compressed circulation surrounded by rings of angry red inflammation. With each shallow breath, the pattern shifted slightly, creating new abrasions on skin already mapped with a crisscross of raw welts.

His legs, bound from ankles to thighs, had begun to spasm involuntarily from the sustained compression. The muscles twitched beneath the bindings, causing micro-movements that set off chain reactions of pain as the hemp grated against already abraded skin.

The face of his physical form below was almost unrecognizable—features contorted in a grimace around the tight gag, lips cracked from dehydration, eyes unfocused and glazed. Sweat and tears had cut clean tracks through the dirt on his face.

From above, Justin watched a single involuntary tear slide down his cheek and drop to the dirt floor. The tiny impact created a perfect dark circle in the dust. He focused on that circle, finding it strangely beautiful in its perfection—a single moment of symmetry in the chaos of suffering.

Time stretched and compressed. He had no idea how long he'd been hanging in this limbo between his body and the barn rafters. But he knew that when he returned to himself, the pain would be waiting, patient and absolute.The shock of ice-cold water hitting his face yanked Justin violently back into his body. He gasped, choking against the gag as reality crashed over him like the frigid deluge. Every nerve ending screamed as his consciousness reconnected with his tortured flesh.

"Wake up, farm boy," the taller kidnapper said, tossing an empty bucket aside. "Good news. Daddy paid up."

Justin's mind struggled to process the words through the fog of pain. Paid up. It was over.

The shorter kidnapper produced a knife with a serrated blade. Justin flinched as it approached his skin, but the man began cutting away the elaborate web of ropes across his torso. With each severed binding, blood rushed back into compressed tissue, bringing fresh waves of agony that made Justin's vision swim with black spots.

"Don't need these anymore," the taller one said, removing the gag. Justin worked his jaw painfully, his cracked lips bleeding as he tried to form words. Only a raspy groan emerged.

They cut the ropes binding his thighs and calves, but left his ankles secured. Similarly, they freed his arms from his torso and removed the brutal bindings around his biceps, but left his wrists bound behind his back.

"We're gentlemen of our word," the taller kidnapper explained, packing their tools. "Your father paid, so you live. But we're not stupid enough to let you loose completely until we're long gone."

"You'll work free eventually," the shorter one added with a smirk. "Just might lose some skin in the process."

They left without another word, the barn door slamming and the sound of a vehicle starting up outside. Justin lay on the dirt floor, his body a map of agony. The remaining bindings at his wrists and ankles felt like bands of fire against his raw, blood-streaked skin.

For several minutes, he simply breathed, each inhalation sending fresh pain through his shoulders as they gradually realigned to their natural position. Then, drawing on reserves of determination he didn't know he possessed, he began to work at the bindings.

The technique his brothers had taught him—creating tension, then sudden relaxation—tore open barely formed scabs. Fresh blood made the hemp slick against his abraded wrists. He bit his lip until it bled, using the new pain to focus his mind away from the feeling of rope fibers embedding in open wounds.

After twenty excruciating minutes, his right hand slipped free with a wet, tearing sound. Using his teeth and bloody fingers, he untied his other wrist, then bent forward to work on his ankles.

When the final rope fell away, Justin collapsed back onto the dirt floor, panting. His body was a constellation of rope burns, blood-crusted abrasions, and deep tissue bruising. His shoulders throbbed with a pain that suggested damage beyond simple strain.

But he was free.

On hands and knees, he crawled to where his jeans lay crumpled in the corner. His phone was still in the pocket—they hadn't bothered to check. With trembling, blood-smeared fingers, he dialed for help.

"Dad," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "It's me. I'm at the old Peterson barn. Please come."

As the adrenaline of escape faded, Justin curled onto his side, cradling his damaged body. Later, there would be hospitals, police reports, and endless questions. But for now, there was only the sweet, simple relief of survival.