The Documentary

 

The two Marine privates were sitting in their ops center just beginning 5 days of leave, with nowhere to go. Wearing their battle ready dress, sleeves folded up Marine style to their shoulders showing their powerful biceps and arms, Ryan took off his cap and was trying to convince his best buddy Jess. "Look man, they said it's a documentary on terrorism. And they need two Marines to play captives. They'll pay $5 grand each. All it involves is that we stay tied up and hooded for the shots. What do you think? Can you handle being tied up?" "Damm right for $5 grand. Let's do it!" Little did they know they were falling into a trap that will take them to the point of death!

Chapter 1

The warehouse smelled like dust and old concrete, but Ryan didn't care. Five grand for a few hours of "acting" - easiest money he'd ever make. He flexed his biceps and grinned at Jess, who was doing the same thing.

"Look at us, man," Ryan said, squeezing his own arm. "We're gonna be movie stars."

Jess laughed, rolling up his sleeves Marine-style to show off his shoulders. "Five thousand bucks to sit tied up. I've had worse assignments."

The camera crew moved around them, setting up lights and adjusting equipment. Everything looked professional enough - boom mics, fancy cameras, guys in headsets talking into radios. Ryan had watched enough behind-the-scenes footage to recognize the real deal.

"Alright, gentlemen," called out someone who looked like a director. "We're going to start with some basic restraints. Just for the shots. You comfortable with that?"

"Hell yes," Ryan said, settling into the metal chair they'd positioned for him. "Tie me up, boss."

The rope felt solid as they wrapped his wrists behind the chair. Professional gear, Ryan thought. They're not cutting corners on this production.

Jess was getting the same treatment in the chair next to him, still relaxed. "This is the easiest deployment ever, brother."

Then came the hoods - black fabric that blocked out everything. Ryan settled back, waiting for direction. He could hear movement around them, the shuffle of feet, whispered conversations. Probably setting up the next shot.

"Action!"

A voice called out instructions in what sounded like accented English. "Make sure they are tied up tight."

Just the director being thorough, Ryan figured. These documentary guys were always obsessing over details.

Chapter 2

The first rope around Ryan's chest felt tight, but he figured it was for the camera angles. Then came another. And another.

"Hey," Ryan said, his voice muffled by the hood. "This is getting pretty tight, man."

"Yeah," Jess agreed from the chair beside him. "How long is this scene supposed to run?"

More rope came next - wrapped around their upper arms, biting deep into the exposed skin between shoulder and elbow. With their sleeves rolled up Marine-style, there was nothing to protect the muscle. Ryan could feel the rope cutting into his biceps, the same arms he'd been flexing with pride just minutes earlier.

"Uh, director?" Ryan called out. "This is getting a little intense for a documentary."

Then they pulled his forearms together behind the chair back, binding them tight against each other. The rope wrapped around and around, forcing the hair on his forearms to stand up where the coarse fibers scraped against his skin. Sweat was starting to bead up on his arms, making everything slippery and somehow worse.

"Jess, you okay over there?"

"My arms, man. They're binding my forearms together. I can't feel my hands."

Ryan tried to flex against the binding, but it only made the rope dig deeper into his exposed skin. Every muscle he'd built up through years of training was now working against him, swelling under the restraints, making them cut deeper. The sweat was running down his arms now.

"Hey!" Ryan's voice was sharper now. "This is way more than we agreed to! You're cutting off circulation!"

Still no answer from the crew. Just whispered conversations in what definitely wasn't English.

That's when Ryan felt the tape being pressed against his hood, sealing his mouth shut. He tried to call out, but only muffled sounds escaped. Beside him, he could hear Jess making the same desperate, gagged noises.

Chapter 3

Ryan could hear voices around them, clearer now. English mixed with what sounded like Arabic. Someone was setting up equipment - different equipment. Not cameras this time.

What the hell is going on?

A phone rang. Someone answered in accented English.

"Yes, we have them. Two United States Marines. We want five million dollars or we kill them both."

Holy shit. Holy shit. This is real.

Ryan's heart hammered against the ropes binding his chest. He could hear Jess's muffled breathing beside him, sharp and panicked.

"You want proof? We send you video."

Video. They're going to film us. Really film us.

Ryan felt hands adjusting something near his head - a camera, pointing right at him. The red recording light blinked through the thin fabric of his hood.

"We give you 48 hours. Five million dollars or we start cutting pieces off."

They won't pay. Oh God, they won't pay. We don't negotiate with terrorists.

The man on the phone was speaking to someone else now, someone important. Ryan could tell by the tone, the way the voice got more formal.

"Pentagon? Yes, Pentagon. We have your Marines. Ryan Mitchell and Jesse Santos. You want them back alive, you pay."

They know our names. They know everything.

A long pause. Ryan could practically hear the response through the phone - the cold, official rejection he'd been trained to expect.

"You will not pay? Then you will watch them die."

We're dead. We're actually dead.

Chapter 4

The camera was rolling. Ryan could see the red light bleeding through his hood.

They're going to hurt us on camera. Send it to Washington.

Footsteps approached. Someone grabbed Ryan's left arm - the one he'd been flexing so proudly hours ago.

No. No, please.

The first blow came down hard across his bicep with something metal. Ryan's scream was muffled by the tape, coming out as desperate animal sounds. The pain shot through his entire arm.

All that training. All those pushups. Useless.

Another blow. This time to his forearm, right where the rope had been chafing against his skin. Ryan could feel something crack.

My arm. Oh God, my arm.

Beside him, Jess was getting the same treatment. Ryan could hear his muffled cries, the wet sound of metal against flesh and bone.

Then hands were ripping at their shirts, tearing the fabric away from their chests. The same torsos they'd been so proud of, now exposed and vulnerable.

They're going to—

Cold metal pressed against Ryan's nipples. Electrodes. He could hear the hum of electrical equipment being wheeled closer.

"Pentagon," the voice spoke clearly toward the camera. "You see? This is what happens. We break your strong Marines. Piece by piece."

Buckets of water splashed over both of them. Ryan felt it soaking through his hood, making it harder to breathe.

No. Not like this.

The first jolt of electricity tore through Ryan's chest. Every muscle in his body seized up, his back arching against the chair. The scream that tried to escape was completely muffled by the tape.

Again. And again. Each shock sent spasms through his body, making him convulse against the ropes. Sweat poured down his chest, mixing with the water, making the electricity conduct even better.

Make it stop. Please make it stop.

His body was drenched now, sweat and water dripping from every pore. The shocks kept coming, each one weaker than his body's response to it. He could feel himself fading.

Can't... can't take...

Another jolt. This time Ryan barely twitched. His body had nothing left to give.

The final shock produced no response at all. Ryan's head lolled forward, unconscious.

Beside him, Jess had gone completely still.

The camera kept rolling.

Chapter 5

Ryan came to slowly, his head pounding. The hood was gone. He could see the warehouse ceiling, harsh lights glaring down. In the chair beside him, Jess was stirring too.

At least we can see.

A television screen flickered to life in front of them. Ryan watched in horror as footage played - himself and Jess being tortured, their bodies convulsing under the electrical shocks. The sound was turned up loud.

That's us. That's really us.

Then came the audio recordings. Cold, official voices from the Pentagon.

"We cannot and will not negotiate with terrorist organizations."

"The two Marines knew the risks when they enlisted."

"Any payment would only encourage future kidnappings."

They're not coming. They're really not coming.

Jess was watching too, his face pale and beaten. Ryan could see the horror in his friend's eyes as the reality sank in.

The captors moved in, cutting them free from the chairs. Ryan's legs gave out completely - they dragged him to the center of the concrete floor. Then Jess, positioning them on their sides, chest to chest.

Fresh rope bound them together, face-to-face on the cold concrete. Ryan's broken bicep pressed against the floor, sending waves of pain through his arm. Every breath pushed his damaged ribs against Jess's chest.

Ryan could see the damage up close now - Jess's left eye swollen shut, blood crusted around his nose.

Jesus. Do I look that bad?

Someone ripped the tape away from their mouths - the adhesive tearing skin.

"Now you talk to each other," the voice said. "Before we finish."

Metal touched Ryan's teeth. Electrodes. He could taste copper and fear.

No. Please, not like this.

The electricity coursed through his jaw, his skull. He screamed, the sound echoing off Jess's face just inches away. Then it was Jess's turn - Ryan had to watch his best friend's face contort in agony.

Back and forth. Again and again. Until both their voices were raw and broken.

Then footsteps retreating. A door slamming.

Silence.

They were alone, bound together on the concrete floor, left to die.

Chapter 6

For a long time, neither of them spoke. Just the sound of labored breathing, the weight of their broken bodies pressed together on the cold concrete.

Ryan could feel their blood and sweat mingling where their bare chests touched, the hair matted down between them. Everything they'd been proud of - their strength, their conditioning - now just broken flesh pressed against broken flesh.

Finally, Ryan's voice came out as a rasp. "Jess... you still with me, brother?"

"Yeah." Jess's voice was barely a whisper. "Barely."

Ryan tried to shift position, but the rope held them tight. His broken arm screamed against the concrete. "Never thought... never thought I could be broken like this."

"What fucking fools we were," Jess managed, his breath hot against Ryan's face. "Flexing our muscles. Thinking we were so tough."

"All that training," Ryan's voice cracked. "All those years. Useless."

The sweat kept flowing between them, mixing with the blood from their wounds. Ryan could taste salt and copper in the air.

Jess coughed, tasting blood. "Remember boot camp? Thought we were invincible after that."

"Semper fi, right?" Ryan almost laughed, but it came out as a sob. "Always faithful. Fat lot of good it did us."

"They really aren't coming, are they?"

"No." Ryan's voice was flat. "We knew they wouldn't. We fucking knew."

Jess closed his one good eye. "My mom's gonna wonder what happened."

"Tell her..." Ryan paused. "If we get out of this, tell her you were brave. Tell her we both were."

"We weren't brave, Ryan. We were scared shitless."

"Maybe that's the same thing."

They lay there, chest to chest, feeling each other's heartbeat getting weaker, their life mixing together on the concrete floor.

"Best buddies forever," Jess whispered. "Like we promised in high school."

"Semper fi, brother. To the end."

Chapter 7

The sound came like thunder - boots on concrete, shouting voices, the crash of doors being kicked in.

Ryan's eyes fluttered open. He'd been drifting, feeling Jess's breathing getting shallower against his chest.

"Federal agents! Everyone on the ground!"

Is this real?

Footsteps pounded closer. Ryan could hear automatic weapons, tactical gear jingling, commands being barked in English. Real English.

"Jesus Christ, we found them!"

A voice right above them now. "Medic! We need a medic over here!"

Hands were cutting through the ropes that bound them together. Ryan felt the pressure release from his chest, but he couldn't move. Everything hurt.

A commanding officer knelt beside them, surveying the damage. "Sweet mother of God. Look at this rope work. Look what they did to these boys."

Another Marine crouched down, examining Ryan's chest. "Sir, look at these burn marks. They used electricity on them."

"On their chests?" the CO asked.

"Yes sir. And look..." The Marine gently tilted Ryan's head. "Burns around the mouth too. They shocked their teeth, sir."

The CO's face darkened. "Those sick bastards."

Ryan tried to speak, but only a croak came out.

"It's okay, Marines. You're safe now. We're getting you out of here."

They were lifting him, separating him from Jess. Ryan panicked, trying to reach for his friend.

"Jess..." he whispered.

"Your buddy's alive. He's right here. You're both going home."

Home.

The CO leaned closer as they loaded Ryan onto the stretcher. "Son, you need to know - we got every last one of those bastards. They're at Guantanamo Bay right now, and let me tell you, your fellow Marines down there are having a real good time with them."

Ryan felt something like satisfaction cut through the pain.

"How long..." Ryan managed to ask.

"Three days. You've been missing for three days. Half the military's been looking for you."

Three days. Felt like forever.

The last thing Ryan saw before the morphine hit was Jess on another stretcher beside him, unconscious but breathing.

They were going home.

 

Chapter 1

The late afternoon sun beat down mercilessly on the isolated construction site, turning the air thick and stifling. Rick Renzo wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his work glove, leaving a streak of dust across his brow. At nineteen, he was built for this kind of work—broad shoulders, strong back, and the kind of stamina that made his older brother Ray shake his head in mock envy.

"Jesus, Rick, slow down or you'll give us both heat stroke just watching you," Ray called out from where he crouched near the foundation forms, his own white t-shirt already damp with perspiration.

Rick grinned, hefting another bag of concrete mix like it weighed nothing. His gray printed t-shirt was soaked through, clinging to his chest and showing the dark line of sweat that ran down his center to where it disappeared into his camo work pants. "Someone's gotta do the real work around here, old man."

"Old man? I'm twenty-two, you little shit." Ray stood up, brushing dirt from his jeans, his hairy forearms flexing as he stretched. "Besides, brains over brawn—that's why I do the measuring and you do the heavy lifting."

The brothers had been working this remote site for three days now, laying the foundation for what would eventually become someone's dream cabin. Miles from the nearest neighbor, surrounded by nothing but pine trees and silence. Their white Renzo Brothers Contracting van sat parked nearby, its windowless back doors open to reveal their tools and supplies.

That's when they heard the car approaching.

Both brothers looked up as an old sedan came bumping down the dirt access road, moving slowly like the driver was looking for something. Rick set down the concrete bag and wiped his hands on his pants.

"You expecting anyone?" Ray asked.

"Nope." Rick squinted at the approaching vehicle. "Maybe someone's lost?"

The car pulled to a stop about twenty feet away, and two men got out. Even from a distance, something felt off about them—the way they looked around, the way they moved with too much purpose for people who were simply lost.

"Excuse me," the taller one called out, walking toward them with his hands visible but his eyes constantly scanning their surroundings. "We're looking for Route 47. GPS has us all turned around."

Ray felt his gut tighten. Route 47 was back the way they'd come, clearly marked. These guys weren't lost.

"You boys do good work," the second man said, but he wasn't looking at their foundation. He was looking at their van.

That's when Rick noticed the shorter man's hand moving toward his waistband, and everything went to hell.

Chapter 2

"Don't fucking move!" The shorter man had a gun out, sweeping it between the two brothers while his partner circled behind them. "Hands where I can see them!"

Rick's hands shot up instinctively, his heart hammering against his ribs. Beside him, Ray raised his hands more slowly, his eyes never leaving the gunman's face.

"Easy," Ray said, his voice steady despite the situation. "We're not looking for trouble. You want the van? Take it."

"Shut up." The taller man was already at their vehicle, peering into the open back doors. "Perfect. No windows, plenty of space." He paused, spotting something inside. "Well, look at this, Miguel. Christmas came early."

Miguel kept the gun trained on them while his partner reached into the van and pulled out a massive coil of hemp rope—300 feet of quarter-inch line they used for hauling and securing loads.

"This'll work a lot better than zip ties," the tall man said, testing the rope's strength. "Turn around. Hands behind your backs."

"Look, you don't need us," Ray tried again. "Just take the van and—"

The gun barrel cracked against the side of his head, dropping him to one knee. Rick lunged forward, but Miguel swung the weapon toward him.

"Your brother's got a big mouth. You want to keep it shut for him?"

Rick's fists clenched, every muscle in his body screaming to fight, but the gun was steady in Miguel's hands. He looked down at Ray, who was shaking his head clear, blood trickling from his temple.

"We'll cooperate," Rick said through gritted teeth.

"Smart boy." Miguel gestured with the gun. "Both of you, turn around."

The hemp rope was rough against Rick's wrists as it was wound around them—tight, methodical loops that bit into his skin. Too tight. His hands were already starting to tingle. Ray grunted as his own wrists were bound with the same merciless precision.

"In the van," the taller man ordered, holding the remaining coil of rope. "Move."

They were shoved toward their own vehicle, stumbling with their hands bound. The back doors yawned open like a mouth waiting to swallow them. Rick hesitated at the threshold—once they got in that van, everything changed.

"I said move!" A hard shove sent him sprawling onto the metal floor. Ray tumbled in after him, landing hard on his shoulder.

The taller man climbed in after them, uncoiling more rope. "Can't have you rolling around back here," he said, wrapping line around Rick's ankles, then Ray's. "This should keep you nice and secure."

The doors slammed shut, plunging them into darkness thick with the smell of hemp and their own fear-sweat.

Outside, they heard the two men talking in low voices, then footsteps moving away. A few minutes later, an engine started—not their van, but the sedan. It drove off, leaving them alone in the suffocating darkness.

"Ray?" Rick whispered. "You okay?"

"Head's ringing, but I'm alive." Ray's voice was tight with pain. "You?"

"This rope is already cutting into my wrists." Rick tried to shift position, but his bound ankles made movement nearly impossible. "What do you think they want?"

"They're running from something. Need transportation that can't be seen into." Ray was quiet for a moment. "We're not getting out of this easy, Rick."

The van rocked slightly as footsteps approached outside. Both brothers went silent, listening as the front doors opened and closed. The engine turned over.

"Where we headed?" Miguel's voice carried clearly from the front.

"North. I know a place we can hole up for the night."

"Wait," the taller man said. "They're gonna be talking back there the whole time. Hand me that tape."

The back doors opened again, letting in a harsh shaft of light. Miguel climbed in holding a roll of black Gorilla tape from their tool supplies.

"No, please—" Ray started, but Miguel was already tearing off a long strip.

"Open your mouth," Miguel ordered Rick.

When Rick pressed his lips together, Miguel grabbed his jaw and squeezed until Rick gasped. The tape went between his teeth first, pulled tight, then wrapped around his head multiple times. The adhesive bit into the corners of his mouth, and Rick could taste blood where it cut into his lips.

Ray tried to turn his head away, but it was useless. The same process—tape between the teeth, around the head, cutting into the corners of his mouth.

The doors slammed shut again, and they were back in darkness.

This can't be happening, Rick thought, working his jaw against the tape. This can't be real.

The van lurched into motion, and the Renzo brothers began their journey into hell, now unable even to speak to each other.

Chapter 3

The van finally stopped after what felt like hours of driving. Rick had lost all feeling in his hands, and his shoulders burned from being pulled back at an unnatural angle. The tape had worked loose enough that he could breathe through his mouth, but every slight movement sent sharp pains through its jaw where the adhesive had torn the skin.

Where are we? he wondered, listening to the muffled voices outside.

"This'll work," Miguel's voice carried through the metal walls. "Nobody comes out here this time of year."

The back doors opened, and both men stood silhouetted against the darkness. They were somewhere rural—Rick could smell pine trees and hear the distant sound of water.

"Out," the taller man commanded. "Carlos, grab that rope."

So that was his name. Carlos pulled the massive coil of hemp from the van while Miguel kept his gun trained on them. Rick tried to stand but his legs had gone numb. He fell hard on his knees, earning a kick to his ribs.

"Get up, pendejo."

Can't feel my legs, Rick thought desperately. Can't feel anything.

Ray was in worse shape, barely conscious as they dragged him from the van. The brothers were hauled toward what looked like an abandoned hunting cabin, its windows boarded up and roof sagging.

Inside, the cabin reeked of mold and animal droppings. A single kerosene lantern cast dancing shadows on the walls. Carlos was already uncoiling the rope.

"Look at them," Miguel said, taking a long drink from a bottle of whiskey. "Already soaked in sweat and we haven't even started."

Rick's gray t-shirt was still damp from the day's work, now mixed with fear-sweat. His camo work pants were stained with dirt and perspiration. Ray's white shirt was translucent with moisture, clinging to his chest.

"Now the fun begins," Carlos grinned. "You boys are gonna learn what happens when you're in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Miguel began working with the rope, cutting away their original wrist bindings only to immediately force Rick's elbows together behind his back. The rough hemp bit into his skin as it was wound tight, forcing his shoulder blades together painfully. More rope went around his forearms, then his wrists again.

"Hand me that duct tape," Miguel said to Carlos. "We need to make sure these arms stay put."

The silver tape was wound around Rick's forearms from elbow to wrist, pulled tight. Rick screamed through his gag as the adhesive ripped away chunks of hair from his arms where it adhered to his skin.

Oh God, oh God, Rick thought as the pain shot through him. Ray's muffled cries told him his brother was getting the same treatment.

Miguel continued with the rope, weaving it between Rick's upper arms to pull his biceps about eight inches apart, then wrapping coils around his chest and gut, forcing his taped forearms deep into his back.

"Legs next," Carlos said, wrapping rope around Rick's thighs over his work pants, then his knees, then his ankles. "There. Now you're not going anywhere."

They were left on the cabin floor, completely immobilized, watching as Miguel and Carlos settled in with their whiskey bottle.

"You know what we're gonna do tomorrow?" Miguel asked conversationally, taking another drink. "First thing, we're gonna cut your dicks off. Nice and slow. Let you watch each other bleed."

Carlos laughed, already drunk, pulling out a rusty knife and testing its edge. "Then we gouge out your eyes. One at a time. Save the best for last."

"Maybe we'll make you watch while we do your brother first," Miguel grinned, his eyes glittering in the lamplight. "See how much you can take before you go completely insane."

No, no, no, Rick's mind reeled with terror. They can't be serious. This can't be happening. But the casual way they discussed it, the detail in their voices, made his blood turn to ice.

Ray was making desperate choking sounds through his gag, his eyes wide with absolute horror.

"You know what the worst part is?" Miguel asked, leaning closer. "We haven't even started yet."

This is just the beginning, Rick thought, tasting blood where the tape cut into his mouth. God help us.

The kerosene flame flickered, casting their shadows like twisted puppets on the cabin walls.

Chapter 4

Rick woke to the sound of his own whimpering. His entire body was on fire—shoulders screaming from the rope binding, arms completely numb from the elbows down. The duct tape had loosened slightly overnight, but every small movement sent fresh waves of agony through his joints.

How long have we been here? The cabin was filled with gray morning light filtering through the boarded windows. His gray t-shirt was now soaked with sweat, fear, and something else he didn't want to think about. The smell was getting worse.

Ray was barely conscious beside him, his white shirt yellowed with perspiration and stained with bodily fluids. His breathing was shallow, labored.

He's not going to make it, Rick thought with growing panic. Neither of us are.

"Rise and shine, boys," Miguel's voice cut through the silence. Both men had been drinking all night, empty bottles scattered around their makeshift camp. "Time for some fun."

Carlos stood up unsteadily, his eyes bloodshot and mean. "I've been thinking about what we discussed last night."

No, please no, Rick's mind raced. They were just trying to scare us. They weren't serious.

But Carlos was pulling out that rusty knife again, testing its edge against his thumb. A drop of blood welled up.

The next few hours were a blur of pain and humiliation. Miguel would slap them across the face, hard enough to leave their ears ringing. Carlos would kick them in the ribs, not hard enough to break bones, but enough to leave them gasping.

"Sit up," Miguel commanded, hauling Rick into an upright position. The rope binding made it impossible to balance, and Rick toppled over immediately.

"I said sit up!" Another vicious slap across the face.

Can't... can't do it, Rick thought desperately, trying again. The rope around his chest and arms made any movement excruciating. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled apart.

They were forced into stress positions—made to balance on their knees with their bound arms pulling them backward. When they fell, they were kicked and slapped until they tried again.

By afternoon, Miguel was getting nervous. "We've been here too long. Need to move."

"Where to?" Carlos asked, still drunk.

"I know another place. About an hour north." Miguel started gathering their bottles. "Get them in the van."

The brothers were dragged outside, their legs barely able to support them after hours of being bound. The sunlight was blinding after the dark cabin.

"In the back," Miguel ordered, shoving them toward the open doors of their own van.

The van, Rick thought as they were thrown inside. Someone might be looking for the van.

The engine started, and they began moving again. Through his pain and exhaustion, Rick felt a tiny spark of something that might have been hope.

GPS, he remembered. The van has GPS for job tracking.

But that hope faded as quickly as it came. Even if someone was looking, they'd have to be lucky enough to check at exactly the right time.

The van stopped after what felt like an eternity. This time they were dragged into an abandoned warehouse, its broken windows letting in shafts of dusty light.

As night fell, Miguel and Carlos opened fresh bottles of whiskey. The drinking made them meaner, more violent.

"Look at them," Carlos laughed drunkenly, kicking Rick hard in the stomach. "Sweating like pigs."

Rick's camo work pants were dark with moisture, clinging to his legs. The smell in the warehouse was becoming unbearable—sweat, fear, and worse. Ray had lost control of his bodily functions.

We're animals, Rick realized with shame and horror. They've turned us into animals.

Miguel grabbed a piece of broken wood from the floor, testing its weight. "Let's see how tough these construction boys really are."

The beating that followed was methodical, calculated. Hard enough to cause agony, but not hard enough to kill them. Miguel would strike Rick's legs with the wood while Carlos punched Ray in the kidneys.

"Scream for us," Miguel demanded, raising the board again. "Come on, let us hear you scream."

But the gags made their cries muffled, pathetic sounds that only seemed to amuse their captors more.

"Tomorrow," Miguel said finally, his speech slurred as he tossed the bloodied wood aside, "tomorrow we really start having fun."

Carlos was sharpening the knife again, the scraping sound echoing in the empty warehouse. "I can't wait to hear them scream properly."

How much more can we take? Rick wondered, his body wracked with pain. Ray's eyes were glazed, barely focusing.

The warehouse fell silent except for the sound of their labored breathing and the distant scraping of steel on stone.

Chapter 5

The third day began with another move. Miguel was increasingly paranoid, constantly checking the windows and pacing the warehouse floor.

"We can't stay here," he muttered, already gathering their bottles. "Too exposed."

Another move, Rick thought through his haze of pain. His gray t-shirt was now stiff with dried sweat and filth, reeking of fear and human waste. Ray was barely responsive, his white shirt translucent and stained beyond recognition.

They were dragged back to the van, their bodies wracked with agony from two days of torture. This time the drive was shorter—only about thirty minutes before they stopped at what looked like an abandoned auto repair shop.

Inside, rusty chains hung from the ceiling beams. Carlos looked up at them and grinned.

"Perfect," he said.

Within an hour, both brothers hung upside down, suspended by ropes around their ankles. The blood rushed to their heads, making everything spin. Their bound arms, still taped and roped behind their backs, hung toward the floor, completely useless.

This is it, Rick realized with crystal clarity. We're going to die here.

Ray's face was purple from the blood pooling in his head, his eyes bulging. Neither could speak through their gags, but Rick could see the same terrible acceptance in his brother's eyes.

We'd rather be dead than go through another night of this.

The thought came to both of them simultaneously. Death would be mercy compared to what these animals were doing to them.

Hours passed. Miguel and Carlos drank and laughed, occasionally spinning the hanging brothers like punching bags. By evening, they were running low on alcohol.

"I need more beer," Carlos slurred, stumbling toward the door.

"There's a gas station about ten miles back," Miguel said. "Get a case. And some food."

They're leaving, Rick thought desperately. Maybe someone will find us.

But he knew it was too late. Even if someone found them now, they were too far gone. Ray was barely breathing, his face a sickening shade of purple.

The van's engine started outside, and they heard it drive away.

Twenty minutes later, it returned.

"Look what I got," Carlos announced drunkenly, holding up not just beer, but a bottle of tequila. "Time to celebrate."

They drank for another hour, getting meaner with each swig. Finally, Miguel stood up unsteadily and pulled out the rusty knife.

"You know what?" he said, his words badly slurred. "I'm tired of looking at these pieces of shit."

"Me too," Carlos agreed, also pulling out a blade. "Let's end this."

They approached the hanging brothers, knives glinting in the dim light.

"Hold still," Miguel laughed. "This will only hurt for a few seconds."

He raised the knife toward Rick's throat, the blade touching his skin.

That's when the doors exploded inward.

"POLICE! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"

A dozen officers in tactical gear flooded the building, rifles trained on Miguel and Carlos. Both men were too drunk to react quickly, standing frozen with knives in their hands.

"DROP THE KNIVES NOW!"

The blades clattered to the floor as both men were tackled and cuffed. EMTs rushed to the hanging brothers, carefully cutting them down and checking for vital signs.

"We need ambulances NOW!" one of the medics shouted into his radio. "Two victims, severe dehydration, possible circulation damage, they're barely conscious."

As Rick felt gentle hands cutting away his bonds, he looked over at Ray. His brother's eyes were open, tears streaming down his face.

We're alive, Rick thought as darkness closed in. Somehow, we're alive.

The last thing he heard before losing consciousness was one of the officers speaking into his radio: "GPS ping came through at 9:47 PM. Got here just in time."

The Renzo brothers had been found.

Chapter 6

One month later, Rick stood in the morning sunlight outside the new Renzo Brothers Contracting office, still adjusting to the feeling of freedom. The physical therapy had helped with his shoulders, though he still couldn't lift his arms completely overhead. The rope burns had faded to thin white scars around his wrists and forearms.

Ray emerged from the building, moving slowly but steadily. The doctors said his circulation had returned to normal, though both brothers still woke up some nights in cold sweats, phantom ropes binding their arms.

"You ready for this?" Ray asked, gesturing toward the line of brand-new white vans parked in front of their expanded facility.

Rick nodded, running his hand along the side of the nearest vehicle. "Still can't believe it."

The transformation had been overwhelming. What started as a few supportive phone calls from neighbors had turned into an avalanche of contract offers. Everyone in the county, it seemed, wanted the Renzo brothers to work on their projects. The local news coverage of their ordeal had made them reluctant celebrities.

"The Martinez house foundation starts Monday," Ray said, consulting his tablet. "Then we've got the Johnson renovation, the new Barnes deck, and that commercial job downtown."

"Ten crews," Rick shook his head in amazement. "Remember when it was just you and me arguing over who carried the concrete?"

Their new employees—experienced contractors they'd carefully vetted—were already arriving for the morning briefing. Each crew had their own van, their own tools, their own GPS tracking system that headquarters monitored closely.

Never again, Rick thought, watching the GPS monitors in their new office. We'll always know where everyone is.

Mrs. Patterson from down the street walked over, carrying a plate of homemade cookies.

"For our local heroes," she said, beaming at them. "My Harold says you boys are the toughest contractors in three counties."

Ray accepted the cookies graciously, though Rick saw him glance toward the office door—still uncomfortable with the attention.

"We're just glad to be back to work, Mrs. Patterson," Rick said.

As she walked away, Ray pulled out his phone and showed Rick the screen. "Seventeen new contract requests came in yesterday. We're booked solid through Christmas."

Rick looked at the thriving business around them—the new vans, the bustling office, the crew leaders getting their assignments. All of it built on the foundation of three nights of hell they'd somehow survived.

"You know what the strangest part is?" Rick said.

"What's that?"

"I actually missed the work. Even after everything, I missed getting my hands dirty, building something."

Ray smiled—the first genuine smile Rick had seen from his brother since the rescue. "Yeah, me too. Though I could do without the rope for a while."

They both laughed, and for the first time in a month, it didn't hurt.

The Renzo Brothers were back in business.