Saddled, chapter 17 (Patreon)

At first, John tried to keep track of the outside sounds and turns, but he quickly lost all sense of direction. Boston was a crazy maze of roads going in every direction, and John didn’t know the city well enough to even guess which direction they were going. Even more annoying, no one in the van was talking. They’d shoved John into a seat and put the belt across him, and he was as helpless as if they’d used fifty pounds of bondage equipment on him.

They drove at least twenty minutes, although John didn’t trust his internal clock when his heart pounded so hard that it hurt. All John knew was that they hadn’t gotten on any freeways.

When the kidnappers pulled John out of the van, John noticed a definite lack of traffic noise. Their footsteps echoed, so John guessed they were in some sort of empty garage or warehouse. Fear made his mouth dry, and he followed as his captors silently led him with a tight hold on his arm. A door slammed behind them, and John jumped.

The man who held his arm gave him a sharp jerk, and John lost his balance all together, stumbling to one side. Without sight, John’s brain was too slow to determine which direction to move to catch his balance, and with his arms cuffed, he couldn’t compensate. For a second, John thought he was going to hit the floor. Someone shoved John forward, and he feared he was about to face plant onto the concrete with his hands cuffed behind his back, but a second set of hands slammed him into a chair. 

John’s elbow hit the straight wooden back, and flares of pain shot up his arm. “Shit,” John swore softly, and then someone pulled the hood off his head. 

John blinked in the bright light and looked around. He was in an office that had been stripped of most of the furniture, leaving scarred drywall and paint yellowed by either age or nicotine. On the far wall, a door with a glass insert made the room look like the office from a car shop, but someone had taped newspaper over the glass, so John couldn’t see outside. Even the chairs looked old and worn, although the one John sat in was unfortunately solid. 

A camera was set up on the far side of a cracked old folding table like John used to see in the basement of the church as a kid. That worried John more than anything else.

“What do you think you’re doing?” John asked. The man who had originally pointed a gun at him dropped a loop of rope across John’s chest and started tying him to the chair. John had no idea why these people were acting like John was dangerous. He was a fisherman, not a damn special ops soldier. He certainly didn’t have the skill set to attack a man with a gun.

“Shut up and you’ll be fine,” the gunman said. John suspected that was a lie, but he kept silent.

A second kidnapper walked up to John and pulled a chair up next to him. “If you kick me, I’ll fuck you up, got it?” he demanded. He pulled out a knife and rested the point against John’s thigh.

The smart move would have been to agree, but panic was quickly overriding any coherent thought. John snapped “Fuck you.”

The man backhanded John. If not for the ropes across his chest, John would have fallen off the chair, and the gunman had to grab the back of the chair to steady it.

“Harris!” that man snarled. John’s gut knotted. They were letting him not only see their faces but also hear names. Harris was white, early to mid-twenties with bleached hair and black roots. The gunman was a decade older with a harder expression that worried John.  Either they were really confident that they had a way to keep John silent or they planned to kill him.

“I’m not going to have a whore insulting me,” Harris said with just as much attitude. These two had anger issues, and John clenched his teeth to keep himself from saying anything else.

“Get his shoes off and shut the fuck up,” the gunman ordered. 

Harris pulled John’s leg up and made quick work of John’s laces. He tossed the shoes and socks on the table while the gunman pulled a second wooden chair up on the far side of the folding table. John kept his eyes on that one since Harris appeared little more than a hired thug.

“Who do you work for?” the gunman asked.

“I own my own boat.”

The gunman’s smile was slow and cruel. “Who do you whore yourself out for?”

“No one.” John’s guts coiled into tight knots. One time he’d been on a crab boat when a storm had come in. They’d had to capture their last pots, so there hadn’t been time to get out of the path, and the boat had nearly gone under. John felt the same cold in his bones now as he had then.

“This will go so much easier for you if you don’t lie.” The friendly tone set off every warning alarm in John’s head. It might go easier, but whatever they wanted, they were going to kill John once they got it. He wondered if these people were aiming at Elena or Davidson, not that it mattered. If John wanted to survive, he would have to buy time and hope one of them got him out. 

“I’m not a whore.” John looked down at Harris who was tying John’s now bare feet to rings set into the concrete. It forced his legs apart, and John forced his body to relax when he really wanted to fight the ropes.

“We know you work for Elena and she rented you out to Clive Davidson. So, is that a per hour rental or do you have a minimum fee.”

John tried to swallow, but his mouth felt gummy and the sides of his throat wanted to stick together. “Can I get some water?”

“I’m not untying you to drink or pee, so you’re better off without any,” the gunman said. “How long have you been whoring for Elena?”

“You have issues and are possibly hard of hearing,” John said. “I’m not a whore. I fish for a living.”

“And you were out in the park with a prostitute because…” the gunman had a knowing look on his face, like he’d just made some big discovery.

“Because a girl I liked wanted a little protection as she met some guy for the first time. It turns out the guy she was meeting is a psychopath.” John took it as a small victory when the gunman paled with anger and pressed his lips together.

“Watch your mouth, bitch,” Harris said as he finally stood. Both John’s feet were now secured to the concrete, and the cold floor leeched up through his soles. 

“You’re the one who spent the last few minutes between my legs,” John countered. He had a millisecond to relish the glory of a well-timed insult, and then Harris punched John in the nuts. John gave a half strangled scream and tried to bend over, but he was tied too tightly. He could only thrash in his bonds as the pain radiated up into his guts.

“Enough!” the gunman snapped. “Go watch the front.”

“I don’t have to take his attitude,” Harris said. John might have offered to leave, but he was too busy gasping for air.

“Go on. Get out.” The gunman stood up and as soon as Harris was gone, turned on the camera and stood behind it. John struggled to get his body under control. He wanted to deny these bastards any sort of victory, so he schools his features and forced his breathing to slow even though his whole body still screamed in pain.

“What’s your relationship with Elena?” the gunman asked from behind the camera.

“Non-existent.” John took a long breath and forced himself to relax. He had been tied up for work any number of times, and he knew how to tense and then relax a muscle to prevent cramping. He just had to use his skills and keep his head.

“Do you work for the Briarwood Agency?” 

That was public record, so John felt comfortable admitting as much. “Sure. I offer boat tours for them.”

“So, what is your relationship with Elena?”

“Who?” John didn’t try to look innocent because he sucked as an actor. Instead he let all his fury show on his face.

“Elena, the owner of Briarwood. What’s your relationship with her?”

“Why the fuck would I have a relationship with the owner? A secretary calls me and tells me who to meet at the docks. I sure as hell don’t chum around with the owner.”

The gunman’s face was slowly turning red, so whatever he was looking for, John wasn’t providing it. Good. 

“What is Elena’s real last name?”

“Again, how the fuck would I know. My checks say Briarwood Agency.”

The gunman crossed his arms and took several seconds to stare at John. John stared back. “How long have you whored for Clive Davidson?”

“I’m not a whore. You can keep talking shit all you want, but I’m not going to say something that’s not true.” John curled his toes against the cold concrete and tried to swallow, but his mouth was too dry.

Instead of getting violent, the gunman’s expression turned amused. “As I understand it, you whored yourself out to him for the first time last week. I understand you have a real talent for letting men shove their dicks in you. Apparently you have charmed him with how well you bend over and take it.”

John narrowed his eyes. That was far too much information for someone to have. Either they’d tapped Elena’s phones or they’d been watching Davidson’s house. One of those two was going to get a video delivered to them in the morning, John didn’t doubt that. He had no idea how either might react. Since Elena tended to handle problems from the rich and famous, she would probably end up handling these guys no matter who they were targeting.

And if he wanted Elena to save him, he had to cover her ass. But that was going to be hard if these guys had inside information.

“So let me ask again,” the gunman said cheerfully, “what’s your relationship with Clive Davidson?”

John couldn’t deny knowing Davidson if these guys had surveillance, so he changed tactics. “My love life isn’t any of your fucking business.”

“So, you’re admitting you and Davidson are lovers?”

“I’m saying it’s not your business,” John said. He pressed his lips together and resolved to refuse to answer any other questions. The gunman continued for a few minutes, pressing John about what his relationship was with Davidson or Elena, asking about timelines and kinks. They definitely wanted to get certain salacious details on tape, but John stared at the newspaper that covered the office window and ignored everything.

With a sigh, the gunman turned the camera off and put the lens cap over the end. Slowly, he walked around the table, and the whole time he studied John. “You’re not a wiseguy. You don’t want to do this the hard way, so don’t confuse being a tough guy and being an idiot.” The gunman ran the back of his finger over John’s cheek in a mimicry of affection. It sent a wave of revulsion through John, but he kept still and silent.

The gunman sat on the edge of the folding table. “The camera is off, so just talk to me. Did Elena assign you to Davidson because she knew you could handle his violent temper?”

John wanted to defend Davidson. The man had wielded a whip, but he had never been violent or lost his temper. However, he couldn’t say anything without confirming things that he didn’t want to confirm. So he continued to stare at the door, even when the gunman rested a hand on John’s shoulder.

“I respect that you’re covering for your boss, but do you really think she would cover for you?”

John ignored him. He knew full well that Elena would do whatever it took to protect herself and the agency. He had only started working at Briarwood when he’d seen the lengths that she went to in her quest to distance herself and the agency from anything illegal. However, he also knew how insanely possessive Elena was when it came to her assistants. John had to put his faith in that.

“Idiot,” the gunman snarled. Apparently the good cop portion of the agenda had ended. John allowed himself a small smile as he emerged victorious after round one. “Fine, but you’re just hurting yourself,” the kidnapper said. Before John knew what the man was doing, he had grabbed John’s head and drove his thumb into the side of John’s jaw. The pain shot through his skull, and John had to open his mouth.

Immediately, the kidnapper shoved something dry and musty inside. It took John a half second to realize the gunman had grabbed one of John’s socks off the table. John tried to push it out with his tongue, but the gunman grabbed John’s second sock and tied it tightly around John’s mouth and head. The fabric pressed against John’s tongue and the top of his mouth, stealing what little moisture had been in his mouth. His throat felt even stickier, as if it might close up and strangle John at any time, and John worked to slow his breathing.

The gunman moved to the front of John’s chair and slapped both John’s cheeks lightly. “You look like a cute little chipmunk. I bet the boss would love a picture.” He took out his camera and clicked away. “So I’m going to leave you here to think about how much trouble you’re in, and when I come back, we’re going to talk about Elena and Clive Davidson, okay?” The gunman leaned down and kissed the end of John’s nose. “You really are cute all tied up. When this is over, pencil me in for a long weekend. I bet you’re worth every penny.”

With that, the gunman strode out of the room, turning the lights off as he left. A square glow remained where some light came in through the newspaper covered window, but John was left in a twilight. He jerked from one side to the other, but he couldn’t budge the ropes that tied him to the chair, and his legs were tied so far apart that he couldn’t tip the chair over—at least not without breaking his own leg. John was trapped. 

His nose started to run, and John wondered if he was going to die in this room. For the first time since that horrible storm that had made him give up crab fishing, he really thought he could feel death’s breath against the back of his neck, and all the small hairs stood on end. 

Chapter 18: https://www.patreon.com/posts/saddled-chapter-19665446 

Chapter 19: https://www.patreon.com/posts/saddled-chapter-19779762 

Chapter 20: https://www.patreon.com/posts/saddled-chapter-19820249 

Chapter 21: https://www.patreon.com/posts/saddled-chapter-19951417 

Chapter 22: https://www.patreon.com/posts/saddled-chapter-20049839 

Chapter 23: https://www.patreon.com/posts/saddled-chapter-20094108 

Chapter 24: https://www.patreon.com/posts/saddled-chapter-20174290