Captives and Captors Read online

  Captives and Captors

  Jon Athan

  Copyright © 2016 Jon Athan

  All Rights Reserved.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  For more information on this book or the author, please visit www.jon-athan.com. General inquiries are welcome.

  Cover by https://www.TheCoverCollection.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/AuthorJonAthan

  Twitter: @Jonny_Athan

  WARNING

  This book contains scenes of intense violence and unpleasant themes. Some parts of this book may be considered violent, cruel, disturbing, or unusual. Many of these scenes include graphic details of torture. Certain implications in this book may also trigger strong emotional responses. This book is not intended for those easily offended or appalled. Please enjoy at your own discretion.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter One

  Gone Fishing

  Music blared through the jukebox at the dimmest corner of the musky tavern. A passionate ballad with a harmonious violin, a tender viola, and mellow female vocals meandered through the drab bar – a striking contrast. The tuneful music was pleasing but unusual for the notoriously rough bar. The song was clearly a joke from the rowdy college crowd.

  Yet, Bruce Watson happily hummed with the smooth music as he leaned over the bar and stared at his rum. The beverage swirled with the constant thudding on the hardwood counter, creating an inexplicably hypnotizing vortex of alcohol. With each mug and shot glass passed across the counter like drugs in a drug deal, the rum rippled and splashed – teasing.

  Bruce smiled as he leaned back on his stool and glanced around his surroundings. The tavern was swamped with young adults and career alcoholics. The sound of thudding pool balls, clanking beer mugs, and chattering and bantering drowned out the poignant ballad. The ambiance was buoyant. Life was celebrated with cheap beer, expensive liquor, quarreling, and some flirting – Bruce was there for the latter.

  Eyes sparkling with deviance, Bruce whispered, “Who am I taking home tonight? Who's the lucky lady? Show yourself, sweetheart.”

  Bruce chugged his rum, swallowing the alcohol with one swift swig. He glanced down at himself, patting the clinging lint and wrinkles from his dark clothing. The young man stood an even six feet tall, lean and muscular. He wore a black coat over a white button-up shirt. His simple bar-hopping outfit was complemented by his matching pants and boots. He wasn't a voguish model strutting off a catwalk, but he took care of himself.

  If his style couldn't capture a woman's heart, his undeniable charm could surely deceive a gullible person's mind. His soft blue eyes, shining like diamonds in the snow, reinforced his confidence. His resplendent brown hair, trimmed stubble, and chiseled jawline aided his charisma. The man was lacking an eye-catching outfit, but his appearance remained suave. He was up-to-date with some of the latest style trends.

  Who could resist such a charming man?

  Upon catching a glimpse of a young woman leaning on a dusty pillar, Bruce narrowed his eyes and whispered, “You... You're the lucky lady, aren't you? You don't have to say anything, sweetie, I can see it in your eyes.”

  The short woman stood by her lonesome, watching as the other patrons chugged and babbled. She stood a mere five-one with a delicate hourglass figure – more curves than Lombard Street. Her face glowed with wondrous youth, soft and round. Her wavy black hair reached down to her shoulders. She donned a tight black bodycon dress down to her thighs. Compared to her surroundings, the woman was a beacon of celestial beauty shining through filth and soot.

  Bruce strolled towards the lonely woman, strutting with swaggering strides. He said, “Hey, pretty lady. I saw you over yonder and... well, I just couldn't help myself. I couldn't resist. I had to come say hello.”

  The woman simpered, then she repeated, “Yonder?”

  Bruce smiled and said, “That was too easy. I got you to laugh before you even told me your name.” The woman giggled as she glanced down at herself, blushing. Bruce said, “You looked like the type to tease, but you seem very honest. I guess you really are an angel. All halo, no horns. That's good. I like that. So, tell me: what's your name? What should I call you?”

  “My name is Sylvia. Sylvia Jones.”

  “Well, Sylvia Jones, my name is Bruce Watson. It's an honor to meet you. You are... You're a very rare girl around these parts. You're elegant, you know? You're special. We don't see girls like you around here very often.”

  Sylvia furrowed her brow and said, “Well, it sounds like you're usually looking for girls around here. Have you used that line before? 'Yonder?' Funny.”

  Bruce shook his head, then he said, “No, no. I come here often, but I don't try to pick-up every girl I see. I come around to help out. I know the owner. I get some free booze, too, so that's a good incentive to stop by.” Sylvia softly giggled. Bruce smirked – still wrapped around my finger. He asked, “What about you? You come here often?”

  Sylvia paused and stared down at her feet, gazing at her freshly pedicured toenails. She was visibly perturbed by the honest questioning. Bruce tilted his head like a curious pup, pondering the woman's sudden reluctance. As a man on the hunt, he didn't want to lose his prey. The opportunity was too sweet to squander.

  In a tender, understanding tone, Bruce asked, “Is everything okay?”

  Sylvia leaned closer and whispered, “I have to tell you something. I'm... I'm only 17.”

  Bruce leaned back, staggering an inch in reverse. He closely examined every inch of Sylvia's finely-sculpted body. The woman was short and her voice was soft, but the attributes alone could not reveal her age. Sylvia threw a curveball, catching Bruce completely off-guard. Yet, the handsome man was nimble enough to play ball.

  Bruce leaned closer and said, “Don't worry about it, sweetie. I'm not a cop. You won't get busted on my watch. Hell, I don't think anyone's ever gotten busted around here. Besides, I sort of like younger girls.”

  Sylvia nervously smiled and said, “I like older guys, but...”

  “But?”

  “But, I don't like very old guys. How old are you?”

  Bruce nonchalantly shrugged, then he said, “I'm 24 years old. I'm not much older than you, really. We could have been born in the same decade, right?”

  Sylvia twirled her hair and smiled as she leaned on the decrepit pillar. She had an impish look twinkling in her brown eyes. The underage girl clearly did not mind Bruce's older age. She was attracted to the man. Bruce could sense the eagerness in her kittenish demeanor. She bit the bait, he only had to reel her in.

  Bruce asked, “Would you like to come back to my place? I think it's a better environment for a girl like you. What do you say?”

  Sylvia nervously glanced down, then she said, “I don't know. I like you, I really do, but I'm a little scared. I've never done anything like... like this before.”

  “You've never hooked up with a man you met at a bar before? It's completely normal. It's part of human nature. Booze, breasts, and balls do that to people.”

  Sylvia chuckled at Br
uce's boorish sense of humor – perhaps a sympathy giggle to help the man save face. She said, “It's not that. It's just... I've never been with anyone before. You'd be my first.”

  Bruce's eyes glowed like headlights at night. His deviance was stroked by the simple words – you'd be my first. The basic vocabulary was arousing. For a man like Bruce, the stakes were raised. He couldn't lose the young woman. He wouldn't allow himself to fumble.

  Flabbergasted, Bruce said, “Well, that's... I mean... That's fine. You know, I can take care of you at my place. Trust me, it's very cozy. You'll like it.”

  “Why don't you come back to my house? I'd feel safer at my place. My parents aren't home, you know...” Sylvia rebutted. As she spotted the reluctance in Bruce's eyes, Sylvia grabbed his wrist with both of her hands and said, “Please. I'd feel more comfortable. It's not far from here, either. I can drive us there, then... then you can drive me.”

  Bruce smiled and gently caressed his jaw, running his fingers through the pricking stubble. He was overwhelmed with joy, trying his best to bottle his excitement. His mind ran rampant with sexually deviant ideas. If his thoughts could be read, he would be sealed in prison for eternity. He bit his bottom lip and nodded – okay.

  Sylvia returned the nod, then she said, “Come on. Let's get out of here. I'm ready for some real fun.”

  Sylvia strolled ahead, strutting with graceful confidence. Bruce trailed behind, licking his lips as he watched the young woman's swinging hips – left and right like a pendulum. He glanced over at the bartender and waved. The giant smirk plastered on his face spoke volumes about his intentions. The bartender nodded and winked – get 'em, tiger.

  As the heavy door closed behind him, the romantic music became muffled. The sounds of whooshing wind, chirping crickets, and sputtering engines echoed down Main Street. The nightlife dwindled to a few drunken pedestrians and some stray cars – nothing out of the ordinary.

  Sylvia stood at the curb, stretching and yawning. Bruce watched as her dress shifted upward, centimeter-by-centimeter. Sylvia, aware of the leering, gazed at the luminous moon and lucent stars. The sky was a black canvas with small sparkling speckles – beautiful.

  Bruce asked, “So, where are you parked, sweetheart? Or should we take my car?”

  Sylvia shook her head, then she said, “No, we have to take mine. I can't just leave it behind or my parents will get suspicious.”

  “Alright, so, let's get going.”

  Sylvia glanced towards her right, peering through the darkness. She smiled and nodded, then she strutted towards the left. Bruce instinctively followed her lead, like a dog following a meal to the dinner table. The pair strolled into the parking lot to the left. The neighboring lamp posts barely illuminated the dingy parking spaces. Sylvia stopped at a gray four-door sedan, then she playfully spun in place.

  The underage woman leaned on the trunk and asked, “Have you ever been with a girl in the back seat of your car?”

  Bruce smirked and said, “Sure. I mean, there's a lot of room back there.” He glanced towards the empty street, nervously searching for any prying eyes. He turned towards Sylvia and asked, “Why do you ask? You want to... You want to go for a ride in my back seat?”

  Sylvia responded, “I was just wondering. You seem like the kind of man to take a young girl and quickly take advantage of her.”

  “You like that?”

  Sylvia rolled her eyes, then she asked, “How young? Who's the youngest girl you've ever been with?” Bruce raised his brow, baffled by the question. Sylvia crossed her legs and teasingly lifted her dress. She asked, “Younger than me?”

  Bruce ran his fingers through his hair and said, “I don't understand. What are... What are you talking about, sweetheart? Huh? You're... You're–”

  Sylvia said, “Oh, please. You can stop with the 'sweetheart' crap. I know who you are. We know who you are, you goddamn pervert.”

  “Wha–What?”

  From over Bruce's shoulder, a male with a hoarse voice said, “We know who you are.”

  Bruce shuddered upon hearing the menacing voice. Wide-eyed, he turned towards the uninvited guest. A man with short grizzled hair and stubble stood behind him. His blue eyes pierced through the surrounding darkness – a soul-penetrating stare. The man wore a black jacket over a black hooded sweatshirt, dark blue jeans, and black boots.

  On any other day, the stranger would seem like any other man. During the chilly night, however, the man seemed malicious. His alarming message did not help his image. We know who you are – it wasn't a pleasant introduction from a stranger. Considering Sylvia's erratic behavior and the man's timely arrival, Bruce was pushed to a corner.

  Bruce furrowed his brow and tilted his head – he did not recognize the man. Before he could utter a word, the stranger lunged towards him with a moist white cloth. The mysterious man wrapped the cloth around Bruce's mouth, smothering him with the fabric. He didn't give the predator any breathing room, rubbing the cloth on his nose and mouth.

  Bruce struggled to repel the attack, frantically flinging his arms and teetering every which way. He tried to scream, but his shouts were muffled. His efforts were futile. Within a minute, the young man succumbed to the attack, falling unconscious in the stranger's arms.

  As he dragged Bruce towards the sedan, the man glanced at Sylvia and said, “Help me get him in the car. We have work to do.”

  Chapter Two

  Interrogation I

  Bruce coughed and grunted, blinking erratically as he awoke from his drug-induced slumber. His vision was blurred, his nostrils stung, and his mind was muddled. He attempted to recollect the events prior to his awakening, but he could only summon tidbits of his shattered memory. He remembered the bar, but he couldn't recall the trip to his current location.

  As he glanced around the room, Bruce whispered, “Where... Where the hell am I? Wha–What's going... What's going on here? What did you do to me? What did you...”

  Bruce groaned as he attempted to stand. Despite his strongest efforts, the man could not move. He found himself tied to a chair. His wrists were restrained to the armrests with durable rope; his ankles were similarly tied to the front legs of the chair; his torso was tied to the back of the chair at the biceps. The hardwood chair creaked and moaned from the frantic movements, but the seat would not budge. The sturdy piece of furniture was bolted to the floor, anchored to the ground like a toilet in a bathroom.

  Teary-eyed, Bruce glanced at the restraints and muttered, “What the hell is going on here? Why are... Why are you doing this to me? Huh? What... Who are you people? What do you want from me? Answer me, goddammit!”

  There was no response. The kicking and screaming was a fruitless waste of energy. Bruce loudly swallowed and glanced around his surroundings. His vision had returned to an acceptable state. He would easily pass a comprehensive eye exam. He was able to diligently inspect his newfound environment.

  To his utter dismay, he did not recognize the dingy chamber. To his left, there was a laundry machine, a dryer, and a water heater. There were several horizontal pipes on the same wall. To the right, there was a hardwood desk with a gray rag on top. An arsenal of power tools clung to the walls above. The everyday tools appeared torturous.

  Directly across from his seat, he could see a staircase. The staircase was surrounded by heaps of stacked cardboard boxes at each side. A single incandescent bulb dangled above his seat, illuminating the grimy concrete ground below him and the dingy brick wall behind him. Bruce was not the brightest man, but he certainly wasn't dim.

  The puzzle was easy to solve. The pieces at his disposal formed a comprehensible image. He was being held hostage in a basement. He didn't know the person responsible for his kidnapping or his exact location, but he found some comfort in his simple findings – a basement. Walking out of the front door didn't seem too difficult.

  Bruce whispered, “I have to... I have to get out of here.”

  He held his breath as he exerted all of the energy he could con
jure. He pushed himself away from the chair with all of his might, trying his damnedest to break free from the resilient rope. A thick vein bulged down his brow and his jugulars protruded from his neck. His face was pink from the strenuous effort. Yet, the attempt was futile. He exhaled loudly as he sank back into the seat.

  Bruce glanced down at himself and muttered, “Shit. What the hell is this rope made out of?”

  Bruce's eyes widened as the sound of creaking wood reverberated through the makeshift dungeon. He stared at the staircase ahead, counting each passing second – counting each groaning step. A heavy black boot entered his view, quickly followed by another. He could see the mysterious person's dark blue jeans.

  Before he even saw his face, Bruce recognized the man – the man from the parking lot. The kidnapper descended into the basement. He donned the same jeans and boots, but he removed his coat and sweater. The sleeves of his black button-up shirt were rolled up to his elbows. The garment was fitted to his burly figure. His piercing blue eyes were stern. The man ran his fingers through his hoary hair as he slowly approached.

  Petrified, Bruce stuttered, “Wh–Who... Who are you? What... What do you want from me? What kind of sick game is this?”

  The man stopped a meter in front of Bruce. He leaned forward and said, “Hello. My name is Frank Meadows. Frank Meadows. Does that name ring any bells? Hmm? Do you recognize me at all? Do you?”

  Bruce furrowed his brow upon hearing the name, clearly pondering the questions. He glanced down at his lap, indistinctly muttering, then he turned towards his captor. Before he could respond, Frank slapped Bruce – placing all of his body weight behind the blow. He left a rosy imprint of his fingers on the young man's cheek.

  As his teeth chattered, Bruce stammered, “Wh–Wh–What...”

  Frank leaned forward with his hands on his knees and sternly said, “Shut up. You know my name. Don't play stupid. I know who you are. I know you very well, you sick pervert. Let me tell you something, okay? You listen to me good, alright? Listen to me. It's going to get worse than a slap, you understand? This is only the beginning.”