Ransom

I could feel the bitter cold kissing the nape of my neck.

Gentle puffs of condensation poured from my mouth as I exhaled, the only source of heat in the vicinity.

That’s all I remembered until I blacked out.

Disorientation I attempted to sit up, realising I could not move my hands nor feet. I gritted my teeth as I raised my body upright, to have a proper look managing to finally take in my surroundings; an empty room, a lone swinging bulb, and my discovery of the black industrial cables wrapped tight around my wrists and ankles.

Broken windows decorated the upper ceiling of the room, but as I craned my neck to look behind me, a shooting pain shot up my neck; with a terrible throbbing around my left temple.

The aroma of expensive cologne permeated the cold air; I could make out hints of some type of smoky wood and lavender. It was so familiar, that it registered some memories that resurfaced, myself running in a huge office….and then my head throbs once more.

Then the figure stood up emerging from the shadows, the white against his pinstripe suit seemed to glow like fluorescent sticks against the simple light. His suit clung perfectly to every crevice of his body, every crease, every drop in fabric intentional.

How long had he been watching me?

My eyes began to adjust to the darkness, I could make out the edges of grates along the far walls, old furniture, a couch, an old washing machine. Was I in some sort of storage unit?

“I said, are you ready?” The voice boomed in front of me.

My eyes could not register what had happened next, for the figure leaned forwards, his features bathed in light with an inundating shadow cast under his eyes, chin, and a smile so wide, it made my skin crawl. Was he enjoying this?

“You see my friend,” said the booming voice as he leaned into the light again, his large slender fingers pointing towards my direction. “You are going to make us a lot of money.”

It was at this moment, that I immediately understood my situation.

The man in the pinstripe suit shifted back into the shadows. “I hope you are ready for this. Boys!”

Just like that, with a simple clap of his hands, quicker than I could comprehend, two forces held a firm grip against my arms and hoisted me upwards. The stench of cigarettes, cheap cologne stung my nostrils and the sight I made out, just before the light was swung again, the room lighting up and dimming with intermittent shadows and the now dimming light.

There was another shift in force, a hand now against my skin. I could feel the callouses scratching as they squeezed, lifting me towards a rickety chair; more comfortable than the concrete floor, but barely an improvement. The lighting in this area beamed down like rays, the heat prickling against the back of my neck. I raised my head, and my heart skipped several beats at the sight of two bulbous eyed men who simply stared at me; their entire faces hidden underneath the ribbed black fabrics of a balaclava.

“Do we actually expect this old man to payout?” One of the men in the balaclava said.

“Nope, but we press him as far as we can, then we simply make his son disappear. If he does payout however then our plans are simply accelerated.”

"Showtime." the suited man proclaimed standing before me, as he cracked his neck side to side.

At that moment, static chimed from the screen before me. A man's face encompassed the entire screen, a scar ran down his right eye, his washed sand-coloured skin.

My Father. I would recognise his cold glare anywhere.

"Mr Ramirez! I hope you're well, l sir!"

"Quit this farce. I received your message. Where is he? " he spoke in quiet tones, his countenance grim, his brows furrowed.

The man bowed, shifting to the side, raising his hand to present me like he was some kind of game show host.

My father's face remained unmoved as his eyes met mine, as if by seeing his son bound and in a precarious position. My life was in the hands of these men and he barely seemed to care.

"He’s caused nothing but trouble since the day you were born. He takes after his mother, and do you honestly believe this child is worth the amount you're asking for? I haven't even bothered to include him in my will. Do what you will with him and send him on his way.”

“Sir, clearly you don't take us seriously. Your son's life is in our hands.”

“And what of it?” he clapped back as spittle flew towards the camera lens.

The suited man removed half of his mask, revealing his pristine smile disappearing into a scowl. The atmosphere somehow became even colder than it already was. Something I didn't think possible.

"Las manos!" he shouted, shedding the All-American accent he had tried to keep up until now, as well as his feigned calm and carefree attitude.

Las manos.

Las manos?

My Spanish wasn't as great as used to be so it took me a second to register. Before I could figure it out, the two men on either side of me sprung into action.

lifting me out of the seat, severing my bonds and slamming my right arm unto a metal slab of a table and gripping down tightly on my wrist.

With one swift motion, they swung a strap over my arm; its grip turning my arm a bright mixture of a reddish-purplish hue.

Then I heard it before I felt it, a large thud reverberated through the walls of the warehouse. I looked down and saw a puddle of blood collecting below my feet, I traced the trail upwards as it dripped from the edge of the metal table.

Las manos...

Hands.

My pinky finger was no longer on my hand but rested on the floor. My body, however, just registered the missing piece. I shrieked in horror, then cried out in agony, the decibels sure to break the remaining windows that stood intact.

“Mr Ramirez, I assure you this is not a game. My boss doesn't like his time wasted. I suggest you develop a sense of urgency, or I promise you, your son will not live to see that last grey hair fall from that speckled scalp of yours.”

The image of my father upon the screen shifted; he seemed more disturbed at the insult thrown at him rather than my missing finger.

“You don't seem to know who you're dealing with. You threaten me with a boy who serves no purpose but to be a figurehead for my legacy.” he spat.

“Exactly, sir. Your legacy”. The man in the pinstripe suit said, with low tones.

“We know very well what kind of man you are, Mr Ramierez. A man who will not tolerate a single insult to your legacy. But you don't seem to understand the kind of man my employer is. Allow me to show you.”

Crunch.

I screamed and continued screaming, hoping and praying for the pain to end. At the end of the ordeal, three more of my fingers laid separated from my hand. Left with nothing more than my thumb, on my stub of a hand, as if to give them a thumbs up for a job well done.

“Enough!” My father’s words bellowed through the speakers, their capacity barely enough to contain the volume of his voice. I was nauseated, tasting the bile that filled my mouth. I was beginning to slip, as the room began to spin, down became up and up became down. I only knew left from right because of the lack of fingers on my hand.

“If I pay, what assurance do I have that you’ll return my son?”

He walked over to a desk in the corner of the room and came back with a piece of paper, attached to a clipboard.

“The boss is a man of his word, and as a businessman, he knows you’ll appreciate the binding nature of a contract.”

“Clearly you think this is a game!” My father chimed.

“On the contrary sir, this is, by all means, a binding agreement, and I have all authority to sign it on behalf of my employer,” his face falling grimly, his tone becoming stern all of a sudden. “This document states that should you pay the amount in full, your son will be returned to you alive and well, less my head be served up to you instead, in return for his of course. Carried out by the men behind me. I only have so much power over them, and I assure you sir, I very much like where my head currently sits”.

He proceeded to walk over to me and browsed the collection of my newly severed fingers. He picked one of them up and began to swing it around. I couldn't tell you which I found hard enough staying awake with the blood seeping out of me. If it wasn't for the strap cutting of circulation I would have already passed out.

“A contract signed in blood is stronger than one signed in ink”. He lifted my finger and seemed to sign the bottom holding the page of the notebook up to the camera.

“You can be assured your son will be returned to you, fingers and all. By the word of my boss, and the blood of your son.”

My father glared into the camera. With us not being in the same room you would think it hard to tell, that he was not staring at the man in the pinstripe suit, nor the two men beside me, nor someone in the room he was in, but me. His eyes seemingly piercing through the windows of my soul with that glare that I’ve seen a thousand times before.

Concern.

Anger

Disappointment.

A chime came from the suited man's pocket. He pulled out a phone and out then turned his attention towards the screen,

“Thank you, Mr Ramirez. it's been a pleasure doing business with you.” he bowed as the feed cut out abruptly.

I couldn't believe it.

The old man actually caved.

Never in a million years did I believe he would payout, but a man's pride can drive him to do unimaginable things. I wouldn't get a cent from him even if he keeled over and died. He didn't care a smidgen of what was happening to me, but the audacity of holding his blood for ransom was akin to disrespect. And one thing he couldn't stand more than anything else was to be disrespected. In the line of work he's in, money solves that problem in a heartbeat.

The suited man pulled out a black notebook and flipped to a page, and pulled it clean from the pad.

“Pedro.”

“Yes, sir?”. The large man to my left with the black balaclava stepped forward and took the note from the suited man.

“Please see to this. We can't afford any slip-ups.”

“Yes sir.”

“Remember, transfer twenty grand from the total amount to the bosses account, the rest we use for what comes next.”

My vision began to blur, the room spinning. I could still make out the lights hanging from the rafters and then...nothing.

I could feel the bitter cold kissing the nape of my neck.

Disorientated I attempted to sit up, a task made far easier this time by the large slender hands that hoisted me up.

"You alright, Boss?"

I turned towards the man in the pinstripe suit, who stepped forward and grabbed my shoulder, raising me up to the seat. I turned and gave him a weak smile.

“I'm fine, Salvador...I'm fine."