"Get that tape off! I want to hear his voice," Moe gasped, his breath labored from the brisk jog and the forceful jabs. He was dragged into the brightly illuminated room, thrown onto the polished wooden floor, and kicked in the gut, causing him to writhe and gasp for air through his broken nose. Despite the dizzying sensation from the powerful blow and the bleeding nose, Moe managed to tear the tape painfully from the lower half of his face, the skin burning with each tug. He struggled to catch his breath, his ragged inhalations punctuated by the relentless realization that Miny would live.
Raising his inflamed eyes, Moe trembled as he beheld the man who had issued the order—a handsome, blond-haired omega in his forties, his dark eyes betraying no hint of mercy. The faint hope of mere blackmail evaporated in an instant, replaced by the stark certainty of impending doom.
"I told you so!" the omega exclaimed, brandishing the heavy, intricately carved cane he leaned upon, jabbing it at the kidnappers who flinched. "Take the little bastard with you! Simmons' son! Why the hell did you bring only the lover?"
"It was a mistake. Hayes came with a babysitter, apparently not trusting that whore enough, and the babysitter vanished downtown," one of the men behind Moe fabricated smoothly, nudging his ankle with a well-placed boot. The implication was clear - admitting the truth would only invite more pain. Moe remained silent, tacitly confirming the lie.
"Idiot!" the omega snapped, leaning heavily on his cane, his arthritic fingers swollen and misshapen. His frantic cherry-dark eyes remained strikingly beautiful despite the fury behind them. "You trusted your friend, Hayes? Why didn't you anticipate deception? Fool! Say something!"
"I don't know what to say," Moe replied honestly, wary of further provocation. Kneeling with bound hands and feet, surrounded by armed alphas, was not the time for insolence. His past kidnapping experience had taught him the value of silence in such situations.
"And don't you wonder why you were taken?" the omega sneered, his lips curling into a triumphant smile. His dark eyes bore into Moe, exuding a menacing intensity. "To get to Simmons?"
"Right," Moe cautiously ventured, wincing at the discomfort in his knees and the bruises that marred his body.
"What did he see in you? You're not attractive, and clearly not intelligent," the omega remarked, his perfectly groomed eyebrows furrowing in disdain. Tears welled up in his eyes, betraying a profound sense of betrayal. “He only wanted me for a child…” uttered Moe.
"He only wanted you for a child? You mean nothing to him?"
"Nothing! He barely tolerated me," Moe admitted readily, already bracing himself for the imminent expulsion onto the streets. But his anticipation turned to agony when the omega, propelled by a sudden spring, swiftly swung his cane with ferocious speed, crashing it down on Moe's shoulder. The pain was excruciating, sending shockwaves through his entire nervous system, and the sickening crunch of his broken clavicle reverberated in his heightened senses. Collapsing to the ground, Moe choked on a scream as the cane struck him repeatedly, each blow sending waves of agonizing pain that blinded him and drowned out his cries. He groaned, curling into a fetal position as the assailant, overcome with hysterical laughter, continued the onslaught.
"I don't like being lied to," the omega remarked dryly between laughs, slowly advancing toward Moe, who squirmed in fear, his eyes fixed on the swollen, pudgy feet in the soft felt shoes. "When a handsome man risks everything for a lover of inferior appearance, hides from the world behind layers of security, and begs for even a morsel of attention - that's love, unbridled and unwavering. If you were remarkably attractive, I might still doubt, but your ordinary appearance convinces me that he would go to any lengths for you."
"Last time I was kidnapped, he handed me over to the kidnappers," Moe reminded him ruefully, the pain tightening its grip on him.
"And nearly paid the price," the omega chuckled. "Quite romantic! I hadn't expected such passion from the stoic Simmons. It's a pity I won't be able to strangle his bastard, but you'll do. You'll both die."
"For what?" Moe, resigned to his fate, met the crazed gaze fixed upon him with a mixture of dread and defiance.
"My husband, my beloved husband," the omega lamented, clutching his eyes in anguish. "He was the first to be condemned, you wretch. You probably don't even remember his name—it meant nothing to you. My Robert couldn't bear the shame and took his own life, hanging himself on a strip of fabric in his cell. He was so broken and despondent, crushed by society's condemnation, that he strangled himself not by the weight of his body, but by crawling away from the bed to which he had tied the noose. Do you understand the strength of his resolve? The agony of his death?" His voice grew increasingly hysterical, punctuated by sobs, and Moe braced himself, anticipating another blow.
The strike landed mercilessly on his thigh, the heavy cane crushing his tibia, eliciting frantic wails from Moe. Subsequent blows followed, muffled by his fading consciousness, until darkness enveloped him. He awoke to the sensation of cold water, moaning in agony—pain now weighed upon him like a heavy blanket, rendering him unable to move. As he opened his eyes, tears streamed down his face uncontrollably, not out of fear but from the sheer agony engulfing him. He shuddered at the sight of the omega crouching beside him, his predatory gaze filled with unsettling delight. Attempting to move, he rattled the chains securing him to the bed, his naked body exposed and vulnerable.
"Do you know what awaits you?" the omega asked, a satisfied smile playing on his lips as he stroked Moe's trembling thigh. "Go on, take a guess. I promise not to strike you again."
His thoughts scattered and sluggish, Moe stared blankly downward, grateful for having been unconscious for most of the beating. His skin bore a patchwork of bruises, bleeding in thin rivulets that drained his energy. At that moment, he didn't care what fate befell him, as long as he could escape into unconsciousness once more.
"Boring," the omega grunted, retrieving his cellphone, and dialing a number. "You give up too easily, Moe Hayes. You're no fun at all. I think your pretty boy will make up for the lack of entertainment, and there he is. Well, hello, Simmons," the omega said with a malicious grin, turning the phone's screen toward Moe, who listened intently.
"Where is he?" Einer's voice crackled with desperation, and the omega erupted into hysterical laughter, thoroughly pleased with himself.
"Right here," he said, winking as Einer breathed a sigh of relief, relieved to see no evidence of the beating on Moe's face.
"Are you okay, Moe? I'll get you out of there, I promise! Please hold on! I..."
"Where's Miny?" Moe interjected urgently, leaning toward the screen.
"He is here," Einar affirmed quickly. "He's fine, he's sleeping. How are you? What did they do to you?" Einar's voice turned to a horrified scream when the omega abruptly rose, revealing Moe covered in ghastly stains and blood. "Noooooo!"
"Come alone, Simmons, if you want him to live," the omega directed the screen towards Einar, unwavering in his confidence that he had Einar's complete attention, and that Einar would comply without resistance.
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"I'll be there. Alone. Let him go. I promise I'll come alone," Einar's response was firm, each word spoken with weight and clarity. Moe shook his head, a sad smile forming, "Don't be foolish, Einar, they’ll kills us both anyway. There's no need for heroics. There's no one to save us, unless Daniel manages to alert the authorities, realizing that I'm in trouble."
The omega laughed triumphantly, openly reveling in Einar's despair, paying no heed to Moe, who had played a crucial role but now seemed inconsequential. Moe took intermittent breaths, mustering the last of his strength and assessing the surroundings. They were in a spacious, luxurious bedroom with muted purple tones, alone with the deranged captor—a potential advantage. He gingerly tested his right arm, wincing at the sharp pain that shot through it. There was little point in struggling against the handcuffs and leg irons; he could only wait.
The massive door swung open silently, admitting a burly figure in a black mask carrying a tray of ampoules and syringes. He glanced incredulously at his employer, who was consumed with laughter, before rushing to Moe, snatching the phone, and disconnecting the call with a restrained but furious hiss.
"Are you out of your mind, Mr. Fonderlein? Why did you call from a private phone? We've gone over all the details! He'll be able to trace your location in no time! The FBI will be here!"
"I don't care, Cedric," Fonderlein declared proudly. "What does a man who has lost everything have to fear? Death? I welcome it! I gave him the address myself, so he'll be here soon."
"And us?! What about us? We still want to live!" Cedric's frustration was palpable, evident in his tensed neck muscles, giving Moe a glimmer of hope.
"Don't worry, Romeo won't lead anyone here," Fonderlein reassured, nodding towards Moe. "He'll keep silent for his lover's sake and come alone, I'm certain of it. Administer some medication to this half-dead idiot to perk him up. We need him conscious."
Cedric complied, injecting Moe with a dense yellow liquid, the heat spreading through his body and providing relief from the pain. As consciousness returned, Moe felt a sense of clarity and relief wash over him.
"I'll take the phone though, Mr. Fonderlein," Cedric announced as he approached the door. "I'll see if Simmons is being followed by the authorities. If he is—"
"Then what?" Mr. Fonderlane interrupted angrily. "Will you scurry away like a rat abandoning a sinking ship? Forget all that Robert has done for you? What were you before him?"
"I remember everything he did, and I'm forever indebted to him. To him, not to you, Mr. Fonderlane," Cedric retorted sharply, narrowing his fierce brown eyes. "He would never endanger his men, unlike you, who seem intent on dragging us all down with you!"
"I've always been self-serving," Fonderlane admitted calmly, settling back and placing his pistol on his lap. "You can flee, Cedric, you can hide, but Zack and Aaron will remain with me. They are loyal to me and will execute the plan."
Cedric wanted to respond, but all he could manage was a curse before banging his fist on the door as he exited the bedroom. Moe recoiled—despite the warmth of the drug coursing through him, he felt a chill being left alone with the madman. His thoughts raced frantically, heart pounding, wishing he could escape, but he was restrained. Time stretched sluggishly as Moe thrashed about on the bed, chains rattling, sweat mingling with the adrenaline, emitting a sour odor that filled the room. Fonderlein, fixating on the antique wall clock, wrinkled his nose at the stench, deliberating, and then pressed the button by the bed.
Another bulky figure with a dull, rounded face, indicative of limited intellect, grinned widely at Fonderlein and whispered, "Would you like some tea, Uncle Ray?"
"No, Zack," Fonderlane replied softly. "Perhaps later. For now, get that wretch out of bed and clean him up. His stink is nauseating me."
"Of course, Uncle Ray," Zack responded eagerly, eyeing the set of keys that appeared in his swollen fingers as if they were a treasure, while Moe resignedly shrank back—Zack's blind obedience to Fonderlein was unsettling. Sensible Cedric, likely the head of security, inspired less fear than the eager, vacant gaze of Zack looming over him.
Zack, sniffling with concentration, lips pursed in determination, freed Moe's ankles and wrists, placing the keys on the nightstand before hesitating. Fonderlein sighed in disappointment.
"Zack, help him wash up."
"Ah, yes!" Zack exclaimed, hoisting Moe up with little regard, causing him to wince—he still felt the pain despite the numbing effects of the medication.
"And be careful! I don't want him passing out," Fonderlein admonished, to which Zack obediently adjusted his grip on Moe, carrying him with exaggerated care and explaining with a vacant expression,
"You need a wash, you're filthy. Your smell might make Uncle Ray sick."
Moe shut his eyes tightly—it was disconcerting to behold the aimless countenance of a lethal yet mindless instrument.
Zack, showing some discretion by placing Moe in the tub instead of the shower, demonstrated a lapse in judgment by handing him a washcloth and commanding earnestly, "Clean yourself up."
Moe nodded, trembling as he wiped his armpits with a shaky hand, his eyes scanning the perimeter of the bathtub—there was nothing sharp, just glass bottles of gels and vials of salts, nothing he could use as a weapon against someone as dense as Zack appeared to be. With growing confidence, Moe tested the functionality of his hand, nearly shedding tears—he had once trained both hands, but parenthood had left him little time for practice. His frantic panic subsided, allowing logical thought to take hold, and Moe, still searching with his eyes for some sort of tool, decided to take a chance amidst the serene gurgling of the water.
"Uncle Ray also asked me to trim my nails, Zack," Moe forced a strained smile, displaying his broken nails from the journey—while subtly attempting to loosen the zip tie just a bit. Zack frowned, blinking slowly, hesitating, then turned slightly toward the bathroom door, as if seeking clarification. Sensing his fear, Moe added, almost sobbing, "You wouldn't want to upset him by not understanding his request, would you? He said, 'Give Moe the scissors.'"
"I get it!" Zack grinned uncomfortably, turning back to Moe. "I understand now, I really do!" With that, he opened the cabinet doors, starting to rummage through it, and Moe winced—his ploy seemed to be working; now, the giant man with the mind of a child would provide him with a weapon. It might only be manicure scissors, but in the right hands, they could be as effective as a knife.
Zack retrieved the scissors, beaming with satisfaction, and gently lifted Moe out of the bathtub, seating him on the wicker rattan pouffe. He then grabbed a towel, delicately dabbing at Moe’s body—under different circumstances, it might have appeared quite ordinary- a servant tending to an injured master. Moe leaned down, pretending to trim his hair, waiting for the opportune moment—there was only one chance; otherwise, the imbecile would likely finish him off then and there. Just as he was about to make his move, the door flung open, and another masked man entered—presumably Aaron—who ordered,
"Get him back in here, you idiot! The subject has arrived."
"I'm not an idiot!" Zack bellowed defensively, but Aaron, entering the room, merely grinned tensely, casting a brief, indifferent glance at Moe, who cowered under the towel. Moe eyed Aaron warily, his dread intensifying as Aaron moved with predatory grace, exuding the aura of a trained athlete, the type who could deliver a devastating blow with ease.
Meanwhile, in the bedroom, a battered Einer knelt before the triumphant Fonderlein, maintaining a facade of composure as he regarded Fonderlein with a calculating gaze, weighing whether to negotiate with the businessman or outright refuse him. As the groaning Moe was dragged back into the room, Einer tensed, his face contorting with anger, but Fonderlein pressed a gun against his temple, issuing a reminder, "You will do as I say. Zack, handcuff our guest and leave his legs unbound."
It was a standoff: Einer’s hands were bound, two burly men stood guard, and with a gun to his head, his options were limited. Moe sadly realized that, as Fonderlein predicted, Einer had fulfilled his demands—he had come alone, ready to sacrifice himself to save his lover. With a sense of foreboding, Moe whispered, "You're a fool, Einer."
Einer's expression darkened further as he glanced over Moe, and Zack hoisted him onto the bed. Fonderlein savored the tension, erupting into maniacal laughter, his body convulsing with glee, the hand holding the gun bobbing up and down. Moe’s eyes widened, locked with Einer's, and with a subtle nod, he feigned weakness, luring the most dangerous of them, Aaron, closer. As Einer comprehended Moe's silent cue, he lunged at Fonderlein, knocking the gun from his grasp with his shoulder and delivering a powerful blow to his chin. In that moment, chaos ensued as Zack charged to Fonderlane's aid, and Aaron, grimacing in pain, seized the scissors from his groin and turned toward Moe—only to freeze. Simultaneously, the dark garden outside illuminated with multicolored lights, and the windows shattered under the battering rams of the FBI. Uniformed agents stormed the room, subduing Zack, aiming their weapons at Aaron and Fonderlein, while Moe finally allowed himself to collapse, overwhelmed with exhaustion and relief.
He was gingerly placed on a blanket, draped with a towel, and hoisted into the air amidst Fonderlein's exultant cry, which now felt like the most glorious, savage sound in the universe. Einer, released from the handcuffs, leaned over him, trembling with belated nerves, gently caressed his cheek, his jaw clenched, unable to find words. Drifting into a dark sleep, Moe murmured softly, "Not a fool in the end. Thank you."