I found myself inside a huge warehouse, surrounded by stacks of large wooden crates and cardboard boxes. I could only guess what was inside them. Drugs? Guns? Or human body parts? The air was cold and stale.
Red Eye ordered me to sit in a rusty metal folding chair that was conspicuously placed in the middle of the vast room. There was no one else around except for two very large bouncers that were obviously here to guard me.
One was black, bald, and with a big belly that strained his tactical shirt. The other one was white, also bald but with a thick ginger beard and an equally imposing belly. They stood about ten feet away from me, near the loading dock, crossing their massive arms.
"I will be back later. I haven't slept in days dealing with Big Mom's shit," Red Eye yawned, stretching. She looked completely casual, treating a kidnapping as just another errand. "I need to get cleaned up. Make sure he gets food and water, boys..."
Then she turned towards me, her smile returning, cold and predatory. "Behave, okay? I don't wanna have to cut your dick off..." she laughed, the sound hollow in the warehouse. "You can't shoot porn when you're cockless, can you?"
She gave the two bouncers a final, sharp look. "Kill him if he tries to escape."
The Ginger grinned, showing yellowed teeth.
Red Eye turned and walked toward a smaller, interior door set into the far wall, disappearing from sight.
I was alone with two human mountains. My backpack, containing the priceless footage and the laptop, was sitting on the floor by the chair, untouched but obviously confiscated.
I looked at the bouncers. They were bored and confident. I was disarmed, scared, and facing two opponents who outweighed me by a hundred pounds each. Fighting them would be suicide
I wasn't even restrained, which meant that they didn't recognize me as a threat. I was just a harmless pusher, as I had discovered, who was now shooting porn.
"Hey—psss—Ginger," I called out to the guy with the ginger beard when the Black Bald guard stepped away momentarily to grab me a cup of water from a cooler near the wall. "How much do you want?"
He ignored me at first. I kept pressing. "How much, huh? What, you can't talk?"
"How much what?" he finally grumbled, his voice thick and rough. He wasn't American, I could tell. He had a strong accent. Serbian? No, he was Russian, I decided.
"How much are you getting paid to keep me here?" I whispered, leaning forward in the chair.
He didn't answer, going back to his do-not-disturb mode.
"Seven hundred? One thousand, two thousand?" I continued, but he didn't flinch. "I tell you what, I have got $4,100. I will give it to you if you help me get out of here."
I saw his eyes move, just a twitch in the reflection on a nearby oil drum. Perfect, I've got him.
"The money, do you have it on you?" Ginger Beard said, stepping a little closer, lowering his voice slightly.
"No, but I can give it to you after you get me out of this place," I said, reverting to the standard cinematic trope.
"Then no deal," he immediately replied, dismissing me. He went back to being grumpy, crossing his arms.
I thought my approach over again. I was desperate and could do anything to get out of this situation.
"I have got the money. It's inside my backpack," I said, pointing with my chin toward the black bag by my chair.
The man came over and picked up the bag. I had thoughts of jumping on him and choking him to death, but then I decided that my Stamina, even high, wouldn't defeat this absolute tank in a confined space.
He pulled out the wad of cash I had left—the $4,100—and began counting it slowly, running his thumb over the bills.
"See? You can keep that, it's all yours," I said, trying to sound eager and compliant. "Now are you going to help—"
I stopped talking, watching him pull out a cheap plastic lighter. He calmly held the flame to the corner of the hundred-dollar bills. The paper caught instantly, turning the crisp bills into curling black ash. He let the money burn down to a smoking cinder before flicking the remains onto the concrete floor.
"Motherfucker!!!" I screamed, forgetting all caution and leaping from the chair, running toward him.
The guard's face remained utterly impassive. He hadn't just destroyed the money; he had destroyed my last hope of a peaceful solution, demonstrating a chilling loyalty that money couldn't touch.
I threw a punch at him. It was a panicked, desperate wild swing, fueled by adrenaline and rage. My fist connected with his chest, a solid, meaty thud. It felt like punching a granite counter—his massive body didn't even register the impact, nor did his expression change.
He smiled wickedly, slowly raising his hand. Then, with a casual, backhand slap, he caught me across the face. The world dissolved into a blinding sheet of white and red. My ears screamed, and I spun around once, my feet losing all traction, before I slammed onto the concrete floor. I blinked several times, trying to clear the static and stars swimming in my vision. I struggled back to the chair, my limbs feeling heavy and useless.
"Red Eye said 'behave'," Ginger Beard said simply, resuming his guard position as if swatting me was as trivial as swatting a fly.
I never bothered them again for the rest of the day. I sat on my chair quietly, nursing a throbbing cheekbone and the cold dread in my gut.
Morning came, followed by the hustle of the warehouse. Heavy trucks rumbled in, and crews of rough-looking men loaded the boxes and crates into them. No one looked in my direction; if they did, it was only for a short time. They simply didn't give a fuck.
The long, agonizing afternoon arrived, bringing only the persistent chill of the concrete. There was still no sign of Red Eye or Big Mom. It was just the three of us in a threesome of silent, tense guarding.
Night finally came. I had lost track of time since they had taken my phone, but I assumed it was well past ten.
That's when I heard car doors open, then close, outside the main entrance. The Black Bald guard went outside to check. A moment later, he came back with Red Eye and another woman.
Big Mom.