Bier Gang Captive

This is a story I wrote several years ago for a men's adventure magazine, but it folded before it got off the ground. No sex, but it has adventure and romance, and I hope you enjoy it. As always, feedback is encouraged. Thanks!

*

"Goddamn it, we don't have time for this!" The lieutenant's big fist slammed down on the desk, slopping the lukewarm coffee over the lip of the styrofoam cup.

Nick rubbed his temples, the pounding ache of his hangover a spike through his head. The glare of the fluorescent lights off the table hurt his eyes, and the taste of the stationhouse coffee was sour in the back of his throat. "I told you, I don't remember anything after I got outside."

Lieutenant MacGregor paced around the small room, arms crossed. He was a big man, thinning grey hair, a thick salt-and-pepper mustache. Missed a spot shaving, Nick noticed. He had probably been called in during the wee hours of the morning.

MacGregor pulled out a chair (the scraping noise making Nick wince) and straddled it backwards. "Okay, let's go over it again," he said wearily. "You met her at Duffy's last night, we know that. The bartender said you were together most of the night. Her business card was in your pocket."

"I don't remember much after that," Nick protested. "I told you I'd had a lot to drink ... I went outside to flag down a taxi, she was supposed to meet me out front in five minutes."

"We found you passed out on the old couch in the alley around the corner. What did you do, decide to take a nap?"

Nick struggled to clear the fog from his brain. "I don't remember."

"Do you know who her father is? Richard Barlow, one of the richest men in Seattle. He owns Barlow Construction. We're getting a little heat on this one, Nick. His daughter didn't come home last night. Her cell phone and one shoe were found on the sidewalk."

"I remember waiting for her," Nick mumbled. "Then ... nothing."

MacGregor pounded the table angrily again. "Then a call to her house at four in the morning: 'We have your daughter.' She hasn't been heard from since. And you were the last person to see her!"

Nick shook his head, not responding. Could he really have passed out in the alley? It had been just another night at his local watering hole -- until she came in. She'd taken a seat next to him at the bar and introduced herself. Allison had straight blonde hair and a quick smile with perfect even teeth. Her laugh was infectious. A short summer dress showed off her tanned legs and slim ankles. Those sparkling green eyes ...

Flirtatious and a little tipsy, she had traded jokes and stories with him, the baseball game flickering on the TV set in the background. He told her about the new band he was trying to start, and she talked about the classes she was taking at the university. After last call, everything got a little fuzzy ...

He remembered ... something. The sound of a motorcycle? A car door slamming? If only he hadn't had those last three shots of tequila ...

MacGregor stood up disgustedly. "You're useless, Nick. Just a drunk." He fished a card out of his jacket pocket, tossed it on the desk. "Get out of here. If you remember anything else, let me know."

***

Allison felt like she was swimming up from a great depth, laboring to reach the surface. Her eyelids were weighted, impossible to open. It hurt to even breathe. Slowly she became aware that she was lying on her side on a cold hard surface.

Disjointed memories flashed in her brain -- stepping outside the bar last night, the cool air on her face, the screech of tires, powerful arms grabbing her from behind, nauseous fumes swirling through her as a smelly rag was pressed against her nose and mouth. She shook her head, trying to clear the cobwebs.

"So, the little princess is awake?" It was a man's voice, deep and full of menace. She felt herself jerked to a sitting position by her upper arm, the sudden movement making her head throb.

Opening her eyes, she quickly took in her surroundings. It was a big room, almost warehouse-sized -- a greasy cement floor, several motorcycles parked haphazardly about. A low table along one wall was piled with tools, an engine block suspended in midair from a chain overhead. There was a dilapidated blue van parked in the middle of the room. She remembered it from the bar, being lifted bodily and thrown inside the rear double doors as she struggled to remain conscious. The tang of oil and gasoline hung in the air.

The man kneeling in front of her was bearded and grimy, his arms covered with tattoos. He grinned, revealing a blackened front tooth. Reaching forward he grabbed her jaw, turning her head from side to side.

She pulled away, scrambling back against the wall. "Please don't hurt me," she whispered. She was handcuffed, cold steel encircling both of her small wrists. Her dress was ripped and torn, and she had lost one of her shoes.

"You'll bring a good price," the man said, his sour breath washing over her. "Daddy's a bigshot." The other men in the room laughed.

"Who are you?" She glanced around wildly. There were several other men in the room, four at a small card table and a huge bald man lounging on a dilapidated couch in the corner. A porno movie was playing soundlessly on the television set, an image of a young girl pinned on the bed while two men penetrated her simultaneously. Her heart was pounding. She had never been so scared in her life.

The man crouching in front of her (the leader?) continued to regard her silently. Trembling, she avoided his gaze. He had FUCK and YOU! tattooed across his fingers. Where was she? She had to be brave, had to figure some way out of this.

The man stood up. "Wolf, get the Polaroid," he called. The huge behemoth grunted as he struggled to rise from the couch. He had a patch over one eye, and his hairy white belly spilled over his jeans. He fumbled in a cupboard behind him, then tossed an object across the room.

The pop of the flashbulb caught her by surprise, red flares sparking in her retinas. He took several pictures. I must look pathetic, she thought, chained up on this filthy floor.

"What are you going to do with me?" she asked, her voice quavering. Only her will kept her from sobbing uncontrollably.

"Well, I think we'll see how much Daddy's willing to pay to get you back." The man grinned. "He better pay up too, bitch. My boys aren't too patient. When we get back, they're liable to fuck you in every hole you've got." He turned away. "Wolf, string her up," he commanded.

The big man grinned. "My pleasure, Drake." Allison began to scream as the huge one-eyed giant lumbered toward her.

***

Nick shuffled through the deserted streets. It was a ten-minute walk back to where he had parked his MG the night before -- he hadn't even bothered to ask the officers at the station for a ride. The cool mist was helping to clear his head, easing the hammering in his skull. What had happened last night? There was something ... shimmering just beyond his grasp. He kicked an empty can angrily. The image of her at the bar was clear ... smooth tan skin, sparkling green eyes, breasts swelling beneath the flowery dress.

At least his car hadn't been towed. The little convertible started on the third try, the ragged pop of the engine smoothing into a hum as it warmed up. A red warning light flashed on the instrument panel -- he was almost out of gas. Nick sighed. Did he even have any money left?

That was it -- red. An image, a red figure. He held his breath, willing it to come to him. Wicked eyes ... fire ... what was it?

He backed the car out of the slot and headed down the street, looking for an open gas station. It was just beginning to get light. The sound of motorcycles ... and a red ... devil? Could that be it? He eased the car to a stop and closed his eyes, willing his alcohol-fuddled memory to work.

An abrupt honk of a car horn behind him started him out of his reverie. That was it, two biker types on the corner smoking cigarettes, red fiery devils on their jackets. They had been outside the bar last night when he left. He recalled standing on the sidewalk, swaying, before he stumbled around the corner and slumped on the sofa, only planning to sit down for a minute.

Did it mean anything? Probably not. MacGregor would just laugh at him. Still, it was all he had.

After putting his last four dollars into the gas tank, he drove across town to Terry Gallagher's house. Terry was an old-school biker who sometimes ran the soundboard for some of the local bands. Nick had known him for almost ten years. If anyone knew about the local biker scene, it was Terry.

Nick pounded on the door for almost ten minutes before Terry finally opened it, dressed only in an old terrycloth robe. His unruly mop of hair was in wild disarray. "Do you have any idea what fucking time it is?" he grumbled. Without waiting for a reply he turned and walked away, leaving the door open.

As Terry made coffee Nick explained the situation, as much as he remembered. Terry poured them each a cup and sat down at the kitchen table. Nick took a sip -- a thousand times better than the coffee at the stationhouse.

"Probably the Diablos," said Terry after a few moments of silence. "I'd heard a few of them were in town, up from L.A." He shook his head. "They're bad news, Nick."

"What do you mean?"

"Hardcore criminals. Real biker trash. Car theft, drugs, rape. Even murder. Not anyone you want to mess with, Nick."

Nick stood up. "Where are they?" His heart was pounding. If these were the assholes that had grabbed Allison, she was in real trouble.

Terry rose slowly, grunting. "Let me make a few calls."

Anxiously pacing the floor, Nick clenched his fists. He tried not to imagine what Allison might be going through at that moment. After what seemed like forever, Terry ambled back in from the other room.

"Pissed a few people off," Terry chuckled. "Some of these guys aren't used to getting up this early."

"Did you find out anything?" Nick demanded.

"Supposedly, they're camped out at the old Larsen Junkyard down on Pacific Highway South. Owner's in jail, but the bank hasn't foreclosed on it yet. It's been deserted for months ... at least until these guys rolled into town." He looked soberly at his friend. "Everyone I talked to said the same thing Nick -- these aren't guys you want to fuck with. You should call the police, let them handle it."

"You call them," Nick shot back, tossing the lieutenant's card on the table. "It might be too late already."

Terry picked up the card and opened his mouth to reply, but Nick was already gone.

***

"Please! Help!" Allison shrieked as the behemoth lifted her effortlessly. She began to struggle and cry, tears streaming down her cheeks. "HELP!"

Wolf slapped her, leaving a bright stinging imprint on her face. "Shut up, bitch," he growled. "No one can hear you. We're out in the middle of nowhere."

He dragged her, stumbling, to a chain dangling from the roof and, using a padlock, secured her handcuffs up over her head. Smirking, he stepped away and pressed a button on the wall, drawing the chain hoist up even higher.

Allison gasped as she was stretched painfully, the tips of her toes barely grazing the floor. The tight metal cuffs dug torturously into her wrists. The awkward position lifted her tattered dress high on her thighs. She cried out again, a wavering wail of pure terror, knowing how vulnerable and helpless she was.

"Wolf, shut that bitch up!" Drake called from the other side of the room. The big man grunted and tore a piece from a roll of duct tape. Pulling her head painfully back by the hair, he stuck the tape across her mouth. Now she could make no more than muffled pleading noises.

She was left there for several minutes as the men conversed in low voices. Her arms and shoulders began to ache from the strain. Finally, they seemed to make some sort of decision. Everyone left except for the big man, Wolf, who slumped back down on the sofa. A few moments later she heard the sound of several motorcycles starting up outside, the noise receding as they sped away.

Allison struggled awkwardly on tiptoe, trying to relieve the taut, stretched position she found herself in. She noticed the big man staring at her, enjoying her suffering, and she shook her head as he rose slowly from the couch. He picked up a bottle from the table and took a long swig, the amber fluid bubbling as he gulped it down.

She began to tremble as he approached her. With a quick violent motion, he tore her dress open, exposing her bra and panties. She closed her eyes and sobbed as she felt his large sweaty hands roughly gripping her breasts. He licked the side of her face and she shuddered in revulsion. As he pressed his meaty fingers between her legs she made a muffled noise of protest and kicked at him, trying to push him away. Her knee caught him in the groin, only a glancing blow, but enough to make him release her and double over, cursing.

Anger flashed in his one good eye as he straightened up. "You'll pay for that, bitch," he whispered menacingly. Reaching in a back pocket, he pulled out a switchblade and popped it open.

Real terror flooded through her. Not a knife! Bright light glinted off the blade. She imagined what a knife like that could do to her body, as vulnerable as she was. Struggling to keep still, she pleaded for mercy with her eyes.

Slowly, deliberately, he used the knife to cut her clothing from her. Allison tried to remain absolutely motionless, shuddering as she felt the cool blade against her skin. When he was done he stepped close, running the point of the knife lightly across her breasts. The smell of the whisky on his breath made her want to vomit and she turned her head to the side.

Wolf finally stepped back, a scowl on his face. "You need to learn some manners," he snarled angrily. He unbuckled his wide leather belt, wrapping one end slowly around his fist.

Allison's eyes widened in horror. She tried to turn away but the belt caught her on the upper thigh, a bright bolt of pain that made her dance with agony. The belt struck again, this time curling around and stinging her back. Her wild screams muffled by the tape, she twisted helplessly as he continued to cruelly lash her naked body.

***

Nick sped down the road, pushing the MG to its limits, as he gripped the wheel tightly. The junkyard was about five miles out of town. She could be dead already, he thought.

Four motorcycles passed him going in the other direction, the distinctive low Harley rumble that he remembered from the night before. He glanced in the mirror as they passed, noting the red devils on the jackets. Yes, it was the Diablos. But where was Allison?

Downshifting, he slowed as he approached Larsen's. It appeared to be deserted. A high chain-link fence surrounded it, with barbed wire at the top. He passed it without stopping, then pulled into a fast food restaurant about two blocks away. He got out and jogged to the back of the parking lot, working his way behind a small strip mall until he got to the junkyard.

There was no one in sight, the huge lot filled with hulks of ruined cars and trash barrels. Nick pulled off his denim jacket and quickly scaled the fence. After laying the jacket over the barbed wire, he gingerly straddled it and scrambled down the other side. Crouching down, he cautiously made his way through the stacks of rusting cars.

Quickly he circled the perimeter, making sure that there was no one about. Other than a small padlocked shed, the only structure on the lot was the large corrugated metal warehouse near the back of the yard. The big double doors in front of the building were padlocked shut. The small door at the corner was out of the question; he couldn't just waltz in as if he was lost and needed directions.

He carefully made his way around the side. There were no windows on the high metal walls, and he could near nothing from inside. He eased his way past the debris that littered the ground -- broken glass, several old gas cans, rusted metal bars, some highway flares.

Reaching the back of the building, he looked up. Yes, there were two small windows up there, just underneath the eaves, the glass long gone. As quietly as possible, he rolled an empty oil drum up to the metal wall but the window was still out of reach. Looking around, he found two wooden crates, which he balanced precariously on top of the oil drum.

Stretching, he could barely reach the sill. Nick gave silent thanks to the pull-ups he did every morning as he eased himself up as quietly as possible. He pulled himself through the window and into the rafters of the warehouse. The large room was dark and he crouched there, waiting for his eyes to adjust.

It took him a moment to identify the noise, but he could hear the sound of snoring. Almost directly below him, a huge man was laying on the couch, an empty bottle in his hand. The vast area was dim, the only light coming from a flickering television set. Then he heard another sound, a muffled sob, and saw her.

She was naked, hanging from a chain on the other side of the room, her body covered with angry red welts. He sucked in his breath. Even as disheveled and dirty as she was, she was incredibly beautiful. She moaned and moved from one foot to the other, trying to relieve the tension in her body. As she threw her head back, her hands twisting in the tight metal cuffs, he saw the tape across her mouth. What had the bastards done to her? His fists clenched in fury. He wished he had a gun.

There was no visible way down, but perhaps he could somehow release the chain holding her captive. Cautiously he began to make his way across the rafters to the other side of the room. He froze as the wood creaked noisily, but the giant's snore continued unabated. It was quite precarious, moving in an awkward low crouch through the spiderweb of wooden beams some fifteen feet from the concrete floor. Sweat dripped from his face.

He heard a noise from behind him and glanced over his shoulder. The big man with the eye patch was sitting on the couch, yawning. Picking up the empty bottle he looked at it disgustedly, then flung it against the wall. He stumbled to his feet, a wicked grin on his face, as he began to approach his helpless captive.

Nick gripped the beams tightly, hoping the biker didn't look up. Below him, Allison began to struggle futilely, twisting back and forth. Again she threw her head back and froze, catching sight of Nick in the rafters. Her green eyes widened as they made eye contact.

As the man passed below him Nick took a deep breath and, without any idea what he planned to do next, dropped feet-first on top of the enormous biker's bald head.

***

It was Nick! The cute musician from the bar the night before! How had he found her? Allison hardly had time to form the questions tumbling through her mind when she saw him release his hold and drop through the air.

The impact made her wince as Nick landed on the massive Wolf, knocking both men to the ground. Nick rolled away, limping to his feet, and grabbed a wrench from the floor. Wolf turned over, shaking his head, catching sight of Nick brandishing the wrench. As Nick charged, Wolf drove up with his shoulder, underneath Nick's wild swing, catching the smaller man in the midsection and lifting him off his feet. Like a linebacker he pummeled Nick into the wall, as another frantic swing of the wrench caught him in the forehead.

Nick went down hard, struggling to draw a breath. Wolf staggered away, the blood running down his face and into his good eye. Allison twisted in the restraints, wishing she weren't so helpless. Nick was clearly overmatched. Wolf had more than a hundred pounds on him, a vicious hardened criminal, and Nick was only a guitar player for a heavy metal band.