Police Escort - 02

(THE NIGHT BEFORE)

Deputy Evan Roarke stood beside Pump #3 at Cooper’s Gas & Mart, the last working station on the edge of Port Mason. The place always felt half-abandoned. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow tint. One car sat parked off to the side, engine cold, windows dark.

He was off-duty, finally, and dead on his feet. Still in full uniform, radio clipped to his shoulder, gun belt snug around his waist. Mitch had been blowing up his phone earlier — nervous about tomorrow’s prisoner transport. Kid was always trying to do everything by the book. Roarke didn’t mind it. Mitch was green, but solid.

The gas pump clicked off with a clunk. Roarke reached for the handle.

“Evenin’, Deputy.”

The voice came from his right — casual, friendly. Roarke turned and saw a guy leaning against the next pump, clean-shaven, trucker hat, hands in view.

“Evenin’,” Roarke muttered, glancing around out of habit.
Something felt… off.

“Weather’s turning tomorrow. Shitty day to be on the road.”

Roarke didn’t respond right away. His gut tensed.

And then — click.
Metal at his ribs.

Cold. Muzzle pressure.

Roarke’s hand twitched toward his hip—

“Don’t even fucking think about it,” came a sharper voice — behind him, meaner.

Another guy. Close. Too close. Roarke hadn’t heard a damn thing.

He froze. His right hand was almost at his holster — but he stopped.

A gloved hand moved over his duty belt, unclipping his sidearm, yanking it free. His gun. His edge. Gone.

“Hands behind your back. Now.”

Roarke didn’t move.

The guy behind him jabbed the barrel harder into his spine.

“I said now, motherfucker.”

Roarke slowly obeyed. Every instinct screamed to fight — but not yet. Not outnumbered. Not like this.

A double-loop zip tie cinched tight around his wrists with a plastic scream. Fast. Brutal.

The amazing thing about zip ties: it’s just a piece of molded plastic — but in four seconds, it took Roarke’s freedom.

The guy in front opened the back of the cruiser.

“Get in. Face down.”

Roarke hesitated, feet dragging. He stood on the edge of the back compartment — where the people he arrested were supposed to go.

“Move your ass.”

One guy shoved him in. Not gently. With his hands tied behind his back, there was no way to brace himself. He faceplanted on the hard seat and let out a grunt.

The backseat wasn’t made for comfort, especially not with his arms locked behind him. He lay flat, tense, his badge digging into the seat.

One of the men climbed in after him, kneeling on his back like a sack of concrete. Roarke felt his ribs compress, head forced down.

The other started the engine.

“Just a little detour, deputy. You’ll be outta the way before sunrise.”

Then hands at his ankles. Another zip tie.

Roarke lashed out, kicked hard — landed a solid hit to the guy’s shin.

“You little piece of shit—”

A jolt of pain sliced through his thigh. The stun gun.

Roarke’s body locked up, muscles going tight like steel cables. His spine arched, teeth clenched. His scream died under the tension. Agonizing. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move. The current only lasted a second or two — but it felt like a lifetime.

The man held it an extra beat, like a warning. Then pulled it away.

“Try that again, and I swear to God I’ll light your ass up ‘til you piss yourself. Got it?”

Roarke gasped, still stiff, jaw trembling. His voice came out hoarse:

“Okay… okay…”

The zip tie wrapped his ankles tight.

Then came the duct tape — not a strip, a full wraparound gag, sealed from cheek to cheek, three layers deep, crushing his jaw shut. Smothering. Absolute.

The guy sat heavier on his back now, making sure he felt every second of helplessness as the cruiser rolled out of the station and disappeared into the trees.

Pinned in the back seat of his own damn unit, still in full uniform, Roarke closed his eyes.

And for the first time in years, he felt real fear.

The other guy jumped in the driver’s seat, and they drove away, slipping into the cover of night. The gas station attendant didn’t even notice anything.

They drove for about ten minutes. In a small town like Port Mason, that took you completely out of the populated area.

From the sound of it, they left pavement and moved onto gravel. Roarke couldn’t see anything — just felt his face mashed into the seat as shadows moved around him.

The driver opened the back door. The guy on top of Roarke finally stood, giving him a brief moment of relief.

It didn’t last.

They grabbed his collar and arm and yanked him out of the car. The door slammed behind them.

Deputy Evan Roarke, still gagged and zip-tied, was dragged across the gravel. He tried to stand a few times, but with his ankles bound, he ended up being dragged more than anything.

They opened a door to a small cabin and dragged him across creaking floorboards like a bag of trash.

The place was cold. Dark. Empty.

Just a single chair in the middle of the room — like a throne from hell.

“First-class seat for you, deputy,” one of them sneered.
“Let’s get you comfy.”

They slammed him down into the chair — thick, heavy oak with back slats and reinforced legs. Roarke grunted behind the gag, twisting instinctively, until one of them clamped a hand on his shoulder.

“Try that again, I’ll break your fuckin’ collarbone. Sit still.”

The other opened a cabinet on the far wall, revealing an obscene amount of hemp rope — coiled neatly, waiting just for this.

He carried it over and, with a smirk, dropped the whole bundle into Roarke’s lap with a heavy thud.

The coils sprawled across his legs. Roarke stared down at them — that first moment of dread settling into his gut.

They weren’t dumb. Roarke was a trained cop — the zip ties were the only thing holding him in check right now. So they moved methodically. No rush. No mistakes.

Only his ankle ties came off first. One guy kept a boot pressed down on Roarke’s shins while the other cut the zips.

Then the ropes began.

Each ankle was lashed to the back legs of the chair, bent way back so his boots were off the ground. His thighs were strapped to the seat — tight. His knees were forced apart and cinched down.

A thick line of rope across his lap, then another around his waist, pulled tight and tied to the chair spine. His belt buckle pressed flat. His hips couldn’t move.

They didn’t bother cutting the wrist zip tie.

Too risky.

One guy just started wrapping rope over it, tying his hands down tighter, running coils through the frame and back again — double secure.

Then came the forearms, elbows, biceps — roped in tight to the chair’s vertical slats.

A final harness across his chest and shoulders, wrapping under his arms and over his vest.

By the end, Evan Roarke couldn’t move a goddamn inch.

Every part of him was locked in. Arms. Legs. Torso. Boots off the ground.

Still in uniform. Badge catching the cabin light.

One of the men crouched in front of him.

He reached forward and ripped the duct tape gag off in one savage motion, tearing skin with it. Roarke coughed, gasped, lips raw.

“Listen—wait, you don’t want to do this. It’s a serious offense to disarm an offi—”

SLAP.

His head snapped sideways.

“Shut your fuckin’ mouth.”

Roarke blinked, jaw burning — but kept going.

“You can still walk away. You can—”

MPFFH—ARGHMPFFH.

A sock — black, stiff, sour-smelling — was shoved deep into his mouth, cutting him off mid-sentence.

“You talk too fuckin’ much, deputy.”

He gagged, eyes wide, trying to push it out — but a hand clamped over his mouth.

“Nuh-uh. You’re done.”

Tape.
Wide. Silver. Brutal.

One held his head. The other wrapped.

Around and around. Ten full layers.

Sealing the sock in deep. Flattening his lips. Compressing his jaw.

A final strip slapped down the center.

“That’s better. Now you’re speakin’ my language.”

They both stepped back, satisfied.

Deputy Evan Roarke — in full uniform, badge on his chest, sat completely immobilized, mouth stuffed, gagged tight, arms and legs roped down, feet hanging.

Still gagging behind the sock.

A hostage. A warning.

One of them leaned in with a smirk.

“You’re gonna sit there all night, officer. Sweatin’ through your pretty little uniform. Thinkin’ about how badly you fucked up.”

Roarke’s eyes burned. His muscles screamed.

But there was nothing he could do.

“Ain’t nobody hearin’ from him ‘til Keller gets the message.”

A phone clicked. A photo was taken.

Badge. Face. Rope. Gag.

“Bet he ain’t so smug now.”

One last slap to the cheek — light, taunting.

“Don’t go anywhere, deputy.”

Then darkness. The door slammed. The lock turned.

And Roarke was left alone in the dark — cramped, gagged, bound — rage boiling behind the silence.