Trophy Marine

The squad had been on patrol when the world exploded.

Ambush.
Heavy small arms fire from unseen angles.
Too many shooters.
Too much cover for the enemy.

Gunfire cracked through the trees — short, vicious bursts.

Mason Hart dove behind a fallen trunk, heartbeat hammering.
Smoke grenades clogged the air, thick and gray.
Shouts and footfalls bled through the chaos.

He tried to regroup with his unit, but was forced to take cover behind the fallen tree when he came under relentless attack.
Someone had yelled for him to fall back. He thought it was Corporal Reyes. He wasn’t sure.

Another burst of gunfire whipped past him. Bark exploded from the tree overhead.

Instinct took over.
Move. Find cover. Return fire.

He pushed deeper into the brush, away from the line.

That’s when it started.

Movement all around him, fast shapes cutting between trees.
Footsteps, quick and light.
Yells, rough, slurred:

"LEFT SIDE—CUT HIM!"
"MOVE, FUCKER, MOVE!"

More smoke grenades hissed, filling the gaps.
Blurred vision. Echoed noise.
Mason twisted left, then right, rifle up.

There! Movement at three o'clock.

He spun, finger tightening on the trigger.

Nothing.
Just branches.
Smoke.

Behind him!

He turned!
Too slow.

Impact.

Two bodies slammed into him at once, pinning him chest-down, driving the breath from his lungs. Fucking hell!

He twisted to free himself but another man wrenched his rifle away, ripping the sling from his shoulder.

"GIVE IT UP, BITCH! HANDS OUT! HANDS OUT NOW!"

A third man slammed a knee into his lower back.
Mason fought, tried to roll, to grab his sidearm, but a hand found it first, ripping the pistol clean from its holster.

Rough hands punched into his radio mount, tearing it from his plate carrier.

"STAY FUCKING STILL!" one of the mercenaries barked.

Boots shoved his thighs apart.
Hands crashed into his pouches, ripping and tossing anything that looked like a threat.

"MOVE AND WE SHRED YOU, DICKHEAD! HANDS BEHIND YOUR FUCKIN' BACK! NOW! MOVE YOUR ASS!"

Confused, furious, Mason shouted:

"CONTA.....MPFFFHH!"

A gloved hand hastily clamped over his mouth.
Another knee drove him flat.

Someone grabbed his wrists and yanked them viciously behind his back.
Zip ties wrapped his wrists, tight, brutal, no slack, cinched in a single savage jerk.

Still he fought.

He kicked.
Scrambled.

"YOU’RE DONE, MOTHERFUCKER!" another voice roared.

A hand grabbed the back of his plate carrier and hauled.

He was dragged, boots scraping dirt, ass-down through the brush, no footing, no leverage like a goddamn sack of gear.

Somewhere ahead, a shape, an ATV, painted dark, hidden behind thick brush.

Two of them manhandled him onto the back, face-down.

Another set of zip ties, ankles this time, yanked tight, securing his legs.

Someone leaned close, voice a cold rasp:

"That’s it. Be a good fuckin’ prize for us."

A heavy cloth blindfold came down, knotted tight behind his head.

His world went black.

The ATV engine coughed to life.

Mason bucked once, zip ties cutting into skin, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

A mercenary sat in front to drive.
Another sat in the back, clamping Mason between them as the ATV jerked forward, carrying him away.

Behind him, somewhere in the smoke and chaos, his unit still fought, unaware one of their own was already gone.

Every bounce of the ATV jostled his body, rough, careless.

He could hear the others, at least two more ATVs flanking them.
Engines snarling.
Voices laughing.
Tossing insults back and forth.

Twenty minutes of hell. Pinned. Blind. Bound.

Carried like a piece of gear, not a human.

Finally, the engines cut. The air turned still.

Mason's body jerked as they yanked him off the ATV, rough and impatient, dragging him across the ground into a small clearing.

They dumped him unceremoniously in the center.

Boots scraped around him.
Weapons cocked.
Heavy guard.

One hand grabbed the back of his blindfold, yanking it free.

Mason blinked into the low, dusty light.

Four men stood around him, all armored, masked, armed.

One snapped a knife from his belt, slashing the zip ties at wrists and ankles.

For a moment, Mason felt relieved, wondering why they cut him free.

Hands yanked his plate carrier loose.
Ripped the vest off.
Tore his jacket open, buttons popping under rough hands.

Within minutes, Mason was stripped down to his undershirt, pants, and boots.

They shoved him face-down into the dirt.

Then came the ropes.

Black. Heavy. Miles of it.

They moved with expert precision, like they’d done this before.

They started with his wrists, yanking them together behind his back, and crisscrossed them tightly, lacing them into one solid object.

Three lengths of rope clamped around his upper body, across his shoulders, upper arms, and just above his elbows, pinning his arms brutally to his sides.

Mason fought a little, just to show he wouldn’t be taken easily.

"STOP FUCKING RESISTING! IT’S HAPPENING ONE WAY OR ANOTHER!"

A hard slap cracked across his head.

"YOU KEEP ON FIGHTING, IT GETS TIGHTER! YOUR CHOICE!"

Mason stopped. Assessed the ropes already squeezing him. They were snug but not yet unbearable. He made a decision.

"Ok… ok!" All that Mason needed to say to show compliance.

The upper body ropes were then cinched between his arms and his body, making them uncomfortably snug, really pinning his arms around his body.

FUCK! No slack.

They proceeded to create this netting of rope around his upper body, by quickly but strategically running the rope all over his body, making some type of knots whenever it went around the upper body ropes earlier.

They were manhandling him, flipping him on his side, and face down as they wished to accomplish what they wanted to do.

When they were done, it really did look like his upper body was sealed into this net of black ropes.

He tried squirming, but the rope would not give, like at all.
His arms and wrist were secured solid, rendering them completely useless.

He was then flipped back on his stomach.

He was trying to find a good position for his head so he’s not eating too much dirt, but one captor just knelt around his head, straddling Mason’s head between his thighs and knees, forcing Mason to keep his head down against the dirt.

Hands, and booted feet then forcefully made Mason’s legs tightly together.
Then a pair of hands bent his legs at his knees.
Then the same person straddled his bent legs, forcing his feet to rest against his butt.

He then looped a long piece of rope around his upper thighs and ankles, then another one mid-thighs and calves, then another one just slightly above his knees.

Mason couldn’t straighten his legs at all permanently folded.

But the captor wasn’t done.
He added more rope, cinching the ropes between his legs.
What was snug before became even tighter, taking away any movement possible.

All four captors then stood up, admiring their work, all laughing and high-fiving each other.

“Good job, guys! This one is a keeper!” one guy said.

Mason thought:

This was so fucking humiliating.
Just 30 minutes ago, I was a fighting Marine. Fully armed and dangerous.
Now I’m all hogtied, completely powerless, and unable to free myself.

He tested the hogtie a little bit, trying to move and squirm, to see if there’s any chance of escaping. He really couldn’t move an inch other than his booted feet squeaking against each other as he struggled.

“Can’t move a fucking inch, can you, boy! But I’m not done yet!” the captor said.

Mason tensed, wondering what he meant by that.

The tying merc grabbed another piece of rope, then wrapped it around Mason’s boots, cinching it between his boots, making any movement impossible.

FUCK! he thought, having his feet trapped inside his own boots.

The captor wasn’t done yet. He then fed the end of the rope through the gap between Mason’s legs, under his crotch, then flipped Mason on his side again and tied the ropes around Mason’s crotch and waist, and tied it off. The rope perfectly framed Mason’s crotch bulge. Now, whenever he squirmed and pulled at his feet or legs, it tightened around his crotch uncomfortably.

Mason just lay there helplessly, not wanting to show defeat, but he was pretty much a defeated Marine.

Without warning, one captor pulled off both of his gloves, having to work them free a little bit since part of them were stuck in the ropes tying his wrists. Once they were both off, they flipped him onto his side again.

Mason was looking at the guy towering over him, crumpling his gloves into a ball, while another person ripped a length of duct tape from the roll. He got the idea of what they were about to do.

“Come on, man! Please! You don’t have to do this. I won’t cause you any problems.
You got me fucking hogtied in the middle of nowhere! Don’t do this, please!”
Mason tried to reason.

The guy holding the tape chuckled:

“Ha, we’re not taking any chances. Don’t fight it, ok, bud?”

Mason knew there was really no reason for him to fight, but his mental confusion led him to curse just to show some fight:

“FUCK YOU! FUCK—MLPPHHFPHHSF—”

was all he could say before his cheeks were squeezed and his own balled-up gloves were shoved deep inside his mouth.

The second guy quickly followed, wrapping the duct tape around Mason’s mouth and head, around and around, keeping the gloves inside, six to seven times each pass tightening it around his head, making sure constant pressure was maintained.

“Well! FUCK YOU TOO!” the guy said as he tore the tape from the roll.

He then massaged Mason’s taped-up mouth to make sure it was smooth and tight.

“There you fucking go! Nice and quiet!” the guy said again, caressing Mason’s forehead mockingly.

Mason returned the gesture with a quiet grunt. Mason really was fucked.

Hogtied tight.
Tighter than any training exercise.
Tighter than any enemy encounter he'd ever imagined.

His shoulders wrenched back.
Boots forced up toward his ass.
Rope cinching every joint, crossing and weaving, making escape a fantasy.

One of the mercs pulled out his phone and grinned.

“Aww, shit — this’s too good to pass up.”

He turned to the others, waving them closer.

“C’mon guys! Get behind the new trophy!”

They laughed, loud, careless.

Mason tensed, struggling pointlessly against the hogtie.

The mercs gathered behind him.

One crouched low, throwing a sarcastic thumbs-up.
Another flexed his arms like a bodybuilder, grinning wide behind his mask.
The third, the one who did most of the tying gave two thumbs up.

The phone clicked once.
Twice.

Another merc barked out:

"Get one with his face in it — make sure you get the gag! That's the best part!"

Mason glared up, jaw tight beneath the gag, trying to look away from the camera, humiliated.

The click came again sharp and final.