Uniformed Men in Distress
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Police Escort - 04
🕑 Added 2025-06-11 18:56:57 +0000 UTCHe reached up and unclipped the mic from his shoulder. The coiled cord pulled taut as he reached down to his belt, unclipping the radio unit itself.
With a flick of his thumb, he switched it off.
Then set both — the mic and the radio — next to his weapon on the dash.
Disarmed. Disconnected. Alone.
Elias didn’t sound smug. He didn’t gloat.
He was just... in control now.
“You’re doing great,” he said softly. “Now step out. And open my door"
Mitch stepped out of the cruiser.
The forest swallowed him whole — all branches and silence and cold air. His gun was on the dash. His radio beside it, powered off. And behind him, in the back seat, sat the man who had just turned his world inside out.
He rounded the rear of the cruiser, boots crunching gravel. No one around. Just pine needles and shadows.
His hand hovered near his hip — instinct. But there was nothing there. The weight of his sidearm was gone.
He stopped at the back door.
Paused.
They knew exactly what they were doing.
The message. The photo. The video.
They waited. Waited until Mitch didn’t react to the first image. Until he tried to hold the line, play it calm. Then they sent the video — the gasp of pain, Roarke’s head yanked back, the mask, the message:
"Just do as you're told, ok bud? And we'll leave him alone"
It wasn’t random. This was orchestrated. Timed to his hesitation.
He opened the door.
Elias was still cuffed, wrists behind his back, sitting with perfect posture. Relaxed. Not a man in custody — a man waiting to be unwrapped.
Their eyes met.
Elias smiled faintly.
“Took you long enough.”
Mitch didn’t answer. He reached in and grabbed Elias’s arm, rough and businesslike, dragging him up and out.
Elias didn’t resist. But as he rose, he leaned in close, mouth brushing near Mitch’s ear, and whispered:
“You’ve got good hands, Keller. Real steady.”
Mitch shoved him toward the front of the cruiser.
“Face the hood.”
Elias chuckled, but obeyed. Turned around. Presented his cuffed wrists.
“Can you take these off please?” he said over his shoulder. “Remember - do as you're told”
Mitch didn’t answer.
But his fingers hovered — just hovered — over the cuffs.
Don’t. Not yet.
Then Elias spoke again, softer now, voice low and deliberate.
“You ever stop and wonder how we knew when to send the message?”
“How we timed it perfectly?”
“You got the photo. But you hesitated.”
“You did the right thing. You held the line. Waited. Thought maybe you could fix it.”
And that’s when we sent the video.
Mitch’s breath caught in his chest — just for a second.
Elias smiled again, sensing it.
“That’s what makes you dangerous, Keller. You actually care.”
A pause.
“That’s also what makes you predictable.”
Mitch clenched his jaw.
“Shut your mouth.”
But Elias didn’t stop.
“You’re not losing this because you’re weak. You’re losing because you’re good. And we built this plan around that exact weakness.”
Mitch’s hand moved to the cuffs.
“You’ve got the muscle. The training. The badge. But I’ve got your partner gagged in a chair, and your balls in my hand.”
Mitch’s fingers were shaking — just a little.
Elias leaned back, letting his cuffed hands rest against the middle of his back.
“Be a good boy, deputy.”
“Uncuff me.”
Mitch reluctantly pulled out his cuff key from his key chain, and also reluctantly undid one cuff around Elias' left wrist followed with the right cuff.
Mitch’s breath was still shallow as Elias stepped away from the cruiser.
The contact was over — but the weight of it lingered.
Mitch reached for his belt, trying to regain some sense of normalcy. His fingers found the cuff pouch out of habit. Opened it. He began to return the metal restraints to their place—
“Uh-uh.”
Elias’s voice cut in from behind him. Calm. Sharp. Already in control again.
“Not so fast.”
Mitch froze.
Elias took a slow step toward the open driver’s side door. His hand extended, casual as you please, and he lifted the Glock off the dash.
He held it with disturbing familiarity — not aiming it, not even gripping it tightly, but with just enough ownership to make Mitch’s blood chill.
“We’re not done with those yet.”
Mitch didn’t move at first.
Elias smiled. Took one more step closer.
“You’re gonna put ’em on.”
Mitch’s voice was tight, low.
“You want me to cuff myself?”
“Bingo.”
A beat passed. Mitch slowly reached out with the cuffs, about to snap them on in front, wrists facing forward.
Elias’s tone changed instantly.
“Wrong.”
Mitch looked up — and Elias stepped forward, the Glock now resting comfortably at his side, but clearly still leverage.
“Behind your back,” Elias said. “Like a good little perp.”
Mitch didn’t move.
He’s serious.
He’s about to make me restrain myself.
And if I don’t—
Roarke’s image flickered in Mitch’s brain again. The gag. The pain. The voice in the video.
His heart was hammering. This wasn’t just a tactical decision anymore. It was personal. Degrading. Intentional.
Slowly, jaw tight, he turned around.
Brought his hands behind his back.
Don’t let him see it. Don’t let him hear you shake.
He clicked the first cuff closed around his left wrist.
Then — second cuff.
Click.
Metal kissed metal.
He was cuffed.
By his own hand.
And Elias was still holding the gun.
Mitch stood there, shoulders pulled back, arms locked, chest rising and falling. Humiliated. Helpless. Still in full uniform — but it no longer meant a thing.
Elias stepped in close again, his voice right at Mitch’s shoulder.
“Now that’s a good look for you. Now I will take those keys, thank you very much”
Elias said as he took the keys from Mitch's belt. Mitch stood motionless. Hands cuffed behind his back. Head up. Shoulders square.
But inside?
Everything was coming apart.
Elias circled him once — calm, unhurried — then stopped just behind his right hip.
No smirk this time.
Elias slammed Mitch face first into his own cruiser. Mitch let out a light grunt, and his chest hit the cruiser not being able to brace himself with his hands handcuffed behind his back with his own handcuffs.
"You know the drill, Mitch! Hope you don't mind me calling you Mitch" Elias said as he kicked Mitch's legs wide, into a prone pose ready for patdown.
This wasn’t business — it was somehow sensual.
Elias started with Mitch's torso, feeling him up, lingering unnecessarily long in places where there were nothing to hide. He went down through his back and side, and finally around his waist. Unbuckling his duty belt, and tossing it into the passenger's side of the cruiser.
His fingers pressed deep, knuckles dragging along Mitch’s thigh as he fished for the phone. He lingered longer than necessary — brushing, feeling, claiming every inch of space like he was entitled to it.
Mitch’s jaw clenched, a chill running down his spine.
He’s doing it slow on purpose.
Elias pulled the phone free with a little grin.
“Thanks, deputy. You’re so damn cooperative now.”
He stepped in close beside Mitch, shoulder-to-shoulder, almost chest-to-back. Raised the phone, angled it just right, and took a selfie with his newly restrained cop.
Click.
Mitch stared straight ahead. Blank. Burning with humiliation.
Elias typed fast. Sent it off.
“They get that photo, your buddy Roarke gets to keep breathing. For now.”
Then the smile faded.
Elias pocketed the phone and turned back to Mitch, circling once more — slower now. Predator pacing prey.
“Now let’s see what else you’re hiding.”
But he wasn’t just checking for gear.
He was feeling Mitch.
Controlling his space.
Touching what no one else ever touched without permission.
“Ah,” Elias said. “What do we have here?”
He reached down and pulled a small blade from a sheath strapped to Mitch’s ankle.
He held it up, admiring it like a museum piece.
“Cute little backup. You keep this for emergencies?”
“This count as one?”
Mitch said nothing.
Elias tucked the knife into his waistband like it belonged to him.
“That was the last thing you had, Keller.”
He stood up, full height, eyes level with Mitch’s again.
“Now you’ve got nothing.”
Mitch stood still, sweat dampening the collar of his uniform. His wrists throbbed inside his own cuffs, arms locked behind him. The heat of his concealed vest made it worse — too tight, too suffocating, too powerless.
Elias stood by the open back door of the cruiser, grinning.
“Back seat. Move.”
Mitch didn’t budge.
Elias stepped closer and shoved him — hard — one hand twisted in the front of Mitch’s shirt, the other still casually holding the Glock.
“Don’t make me say it again, Keller.”
Mitch stumbled backward, boots skidding over gravel.
He reached the open door.
The back seat.
It hit him instantly — no door handles inside. A one-way trip.
Once that door shuts... I'm done.
Elias gestured to the car with his chin, clearly expecting Mitch to get in.
Mitch got in, then slid to the middle of the seat a little.
But as Elias stepped around to slam the door—
Mitch acted.
His boot lashed out, slamming the door back open into Elias’s chest, knocking him back a full step.
“Motherf—!”
Mitch lunged out — ungraceful, off-balance, but fast. He hit the dirt running.
For four steps.
Maybe five.
Then his legs tangled — cuffed arms wrecking his balance — and his center of gravity pitched forward. He tried to catch himself, recovered for half a second—
And face-planted into the earth.
Hard.
His cheek scraped bark and pine needles. Wind blasted from his lungs.
Move—move—get up—
But before he could even shift—
Elias was on him.
The weight slammed into his back like a concrete slab, a knee digging into his spine. Mitch thrashed, cuffed, helpless.
Elias laughed.
“You serious right now?! That’s your big move?”
Mitch squirmed like a trapped animal, dirt smeared across his face, boots scraping the ground, but Elias had the angle — all leverage, all power.
“You look like a fuckin’ worm,” Elias growled.
He brought his fist down — one solid punch to Mitch’s ribs.
Not knockout force.
Just punishment.
Mitch groaned, breath gone.
Stopped struggling.
Elias sat on him harder, breathing easy.
He reached down, pulled Mitch’s phone from his pocket again — one-handed — and opened the message thread with his people.
Roarke. Still gagged. Still helpless.
Elias smirked as he started typing.
“Keller’s acting up. Abort plan. Finish Roarke.”
Mitch’s blood went cold.
“Wait—wait—don’t—”
His voice cracked. Genuine. Panicked.
“Don’t send that. Please.”
He couldn’t even lift his head.
“I’ll do whatever you say. Just… not him. Don’t hurt Evan”
Elias paused.
Looked down at him.
Then smiled.
And deleted the message.
“That’s better.”
He leaned down, voice a growl.
“That’s you learning your fuckin’ place.”
-----------------------------------------------
The door creaked open.
Evan Roarke blinked against the sudden flood of light.
He was still tied tight — chair-bound, body crushed under coils of hemp rope, gagged with layers of silver tape pressing the filthy sock deep into his mouth. His jaw ached. His shoulders burned. His uniform clung to him, soaked in sweat.
And then one of the masked men stepped in — holding a phone.
He turned the screen toward Roarke.
A photo.
Elias.
Standing next to Mitch.
And Mitch... was cuffed.
His hands behind his back.
His uniform disheveled.
Eyes hollow.
Roarke froze.
His whole body jolted, the ropes creaking against his frantic squirm.
No. No way. Not Keller.
He groaned through the gag — sharp, guttural — shaking his head violently as if to say this isn't real.
But it was.
The guy holding the phone leaned down, tapped the screen with a gloved finger.
“Told you we’d flip the rookie too.”
Roarke let out another desperate, muffled moan, twisting hard in the chair, his boots dragging against the floor.
But the ropes didn’t budge.
And the tape silenced every plea.
All he could do was sit there and watch.
They got Mitch.
And now... what is next?
—--------------------------------
The leaves barely rustled as Mitch lay face-down in the dirt, wrists cuffed tightly behind his back, chest heaving from the short-lived sprint and crushing takedown. His face stung where it scraped the forest floor. His ribs throbbed from the punch.
He didn’t resist anymore.
He didn’t move.
Elias stood over him in silence.
Then, without ceremony, he bent down and grabbed Mitch by the belt and the back of his shirt collar — like he was hauling a sack of gear.
“Up we go, tough guy.”
He hoisted Mitch like dead weight, jerking him upright to his knees, then to his feet. Mitch staggered slightly, boots dragging in the dirt, but stayed standing.
Barely.
He didn’t fight.
He couldn’t.
Elias gave him a shove toward the cruiser, herding him like livestock.
“Dirt all over your knees now,” Elias said with a sneer.
“Look at this uniform. Jesus. You know I’m gonna need this clean later, right?”
Mitch’s head turned slightly — a flicker of confusion in his eyes.
Elias grinned behind him.
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s still wearable.”
The message hit like a slow, cold blade: he’s going to take it. All of it.
When they reached the car, Elias yanked the back door open again and guided Mitch in. Rough, but no longer angry — just methodical.
He pressed Mitch down into the seat, pushing his head slightly so he wouldn’t bang it on the doorframe — almost mockingly gentle.
Mitch sat in the back seat, hands cuffed behind him, body still aching from the fall, from the punch. His boots were planted on the floor. For now.
Elias stood at the open rear door, just watching him.
Still.
Still in control.
“Do you carry another pair of cuffs?” Elias asked flatly.
Mitch shook his head.
“No. You made me wear my only pair.”
A beat of silence.
“Fuck”
Elias said as he looked around the front seat for something useful to secure Mitch further.
Mitch looked down, then said carefully:
“There’s a pack of plastic restraints, zip ties. In the glove compartment.”
Elias raised an eyebrow, smirking.
“You just offering that up, huh?”
Mitch didn’t answer.
Elias didn’t say thank you. He just popped the glove box, and found the pack — thick, heavy-duty, just like he'd hoped.
He walked back to the rear door and crouched down at Mitch’s feet.
Mitch tensed as Elias grabbed one ankle.
“Just making sure you don’t try another little run,” Elias muttered.
ZZZIP.
One loop around one boot.
ZZZIP.
Another — looped over his other boot, locking them together tight. Elias placed another one around the ankles to one of the metal piece of the car seat. Mitch shifted slightly but couldn’t move more than an inch.
Completely restrained.
Still, he couldn’t stay quiet.
“What are you gonna do next?” Mitch asked, voice tight.
“Are you planning to—”
Elias sighed.
Then reached up and clamped a hand over Mitch’s mouth — palm pressed firm, fingers digging into his cheek.
“Jesus. You never shut up.”
Mitch stiffened under the touch — more from the sudden intimacy than force.
Elias leaned in close, breath hot.
“I need to shut you up.”
Mitch groaned a little bit. Fear got into him a little bit, thinking about what Elias meant by that. Was he going to knock him out?
Elias let go, scanned the cruiser briefly, annoyed.
Mitch swallowed, then offered, voice quiet:
“There are rolls of duct tape... in the trunk.” Knowing that he'd prefer to be gagged, than the alternative of being knocked out or else.
Elias turned to look at him — then grinned.
“Of course there is.”
He shut the back door and walked to the trunk. A second later, click. It opened. He found the rolls of duct tape Mitch was referring to, grabbed one, but also found Mitch's gym bag.
Trunk slammed shut, then Elias showed up with the roll of duct tape, and Mitch’s gym bag.
Mitch’s heart sank. What is he gonna do with that. The bag is full of day old gym wear which he was wearing two days in a row.
No.
Elias unzipped the bag casually, dug through a tangle of old, sweat-saturated gear, and pulled out a pair of used socks — yellowed, damp, and days old.
He gave one a theatrical sniff.
“Ohh yeah. This’ll do.”
He walked back to the rear door and yanked it open.
“Say ‘ah.’”
Mitch hesitated.
Then opened his mouth.
Elias shoved the sock in — deep. Mitch gagged slightly as it hit his tongue, warm and sour.
“Tastes like guilt, huh?”
Then came the tape.
Elias pressed the first strip over Mitch’s lips. Then he wrapped.
Once.
Over the mouth.
Twice.
Around the cheeks.
Three.
Crossing under the jaw.
Four. Five. Six.
Tight, smooth loops, sealing the sock inside, pressing Mitch’s jaw closed.
Seven.
The final layer. Slapped down with a palm to the cheek.
Mitch grunted behind it. Couldn’t form words. Couldn’t spit it out. Couldn’t even move.
Elias looked him over — cuffed, zip-tied, gagged, soaked in sweat, stuffed in the back of his own unit.
“There. Much better.”
Mitch sat completely restrained in the back of his own cruiser — hands cuffed behind him, ankles zip-tied, mouth sealed shut with layers of duct tape and the rank stuffing of his own gym sock pressed deep into his throat.
Sweat dripped from his hairline. His breathing came shallow.
He didn’t make a sound.
Elias leaned down into the open door one last time — just to drive the knife in.
He reached out and gave Mitch a few light, condescending taps to the side of the head, like patting a dog.
“Good little deputy.”
Then he shut the door with a solid click, walked around to the front, and slid into the driver’s seat.
The engine rumbled to life. The cruiser rolled forward slowly, then picked up speed as Elias took them deeper into the woods, down an even rougher, less-traveled path. It wasn’t on any map. Just a stretch of overgrown fire road disappearing into trees.
Fifteen minutes later, they reached a wide clearing — isolated, dead quiet.
Elias killed the engine.
The cruiser ticked as it cooled, sunlight cutting through the windshield in sharp beams.
Then Elias reached for the radio and the mic cord — and turned to face the back seat.
Mitch looked back at him through the divider, his face wrapped tight in silver, the outline of the sock bulging behind it.
