Secrets in the Blueprints — Chapter 47 — Abel’s Journey

Peter Holt wanted a SAFE ROOM no one knew about. His enemy decided the best lesson learned is best taught through personal experience…

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A Collaborative effort by Medium.com/@toddhammerrick and Medium.com/@evelyngaede

Chapter 47

The doors opened to Peter’s penthouse — two floors of glass, polished wood and modern design. Throwing his phone on a long table near the entry, he moved to the giant window looking out over the city, felt his heart swell, gloated that the view was all his, available every moment of every day.

This had been his inspiration. His vision to bring it inside and make it his. A wall of window that brought the city lights to HIM and he dared anyone — Royal or common man — to show another scene anywhere in the world to match it.

Oslo spread out in glittering glory, twinkling through the last minutes of pre-dawn, a scene worthy of Norway’s National Museum. The Oslofjord, an inlet carved by ancient glaciers, shimmered in the distance.

Omar came instantly awake the moment Peter entered his 4th floor penthouse apartment, the safety room’s alarm alerting Omar his prey had come home. A six-digit code sent the door gliding silently into the wall to reveal Peter in the bathroom, taking a leak.

He did not hear Omar, had no sense of him at all until a length of barbed wire slid between his legs, caught on the other side by a gloved hand that wrapped the wire around Peter’s balls before his drunken brain could process happened.

The resulting scream was piercing, one Omar expected and braced for. “You failed to pay Pyra’s ransom. I have come to collect it.”

“I didn’t pay because I didn’t care to have the little bitch back. I’ve found another.” Words that may have had the intended effect if the voice hadn’t vibrated fear.

Maybe it was the razor-sharp sting of wire piano wire slicing through his balls. The last of his piss stream sprayed the porcelain toilet and floor, added to his humiliation.

Peter Holt was a tall man, young and blonde, typical prototype of the legendary Norwegian with one defining trait missing — the rugged hardiness of men who shrugged at the bitter cold of winter, zipped their coats and trudged onward. Peter had grown too soft, his every need met before he had time to realize he was hungry or cold.

“How’d you get in here?” Still fighting the unexpected searing pain to his scrotum, Peter spit words clear enough that Omar understood. “Does that really matter now? Your Siri could not stop me. Your locks did not stop me.”

Peter’s saferoom was close… the torture to his balls intense… behind him… fingers groping… keypad they sought just beyond their reach. Omar’s pressure on temples and jaw increased, vision fuzzy… the walls that must be pierced through in order to get there… but the torture to his balls… fingers on his temples… at the back of his jaw…

Still could not reach the keypad. He could feel it with his nails but not the pad of his forefinger needed to push the code. So close!

The bathroom turned fuzzy, did he see orange bubbles at the edges? Just sense them? He counted seconds, struggled to keep his eyes open, his vision clear… Omar held him a few seconds more, felt Holt’s body slump, waited a few seconds more…

Allowed the unconscious body of Peter Holt drop to the floor, made no attempt to guide that body to a soft landing, not at all concerned when the limp body met the corner of a cabinet or head hit the porcelain toilet.

With a contemptuous sniff Omar simply walked from the room to retrieve needed tools and materials from the storage closet he’d found earlier. He’d had five hours to plan this out, knew exactly what next to do…

Against his better judgement David stopped arguing when Alexis and Pyra both begged to go on deck, sit outside on the deck of the showboat. “Please! We want to watch the river. This is one of the last Paddleboats of the Mark Twain era.”

“Please!” Pyra added her voice to Alexis’. “There’s enough with ship security, David! You should relax, enjoy this time.” A frustrated glance at Pyra did nothing to change his mind.

Desperate, Alexis tried again. “How would anyone even think of slow-moving Showboat as way to escape?”

“Ask ChatGPT or Alexa! — hell, Google it! — How to slip away “unnoticed”. Watch what you get.”

The girls tried several different venues of questions, could not get AI to mention riverboats until Alexis keyed in Mark Twain, Mississippi River. Even then, she had to rephrase it, all but obliterating the underlying purpose of the research.

“See?” She couldn’t hide the gloating smirk or brag that she was — kind of — almost right went Pyra went to Microsoft’s CoPilot and typed:

What are chances of ‘showboat on Mississippi river’ coming up to answer question: “Methods of escape”

0 to 1%

“There’s your answer, David. Almost no chance at all.” “Drones followed us through Minnesota right to the Wisconsin border! This boat docked and ready for passengers to board yesterday.”

“That drone was shot down! We watched it blow up! Watched it rain broken drone parts as it fell from the sky!”

That last rebuttal didn’t defeat him but he was done arguing. The cabin was too confining, the whining and begging too incessant. He wanted a highball. Whiskey sour. He knew. Had zero proof, but KNEW there had been more than one drone, just wished he could estimate how many more.

“Fine. We’ll go on deck, stay as long as enough people mill around to give decent cover. That crowd starts to thin where you become easy sniper targets, we’re back here, no arguments.”

Both girls gave hugs and kisses, grabbed shorts, cover-ups slipped over their bikinis. “You’re going to freeze in those. Summer’s done.”

“Hot tubs are heated. Join us.” “No. Can’t keep an eye out if I’m in a hot tub.” “Why not?”

He couldn’t tell them why not. Maybe sight wasn’t the problem that worried most. ‘Trapped.’ The image of blood red hot tub made his chest tighten. ‘Foreboding suffocation. Something isn’t right.’

Outside their stateroom an attendant walking past had one hand above his shoulder balancing a tray of cocktails, the other hand motioned toward the door of David Grindel’s Stateroom.

Two men who watched received that flash of hand with thin-lipped smiles, closed their own stateroom door to discuss and plan.

Peter Holt had a dry throat and nauseated stomach. As the residual fog of whatever had been used to keep him under began to gradually fade, he had time to realize, then accept, exactly where he was and how drastic his situation. One of three Safe-Rooms.

Impossible to know which one. He had three of them built into the old hotel walls — each one installed by a different crew so no one but himself knew that more than a single safe-room existed.

Pain was the one thing he came most aware of. Even unconscious pain had been there, snipped the dark veil that for a few blessed bit of time had numbed his awareness of pain.

The room was pitch black. A solid dark that buried him. Not an ounce of light filtered in. Hadn’t that been one specification he refused to reconsider? No one would know.

Each Safe-Room had deliberately been installed to thwart detection. ‘I want them integrate deep within in the hotel’s original skeleton…’ his instructions when drawing up plans. ‘Not one crack for light or sound to filter through!’ He’d been thinking of those on the outside searching in. Not once had he given thought to himself having to find a way out. ‘Lead walls sandwiched between tungsten steel…’

What a fool he’d been!

He’d scoffed at their protests. Laughed at objections “too expensive!” Answered with, “What do I care about expense?” Or ‘Did I ask how much?’

The men advising him had rolled their eyes. Given him then exactly what he’d insisted he must have!

High-quality soundproofing installed at enormous cost meant no sound penetrated and conversely, no sound would escape. Calling for help would get him no one. No wonder Omar hadn’t bother with a gag, content to leave him hog-tied, dangling from the ceiling.

Peter had never known silence to be heavy. This was. Or silence that felt he was suffocating. What he endured now did all of that, smothered air before it could enter or exit his lungs.

He fought for one good breath… felt stranded on the edge of a precipice… lungs cried for air… received a fraction of what was needed. No more than enough to keep his body functioning… nothing to ease the sense of suffocation.

“Pyra! You bitch! When I get out of this!” Words that just hours ago may have come biting, projecting vindictive anger. Here, in this dark tomb, his words betrayed misery and fear.

Why hadn’t he paid that ransom? He wouldn’t have even missed the sum first asked. It had gotten higher as time passed. Pyra. Olga. Isla.

His cousin Theo engaged to Isla urged, then pleaded for Peter to pay the ransom, had raised half the amount asked. Sven had barely shrugged.

When Omar carried through his threats, Olga had been first… Sven barely glanced at notice she’d been sold at a slave auction in Istanbul. Then Isla. Sold to a Russian autocrat. Pressure from family pressured Peter to pay up.

His mind had tumbled ideas of how to punish Pyra when he got her back. Leaving her exactly like this in a “Space no one can get to but me” had been included as a note to Omar when given one more chance to buy her freedom.

Theo had eventually found Isla, got her, married her someplace in Italy before returning to Oslo. Relations with Theo had cooled over that not-so-great fairy tale ending. Cold and callus, Peter hadn’t let it bother him. Theo would get over it eventually or be mad one hell of a long time.

Theo was family. Married to his Fairy Princess. Family took care of family. Theo would come. He just had to waited. Wait for someone to miss him. Someone to come looking. Except no one but the man who installed this safe-room knew it was here.

The only reason he’d paid the final Ransom note was Pyra. She’d had been his focus for more than a year. He wasn’t finished with her, a skinny, ghostly bitch without intelligence enough to save herself. He’d paid the ransom and with it had sent a scathing detailed note of what he meant to do to her when she did make it back to Norway.

“I’m going to hog-tie you! Put you so deep inside the walls of this old hotel NO ONE will hear you SCREAM! Or BEG to come down off the chain I use to dangle you from the ceiling! I’ll use you for a pinata! Blindfold my friends, give them whips to strike you! I’ll leave you to hang while we go clubbing! MAYBE I’ll Remember you’re there When I wake up the next morning!”

Peter now lived that very same arrogant threat. Hung from the ceiling of his safe-room, hog tied. Left to suffer alone in suffocating silence. A position so strict it put horrible pressure on shoulders and arms. There wasn’t a muscle or nerve in his body that didn’t scream from unbearable pain but the one that seared his shoulder was beyond pain. It was unbearable but inescapable.

It left nothing but to suffer through it. Every second a torture to mind and body. He’d done this very thing to Pyra. Hadn’t carried it quite this far. Hadn’t wrapped thin wire around her breasts or through her cunt!

‘But it was in your toolbox!’

He’d been high that night. Hoisted her up with chain, taken pictures, gone clubbing with Theo and Sven. Danced. Drank. Probably high on ecstasy or coke.

‘God! That’s what I need! Hit of cocaine. Have some here… all safe rooms stocked with food, drink, drugs.’

He had to pee but couldn’t. Couldn’t understand why he couldn’t! A function so elementary it took no effort or thought to start the stream. So why not now?

The thin wire was wrapped around his balls, pain beyond description that just never stopped. Pain melted the soothing veil of slumber that kept teasing, never succeeded in taking him away.

He was now aware enough to realize… piano wire around his penis, holding tight against the top of his groin it pointed straight up, parallel with his stomach.

He shied from wondering how the intruder managed to get that private part of his body lay so it pointed straight toward his chin. He wasn’t even sure how he knew that’s where and how it was positioned. hard to dissect such minutiae when wire set his belly on fire and thick electrical cable kept him in a strict hog-tie and hanging midair.

‘How the fuck did he find this room?” He’d sue the contractor when he got out of here. That he’d never leave this room had yet to ping his numbed brain.

In his world, every problem had golden endings. He’d never been told no. Never had to swallow defeat. He hadn’t lost Pyra. Simply made no effort to bring her home.

His desire now was to punish, ruin a life, possibly more lives for no other reason than he had resources to get it done, a smug satisfaction that faded, dawning in one lucid moment that THAT PARTICULAR BILL had yet to be paid. Until it was — or he called them off — the men chasing Pyra would keep going. He’d meant to call them that morning, cease and desist — the chase. Hadn’t given one thought after getting out of bed.

Peter Holt could not bear the sharp pain to nerves and muscle. Time dragged. Not one second of relief. Each one a literal, physical hell.

Peter Holt Yelled. Cursed. Threatened.

Begged, his voice a whisper at first, then a hoarse whisper and finally, an anguished cry. “Won’t SOMEBODY COME?” Rescue would be a humiliation but he was long past accepting that embarrassment as long as someone, ANYONE! broke in to release him.

Then finally. Realization. He was in his Safe! ROOM!

Deliberately designed to ensure no one could get to him. It would take a God sent miracle for someone to find him and cut him down. To send a miracle. He no longer cared about the ignominy of who might see him or hear of it. He’d suffer through the embarrassment, the humiliation.

“Just COME! Somebody! COME!”

As time passed Peter prayed for help to come that no one thought to initiate. Moments he yelled for help, cries that no one would hear. Eventually, he begged, calling names of people he believed were friends, not because of his wealth or prestige.

Eventually truth settled. He often left Norway for impromptu jaunts without informing them. He’d complained loudly about Pyra, knew all were tired of hearing it. Guilty of verbal puke, he’d been unable to stop. Had threatened to leave the country to escape the African’s ransom messages.

Thor would come. His cousin. FAMILY. And family was always there for you.

His cousin Thor wondered but never curious enough to investigate. Sven hadn’t spoken to Peter since he’d refused to pay the ransom Omar demanded.

Peter Holt waited, swung at the end of a chain, hung from the ceiling, twirling each time the HVAC came on with a soft swoosh and small wind. His body jerked, fought the electrical cord that brought his heels close to the back of his head.

No one heard his cries. Or his curses. No one heard his tears. Or came to dry them.

He’d built an emotional barricade, as impenetrable as his safe-room. He had yet to accept he’d built his own prison, that soon would be his tomb. A saferoom so impenetrable no one would smell the decomposition of his body.

Peter Holt had been a human monster. Most who knew him prayed he’d never return. A few close to him would sometimes wonder why he never returned.

None came to save him.

He’d set climate control to wait until 29 degrees Celsius to kick on so when it finally did, he was drenched with sweat. Then freezing before it shut off at the stipulated 15 degrees.

‘Eighty-five for high? Fifteen low?’ The American contractor repeated the range he personally experienced for clarification. ‘Thirty degrees below freezing before it shuts off?’

Peter realized then it was lower than intended. Couldn’t take time to correct the man, intent on meeting college friends for one last binge before leaving the institution into adult hood and spoiled playboy… money to spend and the time to spend it.

He’d be drenched with his own sweat when the cool air finally blasted through tiny vents in the ceiling and walls. A blast of air that hit too cold and too hard to feel good, immediately set his teeth to chattering and the chain to swing.

It would stay on way too long, drop him to arctic temperatures… but the ancestral line had been born and bred in Norway where cold was accepted, breeding into the DNA the knowledge to prepare and ward against the cold, bodies bred to absorb it.

Swinging on the chain, body dripping sweat, Peter heard the small refrigerator click on which meant the room had grown so warm it needed help to keep it’s specified cool temperature, deliberately set that low to keep his beer ice cold.

His body was bathed in sweat. He braced for the first blast of ice-cold air from the HVAC. It failed to come on. The room smelled like a locker room flooded with sewage. Peter swung on the chain, twirled, spun. Waited.

And no one came.

[embed]List: Abel's Journey | Curated by Evelyn Gaede | Medium Abel's Journey · 2 Sisters from S.D. USA visit Africa, are followed by a tall black man, soon discover that blonde hair…medium.com

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