“Wait here. Give us the gun, Doug. I’ll go first.”
Keelan took each step carefully, the stair carpet muffling his footsteps, the occasional creak of old stair boards causing him to pause momentarily. On reaching the top landing, he stopped to listen, but all he could pick up was the heavy breathing of Salt behind him. They checked all four of the bedrooms and the bathroom, and found them empty. The two men went back down and congregated with the other two in the hallway.
“Where the hell are they?” exclaimed Milo.
“We can ask the bloke,” Todd recommended.
“I bet there’s a cellar. It’s an old house,” spoke up Salt.
“We didn’t look in the utility room. Todd, Milo, check it out,” Keelan instructed. “Doug and I will have a little chat with our captive.”
The two, as instructed, headed for the utility room next to the kitchen while Salt and Keelan pulled the now recovered banker up into a standing position, pushing him up against one of the tall cupboards.
Keelan’s six foot three bulk towered over the middle-aged man, his large shaved head blocking the banker’s view from anything but the convict’s grimy, scowling face.
“Where are the others?” Through his grip on the man’s shoulders, Keelan could feel the banker’s body trembling.
Before the victim could respond, a shout was heard from Milo. “Found it! There’s a bloody cellar!”
“Check it out,” shouted Keelan. “Go with them, Doug.”
He stared into the man’s face. “Your family?”
The man nodded. “P-please d-don’t h-hurt us,” he stuttered.
“Have you got food down there?”
“Yes.” He nodded, a slight smile playing across his face in an attempt to ingratiate himself with his captor.
“I’m going to loosen your ties. You fucking make a move and I’ll kill you. Understand?”
The banker nodded rapidly as Keelan cut the twine that secured the man’s feet and hands.
Just as he had finished, Salt returned and whispered in his ear, “Bloody goldmine down there. Food, water, beer and whisky. And the best bit: women.”
The banker started as he picked up the gist of the last part of the sentence.
“Please, not my family. They’ve been through enough already.” He pulled himself up to his full height of five foot eight. “I won’t let you harm them.”
The air shot out of the man’s lungs as Keelan put his full weight behind the blow that struck the man in his plump stomach, forcing him to bend and drop to his knees, gasping for breath and retching.
Milo joined them in the kitchen and received further orders from Keelan.
“Get the women into the lounge, and bring some food, water and drink up. Doug, take this piece of shit down to the cellar, and make sure he won’t bother us.”
“What about the boy?” asked Milo.
“How old?”
“Fifteen, I’d say, and the girl is about seventeen.”
“Tie him up with Daddy here. She goes in the lounge.”
“Gotcha.”
Salt hauled the banker towards the utility room, heading for the cellar, while Milo went to carry out his orders. Keelan made his way to the spacious lounge, slumping down into the large leather armchair. He suddenly felt weary. They had been on the go for over twelve hours since the breakout, on the alert at all times. He was thirsty, hungry, and was sick of the taste of dust and grit in his mouth. He slid down deeper into the chair, tempted to close his eyes, but he needed food and drink, and to secure their location first. Then some entertainment.
The door was pushed open, and a skinny teenager collapsed in a heap in the middle of the floor, whimpering. Her mother was moments behind, and the daughter immediately shuffled across the carpet and clung onto her, the mother reciprocating. Withers and Salt were close behind.
“The other two secure?”
“Yeah, Stan,” responded Salt, ogling at the two brunettes cowering on the floor. “We’ve also patched up the back door as best we can. We can move some furniture later and prop it up against the door.”
Keelan nodded, his eyes wandering over the two women lying at his feet. The daughter looked to be around seventeen, maybe a year older. Her skirt was fashionably short; her long legs ran down into a pair of pink trainers. Although she wore a white blouse with a shapeless blue jumper over the top, it did little to hide the contour of her small but well-shaped heaving breasts. The mother, late thirties or even early forties, looked in good shape. Although she’d had at least two children, it was obvious from her figure that she had maintained a good level of fitness, unlike the husband, he thought. She was dressed in a knee-length skirt with thick dark denier tights, a blouse and jumper not too dissimilar to her daughter’s. Both had shoulder-length, dark brown hair and were definitely on the right side of attractiveness.
Keelan lurched up from the chair, “Me and Salt first. You two keep watch.”
He reached out and grabbed the mother’s hand, wrenching it away from her daughter’s grip, pulling her up and clamping his large hand around her mouth before she could utter a squeal. Salt responded equally as quickly, second guessing Keelan’s action, and grabbed the young girl who started kicking and thrashing about. Any attempt at protesting or screaming was stifled rapidly as Salt ruthlessly crushed all resistance. Keelan, one hand around the mother’s mouth and one around her chest beneath her armpits, dragged his captive through the lounge doorway, along the hall and up the stairs, the speed and Keelan’s embrace preventing any form of resistance. Both of her heeled shoes were lost as her feet bounced on each step, and by the time she was thrown onto the king-size bed in what was her and her husband’s bedroom, the fight was almost out of her.
A single short cry from her daughter, now being hauled into the room opposite, emboldened her with the strength to make one last effort to escape and run to the aid of her daughter. She kicked out with both legs, catching Keelan on one of his muscular thighs. Although slightly deadened, it was not enough to prevent the thickset Keelan from responding. She sat up and pushed her feet off the bed, connecting them with the bedroom floor. But that was as far as she got as a powerful backhander struck the side of her face, knocking her back down onto the bed. Stars sped away from her as her skull reverberated from the blow, a trickle of blood running from the corner of her mouth.
Keelan moved quickly before she could recover. Throwing her legs back onto the duvet, he climbed onto the bed, his knees astride her legs as he reached round behind her, finding the zip of her skirt. There was no pretence about easing it off as he prized the zip apart, ripping the skirt down over her hips, knees and legs, almost tearing it apart such was the violence of the action. She tried to sit up, desperate to go and help her daughter but, before a scream could pass her lips, he slapped the mother hard across the face again, stunning her. He tore at her tights, pleasure etched on his face. His last sexual experience, a blowjob from a woman, a male sex slave, in the shower, was well over six months ago.
As thick as they were, holes soon appeared in the opaque tights as he dragged them down her legs, leaving red weals as he did so. Once over her feet, he threw them across the room, thrusting a knee between her legs as she attempted to draw them up towards her chest. His second knee slammed into an olive brown thigh, a hand across her mouth stifling her cries. He forced his knees apart, in turn pushing her legs wider. His free hand gripped her knickers, pale blue, matching her brassiere beneath her upper clothing, ripping them away, the dark bush exposed as the fragile material snapped. They joined her tights on the floor of the bedroom.