A Slaves Strength

Tom - The Beginning

by

mechgogo

"Are those vests fireproof?"

The question caused the two agents from the US Bureau of Indenturement to pull up short. They had come to serve a writ on one of the residents of the ranch-style home in front of them. Nicollette Donovoan, white, female 30 years old, Irish descent. Allegedly engaged for the past ten years in a relationship with her fraternal twin sister Angela and brother-in-law Thomas.

Tom Donovan had been waiting for them on the front porch of the family's rented home. Tom was a good-looking man, but not what most would call pretty. His features and coloring were a complimentary mix of gifts from a German mother and Irish father. A German nose, not too long and mostly straight, had been broken at least once in the past but had healed well. His cheekbones were high and angular, his jaw firm and similarly chiseled. His lips were thin but not overly so. His wives and others thought they served him well when he smiled. Faint scars around the cheeks spoke of past fistfights, some less distant than others. The pale line of a scar bisected his right eyebrow at a shallow angle, three quarters of the way towards his nose. One more souvenir of solving problems with his hands rather than his head.

Tom had a high forehead over green eyes. They had acquired a warmth of expression in recent years. But even now, when he let his mind just drift or when he was past the point of concern for consequences they held all the warmth of a hungry rattlesnake scoping out it's next meal. His hair was long and chestnut, tied back now in a ponytail. Hints of red spoke of at least one Highlander in the woodpile. His skin bore a slight swarthiness from dark Irish genes, possibly with the odd Spaniard or Gypsy rattling around the family tree. He tended to tan easily and could not remember his last serious sunburn.

Tom's personality – especially his temper – were a mix as well. He had a great love of stories, jokes and music. His voice was a warm baritone. It wasn’t uncommon for him to sing to himself, often without realizing he was doing it. Like most of Gaelic descent Tom's temper could run hot and hair-trigger. But he possessed a cold calculation too. More than one person had thought themselves free and clear only to learn otherwise days or weeks later.

When Tom stood he topped out at a bit over six feet tall. He was broad shouldered and possessed of the kind of leanly muscular build usually seen on runners, swimmers or middleweight MMA fighters. The raised welt of an old knife scar rode one forearm.

At the moment Tom was sitting down on the top step of the porch, planted between the collectors on his front walk and the front door to his home. He was dressed all in black, from his simple black t-shirt to his loose-fitting cargo pants, right down to the scuffed but well-maintained combat boots on his feet. Even the fingerless gloves on his hands were black. In fact, the only pieces of color in the whole ensemble were the walnut finish of the Remington, pump-action 12-gauge cradled in his hands and the silvery gleam of the knife-sharp, four pound medieval axe sticking up over his left shoulder.

While the two collectors were processing the question Tom reached into a pocket.

"Here," he said. "Catch." And gently underhanded a small plastic and cardboard blister-pack at them.

As was always the case in the service of these writs the collectors were a male/female team. It had been determined that this was the best combination for getting everyone involved to cooperate while still being able to handle any hostility or violence that might erupt. The agents exchanged a look. Then, while her partner kept a careful eye on Tom, the woman bent and picked up the package.

The pack was designed to hold three 12 gauge shotgun shell, bright orange in color. It had been opened, had one removed and then resealed with staples and clear scotch tape. Agent Comisky recognized the rounds from a recent visit to her favorite gun shop. The words "Dragon's breath shotgun loads!" shrieked out her in big red and orange letters, as did "Turn your shotgun into a flamethrower!" A list of incendiary chemicals and a legal disclaimer absolving the manufacturer of any liability in the event that someone was dumb enough to set themselves or someone else on fire with the specialty munitions took up the back. Two more similar packs hit the ground at her feet while she and her partner glanced at the one in her hand. They were empty.

Tom let his guests take a second to run the numbers on the significance of both the partial and the empties. It gave them a chance to fully grasp just how far outside normal mission specs they were. It also let him decide which one to shoot first if they wouldn't listen to reason. The woman, he concluded. She was the more dangerous of the two. Something about the way she carried herself told Tom he'd be better off with her out of the equation. Plus most guys tended to have instinctive chivalrous reactions to a woman screaming in agony that would buy him a few extra seconds if things went non-verbal. Not that he reckoned he'd need the extra time but every little edge in a fight helped.

For his part, Tom hoped the collectors were willing to listen to reason. Not because he cared one way or another if they lived or died but because he very much cared whether or not he and his family did. What the two slave-taking scum in front of him - and it didn't matter what kind of legalese you dressed it up in, the indenturement legislation that the previous administration had rammed through boiled down to a rebirth of the slave trade pure and simple - didn't realize just yet was that if they and their bosses didn't go along with his proposal they were dead.

Tom had no intention of letting these or any other representatives from the BOI get their filthy fucking hands on either of his girls. If they were willing to be reasonable he planned to take Nick's place. If not, he planned to ignite the two in front of him, go inside and put bullets into the heads of both his wives. Then he intended to send as many of the backup team currently casting a loose net around his home ahead of him to Hell before they took him down.

"He's bluffing." the male agent said.

The woman looked at Tom. "I don't think so, Mark."

"Listen to your partner, Mark." Tom said. "I know y'all got files on all three of us." He inclined his head behind him. "Y'know what I've done with this axe before. You don't listen to reason I will burn the both of you."

"Now, I understand you folks are just doing your job and I'll be the first to admit this mess could have been avoided if my Nicki had just been a little bit more communicative with her sister and I. But I wouldn't be much of a man if I just let you waltz in and take her. So what say you hear me out? It won't take a minute or two and all you'll lose is the chance to find out just how effective those shells are."

"We're listening." She said cautiously. "But no promises."

"Fair enough. No promises I won't smoke the pair of you if you things go badly. Nothin' personal. Just doing my job."

"Take me instead. And don't try feeding me any crap about how you can't do that. Buddy of mine's a lawyer. Good one too. Says there's nothing in the law stopping me from taking Nick's place. Just not a lot of precedent for it on account of most people either got too much selfishness or too much good sense than to hand themselves over to you people if they don't absolutely have to. Me, I'm plenty selfish but not real sensible."

The door behind Tom burst open then, smacking into his back and nearly turning the negotiations to shit courtesy of an accidental discharge of the Remmington.

Nicki Donovan, the source of all the day's headaches came storming out in a fine, old school, Irish conniption fit. She was shorter than Tom with medium length black hair and hazel eyes. She wasn't fat but her curves were generous. Her hips were full and her breasts a little bit large for her otherwise athletic frame. She tipped the scales only a bit less than Tom's own two-hundred pounds, most of it muscle.

"You goddamned, stupid sonofabitch!" she screamed. Tom winced. He hated it when she called him stupid. Hated it so much he'd nearly left her over it once. "There's no fucking way in Hell you're taking my place! This was my mistake and you're not wiping my ass for me on this one! I don't give a fuck what kind of ignorant-assed bullshit scheme you've cooked up!"

Behind Tom the collectors just stared. This banshee was their target? No wonder the guy on the porch was sporting an arsenal. He probably needed the axe and shotgun just to keep her at bay long enough to give her morning coffee.

Nick had switched from English to Irish and was peeling the house paint with her rant. The agents couldn't understand a word of it but the spirit came through.

Tom sighed. "'Scuse me a sec." He said to them. Then he butt-stroked his Nick in the stomach with the shotgun. Tom caught her before she hit the ground. Tom produced a stun gun and zapped her to keep her down. Some steel hinged handcuffs secured her wrists behind her back and a few passes with a roll of bondage tape around her head would - hopefully- keep her quiet while they talked.

Tom heard the scuff of a footstep behind him. "Don't." he said, one handing the gun in their direction.

Tom bent, got his shoulder under his love's midsection and stood. By putting his right arm across her calves he was able to steady her and still maintain a two handed grip on the shotgun.

"Ang'!" Tom called out. "Little help with the door, please!" For all the strain he showed a person would think Tom was balancing a case of beer on his shoulder rather than a grown woman weighing nearly as much as he did.

Angie, Tom's legal spouse and Nicki's fraternal twin sister came to the door, held it open for her husband. She threw the agents behind him a glare that should have burned their shadows into the sidewalk.

"Thanks, love." Tom said smiling at her. "C'mon in." he told the agents without looking behind him. It wouldn't have done any good anyway. The only things to see by turning his head were a seven inch crescent of sharpened steel to one side and Nick's rather delectable ass to the other.

The agents exchanged a glance and followed, propelled as much by curiosity as the need to complete their assignment. The little troupe stopped part way down the house's main hallway. Angie stood between her husband and the door he was trying to reach.

"You don't have to do this." She told him.

"Bullshit." Tom said. " They..." Tom twitched his head in the direction of their 'guests' "...aren't leaving without somebody to put on the block. And what kind of a man stands by with his hand up his ass while the collectors make off with his wife, hm?"

Angie stood there another second or two, hating the circumstances they found themselves in, hating the Godawful choice of having to see either her husband or her sister taken away for seven years of who-knew-what by the bastards standing behind him. She even hated Tom a little. For a self-described former criminal and semi-reformed scumbag, he picked the damndest times to act like a superhero. She loved him for it but sometimes it made her want to kick his ass too.

Mostly though she hated her sister. It was Nicki's gambling problem that had gotten the family into this fix in the first place. And the hell of it was, this was the best solution they could find. She didn't care about the fact that going underground would mean leaving everything but, at most, one bag apiece behind. You could always buy more things. The prospect of spending every minute of their lives looking over their shoulders for the trackers was another matter. So was the very real fear of being caught and all three of them being put under contract. Several photos of each of them had come enclosed with the writ of intent to indenture. The message was clear - run and we'll catch you. She wiped her eyes, sniffled and stepped back before opening the door to Nicki's bedroom.

It only took Tom a minute to set Nick gently on the bed and secure her to the heavy iron headboard. He'd had a feeling this might happen so he'd stashed a length of chain in the room the other day along with a heavy-duty padlock. Even with the prep, things got challenging as Nicki came around and started thrashing about, cursing him out from behind the tape.

"I'm sorry for this leann‡n." He said, petting her hair and using the Irish for lover. The family had learned the language together years ago and it was as much - sometimes more - a part of the household speech as English. "But I can't let them have you. You're a chailin mo chroi. And I'll drown this block in blood before I allow that to happen."

He kissed her then and left, closing the door. Alone in her room with the knowledge of what her man was about to do on her behalf, Nicki screamed behind the tape and sobbed.

Out in the hallway Tom took a second to compose himself. Delays wouldn't make this any easier. "Lets talk in the living room." He told Mark and his partner. "I'd offer you something to eat or drink but you'd probably think it was poisoned."

Out in the living room, Tom took a seat. "Please, make yourselves comfortable." He said, motioning towards the couch with the shotgun.

The two agents tried to pick spots as far apart from one another as possible but Tom stopped them with a shake of his head.

"I'd really rather you sat next to one another." Something about the way he wasn't quite aiming a pump action flamethrower at them made them decide to sit side by side after that.

"Right," Tom said when everyone was settled in. "You've heard my offer. It's simple, it's fair and best of all, nobody gets dead. And we all know that the unusual nature of this arrangement will make me a damn sight more marketable than some hot-tempered Irish girl who'll likely bite off the first piece of meat gets put in her mouth. "

"You'll come willingly?" The female agent asked. You'll submit to the entire orientation process?"

Tom had to hand it to the bastards. Leave it to the government to come up with an inoffensive sounding euphemism for two weeks of strip searches, medical exams and training in the care and servicing of potential future "employers" that stopped just short - at least in the case of confirmed heteros like Tom - of anal penetration. There was more money in a male domestic with a virgin asshole and Tom knew the statistics. Better than eighty percent of all males who had their contracts bought for domestic or "entertainment service" - another darling little euphemism there - would wind up spending the next seven years spreading themselves for the enjoyment of other men whether they wanted to or not. Still, better him than either of his girls.

"You swap out Nick's name for mine, I'll blow you right here." He pointed to the coffee table in front of them. "Business card there is for my lawyer. Have the changes made, fax it to him and I'll come along quietly soon as I get confirmation.

A quick call was made then. Explanations were passed up and down the chain of command. Tom briefly took the phone and explained that yes, he was willing to take Nicki's place and that yes he was equally willing to kill a whole lot of people if he wasn't allowed to do so, starting with the two on his couch. Mark and his partner assured their superiors that they believed his sincerity on both counts. A few minutes after that conversation Tom's phone rang.

"It's me." His lawyer friend Rick said. "It's done. Congratulations you idiot, you won."

Tom nodded. "Right. Call the lads then. I won't have the twins here for what comes next."

To the collectors he said "There'll be a van coming round in a minute. Friends of mine here to pick up Nick and Ang'. Once they're clear we can settle up."

Not long after there was a knock on the door. It was Ted and Niles, two of Tom's friends. Their expressions were grim and they glared death at the two collectors. Tom may have been every bit as bad as he claimed once but he'd only ever been a friend to them. Tom tossed them the keys to Nicki's restraints.

"She's in her room. Get them both outta here quick." He could feel his control slipping. His throat felt tight and he could feel his eyes filling up. Once he'd made up his mind about this road he'd been past fear. Whatever happened would happen and being scared would just make it worse. Better to just roll with it. Saying goodbye to his girls, his beautiful twin angels, that was the real knife in the guts.

Ted and Niles came out with the twins. They were both crying openly. Tom held off as best he could. He wasn't some macho thug too hard to show his feelings to his women but he'd be damned if he gave the bastards waiting to take him the satisfaction.

His arms went around them, first Angie then Nick. "It's ok." He said to Angie. "Just a bump in the road, love. And don't be blaming Nick. This is me doing this. No one else. Stick together, always."

He took a chain from around his neck. His wedding rings were on it. He'd taken them off his hand earlier, not wanting them damaged if it came to a fight but still wanting them close if it did. "I'll be back for these."

They kissed and he turned to Nicki.

The lads had had the good sense to keep her cuffed. No telling what his little midnight haired psychopath would do if she could get free. "I forgive you, babe." He whispered into her hair. "Envelope in the gun case, under the padding, addressed to you both. Read it when you get back. Ta' me' mo'r sin ngra' leat. " He hugged her one last time and didn't give a damn by then about the tears.

The door closed with a click and Tom faced his captors. "Five minutes." He said.

While they waited Tom turned to his computer. Like a lot of people he had an online journal. He'd been up late the night before composing a pair of final entries, not sure which one would be needed. A few clicks and the following lines went out onto the web.

"It's done. I'm going away for a while. If you were ever my friend at all, look after my girls. Nick, Ang', this isn't forever. I'll be home before you know it. Tom."

"It's time, Mr. Donovan." The woman said at last.

Tom sighed. Fair enough. A deal was a deal and whatever happened next it was worth it. "You don't mind if I secure my weapons myself?"

She shook her head. "Not at all."

"Thanks. Mighty decent of you. Never did get your name."

"I'm Agent Comisky. You can call me that or Mistress Beth."

He started with the axe. He'd designed the breakaway sheath himself, inspired by the holsters cops used for their ASP batons. The Japanese steel and hardwood-handled weapon went onto a rack on the living room wall. Scuffs in the paint showed where the head had bumped the wall over the years.

The shotgun and pistols - both agents looked surprised when he pulled a backup from a kidney holster - went into locked cases, the keys to the locks going in with the guns. The girls had their own copies. Tom had no intention of leaving them out where strangers could get them. He set his knives, one mounted on his combat harness, another at his belt and a third in his right boot, on his dresser. The gloves, weapons in their own right from the steel shot sewn into the knuckles went beside them.

"You need to strip now, Tom." Mistress Beth told him when the last of the gear was put aside.

Tom had been expecting the order. He got undressed, folding his clothes neatly and piling them on his bed.

"Quit dragging your feet!" Mark snapped. "Just leave it for your bitches to pick up!"

Tom's head snapped around at that and he almost went for the man. Not once in ten years had a remark like that ended well for the speaker. Mistress Beth got between them, one hand up in a warding gesture, the other on her tazer.

"Easy, Tom," she cautioned. "it's just words." Nice doggy, where's a bigger stick for me to bust you in the head with if I need to?

Tom looked at her and pushed the anger aside. He turned to Mistress Beth. Something about the title just made it easier for him to go along with her instructions. "What now, Mistress?"

"We need to do a cavity search and check your hair to make sure you aren't smuggling anything inside you. You've been to County before? It's just like that."

Tom held still while they checked his mouth and ears and ran fingers through his hair once it was taken out of the ponytail. It smarted a little when the latex of their gloves caught a few hairs, but he'd been through lots worse.

"You're doing just fine." Mistress Beth said gently. "Now, bend over and spread yourself, nice and wide. I'm afraid you'll have to wear the clothes we brought for Nicollete but the only real difference between male and female transport garb is the size."

Tom widened his stance, bent over until his chest was parallel to the floor.

"Reach back, Tom." Beth told him "We're almost done."

Tom tried not to let it bother him but he could still feel his face burning with shame as he reached behind himself and spread his cheeks. Without warning, Agent Mark shoved first one, then two unlubricated fingers up inside his anus.

"Not so tough without all the hardware, are you, faggot?" he asked when Tom grunted at the discomfort. "You like this?" he jammed his fingers in deeper, digging around. "Bet that little piece we were supposed to collect would've. Bet she'd have liked it even better when I gave her something else back at the center." He gave one last push and pulled out.

Some people just don't know when to shut up. Beth had been expecting Tom's response to her partner's smart mouth but he still got past her. The second Mark's fingers were out of him, Tom spun and went for the prick. The two men hit the floor, grappling and striking. Tom got past the bastard's guard; put an elbow into his eye that started closing it immediately. Mark went for his tazer but a strike to the base of the thumb made him drop it. Tom got a hand of his own onto his opponent's belt and Mark learned what the loudest sound in the world is. It is the sound of someone taking the safety off of a pistol jammed up under your jaw when they have nothing to lose by pulling the trigger.

"You really need to mind your fuckin' mouth, pal." Tom told him.

The metallic click from behind him came as no surprise. "Tom," he knew that calm, detached tone. It was the same one he used when giving someone who was right on the brink with him one final chance to avoid a trip to the ER "Nicki isn't in the clear yet. If you shoot Agent French I will open fire. Angie will be a widow, and Nicki will go into service despite everything you've done. Is that really what you want?"

She was right. The last third of his life had been dedicated to one thing; the well being of his girls. The second or two of satisfaction he'd enjoy from blowing French's head off before dying himself didn't come close to balancing out the harm he'd do the twins.

Tom safed the pistol and backed off from Agent French, holding the gun out to his side by two fingers. He set the weapon down carefully on the carpet and knelt with his hands behind his head. French came to his feet, his face a mask of bruising and anger. He looked like the only thing keeping him from putting a bullet in Tom's head was the value if his contract. Mistress Beth took control of Tom and Tom could feel the tension in the room drop.

"Good boy, Tom." She said to him. He bristled at that. As if he were some sort of dog. Still it was something he'd better get used to. "You did the right thing. But we can't let something like that go unanswered. Nice and easy, on your feet, hands at the small of your back."

When he complied she took a grip on his hair at the base of his skull and another on his wrists. She nodded to her partner. "His stomach. Don't touch his face or his groin. And keep away from the ribs. We need him healthy."

Tom was no stranger to violence. He'd been fighting his whole life and had long since learned how to take a punch. On top of that he was an extremely fit man with a very physical job and a rigorous daily workout routine. He didn't have the kind of ultra-cut abs you saw on a lot of male models or obsessive-compulsive gym-bunnies but his muscles down there were hard and strong. Still, when French hauled off on him he felt it. The bastard was, in Tom's opinion, an arrogant punk but he knew how to make a blow hurt.

The first shot took him under the ribs, paralyzing his diaphragm, making it impossible to breath. Tom gasped and tried to double over, rolling with the hit but Beth held him immobile.

"Two more." She said.

French grinned and stepped in close. The second punch landed right below the first. Pain exploded through him and he tasted vomit. He resisted the urge to spit it in Mark's face, swallowed instead, just in time for the final hit to land over his left kidney. French pulled back for a fourth strike but Mistress called him off.

"That enough!" She lowered Tom to the floor. "Mark, wait outside. I'll finish up in here."

"The regs say..."

"Out!"

Mark glared at them both. He took a handful of Tom's hair, pulling his head back. "I'll be right out in the hall, boy. Please give me an excuse to come back in." He left then, slamming the door behind him.

Beth gave Tom a moment to recover. "You alright?" she asked when he got to his feet.

He coughed, winced at the soreness. "Yeah." He said hoarsely. "I've had worse. What's next?"

"Now you pack up a few things, we dress and restrain you and we're off." She pulled a small nylon pack from her kit. "Fill this. No weapons, no non-prescription meds, no books or writing materials other than those of a religious nature. Jewelry is permitted but not recommended."

Packing didn't take long. Five pair of underwear, five pair of socks, his favorite pair of jeans, two of his best dress shirts and one pair of dress slacks went into the bag. The shirt he'd been wearing when Beth and Mark arrived was sold in packs of three. All three got packed along with one of the three solid black street kilts the girls had bought him. He swapped out the punch-dagger buckle on the Sam Brown belt for a more traditional one. Boots, polish, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, conditioner and hairbrush. He would have packed the ankle length moccasins he liked to wear on runs sometimes but Beth said he could wear those. So instead he tossed in a pair of sweats he occasionally wore either for workouts or to sleep in.

Beth handed him his clothes next. It was a simple two piece garment, blaze orange with the letters BOI in big black letters on the front and back of the top and down the outside of each pant leg. He'd worn something similar a couple times while a guest of the local authorities. The clothes were at least two sizes two small in pretty much every dimension. The top cut him under the armpits and the pants rode up so high he might as well have been wearing capris.

"Interesting tattoo." Comisky said, smiling as he dressed.

"Thanks. Seemed appropriate at the time." The tattoo in question was a simple red button about three fingers width below his right collar bone. Underneath in simple block letters were the words "Ring Bell For Service."

"And what kind of service would I get if I rang?" she asked.

Tom gave her an appraising look. "You? Anything you like. Your partner? More of what he already got. No offense, but he's a fuckin' punk. Probably gonna get somebody killed with his bullshit one day."

"You shouldn't antagonize him, you know. He doesn't just do field work. He's a trainer at the center too. After today I'd be surprised if he didn't take a special interest in you."

Tom shrugged. Trash like French had never impressed him. They thought they were predators, hard men because they smacked around people who couldn't fight back. Bring an axe to a gunfight sometime, asshole. Take one in the chest from close enough that the muzzle flash ignites your shirt and redecorate your living room with the shooter. Then survive to tattoo a dumb joke over the entry scar. Then maybe Tom'd be impressed. Maybe.

"Doesn't change anything. A punk with power is still a punk."

She didn't say anything to that. The truth was she was inclined to agree. French had the wrong mentality for the job. One of these days Tom's prediction would probably come true. She just hoped she didn't get hurt in the process or, worse, have to ghost some innocent because of his nonsense.

Beth held up a set of restraints. "I need to put these on you."

Tom looked them over. The chains and shackles were pretty standard gear. Waist chain, wrist cuffs and ankle iron. A collar and leash completed the rig. "On the first date?" he asked grinning. "Kinky."

Beth laughed at that. "Oh this is nothing. Wait 'til the wedding night."

"I'm all a-quiver." Tom held out his hands. "Shall we?"

Beth put Tom into the binders without incident. With his wrists locked to his waist and his stride hobbled by the ankle cuffs and chain, she secured the collar around his neck before attaching the leash and running it down and around the foot-chain.

"I'll be right behind you in case you start to go down." She said. "Mark will have you by the arm and we'll both help you into the van. If you try to run I'll pull your feet out from under you and we'll use more extensive methods. They're less comfortable and I don't recommend the experience."

Tom went along passively. As they approached the door he almost stopped for a second. This had been his home for the last five years. He couldn't remember the last time he'd left here without knowing he would be back with his girls again inside of a few hours. The anger, helplessness and fear flooded him. He took a deep breath, shoved it aside and kept walking. At his request, Mistress Beth locked up behind them and put his keys in through the mail slot.

The white van parked in front of the street could have been one of hundreds cruising the city streets. They were kept intentionally nondescript in order to help thwart interference from the more militant members of the abolitionist movement. The side door was open. A small step-stool had been placed in front of it. As promised, Beth and Mark helped him up and in. Beth put her hand between the top of his head and the door jam, sat him down on the unpadded seat, then closed the door with a bang. Tom jumped at the noise. The chain between Toms feet was secured to a bolt in the floor, the one at his waist to another in the wall of the van and a seatbelt was drawn across his chest and lap. Didn't want to damage the merchandise apparently. The van started with a faint vibration and pulled out, taking Tom to his new life.