Chapter 1: The Camping Trip
Billy Jr. threw his pack into the bed of his pickup, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows across the Benson Ranch. His three best friends were already loading their gear—rifles in cases, camping equipment, enough snacks to last the weekend.
"First solo trip!" Ryan Mattern said, grinning as he tossed his pack in. "About damn time."
"Took long enough to all get our licenses," Daniel Rodriguez added.
Billy Renzo laughed. "Remember when they made us take the camping test with Pops supervising? Like we haven't been doing this since we were twelve."
"Different now that you can drive yourselves," Josh called from the porch, Rebecca beside him with her arms crossed. "You boys got everything?"
"Yes, Dad," Billy Jr. called back.
"Check in tomorrow morning. I mean it."
"Yes, ma'am," Billy Jr. said to Rebecca.
As they were doing final checks, Pops appeared from the barn, moving with surprising stealth for a 76-year-old. He carried a case of Lone Star in one hand and a wooden box in the other.
"Pops, what—" Billy Jr. started.
"Shut it," Pops growled, glancing back at the porch where the women stood. He slid the beer case under a tarp in the truck bed, then handed Billy Jr. the box. "Cubans. Don't tell your grandmother or your mother or any of them hens. And don't smoke 'em all at once, you little shits."
Billy Renzo's eyes go wide. "Pops, you're a legend."
"Damn right I am. Now get out of here before they see."
The four boys climbed in the truck, trying not to laugh. As they pulled away, Billy Jr. caught Pops giving them a subtle salute, cigar already wedged in the corner of his mouth.
The campsite was perfect—near the creek, good tree cover, far enough out that nobody would bother them. They had the tents up in fifteen minutes, fire going in twenty.
"To Pops," Billy Renzo said as the sun set, raising one of the smuggled beers.
"To Pops!" they echoed.
They cooked steaks over the fire, cracked jokes, and each tried one of the cigars. Daniel nearly coughed up a lung, which had the rest of them howling.
"How does Pops smoke these all day?" Daniel wheezed.
"Practice," Billy Jr. said. "Lots and lots of practice."
Ryan did an impression of Pops that had them dying—the gravelly voice, the permanent scowl, the creative profanity. "You little shits better not waste my cigars! Do you know what I had to do to get these? Back in 'Nam—"
"Everything goes back to 'Nam!" they all shouted together.
By eleven, they were yawning. They kicked out the fire, hung their packs from a tree, and split into their tents—Billy Jr. and Ryan in one, Billy Renzo and Daniel in the other.
"Night, losers," Billy Renzo called.
Billy Jr. settled into his sleeping bag, phone still in his back pocket like always. Through the tent he could see a million stars. This was freedom. No adults, no rules, just four best friends in the middle of nowhere.
He closed his eyes.
Billy Jr. didn't know what woke him.
One second he was asleep, the next rough hands were yanking him from his sleeping bag. He tried to yell but something was shoved in his mouth before he could make a sound. Next to him, Ryan thrashed as dark figures in ski masks hauled him up.
His arms were wrenched behind his back. Zip ties bit into his wrists. Tape wrapped around his head, sealing in the gag.
From the other tent—Daniel shouting, cut off abruptly.
"Get them in the truck. Fast."
There were three, maybe four men. Big. Professional. Billy Jr. fought but it was useless. They dragged all four boys to a panel van, doors open, lights off. Shoved them inside. The doors slammed.
The van was moving.
The drive felt endless. Billy Jr.'s heart hammered. His wrists ached. In the darkness, he heard his friends breathing hard through their noses.
When the van finally stopped, they were hauled out into the night. Billy Jr. caught a glimpse of an old barn, isolated, no lights anywhere. Even in the darkness, he could make out his friends—all four of them in their white t-shirts and jeans, exactly what they'd worn to bed.
They were dragged inside.
Four wooden support beams stood in a row. The men grabbed Billy Renzo first, forcing him against the far left post. They cut his zip ties. Billy Jr. watched, helpless, hands still bound behind his back as two masked men began wrapping rope around Billy Renzo's wrists behind the beam.
No. God, no. This can't be happening.
Billy Renzo was fighting, trying to twist away, but they were too strong. Rope around his upper arms, cinching him tight to the post. Around his lower arms. Around his neck—not choking, but enough to keep his head still.
We're really tied up. They're really doing this.
Daniel was next, shoved against the second post. His zip ties cut away, then immediately replaced with rope. Billy Jr.'s mind raced. They had to get out of this. Had to fight. Had to do something. But with his hands bound and a gag shoved in his mouth, what could he do?
More rope around Daniel's wrists. Upper arms. Lower arms. Neck. The men worked with practiced efficiency, like they'd done this before. Daniel's white t-shirt was already dark with sweat under the arms.
Think. Think. My phone. It's still in my back pocket. They didn't check.
Ryan was third. They forced him against the beam and Billy Jr. watched the same process—wrists, upper arms, lower arms, neck. Ryan's breathing was coming fast through his nose, his chest heaving. Then ankles. Then thighs. Completely immobilized.
Three of his best friends, tied to posts in a row.
This is real. This is actually happening.
The barn was hot, stuffy. No ventilation. Billy Jr. could feel sweat starting to form on his own forehead, trickling down his back under his white t-shirt.
One of the men stepped in front of Billy Jr. and cut his zip ties. For a split second, Billy Jr. thought about running, fighting, but there were four of them and they were huge.
"Hands behind your head. Now."
Billy Jr.'s arms ached as he raised them, lacing his fingers behind his head. The position made him feel exposed, vulnerable. He stood there, the last one, watching his three best friends bound to posts, all of them gagged and starting to sweat in the heat.
"Get the first photos," one man said.
Camera clicks. Multiple shots. Billy Jr. stood with his hands behind his head while they photographed all four of them—three tied, one waiting. The flash went off several times.
They're going to ransom us. Send these to our families.
"Alright, finish him."
Rough hands grabbed Billy Jr.'s arms and forced him against the fourth post on the far right. His hands were yanked down behind the beam. Rope wrapped around his wrists, pulled tight. He tried to pull away but strong hands gripped his shoulders, slamming him back.
Dad. Mom. Someone has to realize we're gone. Someone has to—
Rope around his upper arms, biting into his skin through the thin cotton. Around his lower arms. He felt the rope go around his neck and panic spiked—he couldn't breathe, couldn't—no, wait, they left just enough slack. Just enough.
My phone. They haven't found my phone.
His ankles next. Rope wrapped multiple times, binding them to the post. Then his thighs. He couldn't move anything. Couldn't take a step, couldn't turn, couldn't lower his arms. The ropes held him perfectly upright, perfectly still.
Now all four of them were bound. White t-shirts already showing sweat stains in the suffocating heat of the barn.
"Good," one man said, stepping back. "Now the tape and blindfolds."
They moved down the line. Billy Jr. felt hands on his face. Tape pressed over his already-gagged mouth, layer after layer. Then tape over his eyes—the world went dark. Finally a thick cloth blindfold wrapped around his head and tied behind the post.
Complete darkness.
He heard the others getting the same treatment. Billy Renzo making muffled sounds of protest. Ryan's breathing getting faster. Daniel trying to say something through his gag.
Then more camera clicks.
"Get individual shots now that they're all secured."
The click was right in front of Billy Jr.'s face. Then moving down the line. Click. Click. Click.
"Now all four together."
More clicks.
"Perfect. That'll get us paid."
Ransom.
"When do we send them?"
"Tomorrow morning. Let the families panic overnight. Let these kids sweat it out."
Footsteps retreating. A door closing. An engine starting outside, then fading.
Silence.
Billy Jr. stood in complete darkness, every muscle in his body tense against the ropes. The barn was stifling. Sweat ran down his temples, soaked the back of his neck, made his white t-shirt cling to his chest and back. His wrists ached where the rope bit in. His neck was stiff, unable to move more than a fraction of an inch.
The phone. His phone was still there, pressed against his back pocket. But his hands were tied behind the post, rope wrapped around his wrists, upper arms, lower arms. Fingers nowhere near his pockets.
To his left, he heard his friends breathing hard. Someone—Billy Renzo, maybe—was testing his bonds, trying to move.
We have to get out of this. We have to.
But right now, there was nothing to do but stand there in the heat and the darkness and wait.
Back at the ranch, nobody even knew they were missing yet.
Chapter 2: The Long Night
Time stopped meaning anything in the darkness.
Billy Jr. didn't know if he'd been standing there for an hour or three. His legs ached from being forced to stay perfectly upright. The rope around his neck kept him from slumping forward, and the bindings on his thighs and ankles made it impossible to shift his weight.
Sweat soaked through his white t-shirt, running down his back, pooling at his waistband. The barn was like an oven—no windows, no ventilation, just stale hot air that made breathing through his nose a labor.
To his left, he heard Billy Renzo making muffled sounds. Trying to say something through the gag and layers of tape. Billy Jr. tried to respond but all that came out was "Mmph."
We need to communicate. Need to figure this out.
Ryan was breathing fast—too fast. Billy Jr. could hear the panic in it. Then a rhythmic sound, like Ryan was pulling against the ropes, testing them. The creak of wood as the post shifted slightly.
Good. Keep trying.
Billy Jr. tested his own bonds. He pulled his wrists apart behind the post but the rope didn't give even a millimeter. He tried twisting his hands, working his fingers, but they'd tied him too well. His upper arms were cinched so tight to the beam that he couldn't get any leverage.
The rope around his neck was the worst. Every time he moved, it pressed against his throat—not choking, but a constant reminder that he couldn't lower his head, couldn't look down, couldn't do anything but stand there and stare into the blindfold.
The phone. Focus on the phone.
It was still there in his back pocket. He could feel it pressed against him. But his hands were tied at the wrists, then his arms were bound at two more points—upper and lower. Even if he could somehow work his wrists free, the other ropes would keep his hands from reaching down.
Think. There has to be a way.
From further down the line, Daniel made a sound—half groan, half whimper. Billy Jr.'s chest tightened. Daniel was the smallest of the four of them. This had to be hell on him.
Billy Renzo was still working his bonds. Billy Jr. could hear him grunting with effort, the sound of rope straining. That was Renzo—stubborn as a mule. If anyone could muscle their way out of this, it would be him.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Billy Jr. couldn't tell.
His shoulders screamed from being held in the same position. His wrists burned where the rope rubbed. His calves cramped from standing motionless. The tape over his mouth made his jaw ache, and the gag shoved inside made his throat dry.
Water. God, I'd kill for water.
He tried to think about anything else. Tried to picture the ranch. His dad and mom. Pops sitting on the porch with his cigar. The frat house with Billy and Jake arguing about whose turn it was to clean. Anna's smile when he'd kissed her goodbye before the trip.
They're going to be looking for us. Dad said to check in tomorrow morning. When we don't, they'll know something's wrong.
But would they know where to look? The campsite was forty minutes out. And they'd been driven for what felt like forever in that van. They could be anywhere.
The tech. The tracking system. My phone has GPS.
Hope flickered. If they could just get to it. If he could just reach it somehow, activate the emergency signal—
A sound cut through the darkness. Not from one of the boys. From outside.
Footsteps.
Billy Jr. froze, every muscle tensing. A door opened. Multiple sets of boots on the barn floor.
"Check them," a voice said. The same voice from before. "Make sure they're still secure."
Hands on Billy Jr.'s ropes, testing the knots. Pulling at the bindings on his wrists, his arms, his neck. He felt someone tug the blindfold, making sure it was tight.
"This one's sweating like a pig," another voice said with a laugh. Rough fingers touched Billy Jr.'s soaked t-shirt. "They all are. Good. Let 'em suffer."
"Water?" a third voice asked.
"Not yet. Let them get thirsty first. Makes them more cooperative."
The hands moved away. Billy Jr. heard them checking the others down the line. Ryan made a muffled protest. Someone laughed.
"Save your energy, kid. You're gonna be here a while."
The footsteps retreated. Door closed. Silence again.
Billy Jr.'s heart was hammering. A while. How long was a while? Hours? Days?
No. We're not staying here days. We're getting out.
He started working his wrists again, pulling, twisting, ignoring the burn. The rope was tight but it was just rope. There had to be some give. There had to be.
Time crawled.
Billy Jr.'s legs trembled from exhaustion. His vision—what little filtered through the layers of tape and blindfold—went spotty. He felt dizzy, lightheaded. The heat was unbearable. His throat was so dry it hurt.
Stay awake. Stay focused.
But his body had other ideas. The adrenaline that had kept him sharp was fading, replaced by crushing fatigue. He'd been standing for hours. No food, no water, no rest.
His knees buckled.
The ropes caught him, held him upright. The one around his neck pulled tight and he jerked back, gasping through his nose. His legs steadied beneath him again.
Can't pass out. Can't.
But exhaustion was winning. He heard Daniel make a choking sound—probably the same thing, his legs giving out, the neck rope catching him. Billy Jr. wanted to call out to him, tell him to hang on, but he couldn't make words through the gag.
We're going to get through this. Dad's coming. Sheriff Wade's coming. They're going to find us.
He clung to that thought like a lifeline.
Somewhere in the darkness and the heat and the pain, Billy Jr. felt himself slipping. Not unconscious, exactly, but somewhere else. His mind retreating to protect itself.
He thought about the camping trip. How good those steaks had tasted. How hard they'd laughed at Ryan's impression of Pops. How free they'd felt sitting around that fire.
We're supposed to be home tomorrow. Sunday dinner. Mom's making her pot roast.
His stomach twisted with hunger and homesickness.
Time kept crawling.
Billy Renzo was still at it—Billy Jr. could hear him periodically testing his bonds, making frustrated sounds. That guy never quit. Billy Jr. tried to summon the same energy, pulling at his wrists again, but his arms felt like lead.
Just hold on. Morning's coming. They said they'd send the ransom demands in the morning.
And then what? Would their families pay? Would these guys let them go?
They took photos of our faces. They know who we are. That means...
Billy Jr. pushed the thought away. Couldn't go there. Had to stay positive.
Another eternity passed.
Then, finally—Billy Jr. wasn't sure if he imagined it or not—a hint of light around the edges of his blindfold. Not much. Just the faintest suggestion that outside, somewhere, the sun was rising.
Morning.
Day two. Someone knows we're missing by now. They have to.
His whole body ached. His white t-shirt was plastered to his skin. His lips were cracked under the tape. His legs shook with every breath.
But he was still standing. They all were.
The door opened again. More footsteps.
"Time to make the call," someone said. "Let's see how much these ranch families are worth."
Chapter 3: Morning Breakfast
Sunday morning at the Benson Ranch meant one thing: breakfast for an army.
The dining table was packed—Tom and Sarah Benson at the heads, Pops in his usual spot with a cigar already going despite Rebecca's glare. Billy, Jake, and Celab were still half-asleep, nursing coffee. Josh sat next to Rebecca, who kept checking her phone.
Sheriff Wade Nelson had brought Mary, along with Wilson and Ryan—the deputy brothers who couldn't resist free food. The Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes had all shown up too, turning breakfast into the usual Sunday consortium gathering.
"Those boys better bring back at least two deer," Mr. Renzo said, loading his plate with eggs. "Billy's been bragging about his shot for weeks."
"My money's on Daniel," Mr. Rodriguez countered. "Kid's got patience. Doesn't rush it."
"Patience, hell," Pops growled around his cigar. "It's about knowing when to pull the goddamn trigger. Billy Jr.'s got the instinct. That boy can track better than half the men in this room."
"Language, Pops," Sarah said automatically.
"I'm seventy-six years old. I'll say what I damn well please."
Jake grinned. "I bet they don't bring back anything. I bet they spent the whole night drinking the beer you snuck them and couldn't hit the broad side of a barn this morning."
Pops' eyes narrowed. "How the hell do you know about the beer?"
"Because we've all lived with you for decades," Billy said. "You think we don't know your moves?"
Everyone laughed.
"What about the cigars?" Celab asked innocently.
Pops pointed his cigar at him. "You shut your mouth, you little shit."
More laughter. Mary Nelson shook her head. "Those boys are sixteen. You gave sixteen-year-olds cigars?"
"Cuban cigars," Wilson added helpfully.
"They're practically men," Pops said defensively. "Got their licenses, don't they? Going out on their own? When I was sixteen I was—"
"—in Vietnam, we know," Jake, Billy, and Celab said in unison.
"Damn right I was."
Wade chuckled. "Well, cigars or not, they better check in soon. Rebecca's been watching the clock for the last hour."
Rebecca looked up from her phone. "Josh told them to call by nine. It's eight-forty-five."
"They're probably still packing up camp," Josh said. "Give 'em time."
"I'm giving them exactly fifteen minutes," Rebecca said.
Pops waved his hand dismissively. "Those boys are fine. Probably bagged a ten-point buck and are arguing about who gets credit."
"My money's on Ryan Mattern," Mr. Mattern said. "That kid could out-shoot any of them."
"Bullshit," Mr. Renzo shot back. "Billy Renzo's been hunting since he was twelve."
"So has mine."
"Twenty bucks says Billy Jr. brings home the biggest kill," Josh said.
"You're on," Mr. Mattern replied.
Bets started flying around the table. Tom shook his head. "You people are ridiculous."
"Come on, Tom, where's your money?" Wade asked.
"I'm staying out of it."
Pops snorted. "Coward."
At eight-fifty, Pops pushed back from the table. "Alright, enough of this horseshit. Let me radio the boys and we'll settle this right now."
He walked over to the command center—the room next to the frat house where Billy Jr. and the boys had set up all their equipment. Grabbed the radio handset.
"Billy Jr., you copy? This is Pops. Over."
Silence.
"Billy Jr., come in. Over."
Nothing.
Pops frowned. "Probably out of range. Or the little shit turned it off."
He came back to the table. "No answer. They'll call when they're in the truck."
Rebecca checked her phone again. "Eight-fifty-five."
"Woman, relax," Pops said. "They're fine."
The conversation moved on—talk of cattle prices, consortium business, complaints about the weather. Celab was telling a story about nearly driving the truck into a ditch when his phone buzzed.
Then Mr. Renzo's phone.
Then Mr. Mattern's.
Then Mr. Rodriguez's.
All four fathers looked at their screens at the same time.
The table went quiet.
"What the hell..." Mr. Renzo's face went white.
Josh stood up. "What? What is it?"
Mr. Renzo turned his phone around. On the screen was a photo—Billy Renzo tied to a wooden post, white t-shirt soaked with sweat, rope around his wrists, arms, neck, ankles. Tape over his mouth. Blindfolded.
Below the photo: $1,000,000. Instructions to follow. You have 48 hours.
"Jesus Christ," Wade breathed.
Mr. Mattern's hands shook as he held up his phone. Ryan Mattern, same position. Same ropes. Same message.
Mr. Rodriguez showed his—Daniel, bound and gagged.
Josh grabbed Mr. Renzo's phone, scrolling. There was another photo. All four boys in a row. Three tied to posts, Billy Jr. standing with his hands behind his head, waiting his turn.
And a final photo—all four fully restrained, blindfolded, helpless.
Rebecca made a sound like she'd been punched.
"No," she whispered. "No, no, no—"
Josh was already moving, grabbing his own phone. Sheriff Wade was on his feet, radio in hand. Tom was shouting something. Pops had gone completely still, staring at the photo, his cigar forgotten in his hand.
Billy, Jake, and Celab crowded around, looking at the screens.
"Are those—"
"They're tied up—"
"Who the fuck—"
Sarah started crying. Mary pulled Rebecca into a hug as Rebecca's legs gave out.
Wade's voice cut through the chaos. "Everyone SHUT UP. Right now."
The room went silent.
Wade looked at the four fathers. "Forward those photos to me. All of them. Tom, call the FBI. Josh, get me everything those boys had with them—phones, equipment, trackers, anything. If they had GPS on them, I want it found. NOW."
Everyone exploded into motion.
Pops finally moved, dropping his cigar into an ashtray. His face was stone. When he spoke, his voice was cold and flat—the voice of a man who'd seen combat.
"Find my great-grandsons. I don't care what it takes. Find them."
Chapter 4: Comedy of Errors
The command center looked like mission control—monitors, tablets, drone controllers, the encrypted radio system, satellite phones lined up on chargers. Everything the Wiz Kids had built over the last year.
And none of the adults had a clue how to use any of it.
"How do you turn this thing on?" Tom stared at the main console, pressing buttons randomly.
"There's got to be a power switch," Wade said, leaning over his shoulder.
"I'm looking for a goddamn power switch!"
Billy grabbed one of the tablets. "This one's locked. Password protected."
"Try his birthday," Josh said.
Billy tried. "Nope."
"Try the ranch name."
"Still no."
"Motherfu—" Pops started.
"Not now, Pops!" Sarah snapped.
Jake was pulling GPS tracking software up on one of the computers. "Okay, I got something. There's... wait, how do I zoom in?"
"Click the map," Celab said.
"I am clicking the map!"
"Not there, the—never mind, I'll do it." Celab shoved Jake aside and started navigating. "Okay, I see... six signals? No, wait, eighteen?"
"Eighteen?" Wade pushed in. "Which one is Billy Jr.?"
"I don't know! They're not labeled!"
"What do you mean they're not labeled?!"
"The kids set this up! They knew which was which!"
In the dining room, Rebecca was sobbing into Mary's shoulder. Sarah had her phone pressed to her ear, trying to get through to the FBI. Mrs. Renzo, Mrs. Mattern, and Mrs. Rodriguez were all crying, hugging each other.
Mr. Renzo burst into the command center. "What about the drones? Can we use those to search?"
"The drones," Tom said. "Yes. Where are the drones?"
"Storage room," Josh said. "I'll get them."
Five minutes later, they had four of the six drones out on the front lawn. The other two had dead batteries.
"Okay," Wilson said, picking up a controller. "How hard can this be?"
"You ever fly one before?" Ryan asked.
"How different can it be from a video game?"
Ryan grabbed another controller. "I'll take one too."
"Wait, don't we need to—" Wade started.
Too late. Wilson had powered up his drone. It lifted off the ground, wobbling.
"Okay, okay, I got it," Wilson said, tongue between his teeth in concentration.
Ryan's drone shot up like a rocket. "Whoa! Shit!"
"Don't crash it!"
"I'm trying!"
Wilson's drone drifted left. Ryan's veered right, then overcorrected back toward Wilson's.
"Look out!" Celab yelled.
"Which way do I—"
CRASH.
Both drones smacked into each other twenty feet up and tumbled to the ground in a tangle of rotors and carbon fiber.
"NO!" Josh ran over to the wreckage. "These cost three thousand dollars each!"
"I got it! I got it!" Wilson held up his hands defensively.
Jake punched the porch railing so hard it cracked. "FUCK!"
"Jake!" Rebecca called out weakly.
"We don't have time for this!" Jake wheeled around. "Those are our boys out there! Our BOYS!"
He punched the wall. His fist went through the drywall.
Inside, Pops was on the phone with the FBI field office. "What do you mean you can't send anyone until this afternoon? We have FOUR KIDNAPPED CHILDREN... No, I don't need to calm down, you need to get your asses out here... You listen to me you worthless piece of government shit—"
Wade grabbed the phone. "This is Sheriff Wade Nelson, Kings County. We need immediate assistance... Yes, sir, I understand you're short-staffed but... No, the photos just came in twenty minutes ago... Yes, they're demanding a million dollars... Right."
He hung up. "They're sending a team but it'll be three hours minimum."
"Three hours?!" Tom exploded. "In three hours those boys could be—"
He couldn't finish.
"We're not waiting," Mr. Renzo said. "We find them ourselves."
"With what?" Mr. Mattern gestured at the chaos. "We just crashed two drones, we can't figure out the tracking system, and none of us can even unlock their tablets!"
Billy was still trying passwords. "What else would they use? The consortium name? The date they set this up?"
"Try 'Pops,'" Jake said.
Billy tried. "No."
"Try 'Vietnam.'"
"Jake, that's not—" It worked. "Holy shit, it worked."
Everyone crowded around.
The tablet showed a map with multiple GPS signals. Billy zoomed in. "Okay, these six are here at the ranch—that's us. These signals are moving—probably vehicles on the highway. But these four..." He pointed. "These four haven't moved in hours. They're about sixty miles northeast."
"That's them," Josh said. "That has to be them."
Wade grabbed his radio. "Wilson, Ryan, get the patrol vehicles ready. We're moving out."
"Wait," Celab said. "We still have two drones that work. And I think I can figure out the thermal imaging if—"
Another crash from outside. They all ran to the window.
Mr. Rodriguez was standing with a drone controller, watching his drone sink into the pond.
"I just wanted to see if it would fly over water," he said weakly.
Pops threw his cigar on the ground. "Jesus H. Christ, we've got the Three Goddamn Stooges out here! Give me that controller before you idiots destroy everything those kids built!"
"Pops, you don't know how to—"
"I flew helicopters in 'Nam! I can fly a goddamn toy drone!"
Inside, Sarah was still on hold with the FBI. Mrs. Renzo was praying in Spanish. Rebecca had stopped crying and was just staring at the photo on Josh's phone—her son, tied up, blindfolded, terrified.
Billy looked at the GPS coordinates, then at the chaos around him.
"We're going to find them," he said to Josh. "We will."
But even as he said it, he wasn't sure he believed it.
Chapter 5: The Wiz Kids Strike Back
Billy Renzo had been working his wrists for hours.
Every muscle in his body screamed. Sweat poured down his face under the blindfold. His white t-shirt was soaked through. But he was stubborn as hell, and he'd felt the rope give just a fraction about an hour ago.
Come on. Come on.
He twisted his right hand, ignoring the burn. Pulled. Twisted again. The rope scraped skin but he didn't care.
His hand slipped through.
Yes!
With one hand free, he made quick work of the rest. The rope around his other wrist. His upper arms. Lower arms. The one around his neck—God, that felt good to get off. He ripped off the blindfold and tape, yanked out the gag, and gasped in a full breath of air.
The barn was dim but he could see. All four of them tied to posts. His buddies still blindfolded, still bound. Billy Jr. was the closest.
"Hang on," Renzo whispered hoarsely. His throat was raw.
He dropped to his knees, working the ropes on his ankles and thighs. Free. He stumbled to Billy Jr., legs shaky from standing so long.
"Junior. It's me. Hold still."
He worked the knots. The rope around Billy Jr.'s neck first, then the blindfold. Billy Jr. blinked in the dim light, eyes wide. Renzo pulled the tape off—as gently as he could—then the gag.
"Holy shit," Billy Jr. croaked. "How—"
"Tell you later. Stay quiet."
Renzo freed Billy Jr.'s arms and hands, then his legs. Billy Jr. nearly collapsed but caught himself on the post.
Together they moved to Ryan, then Daniel. All four boys standing free, rubbing their wrists, their throats raw, their t-shirts drenched with sweat.
"Where are they?" Daniel whispered.
"Don't know," Billy Jr. said. "But they'll be back."
Ryan spotted something in the corner—a pile of old lumber. Two-by-fours, about three feet long. "Guys."
They each grabbed one.
"When they come back," Billy Renzo said, positioning himself by the door, "we hit them fast and hard."
"Like Pops in Saigon," Ryan said with a grim smile.
They waited.
Five minutes. Ten.
Then—voices outside. Keys jingling.
The door opened. Two of the masked men walked in, not expecting anything.
"Time to—"
CRACK.
Billy Renzo swung his two-by-four like a baseball bat. Caught the first guy square in the head. He dropped like a sack of potatoes.
The second man reached for something—a weapon—but Ryan and Daniel were already on him. Two hits. He went down.
"Holy shit!" Billy Jr. laughed, adrenaline surging. "We did it!"
"Tie them up!" Renzo said. "Use their own rope!"
They worked fast, using the same techniques that had been used on them. Hands behind backs. Rope around wrists, arms, necks. They dragged both unconscious men to the posts and bound them there, tight.
"How's it feel, assholes?" Ryan muttered, cinching a knot.
Billy Jr. ran to the barn door, looked outside. "Guys! GUYS! Our truck!"
There it was—Billy Jr.'s pickup, parked next to the kidnappers' van.
"They brought our truck here?" Daniel said, following him out.
"Must've grabbed it from the campsite," Billy Renzo said. "Didn't want anyone finding it."
They ran to the truck bed. Everything was still there—their rifles in the cases, their packs, and under the tarp...
"Pops' beer!" Ryan pulled out the case of Lone Star. "And the cigars!"
Billy Jr. grabbed his rifle, checked it. Loaded. The others did the same. Four armed, pissed off teenagers standing in front of a barn where their kidnappers were tied up.
"We should call—" Daniel started.
"Wait," Billy Jr. said, a grin spreading across his face. He pulled out his phone. One bar of service. "Selfie first."
"You're crazy," Ryan said.
"Do it," Billy Renzo laughed.
They positioned themselves in front of the truck, rifles in hand. Billy Jr. held up a beer. Ryan had a cigar between his teeth. Daniel and Billy Renzo threw up peace signs, grinning like maniacs. Their white t-shirts were still soaked with sweat, their wrists raw and red, but they looked triumphant.
Billy Jr. held the phone out. "Say 'freedom!'"
"FREEDOM!"
Click.
He pulled up the group text with all four fathers. Attached the photo. Typed: We're good. Come get us. GPS is on.
Sent.
Back at the ranch, the command center was still chaos.
"I got the coordinates locked!" Celab shouted. "They're sixty-three miles northeast!"
"Get the vehicles!" Wade ordered. "Wilson, Ryan, you're with me. Josh, Tom, you follow in the—"
Four phones buzzed simultaneously.
Mr. Renzo grabbed his phone. Looked at the screen. His jaw dropped.
"What the—"
Mr. Mattern looked at his. Started laughing. "Are you KIDDING me?!"
Mr. Rodriguez showed his wife, who burst into tears—but happy tears this time.
Josh stared at his phone, then held it up. "LOOK AT THIS!"
The photo showed all four boys, armed, holding beers and cigars, grinning like they'd just won the lottery. Not a scratch on them except for the rope burns on their wrists.
"They got OUT?!" Billy said, looking over Josh's shoulder.
"They have GUNS," Jake added.
"And MY beer!" Pops roared, but he was laughing. "Those magnificent little shits!"
Rebecca grabbed the phone from Josh. "They're okay? They're really okay?"
"They're MORE than okay," Wade said, reading his own message. "They're probably sitting on the damn kidnappers right now."
"MOVE OUT!" Tom shouted. "Let's go get our boys!"
Everyone scrambled for vehicles. Pops grabbed his hat, still laughing. "I taught them well! I taught them WELL!"
Sarah was crying and laughing at the same time. "They escaped. They actually escaped."
"And took a selfie," Mary added, shaking her head. "Only these four."
The convoy of trucks and Wade's patrol vehicles tore out of the ranch, kicking up dust, racing toward the coordinates.
In the lead truck, Josh kept looking at the photo on his phone. Billy Jr. with that cocky grin, rifle slung over his shoulder, beer in hand.
"That's my boy," Josh said quietly. Then louder: "That's my BOY!"
Behind him, Pops was still cackling, cigar smoke trailing out the window. "Wait till I tell them about the time in Da Nang when we tied up a whole squad of—"
"We KNOW, Pops!" everyone in the truck shouted.
But they were all grinning.
The Wiz Kids had rescued themselves.
Chapter 6: Coming Home
The convoy screeched to a halt outside the barn in a cloud of dust. Josh was out of the truck before it fully stopped, running toward the boys.
Billy Jr. stood leaning against his pickup, beer still in hand, that cocky smirk on his face. "Took you long enough."
Josh grabbed him in a crushing hug. "Don't you ever—EVER—"
"Dad, can't breathe—"
The other fathers were doing the same with their sons. Mr. Renzo grabbed Billy Renzo by the shoulders, looking him over. "You okay? You hurt?"
"I'm fine, Dad. We're all fine."
Pops walked up to the four boys, looked them over—rope burns on their wrists, soaked t-shirts, exhausted but grinning—and nodded once. "Not bad, you little shits. Not bad at all."
"Learned from the best," Billy Jr. said.
Wade headed for the barn. "Where are they?"
"Inside. Tied up. Still out cold, mostly." Ryan gestured with his cigar.
Wade, Wilson, Ryan Nelson, and Tom went inside. A moment later, Wade's voice echoed out. "Jesus Christ. They really did tie them up."
Billy Jr. grabbed his phone, hit record, and walked into the barn. The two kidnappers were conscious now, bound to the posts exactly as the boys had been, looking dazed and furious.
Wade stood in front of them, badge out, trying to keep a straight face. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney—"
Billy Jr. was laughing so hard he could barely hold the phone steady. "This is the best thing I've ever seen."
"Kid, stop recording this," Wade said, but he was grinning.
"No way. This is going in the family archives."
"You have the right to have an attorney present during questioning," Wade continued as Billy Jr. cackled in the background.
Pops walked in, looked at the kidnappers tied to the posts, and burst out laughing. "How's it feel, assholes? Not so fun on that side, is it?"
"Pops, they have rights—" Wade started.
"I don't give a shit about their rights. They tied up my great-grandsons."
Twenty minutes later, after Wade had called for backup and the kidnappers were being loaded into patrol vehicles, Josh called home.
Rebecca answered on the first ring. "Are they okay?!"
"They're fine. Better than fine. They knocked out the kidnappers and tied them up themselves."
"They WHAT?!"
"I'll explain when we get back. But Rebecca—they're starving. Haven't eaten since yesterday."
"Oh my God. How long until you're home?"
"Hour and a half."
"We'll have food ready." He heard her yelling in the background. "Sarah! Mary! We need to cook! The boys are coming home and they're starving!"
The drive back was loud—everyone talking over each other, the boys recounting the escape, the fathers still processing that their sons had knocked out and tied up armed kidnappers.
"You hit him with a two-by-four?" Mr. Mattern asked his son.
"Right in the head," Ryan said proudly. "Dropped like a rock."
"That's my boy!"
Pops was in the back of the truck with Billy Jr., examining the rope burns on his wrists. "They tied you up good."
"Yeah. Took Renzo three hours to work his hands free."
"Three hours of working rope burns. That's grit." Pops clapped him on the shoulder. "You got grit, kid."
Billy Jr. grinned. "Still got my phone though. They never found it."
"Smart. Real smart."
When they pulled up to the ranch, the ladies rushed out—Sarah, Mary, Rebecca, Mrs. Renzo, Mrs. Mattern, Mrs. Rodriguez. More crying, more hugging, more checking for injuries.
"Let me see you," Rebecca said, holding Billy Jr.'s face in her hands. "Let me look at you."
"Mom, I'm fine—"
"Your wrists. Oh God, your wrists." She was crying again, looking at the rope burns.
"Mom, really, I'm okay."
Sarah hugged him too. "We were so scared. When we saw those photos—"
"I know. I'm sorry. But we're okay now."
"We made food," Mary said. "Lots of food. But first—showers. All of you. You smell terrible."
"We've been tied up in a barn for twelve hours," Billy Renzo pointed out.
"Shower. Then food."
As the boys headed inside, Billy Jr. stopped. "Wait. I need to check the command center."
"Junior, you need food and rest—" Josh started.
But Billy Jr. was already heading for the room next to the frat house, his three friends following. They opened the door.
And stopped.
Tablets were scattered everywhere. Wires unplugged. The main console had buttons pressed in random combinations. And through the window, they could see the wreckage on the lawn—two drones in pieces, one half-submerged in the pond.
"My drones," Billy Jr. said quietly, staring out the window.
"Disaster center is more like it," Billy Renzo said, looking around at the chaos.
Ryan walked to the window. "Did a tornado hit?"
Daniel picked up a controller. "This one's cracked. How do you crack a controller?"
Billy Jr. just stared at the destroyed drones. Three thousand dollars each. Plus the one in the pond. His chest tightened.
"Junior—" Josh said from the doorway.
"It's okay." Billy Jr. turned around, forcing a smile. "We can fix it. We'll—we can fix it."
"Come on," Jake said. "Let's get you guys fed first. Then we'll figure it out."
After showers, the four boys came down to find the dining table loaded with food. The ladies had outdone themselves in ninety minutes—pot roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, cornbread, three different casseroles, and two pies.
The four boys attacked it like they hadn't eaten in a week.
"Slow down or you'll choke," Rebecca said, but she was smiling, just happy to see her son eating.
"This is the best food I've ever had," Daniel mumbled through a mouthful of pot roast.
"You say that every Sunday," his mother laughed.
Halfway through the meal, Ray appeared in the doorway. He walked over to Billy Jr. and placed an envelope on the table.
"What's this?" Billy Jr. asked, mouth full.
"Open it."
Billy Jr. opened the envelope. Inside was a check. He stared at it. "Twenty-five thousand dollars?"
"From the consortium," Ray said. "Should cover the drones, any damaged equipment, and..." He grinned. "Four new drones. Upgraded models. Consider it compensation for what we destroyed trying to rescue you."
The table exploded.
"Are you serious?!" Ryan said.
"Four NEW drones?" Daniel added.
"Upgraded?" Billy Renzo was grinning.
"Wait, so we're getting MORE drones than we had before?" Billy Jr. looked at his dad.
Josh shrugged. "Consortium vote was unanimous. You boys saved yourselves. Least we can do is replace what we destroyed."
"What you destroyed FAILING to save us," Billy Renzo corrected, and everyone laughed.
"Hey, we tried," Billy protested.
"You crashed two drones into each other in under thirty seconds," Ryan said. "That takes skill."
"That was Wilson!"
"I panicked!" Wilson said defensively.
Billy Jr. pulled out his phone, grinning wide. "Speaking of which—you guys HAVE to see this." He pulled up the video and set it in the middle of the table so everyone could see.
Wade's voice came through the speaker: "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—"
And immediately, Billy Jr.'s cackling laughter in the background, barely able to hold the camera steady.
The whole table crowded around to watch.
On screen, the two kidnappers were tied to the posts, looking dazed and pissed off. Wade stood in front of them, trying to maintain his professional sheriff demeanor.
"You have the right to an attorney—"
"BAHAHAHA!" Billy Jr.'s voice through the phone. "This is—this is the BEST—"
"Kid, stop recording this," Wade's voice said, but you could hear him trying not to laugh.
"No way!" Video-Billy Jr. said between gasps.
Then Pops walked into frame.
"How's it feel, assholes?" Pops said to the kidnappers. "Not so fun on that side, is it?"
The table erupted in laughter.
"Pops, they have rights—" Wade said on the video.
"I don't give a shit about their rights!"
"POPS!" Everyone at the table shouted through their laughter.
Mary was shaking her head, laughing. "You actually said that to the sheriff?"
"Damn right I did," Pops said, taking a drink of his beer.
The video continued with Wade trying to finish: "If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you—"
And Billy Jr. absolutely losing it in the background, the camera shaking.
When the video ended, the whole table was in tears from laughing.
"Wade," Tom said, wiping his eyes, "your face when Pops walked in—"
"I was trying to do my job!" Wade protested, his face turning red.
"You looked like you wanted to die," Jake howled.
"Reading Miranda rights to guys that got knocked out and tied up by sixteen-year-olds," Billy said, shaking his head. "That's gotta be a first."
"It IS a first," Wade said, face getting redder. "In twenty years of law enforcement—"
"Twenty years and you finally get your big kidnapping case," Wilson said, grinning at his dad, "and the victims rescue themselves before you even get there."
"Then tie up the bad guys better than we could've," Ryan Nelson added.
Wade put his face in his hands. "I'm never living this down."
"Never," Billy Jr. confirmed, grinning. "I'm sending this to everyone."
"Don't you dare—"
"Too late. Already sent it to Anna. And Edna. And—"
"Billy Junior!" Wade groaned.
"Oh, this is going on Facebook," Celab said, reaching for the phone.
"It absolutely is NOT going on Facebook!" Wade lunged for it but Billy Jr. snatched it away.
"Relax, Sheriff. It's just going in the family archive."
"And the Christmas card," Jake added.
"The WHAT?" Wade's face was crimson now.
"Oh yeah," Sarah said, laughing so hard she was crying. "This year's Christmas card. All four boys with their beers and cigars, and on the back—'The Wiz Kids: 1, Kidnappers: 0.'"
"And underneath," Tom added, wiping tears, "'Special thanks to Sheriff Wade Nelson for his professional law enforcement services.'"
"With a screenshot from the video," Billy Renzo said.
Wade dropped his head to the table. "I hate all of you."
"You love us," Mary said, patting his shoulder while trying not to laugh.
"Come on, Wade," Pops said, lighting a fresh cigar. "You got the bad guys. These boys just... expedited the process."
"Expedited," Wade muttered. "They knocked them out with two-by-fours."
"Exactly!" Pops slapped the table. "Good old-fashioned problem-solving! None of this fancy negotiation bullshit. Just WHACK and down they go!"
"That is NOT proper law enforcement procedure—"
"Worked, didn't it?"
Wade had no response to that.
Mr. Renzo raised his beer. "To Sheriff Wade Nelson. The only lawman in Texas to read Miranda rights while a sixteen-year-old laughs his ass off in the background."
"TO WADE!" everyone shouted, raising their glasses.
Wade's face was so red he looked sunburned. But he was grinning despite himself.
"I'm retiring," he muttered. "After this, I'm retiring."
"You're only forty-five," Mary said.
"Don't care. I'm done."
Billy Jr. played the video one more time. When it got to Pops saying "I don't give a shit about their rights," Pops raised his cigar in salute.
"That's going on MY tombstone," he announced.
"Pops!" Sarah and Rebecca said together.
But everyone was laughing too hard to care.
The four boys looked at each other, exhausted, rope-burned, but grinning. They'd been kidnapped, tied up, held for ransom—and they'd gotten themselves out.
And gotten the best video evidence of it anyone could ask for.
Not bad for their first solo camping trip.
