Prologue.
The root cellar reeked of mildew and decay. Cold water seeped through cracks in the ancient stone walls, dripping steadily from the low ceiling. Each drop landed on Billy Benson's shoulders, his hair, soaking through his clothes until he shivered uncontrollably. The darkness was absolute except for the thin beam of light that appeared when the heavy steel door groaned open.
A silhouette filled the doorway—Cowboy, Billy recognized him even through his terror. The man's boots scraped against the dirt floor as he entered, thick coils of hemp rope looped over one shoulder. Behind him, another figure slipped in silently.
Billy tried to speak, to plead, but before he could form words, rough hands grabbed his face. Duct tape sealed his mouth shut, the adhesive biting into his skin. Another strip covered his eyes, plunging him back into blackness. He felt his wrists yanked behind his back, the rope burning as it cinched tight.
Strong hands hauled him to his feet. His legs wobbled beneath him, but they dragged him to the center of the cellar. He could hear them working—ropes being threaded through metal rings embedded in the walls, the scrape of boots circling him.
The first rope tightened around his neck, pulling him backward toward the wall behind him. Then his biceps—ropes wrapped around each arm, pulled taut to opposite sides of the cellar, forcing his shoulders back and his bound arms to strain against the restraints. Finally his ankles, bound together so he couldn't even shift his weight without risking a fall.
He stood there, immobilized, stretched between the four walls like a specimen pinned for display. The tension in each rope kept him perfectly centered, perfectly still, unable to move more than an inch in any direction.
A camera clicked. Once. Twice. Three times. The flash penetrated even through the tape over his eyes.
Then footsteps retreating. The steel door screaming on its hinges. The slam that echoed through the chamber. The mechanical click of a lock engaging.
Silence.
Billy stood in the wet darkness, water dripping onto his head, running down his face, soaking him to the bone. He shivered violently but couldn't move, couldn't wipe the water away, couldn't do anything but stand there and wait.
Chapter 1: Missing
The sun hung low over the Benson ranch, painting the Texas sky in shades of orange and pink. Billy Benson guided his ATV along the fence line of the south pasture, checking for breaks in the wire. It was his regular evening routine—one he'd done a thousand times before.
He cut the engine near a section where the fence posts looked weathered, dismounting to inspect them up close. The evening air was still warm, cicadas beginning their nightly chorus. Billy pulled his work gloves tighter and grabbed the wire cutters from his belt.
A vehicle approached from the access road behind him. Billy glanced over his shoulder—a dusty pickup truck he didn't recognize. Probably someone lost, looking for directions. Happened sometimes out here.
The truck stopped twenty yards away. Two men climbed out. The driver wore a cowboy hat pulled low, boots caked with dried mud. Something in Billy's gut twisted.
"Help you fellas?" Billy called out, straightening up.
They didn't answer. They just walked toward him, purposeful, splitting apart to flank him.
Billy's hand moved toward the satellite phone clipped to his belt, but the man in the cowboy hat was faster. He closed the distance in three strides, and Billy saw the Taser too late.
The electricity hit him like a freight train. His muscles seized, his legs buckled, and he collapsed into the dirt. He tried to scream but couldn't control his jaw. Hands grabbed him—rough, efficient. Something pricked his neck. A needle.
The world went fuzzy at the edges. He felt himself being lifted, carried. The truck bed. Tarp thrown over him. Engine rumbling to life.
Billy fought to stay conscious, but the drug pulled him down into darkness.
The last thing he heard was the cowboy's voice: "Got him. Moving to location now."
7:45 PM - The Benson Ranch House
Jake Benson stood in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, frowning at the clock on the wall. Dinner had been ready for twenty minutes. Billy was never late for meals.
"He's probably just caught up fixing fence," Sarah Benson said, spooning mashed potatoes onto plates. "You know how he loses track of time."
"Not Billy," Jake muttered. He and his brother had an unspoken rhythm—always had. When one was running late, the other just knew. And right now, something felt wrong.
Jake pulled his satellite phone from his pocket and hit Billy's speed dial. It rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.
"Billy, where the hell are you? Dinner's getting cold."
He waited five minutes and tried again. Same result.
"I'm going to find him," Jake announced, grabbing his truck keys from the hook by the door.
"Jake, he's fine," Tom Benson said from his seat at the table. "Probably just out of range."
But Jake was already out the door.
8:15 PM - South Pasture
Jake's headlights cut through the gathering dusk as he bounced along the access road. He spotted Billy's ATV first—sitting idle near the fence line, abandoned. The gate on the back cargo rack hung open. Tools scattered in the dirt.
Jake killed the engine and jumped out, his heart hammering.
"BILLY!"
His voice echoed across the empty pasture. Nothing.
Jake ran to the ATV, examining it with frantic eyes. Keys still in the ignition. Battery still good. Billy's work gloves lay on the ground ten feet away, like he'd been ripped out of them.
Tire tracks. Fresh ones. A vehicle had been here—pulled up, turned around, left in a hurry.
Jake's hand shook as he pulled out his satellite phone. He pressed the emergency button—the one Billy Jr. had programmed, the one they'd tested but never actually used.
A mechanical voice echoed from the speaker: "911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Jake Benson."
Within seconds, every satellite phone in the consortium network lit up with the alert. The encrypted frequency opened. Voices flooded in.
"Jake, what's wrong?" Tom's voice, urgent.
"Billy's gone," Jake said, his voice cracking. "His ATV's here. He's not. There's tire tracks—someone took him."
Silence on the line. Then chaos.
"On my way," Sheriff Wade Nelson's voice cut through. "Don't touch anything. I'm ten minutes out."
"We're coming too," Robert Beaumont said.
"Everyone get to the Benson ranch," Pops' gravelly voice commanded. "Now."
Jake stood alone in the growing darkness, staring at his brother's abandoned ATV. His fists clenched.
"I'm gonna find you, Billy," he whispered. "I swear to God, I'm gonna find you."
8:47 PM - The Frat House
Billy Jr. burst into the command center next to the frat house, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez right behind him. The emergency alert had pulled them from their homes, and now all four were at their stations, fingers flying across keyboards.
Louisiana—Celeb's cousin from Baton Rouge—was already there, pulling up drone controls on his screen. At seventeen, he'd proven himself just as sharp as the sixteen-year-olds, earning his place among the wiz kids.
"What've we got?" Jr. demanded.
Celeb stood at the window, staring out at the commotion in the yard below—trucks arriving, families gathering, voices raised in alarm.
"Billy's missing," Celeb said quietly. "Someone took him."
Jr.'s jaw tightened. Uncle Billy. The guy who'd taught him to ride, to shoot, who treated him like a brother instead of a nephew.
"Then we find him," Jr. said. He turned to his crew. "Pull up Billy's phone GPS. Start the tracking protocol. Get the drones prepped."
"Already on it," Ryan said, his screen glowing with maps and data.
"Satellite shows his phone's still at the south pasture location," Daniel reported. "Not moving."
"They left it there," Jr. realized. "They knew we could track it."
Billy Renzo looked up from his tablet, his face pale. "Then how do we find him?"
"Drones are ready," Louisiana said, his Cajun accent thickening with stress. "All ten. I can have 'em in the air in five minutes."
Jr. stared at the map on the screen, his mind racing. Billy was out there somewhere. Scared. Hurt maybe. Waiting for them.
"We find another way," Jr. said. "We don't stop until we do."
Below, in the ranch house yard, the families of the consortium were gathering. Pops stood on the porch, a cigar clenched between his teeth, his old war instincts sharpening.
The hunt had begun.
Chapter 2: Mobilization
The Benson ranch house blazed with light, every window glowing against the dark Texas night. Trucks lined the driveway—Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes—the entire consortium converging like a war party summoned to battle.
Sheriff Wade Nelson's cruiser pulled up last, dust swirling in his headlights. He stepped out in full uniform, his weathered face grim. His daughter Rebecca was already there with her husband Josh, both of them standing on the porch with the rest of the family.
Wade's boots hit the wooden steps with authority. "Tom. Where's Jake?"
"Still at the south pasture with the ATV," Tom Benson said, his voice tight. "Wouldn't leave until you got there."
"Smart. I need that scene preserved." Wade turned to his sons. "Horse, Ryan—get down there with evidence kits. Photograph everything. Tire tracks, footprints, anything."
Wilson "Horse" Nelson nodded, already moving. His brother Ryan was right behind him, both deputies shifting into professional mode despite the personal stakes.
"Wade." Pops appeared in the doorway, cigar smoke curling around his weathered face. At seventy-six, he still commanded a room like the sergeant he'd been in Vietnam. "We need to talk strategy."
"Pops, this is a law enforcement matter—"
"Bullshit." Pops stepped onto the porch, his voice sharp enough to cut through the chaos. "That boy's been gone three hours. Three hours. Every minute we waste talking jurisdiction is another minute those sons of bitches have him."
Wade met the old man's eyes. They'd known each other for decades. Wade had been a kid when Pops came back from 'Nam, watched him build this ranch into what it was. There was no point arguing.
"Come inside," Wade said. "Everyone with information, kitchen table. Now."
The kitchen was packed. Tom and Sarah Benson sat at the head of the table, Sarah's hands clasped so tight her knuckles were white. Josh stood behind them, one hand on his father's shoulder. Ray Benson leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his business manager brain already calculating scenarios.
Robert and Caroline Beaumont took seats across from the Bensons. Robert's jaw was set, his accent thicker with stress. "We put up seventy-five thousand for that tech equipment. Those boys better use every damn bit of it."
"They will," Tom said quietly.
Mary Nelson sat beside Sarah, holding her friend's hand. Edna Nelson hovered near the doorway, Billy's girlfriend, her eyes red from crying. She was twenty-one, same as Billy, and they'd been together since high school.
"Edna." Wade's voice softened. "When did you last see Billy?"
"Yesterday evening," she managed. "We had dinner at our place. He left around eight to get back for morning chores."
"How was he? Worried about anything? Mention any problems?"
"No. He was happy. We were talking about..." Her voice broke. "We were making plans."
Sarah squeezed Mary's hand tighter.
Wade pulled out his notepad. "Tom, walk me through Billy's day."
"Up at five. Breakfast with the family. He and Jake worked the north fence line all morning. Lunch at noon back here. Afternoon he was solo—said he wanted to check the south pasture fence before dark." Tom's voice was steady, but his eyes betrayed him. "That was around six-thirty. He should've been back by seven-fifteen, seven-thirty at the latest."
"Anyone else see him after six-thirty?"
Silence.
"So between six-thirty and seven forty-five when Jake found the ATV, someone grabbed him." Wade looked around the table. "No demands yet? No contact?"
"Nothing," Ray said. "We've been monitoring everything—phones, email, even the damn mailbox."
A commotion at the door. Jake burst in, Celeb right behind him. Jake's face was flushed, his fists clenched.
"Tell me you've got something," Jake demanded. "Tell me you know who took him."
"Son, we're working on it—"
"Working on it?" Jake's voice rose. "He's out there, scared, maybe hurt, and we're sitting here having a goddamn meeting?"
"Jake." Pops' voice cracked like a whip. "Sit down."
"Pops—"
"Sit. Down."
Jake dropped into a chair, his leg bouncing with nervous energy. Celeb put a hand on his shoulder.
Pops moved to the center of the kitchen, his presence drawing every eye. "Listen up. All of you. Billy is one of ours. That means we don't panic, we don't run around like chickens with our heads cut off, and we sure as hell don't give up until he's home."
He pointed his cigar at Wade. "Sheriff runs the official investigation. But we're not sitting on our hands. Every able body searches. Every resource we've got goes toward finding that boy."
"Agreed," Robert Beaumont said.
"The wiz kids have tech," Pops continued. "Let 'em work. The rest of us organize search parties, cover ground, ask questions. Someone saw something. Someone always does."
Wade nodded slowly. "I can work with that. But no vigilante justice. You find something, you call me first. Understood?"
The room murmured agreement, but Jake's silence was conspicuous.
"Jake." Wade fixed him with a hard stare. "I mean it. You find him, you call me."
"Yeah," Jake said. "Sure."
Nobody believed him.
9:30 PM - The Command Center
Billy Jr. stood in front of three monitors, satellite imagery spread across the screens. The other four wiz kids worked their stations—Billy Renzo analyzing cell tower data, Ryan cross-referencing traffic cameras, Daniel pulling up property records, Louisiana prepping the drone fleet.
The door opened. Pops stepped in, cigar smoke trailing behind him.
"Report," he said simply.
Jr. turned. "Billy's satellite phone is still at the abduction site. They either didn't know he had it or didn't care. We've got the exact timeline—he made a call to Jake at 6:47 PM, lasted thirty seconds. Nothing after that."
"Can you track where they went?"
"Working on it. There's only two roads out of that pasture. We're pulling traffic cam footage from Highway 77 and County Road 12."
"Drones?"
"Ready to deploy," Louisiana said. "But we need to know where to look. Can't cover the whole county."
Pops studied the map. "They grabbed him at 6:47, give or take. With prep time, transport, they could be within a hundred-mile radius."
"That's a lot of ground," Billy Renzo muttered.
"Then narrow it down." Pops jabbed his cigar at the screen. "These bastards planned this. They knew Billy's routine, knew when he'd be alone. That means they've been watching. Find out who's been asking questions about the Bensons. Who's been sniffing around."
Jr. nodded. "On it."
Pops headed for the door, then paused. "Jr. Your uncle's counting on you boys. Don't let him down."
"We won't, Pops."
The old man left. The wiz kids looked at each other.
"You heard him," Jr. said. "Let's find Uncle Billy."
Their fingers flew across keyboards, screens glowing in the darkness.
Outside, the ranch hummed with activity. Flashlights swept across fields. Voices called out coordinates. Engines rumbled to life.
The hunt was on.
And somewhere in the dark, Billy waited.
Chapter 3: The Wait
10:15 PM - The Command Center
Billy Jr.'s eyes burned from staring at screens. The command center hummed with activity—five keyboards clicking, drone feeds streaming, satellite maps updating in real-time.
Louisiana had two drones in the air, their thermal cameras sweeping grid patterns across the county. The screens showed nothing but the heat signatures of cattle and the occasional coyote.
"Anything on the traffic cams?" Jr. asked.
"Dusty pickup, Texas plates, heading south on Highway 77 at 7:04 PM," Daniel reported. "But the image is too grainy. Can't make out the plate number."
"Enhance it."
"I've tried. Resolution's garbage. Best I can tell is maybe a 'T' or a 'Y' in the first position."
Jr. slammed his fist on the desk. "There's gotta be something else. Cell towers, GPS pings, something."
"Billy's phone is still at the abduction site," Ryan Mattern said, pulling up cell tower data. "I'm checking for any other devices that pinged nearby around that time."
"How many?"
"Forty-seven unique devices passed through that area between six and eight PM."
"Narrow it down. Look for devices that aren't local, that only pinged once, heading away from the ranch."
"On it."
Billy Renzo was deep in property records, his screen filled with county tax assessments. "Looking for abandoned properties, foreclosures, anything isolated within a hundred-mile radius."
"How many so far?"
"Two hundred and sixteen."
"Jesus," Louisiana muttered.
The door opened. Pops stepped in, cigar smoke trailing behind him. "Report."
Jr. turned. "We've got a possible vehicle heading south at 7:04 PM. Can't confirm plates. Ryan's running cell tower data. Billy's mapping abandoned properties. Louisiana's got drones covering sector three and five."
"And?"
"And we've got nothing concrete yet."
Pops studied the screens, his Vietnam-era tactical mind processing. "They planned this. Knew Billy's routine, knew the territory, knew how to grab him clean. That means local knowledge or serious reconnaissance."
"So someone's been watching the ranch," Billy Renzo said.
"For how long?" Jr. asked.
"Days. Maybe weeks." Pops pointed his cigar at the map. "Pull security footage from town. Gas stations, feed stores, anywhere with cameras. Look for that pickup, look for strangers asking questions."
"That's a lot of footage," Daniel said.
"Then get started."
11:00 PM - The Kitchen
Jake paced between the kitchen and living room, unable to sit still. Tom Benson sat at the table with Ray and Josh, maps spread before them, planning search grids for dawn.
"We hit every back road," Ray said. "Every property, every structure."
"That's thousands of acres," Josh said.
"Then we get more people. Call everyone we know."
Jake stopped pacing. "We're wasting time. They could be moving him right now. Getting farther away every minute we sit here talking."
"Jake—" Tom started.
"No. We should be out there. Now."
"Doing what?" Ray challenged. "Driving in circles in the dark? We need a plan, a strategy—"
"We need to find my brother!"
"That's what we're trying to do!"
"Everyone calm down," Josh said, standing between them. "Jake, I know this is hard—"
"You don't know shit."
Tom stood, his voice steel. "That's enough. All of you. Jake, sit down."
Jake's fists clenched, but he dropped into a chair.
"We search at first light," Tom said. "Organized, systematic. The wiz kids will have more data by then. Wade's got deputies checking every lead. We do this smart, not stupid."
Jake stared at the table, his jaw working. Every fiber of his being screamed to get in his truck and start searching. But his father was right. Without a direction, he'd just be burning fuel and time.
"Come on," Celeb said from the doorway. "Let's check on the boys. See if they've found anything."
Jake followed him out, needing something—anything—to do.
11:45 PM - South Pasture
Horse and Ryan Nelson finished bagging the last evidence—tire track casts, soil samples, the cigarette butt, measurements, photographs. Their father's cruiser pulled up, Wade stepping out to survey their work.
"What've we got?"
"Heavy truck, probably F-250 or larger," Horse said. "Tire tread suggests off-road capability. Recent tracks, made between six-thirty and seven."
"Cigarette butt, fresh. Sent it for DNA but that'll take time."
Wade examined the scene with a flashlight. "They parked here, waited. Billy worked, didn't see them coming until too late."
"Taser burns on the ground," Ryan pointed. "Right there. He went down hard."
"Then they dragged him." Horse indicated the disturbed dirt. "Straight to the truck. Gone in under two minutes."
"Professional," Wade said.
"Or experienced."
Wade looked toward the dark expanse of pasture. His nephew. Mary's sister's kid. A boy he'd watched grow up, taught to fish, gave his first beer when he turned eighteen.
"Get back to the station," Wade said. "Run that partial plate against every database we've got. Check stolen vehicle reports, BOLO alerts, everything."
"Yes, sir."
The brothers packed up their kits. Wade stood alone in the darkness, staring at Billy's abandoned ATV.
"Where'd they take you, son?" he whispered.
1:15 AM - The Command Center
Louisiana brought another drone back, swapping batteries. "Sectors three and five are clear. Moving to sector seven next."
"Cell tower data's not giving us much," Ryan Mattern admitted. "Too many devices, too much noise. I've narrowed it to twelve possibles but can't pinpoint which one."
"Property records are a dead end too," Billy Renzo said. "Too many locations to physically check without more information."
Jr. rubbed his eyes. They'd been at this for four hours. Four hours of searching and they had nothing. Nothing.
His phone buzzed. Then Daniel's. Then all of them simultaneously.
"Email," Daniel said, clicking it open. "Sent to... all the consortium addresses."
"Who's it from?" Jr. demanded.
Daniel's face went pale. "Unknown sender. Subject line says 'Payment Required.'"
Everyone crowded around his screen.
The email was simple:
$2,000,000. Details to follow. Proof of life attached.
"Open it," Jr. said.
Daniel clicked the attachment. An image loaded.
Billy.
Standing in what looked like an old stone cellar. Ropes around his neck, his biceps pulled to the sides, his ankles bound together. Duct tape over his mouth and eyes. His clothes were soaked, his hair dripping. Water ran down the walls behind him.
He looked terrified.
"Jesus Christ," Louisiana breathed.
Jr.'s hands shook. That was his uncle. His friend. Standing there, helpless, waiting for them to find him.
"Download everything," Jr. snapped, his voice cracking. "Metadata, routing information, server data. Everything."
"On it," Ryan said, already typing.
Billy Renzo pulled up image analysis. "Photo was taken with a digital camera, not a phone. Time stamp says 9:47 PM tonight."
"Two hours ago," Daniel said.
"Can you trace where the email came from?" Jr. asked.
"Working on it. It's been routed through proxies but..." Ryan's fingers flew. "Got something. Email originated from a server in Kingsville. I can get the IP address."
"Do it."
Louisiana pulled up a map. "Kingsville's forty-three miles south. That matches the timeline if they left at seven."
"Can you narrow down the location from the IP?" Jr. asked.
"Not to a specific address, but maybe to a general area." Ryan kept working. "Public WiFi somewhere. Could be a coffee shop, library, gas station..."
"They're using public internet to cover their tracks," Billy Renzo said.
"Smart."
Jr. stared at the photo of his uncle. Two million dollars. That was the price they'd put on Billy's life.
The door burst open. Jake and Celeb rushed in, followed immediately by Tom, Ray, Josh, and Pops.
"We got the email," Tom said. "Let me see him."
Jr. turned the monitor. The room went silent.
Jake's face twisted. "Where is he? Can you track it?"
"We're trying. Email came from Kingsville, public WiFi. We're working on narrowing the location."
"Then let's go," Jake said, already turning for the door.
"Wait." Pops' voice stopped him. "We can't just roll into Kingsville blind. We need to know exactly where that signal came from."
"But—"
"Jr." Pops turned to his great-grandson. "Can you find the source?"
"We can find which network it came from. But Kingsville's got dozens of public WiFi spots. Could take hours to narrow down which one."
"Then you've got until dawn," Pops said. "Make it happen."
He looked at the photo one more time, his jaw tight.
"We're coming, Billy," he muttered. "Hold on, boy. We're coming."
2:30 AM
While the wiz kids worked frantically to trace the email's origin, Wade Nelson stood in the kitchen reading the ransom email on his phone. Two million dollars. Seventy-two hours to deliver.
"Can the consortium put that together?" he asked Tom.
"If we liquidate assets, maybe. But it'll take time."
"We're not paying them a goddamn dime until we know Billy's alive," Pops growled.
"That photo—" Sarah started.
"Is hours old. Could be staged."
"You think he's already—" Sarah couldn't finish.
"No." Tom's voice was firm. "No. They want money. That means they need him alive."
Wade nodded. "I'm calling the FBI. Kidnapping across potential state lines, ransom demand—this is federal now."
"How long until they get here?" Ray asked.
"Few hours."
"We don't have a few hours," Jake said from the doorway. "Every minute we wait—"
"Is a minute Jr. and his team use to find the source," Wade cut him off. "We play this smart. We wait for intel, then we move."
Jake looked like he wanted to argue, but Celeb's hand on his shoulder kept him quiet.
In the command center, five screens glowed with data. Five teenagers hunted through digital breadcrumbs, searching for the one clue that would lead them to Billy.
The clock ticked toward dawn.
And somewhere in a cold, wet cellar, Billy waited in the dark.
Chapter 4: Cold and Dark
Billy Benson couldn't feel his hands anymore.
The ropes around his wrists, cinched tight behind his back, had cut off circulation long ago. Now his fingers were numb, useless. The rope around his neck was worse—not tight enough to choke him, but present. A constant pressure. Every time his legs trembled from standing so long, the rope reminded him: Don't fall. If you fall, you hang yourself.
Water dripped from somewhere above, a steady rhythm that echoed in the stone chamber. Drip. Drip. Drip. It hit his head, ran down his face, soaked through his shirt until his clothes clung to him like a second skin. He was so cold.
The duct tape over his eyes kept him in absolute darkness. The tape over his mouth meant he could only breathe through his nose, each breath a conscious effort. The ropes around his biceps pulled his arms to the sides, forcing his shoulders back, making his bound wrists strain. His ankles tied together meant he couldn't even shift his weight.
He was a human puppet, held upright by tension and rope.
Jake's looking for me. I know he is.
They'd always had that connection. Twin instincts. When one was in trouble, the other knew. Billy clung to that thought like a lifeline.
They're coming. The wiz kids are tracking me. Jr.'s got the drones, the tech. They'll find me.
But as the hours crawled by, doubt crept in.
The shivering started—first his hands, then his whole body, muscles convulsing against the cold. The ropes held him in place, so the shivering just made everything hurt more. His legs shook, threatened to buckle. He tried to lock his knees, to stay upright, but he was so tired.
If I fall, the rope around my neck...
Time became meaningless in the darkness. Billy's mind drifted—home, the frat house, Jake's laugh, Pops' stories, Sunday dinners. His whole family gathered around the table. Edna's smile.
I was supposed to see her tomorrow.
Everyone would be worried by now. The emergency alert. The search. They knew he was gone.
I just have to hold on.
But holding on was getting harder. The cold seeped into his bones. The water kept dripping. His legs were giving out.
Billy's legs buckled.
The rope around his neck caught him, jerked tight. He couldn't breathe—
He forced his legs to straighten, gasping through his nose as the pressure eased. His heart hammered.
Chapter 5: The Hunt
6:47 AM
The convoy formed in the Benson ranch driveway as the sun crested the horizon. Six trucks, filled with every able-bodied man from the consortium. Sheriff Wade Nelson led in his cruiser, Horse and Ryan flanking in their patrol vehicles.
Billy Jr. climbed into the back of his father Josh's truck, laptop already open, satellite equipment humming. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, and Louisiana piled into Robert Beaumont's extended cab, their gear filling every available space.
Tom Benson checked his rifle one more time. Ray did the same. Celeb loaded extra ammunition into Jake's truck while Jake paced, unable to stand still.
Pops emerged from the house, his old M1911 pistol holstered at his hip—the same one he'd carried in Vietnam. Robert Beaumont had his hunting rifle, scope mounted, the weapon of a man who could drop a deer at 400 yards.
"Boys," Pops called out. The wiz kids looked up. "You're riding armed today."
Jr. nodded. His own sidearm was already tucked in his belt. The other four had rifles in the truck—ranch kids who'd been shooting since they could walk.
Sarah Benson stood on the porch with Caroline Beaumont, Mary Nelson, and Rebecca. Their faces were tight with worry, but they didn't argue. They knew better.
"Bring him home," Sarah said.
Tom kissed her forehead. "We will."
Wade's voice crackled over the satellite phone network. "We're heading to Kingsville. Jr.'s team narrowed the email source to a three-block radius. We'll triangulate from there."
"Move out," Pops ordered.
The convoy rolled south, dust rising in their wake.
8:15 AM - Kingsville Outskirts
Jr. stared at his screen, cross-referencing GPS data with cell tower pings. "The email came from a public WiFi hotspot at a gas station on Route 141. But that doesn't tell us where they're holding him."
"Can you track where they went after sending it?" Wade asked over the radio.
"Not directly. But I can look for the same device pinging other towers." Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard. "If they used a phone or laptop to send the email, and they kept it on..."
"There," Daniel pointed. "Device ping, 9:53 PM last night. Tower southwest of Kingsville, near Old Ranch Road."
"How far?" Jake demanded.
"Twelve miles."
The convoy changed direction.
9:42 AM - Old Ranch Road
They'd been driving the back roads for over an hour, following sporadic cell tower pings like breadcrumbs. Each ping narrowed the search area, but it was agonizingly slow.
"Drones are useless," Louisiana said, frustrated. "If he's underground, thermal won't pick him up."
"Keep them up anyway," Jr. ordered. "Look for vehicles, movement, anything."
Ryan Mattern pulled up property records on his tablet. "There's an old homestead out here. Abandoned since the '80s. Belongs to some bank now, foreclosure."
"Address?" Wade asked.
"2847 Old Ranch Road."
"That's two miles ahead," Pops said, studying his map. "Spread out. We don't know if they're still there."
The convoy split up, trucks taking different approach routes to surround the property.
10:18 AM - The Homestead
Jake's truck crested a ridge, and there it was—a sagging farmhouse, collapsed barn, and scattered outbuildings. The place looked dead, abandoned.
"See the truck?" Celeb asked.
"No vehicles," Jake said. "They're gone."
Wade's voice on the radio: "Approach with caution. Could be a trap."
But Jake was already moving. He jumped out of his truck, rifle in hand, running toward the nearest outbuilding. Celeb and Jr. were right behind him.
"Jake, wait!" Wade shouted.
Jake didn't wait. He hit the first structure—an old equipment shed. Empty. He moved to the next, a storage building. Empty.
Then he saw it. A steel door, rusted but solid, set into the ground near the collapsed barn. A root cellar.
"HERE!" Jake yelled.
The consortium descended. Tom, Ray, Josh, Pops, Robert, the deputies, the wiz kids—everyone converged on the steel door.
Jake grabbed the handle. Locked.
"Move," Horse said, pulling out bolt cutters. The lock snapped. Jake yanked the door open.
Stairs descended into darkness. The smell hit them—mildew, decay, water.
"BILLY!" Jake's voice echoed down.
Nothing.
Jake didn't wait. He plunged down the stairs, flashlight cutting through the dark. The others followed, crowding into the narrow stone chamber.
And there he was.
Billy. Standing in the center of the cellar, ropes stretching from his neck to the wall behind him, from his biceps to the side walls, his ankles bound together. Duct tape over his mouth and eyes. His clothes soaked, his body shaking violently.
"Jesus Christ," Tom breathed.
Jake was already there, cutting the rope around Billy's neck. "I got you. I got you, brother."
Pops cut the ropes on Billy's biceps. Josh got his ankles. Tom carefully peeled the tape from Billy's eyes and mouth.
Billy gasped, his legs gave out. Jake caught him before he fell.
"You're okay. We got you. You're okay."
Billy's eyes couldn't focus. He was shaking so hard his teeth chattered. His lips were blue.
"Hypothermia," Rebecca said, appearing with blankets. "We need to get him warm. Now."
They carried Billy up the stairs into the sunlight. Wade already had an ambulance en route, but it was twenty minutes out.
"Wrap him up. Get him in a truck with the heater on full blast," Rebecca ordered, shifting into nurse mode.
Jake wouldn't let go of his brother. He wrapped Billy in blankets, held him close, rubbing his arms to generate heat. "Stay with me. Stay with me, Billy."
Billy's eyes found Jake's face. His mouth moved, but no sound came out.
"Don't talk. Just stay awake. You hear me? Stay awake."
10:45 AM
While Rebecca worked on Billy, Jr. pulled up the drone feeds. "Louisiana, sweep the area. Look for that truck. They can't have gone far."
The drones, useless for finding an underground cellar, were perfect for tracking a vehicle.
"Got something," Louisiana said. "Dusty pickup, heading west on County Road 47. Three miles from here."
Wade's head snapped up. "That's them."
"I'm going," Pops said, already moving toward his truck.
"Pops, this is law enforcement—" Wade started.
"Like hell it is. Those bastards took my great-grandson. They're mine."
Robert Beaumont was already in his truck, rifle across his lap. Ray and Josh climbed in with Pops. Celeb ran for Jake's truck.
"Jake stays with Billy," Tom said. "The rest of us are hunting."
Wade looked at his deputies, then at the armed ranchers. He made a decision.
"Horse, Ryan, you're with me. Everyone else, you follow our lead. No shooting unless they shoot first. Understood?"
"Understood," Pops lied.
11:23 AM - County Road 47
The drones tracked the pickup to an old gas station, long since closed. The truck sat in the cracked parking lot, engine running.
Two men inside. One in a cowboy hat.
The consortium trucks spread out, surrounding the building. Wade's cruiser blocked the exit.
"Sheriff's Department!" Wade's voice boomed through his PA system. "Exit the vehicle with your hands up!"
The pickup's engine revved.
They were going to run.
The truck shot forward, straight at Wade's cruiser. Wade dove out as the pickup smashed into his vehicle, metal screaming.
Gunfire erupted. The kidnappers were shooting through the truck windows.
Pops and Robert moved like the soldiers they'd been. Pops took cover behind his truck bed, M1911 steady in his hand. Robert was on one knee, rifle to his shoulder, eye to the scope.
One shot. The driver's window exploded. Cowboy slumped forward.
Horse and Ryan returned fire, professional and controlled. The second kidnapper kicked open the passenger door, tried to run.
Pops' shot caught him center mass. The man went down.
It was over in thirty seconds.
Wade approached the truck, weapon drawn. Both men were down. Both dead.
"Clear," Horse called out.
Pops lowered his pistol, his hand steady despite his seventy-six years. Robert worked the bolt on his rifle, ejecting the spent casing.
"That's for Billy," Pops said quietly.
12:15 PM - Kings County Hospital
Billy lay in a hospital bed, wrapped in heated blankets, an IV in his arm pumping warm fluids. His core temperature had been 89 degrees when they'd arrived—severe hypothermia. His wrists were bandaged where the ropes had cut deep. His neck was bruised.
But he was alive.
Jake sat beside the bed, holding his brother's hand. Tom stood at the window, watching the parking lot.
"The kidnappers?" Billy's voice was hoarse.
"Dead," Tom said simply.
Billy closed his eyes. "Good."
Jake squeezed his hand. "I told you I'd find you."
"I knew you would."
The door opened. Pops walked in, cigar unlit but clenched between his teeth. He looked at Billy for a long moment, then nodded.
"You're tougher than you look, boy."
Billy managed a weak smile. "Learned from the best, Pops."
Outside, the rest of the consortium was gathering. Sarah and the women were on their way. The wiz kids were breaking down their equipment. Wade was dealing with the crime scene and the bodies.
But in that hospital room, the Bensons sat together—father, son, and grandfather—and let themselves breathe for the first time in eighteen hours.
Billy was home.
Epilogue: Homecoming
Three Days Later - The Benson Ranch
The smell of barbecue smoke drifted across the ranch, mingling with the scent of fresh-cut grass and Sarah Benson's peach cobbler cooling on the porch rail. Every member of the consortium had turned out—Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes—filling the yard with trucks, laughter, and the chaos of a proper Texas celebration.
Billy sat in a lawn chair under the big oak tree, still moving slower than usual, still with bandages on his wrists. But he was here. He was home.
Edna Nelson hadn't left his side since he'd been released from the hospital that morning. She sat on the arm of his chair, one hand resting on his shoulder, like she was afraid he might disappear if she let go.
"You doing okay?" she asked for the tenth time in an hour.
Billy squeezed her hand. "I'm good. Promise."
Jake appeared with two beers, handing one to his brother. "Doc said you could have one. Just one."
"Yes, mother," Billy grinned.
Jake dropped into the chair beside him, and for a moment, the brothers just sat there, watching their family. No words needed. They were together. That was enough.
Pops held court near the grill, cigar smoke curling around his weathered face, a tumbler of bourbon in his hand. Tom was flipping steaks while Ray and Robert argued about cattle prices. The women had taken over the picnic tables, spreading out enough food to feed an army.
"Jr.!" Pops bellowed. "You boys get over here!"
Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, and Louisiana looked up from where they'd been tinkering with one of the drones.
"Yes, Pops?" Jr. called.
"You boys saved your uncle's life with all that fancy tech of yours. That deserves a proper thank you."
The wiz kids approached cautiously. Pops had that gleam in his eye—the one that usually meant trouble.
From a cooler beside his chair, Pops produced a bottle of Jack Daniels and five shot glasses. He poured with the precision of a man who'd done this a thousand times.
"Gentlemen," Pops said, handing each boy a glass. "To the wiz kids. May you always use your powers for good."
"Pops!" Sarah's voice cut across the yard. "They are not old enough—"
"They're old enough to track kidnappers and save lives, they're old enough for one shot," Pops growled. "Don't coddle them, Sarah."
Caroline Beaumont appeared beside Sarah, hands on her hips. "Robert, you better not be condoning this—"
"I'm staying out of it," Robert said quickly, focusing very intently on his steak.
Mary Nelson joined the protest. "Wade, are you seeing this?"
Sheriff Wade Nelson, sitting nearby with Horse and Ryan, took a long sip of his beer. "Seeing what? I'm off duty."
"Coward," Mary muttered.
Pops ignored them all. He raised his own glass. "To Billy. Welcome home, boy."
"To Billy!" the wiz kids chorused.
They downed the shots. Louisiana coughed. Daniel's eyes watered. But they tried to look tough, despite Jr. turning slightly green.
"And one more thing," Pops said, pulling five cigars from his shirt pocket. "Can't celebrate without a good smoke."
"POPS!" Now all the women were yelling.
"They're Cubans!" Pops defended. "Expensive ones!"
"I don't care if they're rolled by Castro himself—" Sarah started.
But the boys already had the cigars lit, coughing and trying not to look like they were dying.
Billy and Jake watched from their chairs, both grinning.
"Think we should help them?" Billy asked.
"Nah," Jake said. "They earned this."
Wade Nelson stood, tapping his beer bottle for attention. The yard quieted.
"Since everyone's here," Wade said, "figured I'd give you the official word on what went down."
The crowd gathered closer. Even the wiz kids, still recovering from their shots, paid attention.
"The two men who took Billy were identified as Marcus Holley and James 'Cowboy' Preston. Both had priors—kidnapping, extortion, robbery. They'd been watching the ranch for at least two weeks, planning the grab."
"How'd they know about the consortium?" Tom asked.
"County records are public. They saw the property holdings, the equipment purchases, and figured we had deep pockets. They were right." Wade paused. "FBI confirmed the ransom demand was their MO. They'd done this twice before in Louisiana and Oklahoma."
"They pick the wrong damn family this time," Pops muttered.
"The shooting was ruled justified," Wade continued. "Both men fired first. Multiple witnesses, including two deputies. The case is closed."
Relief rippled through the crowd. No charges. No investigation. Just justice, Texas-style.
"One more thing," Wade added. "That partial plate you boys tracked? The email trace? The drone surveillance?" He looked at the wiz kids. "FBI said it was some of the best civilian investigative work they'd ever seen. They want to know if you're interested in internships."
Jr. and his crew exchanged looks.
"We'll think about it," Jr. said. "But right now, we're good where we are."
A dusty pickup pulled into the driveway, and a man in his seventies climbed out, medical bag in one hand.
"That's Doc Peterson," Pops announced, standing. "Doc! Get your ass over here!"
Doc Peterson—tall, lean, with a shock of white hair—grinned and headed over. He and Pops clasped hands, then pulled each other into a quick embrace.
"Heard you had some excitement," Doc said.
"Boy got himself kidnapped. But he's tougher than he looks."
Doc walked over to Billy, setting down his medical bag. "Let me check those wrists."
Edna moved aside as Doc unwrapped Billy's bandages, examining the rope burns with a practiced eye.
"Healing good. Keep them clean, keep them wrapped. You'll be back to full strength in a week." Doc rewrapped the bandages, then clapped Billy on the shoulder. "You got lucky, son."
"I know," Billy said quietly.
Doc straightened, then reached into his medical bag. But instead of pulling out more bandages or medicine, he produced a banjo.
The entire yard groaned.
"Oh no," Tom said.
"Not the banjo," Sarah pleaded.
"Here we go," Rebecca muttered.
Doc grinned. "Pops, you still got that old guitar?"
"In the truck," Pops said, already moving.
"This is gonna be bad," Jake whispered to Billy.
"So bad," Billy agreed.
Pops returned with a battered acoustic guitar. He and Doc positioned themselves near the grill, tuning their instruments with the confidence of men who had no idea how terrible they were about to sound.
"This one's called 'Foggy Mountain Breakdown,'" Doc announced.
"It's not," Mary whispered to Sarah. "Whatever they're about to play, it's not that."
Doc's fingers flew across the banjo strings. Pops strummed the guitar with enthusiasm that far exceeded skill. The result was... chaos. Off-key, off-tempo, enthusiastic chaos.
Some notes were right. Most were not. The rhythm wandered like a drunk coyote. And yet both men played with absolute confidence, grinning at each other like they were at the Grand Ole Opry.
The wiz kids covered their ears. The women exchanged long-suffering looks. The men tried not to laugh.
Billy leaned back in his chair, Edna beside him, Jake on his other side, and watched his great-grandfather murder bluegrass with his war buddy.
"I missed this," Billy said.
"The horrible music?" Jake asked.
"All of it."
The song ended—or possibly just stopped, it was hard to tell. Pops and Doc took exaggerated bows to polite applause and barely-concealed laughter.
"Encore!" Doc called out.
"NO!" the entire yard shouted back.
Doc shrugged, put the banjo away, and grabbed a beer. Pops settled back into his chair, looking pleased with himself.
The sun dipped lower, painting the Texas sky in shades of orange and pink. The barbecue continued. Stories were told and retold—how the wiz kids tracked the signal, how Jake found the cellar, how Pops and Robert took down the kidnappers with two perfect shots.
Billy listened, letting the voices of his family wash over him. Three days ago, he'd been standing in a cold, dark cellar, convinced he might die there. Now he was home, surrounded by everyone he loved, listening to terrible bluegrass and watching his teenage cousins try to act tough after one shot of whiskey.
Life was good.
Edna squeezed his hand. Jake bumped his shoulder. Pops raised his glass in a silent toast.
Billy raised his beer in return.
He was home.
And that was all that mattered.
THE END
