Chapter 1
The door to the frat house flew open with a bang at 5:30 AM sharp.
"Rise and shine, you lazy sonsofbitches!" Pops bellowed from the doorway, his gravelly voice cutting through the pre-dawn darkness. "Sun's burning daylight and you're all sleeping like a bunch of damn babies!"
A chorus of groans rose from the two bunk beds and the mattress wedged between them on the floor.
"Pops, the sun ain't even up yet," Jake mumbled from the top bunk, pulling his pillow over his head.
"Then you better beat it there, boy!" Pops flicked on the overhead light, and five bodies flinched at the sudden brightness. "Move your asses! We got cattle don't give a damn about your beauty sleep."
Billy squinted from the bottom bunk beneath Jake, watching as Pops stood in the doorway in his worn Levi's and undershirt, a half-smoked cigar already clenched between his teeth at this ungodly hour. At seventy-six, the old man had more fire in him than all five of them combined.
"I swear to God, I'm gonna start using the hose," Pops threatened, though the hint of a grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Alright, alright, we're up!" Celeb groaned from the bunk across from Billy, swinging his legs over the side.
From the mattress on the floor, Louisiana—Colton to anyone outside the family, but nobody called him that—rolled over and cracked one eye open. "Mon Dieu, that man never sleeps," he muttered in his thick Cajun drawl.
"What was that, Louisiana?" Pops barked.
"I said good morning, Pops!" Louisiana called back, his accent even thicker when he was half-asleep.
"That's what I thought." Pops jabbed his cigar toward the door. "Breakfast in fifteen. Don't make me come back up here."
Billy Jr, wedged in the top bunk above Celeb, finally sat up and ran a hand through his hair. At sixteen, he was already broad-shouldered like his father Josh, and lately he'd been working harder than some of the paid hands. "We're coming, Pops."
"Damn right you are." Pops turned to leave, then paused. "And Billy Jr—your grandmother better not find any more beer bottles under those floorboards, you hear me? Next time I'm drinking 'em all myself and leaving you the empties."
The old man's boots thundered down the hallway toward the stairs, leaving the five of them blinking in the harsh light.
Jake dropped down from his bunk and shoved Billy's shoulder. "Your turn to shower first."
"Like hell it is," Billy shot back, already on his feet. "You took forever yesterday."
"Three minutes ain't forever."
"Felt like three hours."
"Children, please," Celeb said in mock exasperation, pulling on his jeans. "We all know Louisiana takes the longest anyway."
"That's 'cause I actually wash, not like you animals," Louisiana retorted from the floor, struggling to untangle himself from his blankets.
Billy Jr laughed and tossed a wadded-up shirt at Louisiana's head. "Y'all are worse than the kindergarteners at Anna's school."
"Somebody's trying to impress his girlfriend," Jake teased.
"Shut up."
The familiar morning banter continued as they stumbled through their routines—fighting over the bathroom, pulling on boots, arguing about who forgot to do laundry. This was their rhythm, the same one they'd fallen into over the past fourteen months since the consortium had formed and this room had transformed from Billy and Jake's childhood bedroom into what everyone now called "the frat house."
Fifteen minutes later, they clattered down the stairs into the big kitchen where the smell of coffee, bacon, and biscuits filled the air. Sarah Benson stood at the stove, her graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, expertly flipping eggs while Rebecca, Billy Jr's mom, poured orange juice into a line of glasses.
"Morning, Grandma," Billy Jr said, kissing Sarah on the cheek as he passed.
"Morning, baby. Y'all wash your hands?"
A collective pause.
"That's what I thought. All of you—sink. Now."
The five of them crowded around the kitchen sink like oversized children while Tom Benson, Billy and Jake's father, looked up from his newspaper and chuckled. "Some things never change."
"Amen to that," Pops said, already seated at the head of the long table with his coffee and a fresh cigar waiting beside his plate.
They settled into their usual spots—Pops at the head, Tom and Sarah flanking him, Josh on his way in from outside with mud still on his boots. Ray, the business manager, was already deep in his phone, probably checking grain futures before breakfast.
"Alright, listen up," Josh said, accepting a plate from Rebecca and kissing her temple. "We got a full day. Ray, you're meeting with the Matterns about that equipment share at nine. Celeb, Louisiana, you're on the north fence line—we got posts down from that storm. Jr, you're with me and your granddad on the cattle rotation in the east pasture."
"What about us?" Jake asked through a mouthful of biscuit.
Josh pointed his fork at Billy and Jake. "You two are taking the mule quad out to check the water pumps at the south wells. Been acting up again, and we can't afford to lose water with this heat coming."
"Easy enough," Billy said.
"Should only take a couple hours," Jake added. "We'll be back before lunch."
"Take your radios," Tom said, his tone casual but firm. They always took their radios—part of the network Billy Jr and Billy had built for the whole consortium.
"Always do," Billy confirmed.
Breakfast continued with the usual chaos—Pops telling an increasingly inappropriate story about his Army days that made Sarah roll her eyes, Louisiana trying to explain something in rapid Cajun French that nobody else could follow, Billy Jr and Jake competing to see who could eat more bacon.
This was home. This was family. This was every morning on the Benson Ranch.
At 6:47 AM, Billy and Jake climbed into the mule quad, their radios clipped to their belts, water bottles in the cup holders, the morning sun just starting to paint the eastern sky pink and gold.
"Race you to the first well," Jake said, grinning.
"You're on."
Billy hit the gas, and they bounced down the dirt road toward the south pasture, dust kicking up behind them.
Neither of them saw the pickup truck pulled off behind the tree line, watching.
Neither of them heard the radio chatter on a different frequency.
Neither of them knew they had fifteen minutes left of normal.
Chapter 3
The camera's red light blinked steadily in the dim barn, a tiny electronic eye capturing everything.
"We're rolling," one of the masked men said, adjusting the tripod.
The tall one—the leader, Billy had figured out—stepped into frame in front of Jake. He rolled his shoulders, cracked his knuckles, and Billy's stomach turned to ice.
"Wait," another voice said from behind the camera. "Audio check. Say something."
The leader looked directly at the camera lens. "You're going to watch this, and then you're going to pay. Simple as that."
"Good. We're live."
Billy thrashed against his bonds, the rope cutting deeper into his wrists and ankles. The hogtie kept him immobile, his body arched backward, his face pressed into the dirt at an angle that gave him a perfect view of his brother. He screamed against the gag, but it came out as nothing more than a muffled grunt.
Jake's eyes found his. Stay calm, Billy thought desperately, trying to send the message through sheer force of will. Stay strong. We'll get out of this.
But they both knew what was coming.
The first punch hit Jake square in the solar plexus.
Jake's body convulsed against the ropes, his abs contracting, his mouth opening in a silent scream behind the tape. The ropes across his chest kept him pinned to the wall, unable to double over, unable to protect himself.
The second punch came before Jake could recover. Lower this time, just below the ribs. Billy heard the air forced from his brother's lungs, watched Jake's face turn red as he struggled to breathe through his nose.
"That's just the beginning," the leader said calmly, like he was discussing the weather.
Billy writhed on the floor, tears streaming down his face, his throat raw from screaming into the gag. The rope bit into his ankles, his wrists, his forearms, but he didn't care. He had to get free. He had to stop this.
The third punch. The fourth. The fifth.
Each one landed with a sickening thud, flesh on flesh, driving the air from Jake's body. His brother's head sagged forward between blows, only to snap back up when the next one came. Sweat poured down Jake's face, mixing with tears, his white undershirt now dark with perspiration and clinging to his heaving chest.
"Keep his head up," the leader ordered. "Camera needs to see his face."
One of the other men grabbed a fistful of Jake's hair and yanked his head back. Jake's eyes rolled, unfocused, but Billy could see his brother fighting to stay conscious, fighting to stay present.
The punches continued. Methodical. Measured. Professional.
Billy lost count after twenty. His own body had gone numb, every muscle strained against the hogtie, his shoulders burning, his wrists slick with blood from the rope. But he couldn't look away. Wouldn't look away. If Jake had to endure this, then Billy would witness every second of it.
Jake's abs, once tight and flexed in defense, had gone soft. Each punch now sank deeper, and Jake's muffled groans had turned to weak whimpers. His eyes, when they found Billy's, were glazed and distant.
"Almost done," the leader said, stepping back to examine his work. Jake's head lolled forward, his entire weight held up only by the ropes binding him to the wall. His chest rose and fell in shallow, rapid gasps.
"Last one. Make it count."
The leader wound up and drove his fist deep into Jake's stomach, just below the ribcage. Billy heard something—a crack, maybe, or just the sound of all the air leaving his brother's lungs at once.
Jake's body went rigid, every muscle seizing. His eyes opened wide, pupils dilated, looking at something far beyond the barn walls. Then his eyes rolled back, his head dropped forward, and his body went completely limp against the ropes.
"Jake!" Billy tried to scream, but the sound died in the tape.
"And... cut." The leader stepped back, breathing only slightly harder than when he'd started. "Check his pulse."
One of the men pressed fingers to Jake's neck. "He's out. Still breathing."
"Good. We need him alive." The leader turned toward the camera. "Upload that and send it to the consortium contact. Add the message: 'Twenty-four hours. Five million dollars. Or the next video shows what happens to the other one.'"
Five million. Billy's mind reeled. The consortium had assets, land, cattle—but five million in cash? That would take time. Time Jake might not have.
The men started to pack up the camera equipment, talking among themselves in low voices. None of them looked at Jake, still hanging unconscious against the wall, or at Billy, still hogtied on the floor.
"What about him?" someone asked, gesturing at Billy.
"Leave him. Let him think about what's coming." The leader crouched down next to Billy, his masked face inches away. "Your brother lasted fifteen minutes. Wonder how long you'll last when it's your turn."
Billy glared at him through his tears, memorizing every detail he could—the voice, the build, the way he moved. If he got out of this, he'd remember. He'd find them.
The leader stood and headed for the door. "We'll be back in a few hours. Need to give them time to see the video. Let it sink in."
The barn door opened, letting in a slice of bright daylight, then slammed shut. Boots on gravel, fading. An engine starting. Then silence.
Billy lay on the cold dirt floor, his body screaming in pain, staring at his brother's limp form fifteen feet away.
Jake's chest still rose and fell. Barely. But he was breathing.
Billy closed his eyes and started to work the ropes. He had to get free. He had to save his brother.
He had a few hours, maybe less.
The clock was ticking.
Chapter 4
The sun hung high and merciless over the east pasture when Josh wiped the sweat from his forehead and surveyed their work. The cattle rotation had gone smoother than expected—the herd moved without incident, the gates all functioned properly, and they'd finished a full hour ahead of schedule.
"Not bad for a morning's work," Tom said, closing the last gate behind them.
Billy Jr pulled off his work gloves and squinted toward the ranch house in the distance. "Grandma's gonna be surprised we're back this early."
"Don't get used to it," Josh said with a grin. "Tomorrow we're fixing that busted section of the north fence."
The rumble of an engine made them turn. Pops' old pickup bounced across the pasture, dust trailing behind it. The truck pulled up alongside them, and Pops leaned out the window with a cooler in the passenger seat.
"Heard on the radio you boys were wrapping up," Pops said, his cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth. "Figured you earned yourselves a cold one."
Josh laughed. "It's not even noon yet, Pops."
"Sun's over the yardarm somewhere." Pops climbed out and opened the cooler, pulling out three sweating bottles of beer and passing them around. He grabbed a fourth for himself. "Besides, real work deserves real rewards."
Billy Jr accepted his bottle, the cold glass feeling like heaven in the heat. Tom popped the cap off his and took a long pull.
"Where's Billy and Jake?" Pops asked, looking around as if they might materialize from the pasture.
"South wells," Josh said. "Checking the water pumps. Should've been done by now, actually."
Tom glanced at his watch. "They left at quarter to seven. It's been over four hours."
"Probably stopped to mess around," Billy Jr said, though something uneasy stirred in his gut. His uncle Billy was a lot of things, but he wasn't one to waste time when there was work to be done.
Pops took a swig of his beer. "Why don't we ride out there? Bring 'em some cold ones. If they're still working in this heat, they've earned it."
"Not a bad idea," Josh said.
They piled into two trucks—Pops and Billy Jr in one, Josh and Tom in the other—and headed south along the dirt access road. The landscape rolled past, familiar and vast, cattle dotting the distant hills.
Billy Jr kept his eyes on the road ahead, that uneasy feeling growing stronger. He reached for the radio on his belt.
"Billy, Jake, you copy?" he said into the handset.
Static.
"Billy, Jake, this is Jr. You guys there?"
More static.
"Could be out of range," Tom said from the other truck, his voice crackling over the radio.
"They're not out of range," Billy Jr said quietly. "I set up these radios myself. They've got coverage across the entire property."
Pops shot him a look but said nothing.
They crested a rise, and Billy Jr's heart dropped.
The mule quad lay on its side fifty yards off the road, one wheel still slowly spinning. The front end was crumpled like tin foil, the windshield shattered. Debris scattered across the dirt—a water bottle, a work glove, Billy's radio lying in the dust.
"Jesus Christ," Pops breathed.
Both trucks skidded to a stop. Billy Jr was out before they'd fully stopped moving, sprinting toward the wreckage. His boots pounded the hard-packed earth, his pulse hammering in his ears.
"Billy! Jake!" he shouted.
No answer.
He reached the quad and dropped to his knees, looking for blood, for bodies, for anything. The vehicle had been hit hard—tire tracks led from the brush where something had crashed into them. Another set of tracks led away, bigger tires, a pickup truck maybe.
"They're not here," Josh said, breathless behind him.
Tom was already examining the ground, his rancher's eye reading the story written in the dirt. "There was a struggle. Multiple sets of boot prints. Someone dragged something—" He stopped, his face going pale. "Someone dragged them."
Billy Jr's hands shook as he reached for the emergency button on his radio. The red button he'd installed on every device in the consortium network. The one they'd only tested, never used.
He pressed it.
"911 Emergency," the automated voice said three times over every radio frequency in the system. "Billy Junior Benson. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior Benson. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior Benson."
The radio crackled to life immediately.
"Jr, this is Ray, what's your status?" Ray's voice was sharp, urgent.
"South access road, half mile from the wells," Billy Jr said, his voice steady despite the terror clawing at his chest. "Billy and Jake are gone. The quad's destroyed. Signs of a struggle. We need everyone here now."
"Scrambling frequency," Ray said. A series of clicks, and then the channel went encrypted. "All consortium members, this is an emergency situation. Converge on the Benson ranch house. Wade, you copy?"
"Copy," Sheriff Wade Nelson's voice came through, already moving. "I'm ten minutes out with Wilson and Ryan. Jr, don't touch anything else. That's a crime scene."
"Understood."
The radio exploded with chatter—Caroline Beaumont's panicked voice, Robert asking for details, Celeb and Louisiana confirming they were heading back, the Matterns, the Renzos, the Rodriguezes all responding.
Billy Jr stood there in the middle of the wreckage, staring at his uncle's radio lying in the dirt, and felt the world tilt sideways.
Someone had taken them. Someone had taken Billy and Jake.
Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived in a spray of gravel, his cruiser followed by two more carrying his sons Wilson and Ryan, both in their deputy uniforms. Wade was out of the vehicle before it fully stopped, his weathered face grim as he took in the scene.
"Nobody moves," Wade barked. "This is a crime scene as of right now."
Ryan grabbed the forensics kit from the trunk while Wilson started marking off the area with yellow tape. Wade crouched by the quad, his trained eyes scanning everything—the impact point, the tire tracks, the scattered belongings.
"This was professional," Wade said quietly. "Calculated hit. They knew what they were doing."
"How long ago?" Josh asked.
Wade checked his watch, then looked at the position of the sun. "Tracks are still fresh. Three, maybe four hours. They've got a head start."
Pops stood there, his beer forgotten in his hand, his face carved from stone. Billy Jr had never seen his great-grandfather look like that—old, suddenly, and dangerous.
"Let's get back to the house," Wade said, standing. "Ryan, Wilson, I want photos of everything. Tire impressions, boot prints, the whole scene. Then meet us back at the Benson place."
"Yes, sir," both deputies said in unison.
The drive back to the ranch house felt like an eternity. Billy Jr's mind raced through scenarios, each one worse than the last. Who would take them? Why? What did they want?
The answer to that last question, he suspected, was money. The consortium was worth millions. And Billy and Jake were leverage.
By the time they pulled into the ranch yard, it looked like a parking lot. Trucks from all six consortium families lined the driveway. The Beaumonts, the Nelsons, the Matterns, the Renzos, the Rodriguezes—everyone had come.
Billy Jr headed straight for the house, taking the stairs two at a time. He burst through the door to the command center—the room next to the frat house that he and Billy had outfitted with everything they needed.
Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were already there, pulling up the network, powering on the satellite phones, running diagnostics on the drones.
"How fast can we get eyes in the air?" Billy Jr asked, his voice clipped and professional despite the fear eating at him.
"Five minutes," Billy Renzo said, his fingers flying over the keyboard. "All six drones are charged and ready."
"Thermal imaging?"
"Online."
"Satellite phones?"
"Encrypted and distributed," Daniel said, holding up the cases. "Everyone gets one."
Billy Jr looked at his three best friends—boys he'd grown up with, hunted with, worked alongside. Boys who right now looked like soldiers preparing for war.
"Let's find them," he said.
Downstairs, the adults gathered in the big living room. Sarah Benson sat on the couch, Rebecca beside her, both women pale but composed. The consortium heads stood in a circle—Tom, Josh, Ray, Robert Beaumont, Wade Nelson, the Matterns, the Renzos, the Rodriguezes.
And at the head of them all stood Pops, his jaw set, his eyes cold.
"Whoever took my great-grandsons just made the biggest mistake of their lives," Pops said quietly. "We're getting them back. Whatever it takes."
"Amen," Wade said.
The war council had begun.
Chapter 5
The Benson ranch house had never held this many people. Every room seemed to overflow—ranchers in the kitchen, women gathered in the dining room, men standing shoulder to shoulder in the living room. Voices overlapped, radios crackled, and the air thrummed with barely controlled panic.
"We should be out there searching," Robert Beaumont said, pacing near the fireplace. "Every minute we waste—"
"We don't even know where to search," Ray cut in, his business manager's logic fighting against his fear. "They could be anywhere within a hundred-mile radius."
"Then we search everywhere," Celeb said from the doorway, Louisiana beside him. Both boys looked shaken, their faces pale. They'd been working the north fence when the 911 call came through.
"With what?" Wade Nelson stood with his arms crossed, his sheriff's authority imposing order on the chaos. "We can't just ride out blind. We need information."
"The deputies are processing the scene," Wilson added. "We'll have tire tracks, maybe a lead on the vehicle—"
"That could take hours!" Josh's voice rose, his fists clenched. Rebecca touched his arm, but he pulled away. "My brothers are out there. We can't just sit here and wait."
"Nobody's sitting around," Wade said firmly. "But we move smart, or we don't move at all."
Upstairs in the command center, Billy Jr's fingers flew across the keyboard while his three friends worked in synchronized silence. Billy Renzo had two laptops open, running location algorithms. Ryan Mattern was prepping the drone fleet, checking batteries and camera feeds. Daniel Rodriguez had the satellite phone network mapped out on a tablet, ready to distribute.
"How long until the drones are airborne?" Billy Jr asked without looking up.
"Three minutes," Ryan said. "Flight patterns programmed. We'll cover a twenty-mile radius in the first sweep."
"Thermal's calibrated," Billy Renzo added. "If they're out there, we'll see heat signatures."
Billy Jr's phone buzzed. A text from Anna: Praying for them. Whatever you need.
He didn't respond. Couldn't. Every second counted.
The landline rang downstairs.
The sound cut through the chaos like a gunshot. Every voice in the house fell silent. Billy Jr's blood went cold.
"That's the house line," Tom said quietly. "Nobody calls the house line."
Wade was already moving, pulling out a recording device from his belt. "Answer it. Keep them talking. I'll trace it."
Tom and Sarah stood frozen by the old rotary phone on the hall table. Sarah's hand trembled as she reached for it, but Tom caught her wrist gently and picked up the receiver himself.
"Hello?"
A digitally distorted voice crackled through the line. "Thomas Benson. You're going to listen very carefully."
Tom's face drained of color. Wade pressed the recorder against the phone, already signaling Ryan through the doorway to get tracking equipment.
"Who is this?" Tom demanded.
"We have your sons. Billy and Jake. If you want them back alive, you'll do exactly as we say."
Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. Josh started forward, but Robert held him back.
"Are they alive?" Tom's voice cracked. "Let me talk to them."
"They're alive. For now. Check your email. We sent you a video. Watch it. Then we'll talk about payment."
"Wait—"
The line went dead.
Tom stood there, receiver still pressed to his ear, his face ashen. Wade grabbed his phone, already calling his tech contact. "I need a trace on that call. Now."
"Email," Sarah whispered. "They said email."
Ray was already pulling out his laptop, logging into the consortium's shared email account. His hands shook as he typed in the password. The inbox loaded.
One new message. No subject line. Sent from an encrypted address.
Ray clicked it open.
A video file. 47 megabytes.
"Should we—" Ray started.
"Play it," Pops said from behind them, his voice like gravel.
Ray hit play.
The screen filled with the image of the barn—dim, dusty, and in the center, Jake. Roped to the wall, arms spread, chest bound tight. His white undershirt soaked with sweat, his face streaked with tears and desperation.
Then the first punch landed.
Sarah turned away, sobbing into Tom's shoulder. Rebecca's knees buckled, and Josh caught her. The room watched in horrified silence as the beating continued—punch after punch, Jake's body convulsing, his muffled screams, the methodical brutality of it.
And in the corner of the frame, barely visible—Billy. Hogtied on the floor. Forced to watch.
The video lasted four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. When it ended with Jake slumping unconscious against the ropes, nobody spoke.
Then Pops moved. He walked to the gun cabinet in the hallway, unlocked it with the key he always kept on him, and pulled out his old service rifle from Vietnam.
"We're getting them back," he said quietly. "And whoever did this is going to wish they'd never been born."
"Pops—" Tom started.
"No." The old man's voice was steel. "These bastards just declared war on my family. We're going to finish it."
Wade stepped forward. "I'm with you. But we do this right. We arm up, we coordinate, and we move as one unit."
"Agreed," Robert said, and the other consortium heads nodded.
Josh was already heading for the gun safe in the study. "We've got enough firepower for everyone. Rifles, shotguns, sidearms."
Upstairs, Billy Jr heard the commotion and appeared at the top of the stairs. "What happened?"
"They sent a video," Wade said grimly. "It's bad, son."
Billy Jr's jaw tightened. "We're going after them."
"Damn right we are," Pops said.
"Then we need intel first." Billy Jr turned and called back into the command center. "Billy, Ryan, Daniel—get down here. Bring the satellite phones and the iPad cases."
The three boys appeared moments later, arms full of equipment. Billy Jr addressed the room with a calm that belied his sixteen years.
"The phone call—Wade, did you get anything?"
"My guy's working on it. Cell tower pings take time, but we'll have a general location soon."
"Good. We've got six drones ready to launch. Thermal and night vision. We'll grid-search a twenty-mile radius to start, expanding outward. Everyone gets a satellite phone and an iPad. The iPads are synced—when the drones find something, all eighteen screens will show the same feed."
"Eighteen?" Ray asked.
"We added three more yesterday," Billy Renzo said. "For redundancy."
Wade nodded approvingly. "Smart kids."
"What about weapons?" Billy Jr asked, his voice steady.
Josh looked at Wade, who hesitated, then nodded. "You four know how to shoot. You've been hunting since you could walk. If we're going into this, you're armed." He looked at the boys. "Sidearms only. You stay with the group, you follow orders, and you do not engage unless I give the word. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," all four boys said in unison.
Tom opened the safe and pulled out four holstered Glock 19s—reliable, familiar sidearms they'd all trained with. He handed them out one by one, his face grim.
Billy Jr clipped the holster to his belt. It felt heavier than it should have.
"Drones are launching now," Ryan Mattern said, checking his tablet. Outside, the mechanical whir of rotors filled the air as six drones lifted off from the yard, their cameras blinking to life.
The consortium members gathered in the living room, each now holding an iPad. The screens showed six separate aerial views, the drones spreading out in coordinated patterns across the countryside.
"Search grid alpha through foxtrot," Billy Jr said into his radio. "Thermal imaging active. Looking for heat signatures, vehicles, structures."
The adults armed themselves in silence—rifles slung over shoulders, shotguns loaded, sidearms holstered. These were ranchers, hunters, men and women who knew their way around firearms. But this wasn't hunting.
This was war.
Pops stood at the head of them all, his old rifle in his hands, his eyes hard. "When we find them, nobody fires unless Wade or I give the order. But when we do—" He looked around the room. "—we end this."
"Amen," Josh said softly.
The iPads glowed in the dimming afternoon light, eighteen screens showing the vast Texas landscape from above. Somewhere out there, in those woods or that barn or that forgotten stretch of road, Billy and Jake were waiting.
Waiting to be found.
Waiting to be saved.
The consortium stood ready.
And the hunt began.
Chapter 6
The barn settled into silence after the kidnappers left. Billy could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his ears, each breath through his nose a struggle against the tape gag. His body screamed from the hogtie—shoulders wrenched back, wrists and ankles bound together behind him, every muscle cramping.
Fifteen feet away, Jake hung limp against the wall, unconscious. Billy watched his brother's chest rise and fall in shallow breaths. At least he was breathing.
Billy tested the ropes again. They were tight, professional knots that didn't give. But whoever had tied them hadn't counted on fourteen-hour days of ranch work building the kind of grip strength that could wrestle a two-hundred-pound calf to the ground.
He started with his wrists. The rope connecting them to his ankles had some play—not much, but enough. Billy flexed his fingers, working blood back into them, then started pulling. The hogtie forced his body into an arch, but he used that tension, rocking slightly, creating friction against the rope.
Pain shot through his shoulders. He ignored it.
Jake stirred, his head lifting slightly, then dropping forward again. A low moan escaped from behind his gag.
Stay with me, brother, Billy thought. Just stay with me.
Minutes crawled by. Billy's fingers found the knot at his wrists, traced its shape. A standard cinch knot, pulled tight but not impossible. He worked at it, his fingernails digging into the hemp, searching for any give.
The rope shifted. Just a fraction of an inch, but it shifted.
Billy's heart raced. He pulled harder, twisting his wrists against each other, using his body weight to create leverage. The knot loosened another fraction. Then another.
Outside, three miles to the north, Billy Jr watched his iPad screen as Drone 3 swept over a section of dense forest.
"Heat signatures," he said sharply. "Drone 3, southwest quadrant. I've got a structure and a vehicle."
Every iPad in the room lit up with the same feed. A barn, partially hidden by trees. A pickup truck parked beside it, the engine still warm on thermal.
"That's them," Wade said, already moving. "Wilson, Ryan, get the coordinates to my phone. Everyone, vehicles now!"
The consortium mobilized like a military unit. Trucks roared to life, men checking weapons, radios crackling with coordinates and tactical positioning. Pops climbed into the lead truck with Wade, his rifle across his lap.
Billy Jr and his three friends piled into Josh's F-250 with their iPads, monitoring the drone feeds as the convoy tore down the dirt roads.
"They're moving," Daniel said suddenly. "The truck—it's moving!"
On the screens, the thermal signature of the pickup truck shifted, pulling away from the barn and heading deeper into the woods.
"They must've spotted the drones," Billy Renzo said.
"All units, suspects are mobile," Wade's voice crackled over the radio. "Heading southwest on what looks like a logging road. We're in pursuit. Assume Billy and Jake are in the vehicle."
The convoy accelerated, dust billowing behind them.
In the barn, Billy felt the knot finally give.
His wrists came free from the connecting rope, and suddenly he could move his arms. He bent forward, ignoring the screaming protest from his back, and attacked the rope around his ankles. His fingers were numb, bleeding from the hemp, but he didn't stop.
The ankle rope loosened. Then fell away.
Billy rolled onto his side, gasping through his nose, every muscle on fire. He reached up and ripped the tape from his mouth, the adhesive tearing at his skin. He didn't care.
"Jake," he croaked. "Jake, hold on."
He tried to stand and his legs buckled. No feeling in his feet, circulation cut off from the hogtie. Billy crawled instead, dragging himself across the dirt floor toward his brother.
Jake's head hung forward, his breathing ragged. Billy pulled himself up using the ropes binding Jake's chest, his hands shaking as he found the knots.
"I got you," Billy whispered. "I got you, brother."
The chest ropes came first—three loops, each with its own knot. Billy's fingers worked on autopilot, muscle memory from years of working with rope on the ranch. The hemp fell away, and Jake sagged forward without the support, his weight pulling on his bound wrists.
Billy moved to Jake's left wrist, then his right. The knots were tighter here, pulled taut by Jake's weight and his earlier struggling. Billy used his teeth when his fingers couldn't get purchase, ignoring the taste of blood and dirt.
The right wrist came free. Then the left.
Jake collapsed forward into Billy's arms, and they both went down to the floor in a heap. Billy held his brother, feeling the heat radiating from Jake's battered body, the shallow rise and fall of his chest.
"Jake," Billy said, shaking him gently. "Jake, wake up. We gotta move."
Jake's eyes fluttered open, unfocused and glazed. He tried to speak, but the tape stopped him. Billy carefully peeled it away.
"Billy?" Jake's voice was barely a whisper.
"I'm here. Can you stand?"
"Don't... don't know."
Billy got his arms under Jake's shoulders and pulled them both upright. His brother leaned heavily against him, one arm wrapped around Billy's shoulders. Together they stumbled toward the barn door.
Billy pushed it open, and daylight flooded in, blinding after the dim interior. He blinked, his eyes adjusting.
Trees. Nothing but trees in every direction. Dense forest, the kind that went on for miles. And where the pickup truck had been parked—just tire tracks in the dirt, already being swallowed by the shadows.
The kidnappers were gone.
Billy and Jake stood there in the doorway, two brothers barely able to stand, surrounded by wilderness with no idea which direction led home.
And somewhere in the distance, Billy could hear the faint mechanical hum of drones.
Chapter 7
The convoy screamed down the logging road, eight trucks in formation, dust and gravel flying. Billy Jr kept his eyes locked on the iPad, watching the thermal signature of the fleeing pickup truck weave through the forest.
"They're heading for the old Miller property," Wade said over the radio. "Dead end. They're going to have to stop or go off-road."
"We've got them boxed," Josh confirmed from the truck behind. "No way out."
In the command center back at the ranch, Sarah and Rebecca sat with Caroline Beaumont and Mary Nelson, all four women watching the live drone feeds on the main monitor. The image showed the convoy closing in on the pickup truck, the gap narrowing.
"Please let them be okay," Rebecca whispered, her hand clutching Mary's.
Sarah's face was stone, but her knuckles were white on the armrest.
"Contact in thirty seconds," Wilson's voice crackled over the radio.
Billy Jr's heart pounded. His uncle Billy was in that truck. Had to be. They were going to get them back.
The pickup truck skidded to a stop in a clearing, blocked by fallen trees. Three masked figures jumped out, and the glint of weapons caught the afternoon sun.
"They're armed!" Wade shouted. "Take cover!"
The consortium trucks fanned out, men pouring out with rifles ready. Pops was already taking position behind his truck's engine block, his Vietnam training kicking in like he'd never left the jungle.
"Drop your weapons!" Wade commanded, his sheriff's voice carrying across the clearing. "There's no way out!"
The response was gunfire.
The shootout lasted less than three minutes. The kidnappers were outgunned and outmanned—three against twenty armed ranchers and law enforcement. Wade and his deputies returned fire with precision. Pops squeezed off two shots that found their marks. Robert Beaumont and the Mattern brothers provided covering fire while Josh and Tom flanked from the right.
When the smoke cleared, all three kidnappers lay on the ground. Wilson and Ryan moved in carefully, weapons raised, checking for pulses.
"All dead," Ryan confirmed.
Josh was already running toward the pickup truck, Billy Jr right behind him. Josh yanked open the driver's door, then the passenger side. He looked in the bed.
Empty.
"They're not here," Josh said, his voice hollow. "Billy and Jake aren't here."
"What?" Tom ran over, checking for himself. Nothing. No rope, no evidence, no brothers.
Billy Jr felt his stomach drop. "The barn. They must still be at the barn."
Wade was already on the radio. "All units, return to the barn location immediately. Boys are not with the suspects. I repeat, not with the suspects."
The convoy tore back through the woods, retracing their route. The sun was sinking lower, painting the sky orange and red. Billy Jr pulled up the drone feed that had shown the barn.
"Drone 3, return to barn coordinates. Thermal scan the structure."
The drone pivoted and raced back. The feed showed the barn growing larger on screen—and then the thermal image. Empty. No heat signatures inside.
"They're gone," Billy Renzo said. "They got out."
"Then where are they?" Josh demanded.
Billy Jr's mind raced. "They escaped. They're on foot. In the woods." He looked at the vast expanse of forest on the screen. "We need all drones searching. Night vision and thermal. Grid pattern, expanding from the barn."
"Do it," Wade said.
The convoy reached the barn just as the sun touched the horizon. Josh and Tom burst through the door to find cut ropes on the floor, ropes hanging from the wall, tape discarded in the dirt.
"They got free," Tom said, a mixture of relief and terror in his voice. "They're out there somewhere."
Night fell fast in the deep woods. The temperature dropped, but the humidity hung thick in the air.
Two miles southeast of the barn, Billy stumbled over another root, catching himself on a tree trunk. Jake leaned heavily against him, barely able to walk. His brother's breathing was labored, each step an effort.
"Gotta... stop," Jake gasped.
"Can't stop," Billy said, though his own legs were shaking. "Gotta keep moving. They're looking for us."
The humidity was suffocating. Both of them were drenched in sweat, their white undershirts clinging to their skin like wet rags. Billy could feel Jake shivering despite the heat—shock, probably, from the beating.
"This heat... can't breathe," Jake managed.
Billy stopped and helped Jake lean against a tree. His brother's face was pale in the moonlight filtering through the canopy. Without a word, Billy grabbed the hem of his undershirt and pulled it over his head, tossing it aside. The night air felt marginally better against his bare skin.
"Come on," Billy said, helping Jake do the same. Jake's torso was a mess of bruises, dark purple spreading across his ribs and stomach. Billy tried not to look.
They kept moving, bare-chested now, the moonlight casting shadows through the trees. Billy had no idea which direction they were going—just away from the barn, toward what he hoped was home.
"You hear that?" Jake whispered suddenly.
Billy froze. A faint mechanical hum, distant but distinct.
"Drone," Billy breathed.
They both looked up, scanning the canopy. There—a blinking light moving through the trees, maybe a hundred yards away.
"Here!" Billy shouted, waving his arms. "We're here!"
The drone passed, not reacting. Too far, or the trees were too thick.
"Move," Billy said urgently. "We gotta get to a clearing."
They pushed forward, Jake grunting with pain but moving faster now, energized by hope. The drone sound grew louder, circling back.
Ahead, a gap in the trees—not quite a clearing, but open enough. Billy dragged Jake into it and both brothers started waving their arms.
"HERE!" Billy screamed. "WE'RE HERE!"
The drone appeared overhead, its camera swiveling down toward them. The red recording light blinked.
In Josh's truck, Billy Jr's iPad suddenly showed two figures in thermal—heat signatures in human form, standing in a small clearing, arms raised.
"I got them!" Billy Jr shouted into the radio. "Drone 4, I've got them! Two heat signatures, southwest of the barn, approximately two miles. They're alive!"
Every radio in the convoy erupted in voices—relief, joy, orders being given. The trucks changed course, following Billy Jr's coordinates.
On the iPad screen, Billy Jr watched the thermal images. One figure was supporting the other. His uncle Billy, holding up Jake.
"Hang on," Billy Jr whispered to the screen. "We're coming."
Billy heard the trucks before he saw them—engines roaring, getting closer. Jake had collapsed to his knees, and Billy held him upright, one arm around his brother's shoulders.
"You hear that?" Billy said. "They're coming. We're going home."
Headlights broke through the trees, and then the first truck burst into view. Josh was out before it stopped, running toward them. Tom right behind him.
"Billy! Jake!"
Billy's legs finally gave out, and he and Jake both went down. But then there were arms around them—Josh, Tom, Pops somehow moving faster than a 76-year-old should be able to move.
"I got you," Josh said, lifting Jake carefully. "I got you, brother."
Tom pulled Billy into a tight embrace. "You're okay. You're both okay."
Billy Jr appeared, his young face streaked with tears. He looked at Billy, then at Jake's battered body, and something hardened in the boy's expression. Rage, Billy realized. Pure rage at what had been done to his family.
"Let's get them home," Wade said quietly.
They loaded Jake carefully into the back of one truck, laying him across the seat with his head in Rebecca's lap. She'd come with the convoy, unable to wait at home. Billy climbed into another truck, wrapped in a blanket despite the heat, Pops beside him with one weathered hand on his shoulder.
"You did good, boy," Pops said gruffly. "Saved your brother. Did real good."
Billy couldn't speak. Could only nod.
The convoy turned for home, headlights cutting through the darkness, carrying two brothers back from hell.
Behind them, the woods fell silent again, keeping their secrets.
But the Benson brothers were going home.
Chapter 8
The ranch house was ablaze with light when the convoy pulled in, every window glowing like a beacon. Sarah stood on the porch, her hand clutching the railing, watching as the trucks rolled to a stop.
Josh and Tom helped Jake out carefully, the boy moving slow but on his own feet. Rebecca stayed close, one hand hovering near his elbow. Billy climbed out of Pops' truck, wrapped in a blanket despite the lingering heat.
"You're skin and bones," Sarah said, pulling Billy into a tight hug the moment he reached the porch. "When did you last eat?"
"Breakfast," Billy said. "This morning. Feels like a year ago."
"Inside. Both of you." Sarah was already herding them toward the kitchen. "I'm feeding you right now."
The house filled rapidly as the convoy members poured in. The Beaumonts, the Nelsons, the Matterns, the Renzos, the Rodriguezes—nobody wanted to leave. They gathered in the living room and kitchen, voices low, the adrenaline of the rescue giving way to exhausted relief.
"First things first," Tom said, disappearing down the hall. He returned with two clean work shirts, tossing one to each of his sons. "Get out of those."
Billy and Jake pulled on the fresh shirts, both of them moving stiffly. Jake's face was tight with pain, but he didn't complain.
Pops appeared from his room carrying a bottle of Jack Daniels and a tumbler. He set both on the kitchen table in front of Billy and Jake, then pulled two beers from the fridge.
"Heroes deserve a proper drink," Pops announced, pouring three fingers of whiskey into the tumbler and sliding it toward Billy.
"Pops, they just got back," Sarah protested half-heartedly.
"Exactly why they need this." Pops cracked open a beer and handed it to Billy, then opened another for Jake. "You boys earned it."
Jake took the beer and nodded toward the cabinet. "Got any Tylenol?"
Sarah pulled down the bottle without a word. Jake shook out three pills, dry-swallowed them, and chased them with beer. That was the extent of medical treatment, and nobody suggested otherwise. These were ranch boys. You worked hurt, you walked it off, you didn't whine about it.
Billy took a long pull from his beer, the cold liquid like heaven down his throat. Pops poured himself a shot and raised it.
"To Billy and Jake," Pops said, his gravelly voice carrying through the house. "Tougher than woodpecker lips and twice as mean. Welcome home, boys."
"Welcome home," the room echoed.
Pops downed his shot, then immediately poured another. And another.
Sarah and the other women brought out platters of food—reheated brisket, fresh biscuits, green beans, mashed potatoes, anything they could pull together quickly. The dining table couldn't hold everyone, so people filled plates and found spots in the living room, on the porch, wherever they could sit.
Billy and Jake sat at the kitchen table, eating like they hadn't seen food in days. Jake moved slowly, each breath clearly painful, but he ate steadily. Nobody fussed over him. That wasn't how things worked.
The meal was the quietest on record. Normally when all six consortium families gathered, the house rang with laughter, arguments, stories. Tonight, people ate in near silence, the weight of what had almost happened pressing down on everyone.
As the evening wore on and plates emptied, Pops kept the Jack Daniels flowing. He poured shots for Tom, for Josh, for Wade, for Robert Beaumont. The men accepted them wordlessly, each one a silent toast to the boys who'd made it home.
"Another round," Pops announced, his words slightly slurred now.
"Pops, that's your ninth shot," Sarah said.
"Tenth. And I'm celebrating." He poured anyway, his weathered hand less steady than usual.
By ten o'clock, most of the men were tipsy. Wade Nelson, usually the picture of law enforcement professionalism, was leaning heavily against the wall telling a rambling story about his first day as sheriff. Robert Beaumont had his arm around Tom's shoulders, both of them looking red-faced and emotional.
Pops stood up, swayed slightly, and pointed at the assembled crowd. "Nobody drives tonight. You hear me? Every damn one of you is sleeping here. I don't care if you're on the floor, in a closet, or in the bathtub. Nobody leaves this house."
"Amen," Josh said, raising his beer.
"Caroline, Mary, you ladies take the guest rooms," Sarah said. "We'll figure out the rest."
Within the hour, grown men were claiming spots on couches, floors, even the wide hallway upstairs. Blankets and pillows appeared from closets. The house looked like a refugee camp, bodies sprawled everywhere in various states of consciousness.
Billy Jr caught Celeb's eye from across the kitchen and jerked his head toward the stairs. Billy and Jake were still at the table, working through their second plates, but the younger crew was ready to decompress.
The eight boys made their way upstairs—Billy Jr, Celeb, Louisiana, and the three wiz kids: Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. They filed into the frat house and Billy Jr locked the door behind them.
"Gentlemen," Billy Jr said with a grin. "I think this calls for a celebration of our own."
Celeb was already on his knees, prying up the loose floorboard. The secret stash revealed itself—a dozen bottles of beer they'd been accumulating over the past few months, kept cool by the stone foundation beneath.
"Pops is gonna kill us if he finds out we've been holding out," Louisiana said in his thick Cajun drawl, but he was already reaching for a bottle.
"Pops just downed half a bottle of Jack," Billy Jr said. "Pretty sure he's not gonna remember his own name tomorrow, much less our beer."
They cracked the bottles open, spreading out across the bunks, the mattress on the floor, wherever they could find space. Daniel and Ryan Mattern claimed spots on the floor, backs against the wall. Billy Renzo sat on the edge of Billy Jr's bunk.
For the first time in twelve hours, the tension started to ease.
"That was the scariest shit I've ever been through," Ryan Mattern said quietly. "Watching those drone feeds, thinking we were gonna find them—"
"But we did," Billy Jr cut in firmly. "We found them. They're home."
"Because of you," Daniel Rodriguez said. "That network you and Billy built? The 911 button, the drones, the iPads? That saved them, man."
Billy Jr took a long pull from his beer, not trusting himself to speak.
"To the wiz kids," Celeb said, raising his bottle. "And to Billy and Jake, the toughest sonsofbitches in Texas."
They clinked bottles, and the familiar banter started up again—the four sixteen-year-olds arguing about the drones' flight patterns, debating which of them had spotted the thermal signatures first. Louisiana insisted his Cajun prayers had done just as much as the technology, which earned him a thrown pillow from Billy Renzo.
"You see Pops with that rifle?" Celeb said, grinning. "Old man moves like he's still in the jungle. Thought he was gonna take all three of them down himself."
"He almost did," Ryan Mattern said. "Two confirmed hits. At seventy-six years old."
"Never getting on his bad side," Daniel muttered.
The door opened without warning.
All eight boys froze, beers in hand, looking like deer in headlights.
Pops stood in the doorway, still clutching his bottle of Jack Daniels, his eyes slightly unfocused but his grin sharp. Behind him, Billy and Jake appeared, both of them looking exhausted but steady on their feet.
"Well, well," Pops said. "What do we have here?"
"Pops, we can explain—" Billy Jr started.
Pops waved him off, stepping into the room. Billy and Jake followed, and suddenly the frat house felt even more crowded. "Explain what? That you boys earned yourselves a drink after the day you just had?" He raised his bottle in salute. "Damn right you did."
Billy reached down and grabbed two beers from the stash, handing one to Jake. "Didn't know you guys knew about our secret supply."
"Boy, I knew about that stash before you even moved the first bottle under there," Pops said. "I was hiding moonshine under floorboards before your daddy was born."
Jake eased himself down onto his bunk—the top one—and immediately grimaced. "Bottom bunk. I'm taking the bottom bunk tonight."
"Trade you," Billy said, already climbing up to the top. The two brothers switched spots, Jake moving carefully, his bruised ribs protesting every movement.
Pops looked at each of the boys in turn, his old eyes still sharp despite the whiskey. "You wiz kids saved my great-grandsons today. That fancy equipment, those drones, that network you built—that's what brought them home. So you drink your beers and you be proud of yourselves."
"Yes, sir," they said in unison.
"And Billy, Jake—" Pops' voice went rough. "You two got yourselves out of that hell and kept each other alive. That's what brothers do. That's what Bensons do."
Billy and Jake both nodded, not trusting themselves to speak.
Pops raised his bottle one more time. "Day off tomorrow, boys. All of you. Sleep in, nurse those hangovers, and don't let your grandmothers give you any grief about it. You earned it."
He took a long pull from the Jack Daniels and headed for the door. "Now I'm going to pass out in my chair downstairs. Don't burn the house down."
The door closed behind him, and the boys sat in silence for a moment.
Then Louisiana started laughing. "Did Pops just give us permission to get drunk?"
"I think he did," Celeb said, grinning.
"Day off tomorrow," Billy Jr repeated, shaking his head in disbelief. "When's the last time that happened?"
"Never," Jake said from his bunk, eyes already half-closed. "It's never happened."
They raised their bottles again, the banter flowing easier now. Billy Renzo and Daniel launched into an argument about which drone model performed better in low light. Ryan Mattern was already halfway through his second beer. Celeb and Louisiana started telling increasingly ridiculous stories about the day's events, each version more exaggerated than the last.
Billy Jr looked around the crowded frat house—his three best friends, Celeb and Louisiana who'd become like brothers, and his uncles Billy and Jake, home safe despite everything.
Tomorrow could wait.
Tonight, they were all safe.
Below them, the ranch house settled into quiet, full of sleeping families and the men who'd brought their boys home.
The beers kept flowing, the stories kept coming, and slowly, one by one, the boys started to drift off—some in bunks, some on the floor, Jake in his claimed bottom bunk with Billy above him.
The frat house, for one night, held all eight of them.
And that was exactly where they belonged.
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