The Shed

 

Chapter 1: Dust and Silence

The sun hung high over Kings County, turning the Texas dirt to powder under Billy Benson's boots. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and squinted at the fence line stretching before him. Another fifty yards of posts needed checking, maybe more. The mule cart sat idle behind him, loaded with tools and fresh wire.

Twenty-one years old, and Billy knew every inch of this land like he knew his own heartbeat. He'd grown up on the Benson Ranch, worked it since he could walk, and planned to work it until he couldn't anymore. That's just how it was for a Benson.

He grabbed the wire cutters from the cart and moved to the next post. The old barbed wire had rusted through in two places—cattle would push right through if he didn't replace it. Billy got to work, his powerful arms making quick work of cutting away the damaged section. His white undershirt clung to his chest and shoulders, darkened with sweat. He'd tied his bandana around his forehead to keep the sweat from his eyes.

Jake had offered to come with him this morning, but Billy had waved him off. "I got it, brother. You help Ray with the feed inventory." They did everything together, him and Jake, but sometimes a man just wanted the quiet of solo work. The rhythm of it. The thinking time.

He thought about Edna while he worked. Edna Nelson, with her bright laugh and the way she looked at him like he was the only person in the world. They were supposed to have dinner tonight at her parents' place. Sheriff Wade always made a big deal about Sunday dinners, and Billy never minded. The Nelsons were good people. More than good—they were practically family now, with the consortium and everything.

Billy twisted the new wire tight and moved to the next post.

That's when he heard it.

Not the normal sounds of the ranch. Not cattle or wind or the distant rumble of a tractor. This was different. A vehicle. Coming fast.

Billy straightened and turned. A black truck was barreling across the open field, dust billowing behind it. His first thought was someone was in trouble—driving like that meant emergency. He raised a hand to wave them down.

The truck didn't slow.

It skidded to a stop twenty feet from him, and three men jumped out. Billy's hand instinctively moved toward his belt, but he wasn't wearing his pistol—he'd left it in the mule cart.

That's when he saw the guns.

All three men had them drawn. Two pistols and a revolver, all pointed directly at his chest.

"Don't move, Benson." The man in front was tall, with a scar running down his left cheek. His voice was calm, almost businesslike. "Hands where we can see them."

Billy's heart slammed against his ribs. He slowly raised his hands. "What do you want?"

"We want you to cooperate." The scarred man gestured with his pistol. "Take that bandana off your head. Slowly."

Billy reached up with one hand and pulled the sweat-soaked bandana from his forehead. It was damp and warm in his palm.

"Good. Now tie it around your eyes. Make it tight. If we can see anything when you're done, you're gonna regret it."

"Look, I don't know what this is about, but—"

"Do it." The second man stepped closer, his pistol aimed at Billy's face. "Now."

Billy's jaw clenched. These weren't amateurs. They knew his name. They'd come prepared. And with three guns on him, he had no play here. Not yet.

He raised the bandana to his eyes and tied it behind his head, pulling it tight. The world went black.

"Can you see anything?" the scarred man asked.

"No."

"Good. Now walk toward my voice. Slowly."

Billy moved forward, his hands still partially raised, his boots crunching on the dry earth. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to fight, to do something—but he'd be dead before he took three steps.

Hands grabbed his arm. "Into the truck. Back seat."

They guided him to the vehicle, and Billy had to bend down to climb in. The seat was hot leather beneath him. He slid to the middle as hands pushed him from behind.

"Sit still. Don't talk. Don't move. Understand?"

Billy nodded.

A man climbed in on either side of him, sandwiching him between them. The truck dipped with their weight. The doors slammed shut. The third man got into the driver's seat.

The engine started, and they began to move.

Billy sat rigidly between the two men, his powerful arms tense, his white undershirt still soaked with sweat. The blindfold pressed tight against his eyes. He could feel the heat radiating from the men on either side of him, could smell gun oil and cigarettes.

"Where are you taking me?" Billy asked quietly.

The slap came fast and hard across his face, snapping his head to the side. His cheek stung, his ear rang.

"What did we say about talking?" the man on his left growled.

Billy said nothing. He clenched his jaw and faced forward—or what he thought was forward. The message was clear.

Time became a blur of motion and heat. The truck bounced over rough roads, turned left and right, slowed and accelerated. Billy tried to keep track at first—counting turns, estimating speed—but it was useless. They could be going in circles for all he knew.

His mind raced instead. This wasn't random. They'd known his name. They'd come prepared. They wanted something.

The consortium. The ranch. The money.

His family.

Jake would notice he was gone. Jake always noticed. And Billy Jr.—the kid was sharp, always watching. They'd find the mule cart abandoned. They'd hit the emergency button.

But would they find him in time?

The truck began to slow. Billy felt the change—smooth pavement giving way to gravel, then dirt. Branches scraped against the sides of the vehicle. The men on either side of him shifted.

"Almost there," the driver said.

Billy's stomach tightened. Wherever "there" was, it wasn't good.

The truck finally stopped. The engine cut off, and for a moment, there was only silence.

"Out," the man on his right said.

Billy was pulled from the truck, his boots hitting soft earth. The air smelled different here—pine, dirt, decay. They were in the woods. Deep woods, by the feel of it.

"Walk." Hands pushed him forward.

Billy walked blindly, guided by the grip on his arm. Twenty steps. Thirty. His boots hit what felt like wooden planks—a porch, maybe.

"Stop here."

Billy stopped. He stood there, breathing hard, listening. Four sets of footsteps around him. Birds in the distance. The creak of old wood.

"You can take it off now," a new voice said. Younger than Billy expected. Confident. "Let him see where he is."

Billy reached up and pulled the bandana down around his neck. He blinked against the light, his eyes adjusting.

When they focused, his stomach dropped.

He was standing in front of a sturdy wooden shed with a heavy padlock on the door. Beyond it stood a dilapidated house, its windows dark and empty. Trees pressed in from all sides—dense forest, miles from anywhere.

And in front of him, standing on the sagging deck of the house, was a fourth man. Younger than Billy expected—maybe twenty-five—wearing a white tank top and holding a semi-automatic rifle casually across his chest. Despite his youth, there was something cold and calculating in his eyes.

The young man smiled. "Welcome to your new home, Benson. Hope you like it. You're gonna be here a while."

Billy's powerful arms flexed at his sides, his white undershirt still soaked through. He stared at the man with the rifle, then at the shed, then back at the man.

"What do you want?" Billy's voice was steady despite the fear coursing through him.

The man's smile widened. "What do I want? I want three million dollars, son. And your family's gonna pay it."

He gestured with the rifle toward the shed.

"Now then—tie him up and lock him in the shed!"

Billy's heart kicked into overdrive. He took a half-step forward, his voice urgent. "Come on, man, they'll pay the ransom. You don't have to tie me up. Just lock me in there!"

The young man on the deck let out a short, harsh laugh. "Just lock you in there?" He shook his head slowly, his smile turning cruel. "I hope you like rope, Benson. It's going to torture those biceps of yours." He nodded to his men. "Put him in. Tie him up. Gag him. And lock the shed."

Billy's stomach lurched as rough hands grabbed him from behind.

"No—wait—"

But they were already dragging him toward the shed door.

Chapter 2: The Shed

The interior of the shed was dim and stifling. Dust hung in the air, visible in the thin shafts of light that leaked through gaps in the wooden walls. Billy's eyes darted around, taking in what he could—wooden shelves lined with rusted tools, a workbench in the corner, dirt floor packed hard beneath his boots.

"Sit." One of the men shoved a wooden chair into the center of the shed. It was old but solid, the kind that had been built to last.

Billy didn't move fast enough. Hands grabbed his shoulders and forced him down. The chair creaked under his weight.

"Hands behind your back," the scarred man ordered, pulling out coils of rope from a bag.

Billy's jaw clenched. "You don't need to do this. I won't—"

"Shut up." The man grabbed Billy's wrists and yanked them behind the chair. The rope came next, rough hemp that bit into his skin as it was wound tight around his wrists. Billy tested the binding immediately—no give. The man knew what he was doing.

The second man knelt down and began tying Billy's ankles to the front legs of the chair, wrapping the rope in tight figure-eights. Billy felt his mobility vanish with each loop.

Then came the worst part.

The scarred man moved in front of him with more rope. "This is gonna hurt," he said, almost conversationally. "But that's kind of the point."

He looped the rope across Billy's chest, just above his powerful arms, and began to pull. The rope dug into Billy's biceps as it was drawn tight, pinning his upper arms against his torso. Another loop. Tighter. Then another.

Billy gritted his teeth against the pain. The rope cut into the muscle, restricting blood flow, making his arms burn.

"Tighter," the third man said from the doorway.

The scarred man pulled harder. Billy couldn't help it—he grunted, his face twisting.

"There we go," the man said with satisfaction. He tied off the rope behind the chair, then stepped back to admire his work. "You ain't going nowhere, Benson."

Billy's breathing came hard and fast through his nose. His powerful arms strained against the ropes, but they only cut deeper. His white undershirt was soaked through now, sweat running down his face and neck.

"Gag him," the scarred man said.

Billy tried to turn his head, but rough hands grabbed his jaw. A bandana—not his own, this one was dry and smelled like motor oil—was stuffed into his mouth. Another cloth was tied around his head, holding the gag firmly in place.

Billy's heart pounded. He couldn't talk. Could barely move. The ropes across his chest were already making his biceps throb with pain.

The three men stepped back, looking at their work.

"Boss wants a picture," one of them said, pulling out a cell phone.

The flash went off twice, illuminating Billy's face in the darkness. His eyes burned with rage and fear, his jaw working uselessly against the gag.

"Good. Let's get out of here." The scarred man headed for the door, the other two following.

"Wait—" Billy tried to say through the gag, but it came out as nothing but muffled noise.

The door slammed shut.

The padlock clicked into place outside.

And Billy was alone.

Darkness swallowed him. Not complete darkness—those thin shafts of light still leaked through the walls—but enough that he couldn't see much beyond vague shapes. His eyes would adjust, he told himself. Just give it time.

The silence pressed in. No voices. No footsteps. Just the sound of his own breathing, harsh and fast through his nose, and the creak of the chair when he shifted his weight.

Billy tested the ropes again. His wrists were bound so tight he could barely flex his fingers. His ankles had no play at all. And the ropes across his chest—God, they were already cutting into his biceps, sending sharp jolts of pain through his arms with every breath.

He forced himself to breathe slower. Panic wouldn't help. Think. Focus.

Jake would notice he was gone by now. It had to be—what, two hours? Three? Jake would find the mule cart. He'd sound the alarm. The consortium would mobilize. Sheriff Wade would get involved.

But they didn't know where he was. Billy didn't even know where he was. Thirty miles? Fifty? He'd lost all sense of direction during the drive.

Three million dollars.

That's what the man had said. Three million. The consortium had money—the combined land holdings, the cattle, the investments—but three million in cash? That would take time. Days, maybe.

Could Billy last days tied like this?

His biceps were already screaming. The ropes cut deeper with every breath, every tiny movement. He could feel his arms starting to go numb.

He shifted his weight, trying to find a position that eased the pressure. The chair creaked but didn't give. He tried rocking it—maybe he could tip it over, break it somehow. But the moment he leaned too far, sharp pain shot through his arms and he had to stop.

Minutes crawled by. Or hours. Billy couldn't tell anymore.

His undershirt clung to him, drenched. Sweat dripped from his hair, ran down his face. The gag absorbed some of it, making it harder to breathe. His throat was dry, his tongue thick.

He thought about Edna. She'd be waiting for him tonight. Dinner at the Nelsons'. She'd be worried when he didn't show. Sheriff Wade would get involved then for sure.

He thought about Jake. His brother, his twin in all but blood. Jake would be going crazy right now. Billy could picture him—pacing, cursing, demanding answers, ready to tear the county apart to find him.

He thought about Billy Jr. The kid idolized him. Called him Uncle Billy like it was one word. What would Jr. think when he heard? Would he be scared? Or would he be in that command center, working the tech, trying to track him down?

The wiz kids. The drones. The satellite phones.

Hope flickered in Billy's chest. If anyone could find him, it was them. They had the resources, the skills, the determination.

He just had to survive long enough.

Billy closed his eyes and tried to center himself. The pain in his arms was constant now, a burning throb that wouldn't quit. He focused on breathing. In through his nose, slow and steady. Out through his nose. Don't think about the gag. Don't think about the ropes. Don't think about—

A sound outside made his eyes snap open.

Footsteps. Approaching the shed.

Billy's heart rate spiked. Were they coming back? To take another picture? To hurt him? To—

Liquid splashed against the outside of the shed.

Then again. And again.

The smell hit him a second later, seeping through the gaps in the walls.

Gasoline.

Billy's blood turned to ice.

They were dousing the shed with gasoline.

"No—" he tried to scream through the gag, but it came out as nothing. He thrashed against the ropes, ignoring the pain shooting through his arms. The chair scraped against the dirt floor but didn't move.

More splashing. The smell grew stronger, overwhelming. Billy could hear it now—the liquid running down the wooden walls, pooling at the base of the shed.

"That should do it," a voice said outside. One of the men. "Boss says we torch it if they don't pay by tomorrow night."

"What if they do pay?" another voice asked.

"Then we still torch it. No witnesses."

Billy's mind reeled. They were going to kill him either way. Pay or don't pay—it didn't matter. He was dead.

The footsteps retreated. Voices faded. An engine started in the distance.

Then silence.

Billy sat there in the darkness, bound and gagged, the smell of gasoline thick in his nose, and realized with absolute clarity that if he didn't escape, he was going to burn alive in this shed.

The ropes cut into his biceps.

The gag choked him.

And the clock was ticking.

Chapter 3: Something's Wrong

Jake Benson checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes. Four-thirty. Billy should've been back by now.

He stood in the main barn, inventory clipboard forgotten in his hand, staring out at the empty driveway. The afternoon sun was starting its descent, casting long shadows across the ranch. Everything looked normal. Felt normal.

Except it wasn't.

"Uncle Jake?" Billy Jr. appeared in the barn doorway, his muscular frame silhouetted against the light. At sixteen, the kid was already built like a man from ranch work, and he had instincts sharp as any adult. "Billy's not answering his phone."

Jake's jaw tightened. "How many times you try?"

"Four. Goes straight to voicemail every time." Jr. stepped closer, concern etched on his young face. "That's not like him."

No, it wasn't. Billy always answered. Always. Especially for Jr.

"Maybe his battery died," Jake said, but even as he said it, he didn't believe it. Billy had charged his phone that morning. Jake had watched him do it.

"Maybe," Jr. said, but his tone said he didn't believe it either.

Jake tossed the clipboard onto the workbench. "Come on. Let's go find him."

They took one of the ATVs, Jake driving with Jr. holding on behind. The fence line Billy had been working was about three miles out—easy terrain, nothing dangerous. Just routine maintenance.

But the unease in Jake's gut grew with every passing minute.

They found the mule cart fifteen minutes later.

It sat abandoned in the middle of the field, tools still scattered in the back, wire cutters lying in the dirt beside it. Billy's work gloves were draped over the side. His phone was in the cup holder.

But Billy was gone.

Jake killed the ATV engine and climbed off slowly, his eyes scanning the area. Jr. was already moving, circling the cart, looking for clues.

"Uncle Jake." Jr.'s voice was tight. He pointed at the ground.

Tire tracks. Deep ones, from a heavy vehicle. They tore through the field, coming from the access road and stopping right here. Right where Billy had been working.

Jake's blood went cold.

"Multiple boot prints," Jr. said, kneeling down. The kid had been hunting since he could walk—he knew how to read signs. "Four different treads. Maybe five. They surrounded this area."

Jake moved to the fence line. The wire Billy had been replacing was half-done, tools abandoned mid-task. This wasn't Billy taking a break or wandering off. This was Billy being interrupted.

Or taken.

"There's a scuffle here," Jr. called out. He was twenty feet away now, examining the dirt. "Boot prints—Billy's, I recognize the tread—and drag marks. Looks like he was fighting, then—"

"Then what?" Jake's voice came out harsher than he intended.

Jr. looked up, and for the first time, Jake saw real fear in the kid's eyes. "Then nothing. The tracks just stop. Like he was picked up and carried."

Jake's hands curled into fists. His brother. Someone had taken his brother.

"The tire tracks head back toward the access road," Jr. said, standing. "They're fresh. This happened recently. Maybe two, three hours ago?"

That matched the timeline. Billy had left around one-thirty. It was almost five now.

Jake pulled out his phone and dialed Billy's number. It rang from the cup holder of the mule cart, the screen lighting up with Jake's name.

He ended the call, his mind racing. Think. Focus. What would Billy do?

No—what would Billy need him to do?

"Jr.," Jake said quietly. "Get on the ATV. We're going back to the house."

"But Uncle Billy—"

"Is in trouble. And we need help. Now."

They made the ride back in half the time, Jake pushing the ATV as fast as it would go. Jr. held on tight, and Jake could feel the tension radiating off the kid.

They skidded to a stop in front of the main house. Pops was on the porch, beer in hand, and he took one look at their faces and stood up.

"What happened?" the old man barked.

"Billy's gone," Jake said, jumping off the ATV. "Someone took him."

Pops' face went hard as stone. "You sure?"

"Mule cart abandoned. Phone left behind. Tire tracks and boot prints everywhere. Signs of a struggle." Jake was already heading for the door. "This wasn't an accident."

Tom and Sarah appeared from inside, alerted by the commotion. Ray and Josh were right behind them.

"What's going on?" Tom demanded.

"Billy's been taken," Jake said, and saying it out loud made it real. Made it terrifying. "We need to move. Now."

"Taken?" Sarah's hand went to her mouth. "What do you mean taken?"

"I mean someone grabbed him from the field," Jake growled. "I mean we're wasting time standing here talking about it."

Josh stepped forward, his face pale but controlled. He was the general manager—the one who stayed calm in emergencies. "Jr., go to the command center. Check the surveillance feeds. See if any cameras caught vehicles on the access roads."

"On it, Dad." Jr. took off running toward the house.

"Ray, call Sheriff Wade," Josh continued. "Tell him what we know. Jake, show me exactly where you found the cart."

"No." The word came from Pops. Everyone turned to look at him. The old man's face was grim, his jaw set. "Not yet."

"Pops, we need to—"

"Hit the button first," Pops said. "Get everyone here. Then we move together."

Jake understood immediately. The consortium. The emergency system. Billy and Jr. had built it for exactly this reason.

"Jr.!" Jake shouted toward the house.

Jr. reappeared at the door, satellite phone already in hand. "Yeah?"

"Hit it. Hit the button."

Jr. didn't hesitate. He pressed the emergency activation.

A mechanical voice echoed from every satellite phone in the consortium network, repeating three times:

"911 Emergency. Billy Benson. 911 Emergency. Billy Benson. 911 Emergency. Billy Benson."

Within seconds, phones were ringing. The encrypted frequency activated. Voices crackled to life.

"Benson ranch, what's your emergency?" That was Sheriff Wade, his voice sharp and professional.

"Nelson ranch, we're here." Wilson's voice.

"Beaumont ranch responding." Robert Beaumont.

"Renzo here. What happened?"

"Mattern family standing by."

"Rodriguez ready."

One by one, all six families checked in. The consortium was mobilizing.

Jake grabbed the satellite phone from Jr. and keyed the mic. "This is Jake Benson. My brother Billy has been abducted. Taken from the north fence line approximately three hours ago. Multiple suspects, vehicle tracks leading east. We need everyone at the Benson ranch. Now."

There was a moment of stunned silence on the line.

Then Sheriff Wade's voice cut through, hard and commanding. "We're ten minutes out. Nobody moves until I get there. Understood?"

"Understood," Jake said, but his hands were shaking.

Billy Jr. appeared at his side, the kid's face set with determination that reminded Jake painfully of Billy. "Command center's up, Uncle Jake. I've got the wiz kids on standby. We're ready to work."

Jake looked at his nephew—at this kid who idolized Billy, who lived in the same room as him, who was probably terrified right now but showing nothing but strength—and felt something shift in his chest.

They would find Billy.

They had to.

"Good," Jake said. "Get your friends here. Get the drones prepped. Get everything ready." He looked at Josh, at Ray, at his parents, at Pops. "When Wade gets here, we're gonna tear this county apart until we find my brother."

No one argued.

In the distance, engines roared to life. The consortium was coming.

And somewhere out there, Billy was waiting for them.

Chapter 4: Consortium Assembled

The Benson Ranch had never seen so many vehicles arrive so fast.

They came from all directions—trucks kicking up dust on the access roads, ATVs cutting across the fields, even horses at full gallop. Within twenty minutes of Jr. hitting the emergency button, the front yard was packed with people, vehicles, and barely controlled chaos.

Jake stood on the porch, watching them arrive. His hands still trembled, but his jaw was set. Billy was out there somewhere. And now they had an army to find him.

Sheriff Wade Nelson was the first to arrive, his cruiser sliding to a stop with Wilson and Ryan right behind him in their patrol vehicles. The sheriff was out of his car before the engine stopped, his face carved from granite.

"Jake." Wade's voice was all business. "Walk me through it."

Jake did, quick and efficient. The timeline. The abandoned mule cart. The tire tracks. The boot prints. The signs of a struggle.

Wade's expression darkened with every word. "How long?"

"Three and a half hours. Maybe four."

"Jesus." Wade turned to his sons. "Wilson, Ryan—get on the radio. I want every deputy we have looking for a black truck, possibly heading east from the Benson property. Roadblocks on every major route out of the county."

"On it, Dad." Wilson was already pulling out his radio.

Robert and Caroline Beaumont arrived next, their truck screeching to a halt. Celab jumped out of the back before it fully stopped, his face pale.

"Jake!" Celab ran toward the porch. "Billy—is it true?"

"Someone took him," Jake said, and his voice cracked on the words. "They took him, Celab."

Celab's hands curled into fists. "Then we get him back."

"Damn right we do," Jake said.

The Renzo family pulled up, followed immediately by the Matterns and Rodriguezes. Car doors slammed. Voices overlapped. Questions were shouted.

But then Pops stepped onto the porch, and everyone went quiet.

The old man looked over the assembled families—six ranching dynasties, representing hundreds of thousands of acres and generations of Kings County history. His weathered face was hard, but his eyes burned.

"My grandson is missing," Pops said, his voice carrying across the yard. "Taken by force. Probably held for ransom." He paused, letting that sink in. "Now I know every one of you would do anything for your own. That's what family means. But this consortium—we built it on the idea that we're all family. All of us."

Heads nodded. A few voices murmured agreement.

"So here's what's gonna happen," Pops continued. "We're gonna find Billy. We're gonna bring him home. And if anyone tries to stop us—" His jaw set. "—then God help them, because we sure as hell won't."

A roar of approval went up from the crowd.

Sheriff Wade stepped forward. "I appreciate the sentiment, Pops. But this is a law enforcement matter now. I've got deputies mobilizing, state police on alert—"

"With respect, Wade," Pops interrupted, "your boys are good. But we got something better." He gestured toward the house. "We got those wiz kids."

As if on cue, Billy Jr. appeared at the door with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez flanking him. All four boys looked determined, focused, and—despite being only sixteen—completely in command.

"Command center is operational," Jr. announced. "We've got the satellite network up, encrypted channels active, and we're pulling surveillance footage from every camera on consortium property."

"The drones are prepped," Billy Renzo added. "Thermal imaging and night vision are both functional."

"We've got mapping software loaded with every road, trail, and access point in a fifty-mile radius," Ryan Mattern said.

"And I've already started triangulating cell tower data," Daniel Rodriguez finished. "If they used phones anywhere near here, we'll find the pings."

Sheriff Wade stared at the four teenagers, then looked at Josh. "You taught them all this?"

"Uncle Billy and Jr. taught themselves," Josh said, pride evident in his voice despite the fear. "The other boys learned from them. They've been building this system for over a year."

Wade shook his head slowly. "Alright then. Boys, you coordinate with my dispatch. Share everything you find."

"Yes, sir," the four said in unison.

Tom Benson stepped forward, his face gray with worry. Sarah stood beside him, her hand gripping his arm like a lifeline.

"What do we do?" Tom asked quietly. "How do we help?"

"We wait for the ransom demand," Wade said. "Because if this is about money—and I think it is—they'll make contact soon. They need you to know what they want."

"And if they don't?" Sarah's voice was barely a whisper.

"They will, Grandma," Jr. said, moving to her side. His mother Rebecca was right behind him, still in her nurse's scrubs from the hospital. "This is organized. Professional. They want something, and they'll tell us what."

"Three million dollars," Jake said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at him. "That's what Billy's worth to them. Maybe more. The consortium's assets are public record—anyone could figure out we have the capital."

"Then we pay," Celab said immediately. "Whatever they want. We pay it."

"Agreed," Robert Beaumont said. The other family heads nodded.

"Hold on," Wade cautioned. "Paying doesn't guarantee they'll release him. In fact, it might—"

His radio crackled to life. "Sheriff, we've got something. Wilson here. Traffic camera on Route 7 caught a black Dodge Ram heading east at 2:47 PM. Plates are obscured, but the timeframe matches."

Wade grabbed his radio. "Can you track it?"

"Lost it after ten miles. No cameras in that direction. But there's a lot of old logging roads out that way. Dense forest."

Jake's stomach dropped. Dense forest. Miles from anywhere. If they had Billy out there...

"We need to move," Jake said. "Now."

"Jake—" Wade started.

"No." Jake's voice was hard. "I'm not sitting here while my brother's out there. You want to coordinate with your deputies? Fine. But I'm going out there to look for him."

"We all are," Celab said, stepping up beside Jake.

"Count me in," Robert Beaumont added.

One by one, men from each family stepped forward. Within seconds, there were twenty volunteers ready to ride.

Wade looked at the assembled group, then at Pops, then at the determination on every face. He sighed.

"Alright. But we do this smart. No cowboy bullshit. We work in teams, we stay in radio contact, and nobody—nobody—engages with suspects without backup. Clear?"

"Clear," Jake said.

"Jr.," Wade called out. "You boys can really track phones and run those drones?"

"Yes, Grandpa Wade," Jr. said. "Already working on it."

"Then get me everything you've got. Cell pings, drone footage, satellite imagery—I don't care if you have to hack into NASA. Find me where they took him."

Jr.'s face split into a fierce grin that looked exactly like Billy's. "On it, Sheriff."

The four boys disappeared back into the house.

Sarah grabbed Jake's arm. "Please. Bring him home."

"I will, Mom," Jake promised. "I swear to God, I will."

Pops put a hand on Jake's shoulder. The old man's grip was still strong, steady. "You find your brother, boy. And you tell him his old Pops is waiting with a beer and a cigar."

"I will," Jake said, his throat tight.

Inside the house, in the newly christened command center, four sixteen-year-old boys hunched over laptops, tablets, and multiple screens. Maps glowed. Data streamed. Satellite phones chirped with encrypted communications.

"Got a cell ping," Daniel said suddenly. "Two-fifty-three PM. Tower six miles east of here."

"That matches the direction of the truck," Billy Renzo said, pulling up a map. "Logging roads. Old homesteads. Lots of places to hide someone."

"Narrow the search grid," Jr. said, his voice cold and focused in a way that would have made his uncle proud. "Every structure, every building, every shed within a ten-mile radius of that ping. I want targets."

"On it," Ryan said, fingers flying across his keyboard.

Jr. stared at the screen, at the blinking dot that represented the last known location of a phone near his uncle. Somewhere out there, Uncle Billy was waiting. Somewhere out there, he was scared, maybe hurt, maybe worse.

But they were coming.

The consortium was coming.

And God help anyone who stood in their way.

Chapter 5: The Ransom

The text message came through at 6:47 PM.

Tom Benson's phone buzzed on the kitchen table where the family had gathered. Everyone froze. Sheriff Wade, who'd been coordinating with his deputies, looked up sharply.

"Tom," Wade said quietly. "Don't touch it yet."

Tom stared at his phone like it was a snake. An unknown number. A text notification.

"Jr.!" Wade called toward the command center. "Get in here. Bring your equipment."

Billy Jr. burst through the door seconds later, Daniel Rodriguez right behind him with a laptop. "What is it?"

"Text message. Unknown number." Wade gestured at the phone. "Can you trace it?"

"Already on it," Daniel said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "Jr., get the phone connected to the system."

Jr. pulled out a cable and connected Tom's phone to Daniel's laptop. "Okay, we're mirrored. Whatever's on Grandpa Tom's phone, we can see it and trace it."

Wade nodded to Tom. "Open it."

Tom's hand shook as he picked up his phone. Sarah moved closer, her hand on his shoulder. Jake stood behind them, Celab at his side. The entire room seemed to hold its breath.

Tom opened the message.

The first thing they saw was the photo.

Billy. Tied to a chair in what looked like a shed, ropes cutting across his chest and arms, a gag in his mouth. His white undershirt was soaked with sweat, his powerful arms straining against the bonds. But it was his eyes that hit the hardest—wide with fear and rage, staring directly at the camera.

Sarah's hand flew to her mouth, a sob escaping. "Oh God. Oh my baby."

Jake's jaw clenched so hard it looked like it might shatter. His hands were fists at his sides.

"He's alive," Josh said, his voice tight but controlled. "That's what matters. He's alive."

The text below the photo was short and brutal:

Three million dollars. Cash. You have 48 hours. We'll send instructions for the drop. No police or he dies. You tell anyone, he dies. You try anything cute, he dies. We're watching.

A second photo loaded. This one showed the exterior of the shed, gasoline cans visible in the frame.

In case you're thinking about being heroes.

The message was clear. They could burn Billy alive.

"Son of a bitch," Pops growled from his chair. The old man's face was red, his cigar clenched between his teeth. "I'll kill every last one of them."

"Get in line," Jake said darkly.

"Forty-eight hours," Wade said, checking his watch. "That puts us at 6:47 PM on Tuesday. Two days."

"Can we get three million in two days?" Ray asked. He was the business manager—if anyone knew the consortium's finances, it was him.

"We can," Robert Beaumont said. "Between all six families, we can liquidate enough assets. It'll hurt, but we can do it."

"Then we do it," Tom said immediately. "Whatever it takes."

"Hold on," Wade cautioned. "Paying the ransom doesn't guarantee they'll release him. In fact, once they have the money—"

"They'll kill him anyway," Josh finished quietly. "No witnesses."

Sarah made a sound like she'd been struck. Rebecca moved to her side, the nurse in her taking over, checking Sarah's pulse, making sure she didn't collapse.

"So what do we do?" Tom asked, his voice breaking. "Just let them kill my son?"

"No," Jr. said from where he stood with the laptop. Everyone turned to look at him. The sixteen-year-old's face was set with determination. "We find him first."

"Daniel, what've you got?" Wade asked.

Daniel's fingers hadn't stopped moving across the keyboard. "The text came from a burner phone, like we expected. But it pinged off a tower—" He pulled up a map. "—here. About thirty miles east-northeast. Same general area as the earlier ping when they took the photo."

"How precise can you get?" Wade pressed.

"Tower triangulation gives us about a ten-mile radius," Daniel said. "But if they send another message, I can narrow it down."

"What about the photos themselves?" Jr. asked. "Metadata?"

"Stripped clean," Daniel said. "They knew what they were doing. But—" He zoomed in on the first photo. "—look at the light coming through the shed walls. Time stamps on the message versus the shadows... this was taken around three PM. About thirty minutes after they grabbed him."

"So they went straight to wherever they're holding him," Wilson Nelson said. He and Ryan had been standing quietly by the door, listening. "No stops. No detours."

"That matches the cell ping timeline," Billy Renzo said, appearing from the command center with Ryan Mattern. All four wiz kids were now in the kitchen, tablets and laptops in hand. "We've been mapping every structure within the search radius. Old homesteads, hunting cabins, abandoned buildings. There are forty-seven possible locations."

"Forty-seven?" Jake's voice was strained. "We can't search forty-seven locations in two days."

"We can narrow it down," Jr. said. He pulled up a map on his tablet and showed it to the room. "Look—they need vehicle access, but also isolation. That eliminates anything near main roads or active properties. We're down to twenty-three locations."

"The drones," Ryan Mattern added. "We can fly search patterns with thermal imaging. If Billy's in one of those structures, we'll see his heat signature."

"How long would that take?" Wade asked.

"If we fly all six drones simultaneously?" Jr. calculated quickly. "We could cover the search grid in about six hours. But we need to wait for dark—thermal works better at night."

Wade looked at his watch. "Sun sets in ninety minutes. You boys can really do this?"

"Yes, sir," all four said in unison.

Pops stood up from his chair, cigar smoke wreathing his weathered face. "Then here's what we do. We tell these bastards we'll pay. We play along. Meanwhile, these boys find Billy, and we go get him."

"And if we can't find him in time?" Sarah asked, her voice small.

"We will," Jr. said with absolute conviction. "We're gonna bring Uncle Billy home."

Jake looked at his nephew—this sixteen-year-old kid who sounded so much like Billy it hurt—and nodded. "Alright. What do you need from us?"

"Keep them talking," Daniel said. "Every time they send a message, I get more data. More pings. Better triangulation."

"We'll also need teams ready to move the second we get a location," Jr. added. "Vehicles, weapons if necessary, medical supplies—"

"I'll coordinate that," Josh said. "Ray, work with the other families. Get the cash assembled as backup. Just in case."

"On it," Ray said, already pulling out his phone.

Wade looked around the room at the assembled families, at the four teenage boys who were somehow their best hope, at Tom and Sarah's desperate faces.

"Alright," the sheriff said. "Here's how this works. Officially, I'm advising you to let law enforcement handle this. Unofficially—" He looked at Pops. "—I'm a grandfather too. And that boy in that photo is dating my daughter. So we do this together. But smart. Controlled. Nobody goes off half-cocked."

"Agreed," Tom said.

"Jake?" Wade looked at Billy's brother, who looked like he was barely holding it together.

Jake took a breath, then nodded. "We do it smart. We find him. We bring him home."

"Good." Wade turned to the wiz kids. "Boys, you've got six hours to find him. Get those drones in the air the second the sun sets."

"Yes, sir," Jr. said. Then, quieter, almost to himself: "Hang on, Uncle Billy. We're coming."

In the shed thirty miles away, Billy sat in the darkness, bound and gagged, the smell of gasoline thick in his nose. He didn't know his family had seen the photos. Didn't know the consortium was mobilizing. Didn't know four sixteen-year-old boys were about to launch a high-tech search operation.

All he knew was that he had to survive.

Had to escape.

Had to get back to his family.

The ropes cut deeper into his biceps.

The clock kept ticking.

And somewhere in the woods outside, Billy heard footsteps approaching again.

Chapter 6: Waiting for Darkness

Time had lost all meaning in the shed.

Billy sat in near-total darkness, the only light coming from thin cracks in the wooden walls where the last rays of sunset filtered through. Those golden beams were fading now, turning orange, then red, then dying altogether.

Soon it would be full night.

And that's when he would make his move.

The ropes around his chest had become a constant agony. His biceps throbbed where the hemp cut into muscle and flesh, the circulation restricted for—what, four hours now? Five? His arms had gone from burning pain to numbness and back to burning again. Blood seeped slowly from where the ropes had abraded his skin, dampening his white undershirt.

His wrists tied together behind his back weren't much better. Every tiny movement made the bindings cut deeper. His fingers felt thick and clumsy when he tried to flex them.

But he could still move them. That was important.

His ankles were bound tight to the chair legs, figure-eights of rope that left no slack. But the chair itself—Billy had been testing it for hours. The wood was old. Solid, but old. And old wood had weaknesses.

The gag in his mouth was soaked with sweat and saliva, making it harder to breathe. His throat was parched, his tongue swollen. But Billy had learned to control his breathing through his nose, slow and steady. Panic would kill him faster than the kidnappers would.

The smell of gasoline permeated everything. It seeped through the gaps in the walls, a constant reminder of what waited for him if he didn't escape. Billy could picture those gas cans outside, could imagine how fast this old wood would burn.

How fast he would burn.

No. Don't think about that.

Think about Jake. About home. About getting back.

Billy closed his eyes and let his mind wander to safer places. The ranch. Morning coffee with Jake and Celab in the frat house, all of them still half-asleep and giving each other shit. Jr. showing off his latest drone modification. Pops on the porch with his cigar, telling war stories that may or may not have been true.

Edna.

God, Edna. They were supposed to have dinner tonight. She'd be worried sick by now. Sheriff Wade would have told her what happened. Billy tried to imagine what she was doing right now—probably at the Benson ranch with everyone else, probably trying to be strong while her world fell apart.

"I'm coming back to you," Billy whispered against the gag, the words barely audible even to himself. "I promise."

The last light faded from the cracks in the walls.

Full darkness descended.

Billy opened his eyes, letting them adjust to the blackness. Not that there was much to see—just vague shapes, the outline of the workbench against the far wall, the shelves with their rusted tools.

He'd been cataloging everything he could see during those brief hours of daylight. Looking for anything useful. But the kidnappers had been thorough—nothing sharp within reach, nothing he could use to cut the ropes.

Which meant he had to break free the old-fashioned way.

Billy tested the chair again, rocking his weight forward and back. The joints creaked. The legs shifted slightly on the dirt floor. He'd been doing this periodically for hours, careful not to make too much noise, careful not to tip too far and fall.

The chair was definitely weakening.

Billy took a deep breath through his nose and made his decision. Waiting wouldn't make the ropes any looser. Wouldn't make the chair any weaker. Wouldn't make the kidnappers any less likely to come back and kill him.

It was now or never.

He started slowly, systematically. Rock forward. Rock back. Feel for the give in the wood. The chair legs scraped against the packed dirt floor with each movement, but Billy didn't care about noise anymore. If they were close enough to hear, they'd have checked on him hours ago.

The pain in his biceps intensified with every motion. The ropes cut deeper, and Billy felt fresh blood running down his arms. He gritted his teeth against the gag and kept going.

Rock forward. Rock back.

The chair creaked louder now. Something was giving way—a joint, maybe, or one of the dowels holding the legs to the seat.

Billy put more force into it. His powerful arms strained against the ropes, his shoulder muscles bunching despite the bonds. The chair protested, wood groaning.

Then—crack.

One of the rear chair legs splintered at the joint.

Billy felt the shift immediately, the whole structure becoming unstable. He didn't hesitate. He threw his weight to the side, using his body mass to wrench the chair apart.

Another crack. Louder this time.

The rear legs gave way completely, and Billy crashed sideways onto the dirt floor. Pain exploded through his shoulder where he hit, but he barely noticed. He was moving now, rolling, using the momentum to put pressure on the already-damaged chair.

Wood split and shattered. The seat broke away from the legs. The whole structure fell apart beneath him.

Billy scrambled to his knees, then got his feet under him. His ankles were still tied to the broken chair legs—pieces of wood dangling from the ropes—but he could stand.

He had to get them off.

Billy bent forward awkwardly, his bound hands useless behind his back, and worked one boot against the rope on his other ankle. The broken chair leg slipped through after a few attempts. Then he repeated the process with the other foot, using his boot to push and pull until the second piece of wood fell away.

His legs were free.

Billy stood fully upright for the first time in hours. His legs trembled, muscles cramped from being bound, but they held.

His wrists were still tied tight behind his back. The ropes around his chest still cut into his biceps, blood seeping from the wounds. The gag still choked him.

But his legs were free. He could run.

Billy moved to the shed door, guided by memory in the darkness. His shoulder found the wood, and he felt for the edges with his face.

He backed up, then charged forward, hitting the door with all his weight.

The wood groaned but held.

Again. Billy crashed into it harder.

The old wood around the latch began to splinter.

One more time. Billy gathered every ounce of strength and desperation and threw himself at the door.

It burst open, the rotten wood giving way completely.

Fresh air hit Billy's face like a gift from God.

He stumbled out into the night, his wrists bound behind him, gagged, bleeding from the ropes cutting into his biceps—but free.

The forest surrounded him in every direction. Dark shapes of trees against a slightly darker sky. No lights. No sounds except crickets and wind through leaves.

Billy had no idea where he was. No idea which direction led to safety.

But anywhere was better than here.

He chose a direction and ran.

His powerful legs carried him forward despite the hours of being bound. He crashed through underbrush, branches whipping at his face and arms. With his hands tied behind him, he couldn't push them away, couldn't catch himself if he fell.

But he ran anyway.

The gag made breathing difficult as he pushed himself harder. Blood ran down his arms from his shredded biceps. His white undershirt was soaked with sweat and blood.

Billy ran deeper into the forest, putting distance between himself and that shed, that gasoline, that death trap.

Behind him, the shed stood empty, its door hanging open in the darkness.

And somewhere in the old homestead, Billy's escape would soon be discovered.

The hunt would begin.

Chapter 7: Gone

The sun was just breaking over the trees when the scarred man approached the shed with a bottle of water and a granola bar. Not that the hostage would be able to eat it with the gag in—but the boss had said keep him alive until they got the money.

He was whistling as he rounded the corner of the dilapidated house, keys jingling in his hand.

The whistling stopped.

The shed door hung open, splintered wood around the latch. The padlock dangled uselessly from the hasp.

"What the—" The scarred man broke into a run.

He reached the shed and stared inside. The chair was destroyed, broken pieces scattered across the dirt floor. Rope lay coiled where the hostage had been tied. But Billy Benson was gone.

"BOSS!" The scarred man's voice echoed through the woods. "BOSS, GET OUT HERE!"

Within seconds, the other three men emerged from the house. The young man in the white tank top—the boss—had his rifle in hand before his feet hit the porch.

"What?" he barked.

The scarred man pointed at the open shed door. "He's gone."

The boss's face went from confusion to rage in half a second. He stormed across the yard, his men following. When he reached the shed and saw the destruction inside, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ground together.

"How the hell—" He kicked one of the broken chair legs, sending it skittering across the dirt. "How the hell did he get out?"

"Broke the chair," the scarred man said, stating the obvious. "Must've kicked the door down."

"I can see that!" The boss whirled on his men. "When was the last time anyone checked on him?"

The three kidnappers looked at each other.

"Last night," one of them admitted. "Around seven. When we poured the gas."

The boss's eyes went wide. "Seven? It's almost six in the morning! He's been gone for eleven hours?"

"We thought he was secure," the scarred man said defensively. "He was tied up, gagged, locked in—"

"And now he's NOT!" The boss slammed his rifle butt against the shed wall. "He could be miles away by now. He could've found a road, flagged down help—"

"He was still bound," the third kidnapper said. "Hands behind his back, gagged. He can't have gotten far like that."

The boss took a breath, forcing himself to think. His eyes scanned the ground around the shed, looking for tracks in the morning light.

"There." He pointed. Boot prints in the soft earth, leading away from the shed and into the forest. "He went that way. East."

"Away from the main roads," the scarred man noted. "He's lost. He don't know where he is."

"Good." The boss's face hardened. "Then we find him before anyone else does."

"What about the ransom?" one of the men asked. "We already sent the photos. The family thinks we still have him."

"We don't have him, genius!" The boss snapped. "And if he gets back to his family, we're all going to prison. Or worse—you seen how big that consortium is? How many families? They'll kill us themselves."

That sobered everyone. Kings County justice didn't always involve courtrooms.

"So what do we do?" the scarred man asked.

The boss's expression turned cold. "We find him. And we kill him. No body, no witnesses, no evidence."

"What about the money?"

"Forget the money." The boss started back toward the house. "This is about survival now. Ours."

The three men followed him inside. The boss went straight to a duffel bag in the corner and started pulling out weapons. Two more rifles. Extra ammunition. A hunting knife.

"We spread out," the boss said, loading his rifle. "Work a grid pattern. He's on foot, bound, probably exhausted. We're armed and we know these woods. We find him, we end this, we burn the evidence and get the hell out of Texas."

"What if he's already found help?" one of the men asked nervously.

"Then we're already dead." The boss chambered a round. "But I don't think he has. Those boot prints were fresh. He's still out there. And he's all alone."

The four men armed themselves in grim silence. This had gone from a simple kidnapping-for-ransom to a manhunt. And everyone in the room knew that if Billy Benson made it out of these woods alive, their lives were over.

"Check your phones," the boss ordered. "Any messages from the family?"

The scarred man pulled out his burner phone and checked. "Nothing since we sent the ransom demand last night."

"Good. They're still waiting. They don't know he escaped." The boss slung his rifle over his shoulder. "Let's keep it that way. We have maybe twelve hours before they expect another message. We find him before then."

The four men headed out of the house, weapons ready, faces set with deadly purpose. The morning sun filtered through the trees, birds singing cheerfully, completely oblivious to the hunt about to unfold.

The boss knelt at the edge of the shed, examining the boot prints more carefully. The tracks headed east, weaving slightly—Billy had been running blind in the darkness, probably crashing through brush.

"He's bleeding," the scarred man said, pointing to dark spots on the ground. "Those ropes did a number on his arms. We can track the blood."

"Good." The boss stood. "Johnson, you go northeast. Marcus, southeast. We'll work a sweep pattern. Anyone spots him, fire a shot. We all converge."

"And if he surrenders?" Johnson asked.

The boss looked at him like he was stupid. "He's not gonna surrender. And even if he does—" He chambered another round for emphasis. "—we shoot anyway. This is cleanup now. Not capture."

The four men spread out, entering the forest in different directions. Their boots crushed undergrowth, their eyes scanned for any sign of their escaped hostage.

Billy Benson had maybe an hour's head start, probably less. He was injured, bound, and lost.

They were armed, motivated, and hunting.

Somewhere in the dense Texas forest, the race was on.

And only one side would make it out alive.

Chapter 8: The Command Center

The command center hummed with activity as the first light of dawn broke over the Benson Ranch.

Billy Jr. hadn't slept. None of them had. All four wiz kids had been hunched over their equipment for twelve hours straight, running calculations, analyzing data, coordinating drone flights in the darkness.

And they were getting close.

"Got another ping," Daniel Rodriguez announced, his eyes bloodshot but focused. "Burner phone. Same one from the ransom message. Signal's weak but it's there."

Jr. moved to Daniel's screen, his fingers already pulling up the mapping software. "Where?"

"Same tower as before. But I've been tracking the signal strength variations." Daniel overlaid multiple data points on the map. "Based on the ping patterns and signal degradation, I can narrow it down. They're not just in this ten-mile radius—they're here." He circled a smaller area with his finger. "Maybe three miles across. Dense forest, old logging roads."

"That's still a lot of ground to cover," Ryan Mattern said from his station, where he was reviewing drone footage from the night flights.

"Then we cover it," Jr. said flatly. "What've the drones shown?"

"Thermal imaging picked up multiple signatures overnight," Billy Renzo reported, pulling up footage on the main screen. "We've eliminated most of them—deer, wild hogs, a black bear. But here—" He highlighted a section of the map. "This structure shows heat signature consistent with human activity. Old homestead, mostly collapsed house, but there's an outbuilding that's intact."

Jr. leaned in, studying the image. The thermal showed a small rectangular structure, cooler than it should be if someone had been inside recently. "When was this taken?"

"0400 hours. Two hours ago."

"And now?"

Billy Renzo pulled up the most recent pass. "Signature's gone. Whatever heat was there has dissipated."

Jr.'s jaw clenched. "They moved him. Or—"

He didn't finish the thought. Couldn't.

The door opened and Sheriff Wade entered, followed by Jake, Celab, and Josh. All four men looked like they'd aged ten years overnight.

"Tell me you've got something," Wade said.

"We've narrowed the search area," Jr. said, gesturing to the map on the main screen. "Three-mile radius, here. Heavily forested, old logging territory. Multiple structures, but this one—" He highlighted the homestead. "—showed thermal activity two hours ago."

"Showed?" Jake's voice was sharp. "Past tense?"

"The heat signature's gone now," Jr. admitted. "Could mean they moved, or the building cooled down, or—"

"Or we're too late," Jake said, his hands curling into fists.

"We're not too late," Jr. said with conviction. "Uncle Billy's alive. I know it."

Wade studied the map. "How far is that location from here?"

"Thirty-one miles as the crow flies," Daniel said. "Closer to forty by road, and the last ten miles are rough terrain. Old logging roads, barely maintained."

"Can your drones get us visual on that homestead right now?" Wade asked.

"Already in the air," Ryan Mattern said. "ETA three minutes."

The room fell silent as they waited. Jr. stared at the screen, willing it to show something—anything—that would tell them Billy was okay.

The drone footage came in, live feed from 400 feet up. The camera zoomed in on the homestead, panning across the collapsed house, the overgrown yard, and—

"There." Billy Renzo pointed. "The shed. Door's open."

Jr.'s heart kicked into overdrive. "Zoom in."

The camera pushed closer. The shed door hung at an angle, splintered wood visible around the latch. The interior was dark, but clearly empty.

"Someone broke out," Wade said quietly. "From the inside."

"Billy," Jake breathed. "He got out."

"Drone's picking up tracks," Ryan said, manipulating the controls. The camera panned down, following boot prints leading from the shed into the forest. "Single set, heading east into heavy timber."

"That's him," Jr. said, his voice tight with emotion. "He escaped."

"Then where is he?" Josh asked. "If he got out hours ago—"

"He's on foot, probably still bound," Wade said. "Lost in thirty square miles of forest with no idea where he is."

"And the kidnappers know he's gone by now," Celab added darkly.

The implications hung in the air. Billy was out there, alone, injured, being hunted.

"Pull up the topography," Jr. ordered. Billy Renzo brought up the terrain map, showing elevation, water sources, and natural barriers. Jr. studied it intently, trying to think like his uncle. "If he's heading east, he's moving away from the main roads. He doesn't know where he is, so he's just trying to put distance between himself and them."

"There's a creek here," Daniel pointed. "Three miles east of the homestead. If he's been walking all night, he might've reached it by now. People naturally follow water when they're lost."

"Get a drone on that creek," Wade ordered. "Follow it upstream and down. If he's anywhere near it, I want eyes on him."

"On it," Ryan said, redirecting two of the drones.

Wade turned to Jake and Josh. "Get everyone assembled. I want teams ready to move the second we get a location. Vehicles, ATVs, horses—whatever can handle that terrain. Medical supplies, water, blankets. And weapons." His face was grim. "Those kidnappers aren't going to let him walk away."

"Already done," Josh said. "We've got thirty men standing by. All six families."

"Good." Wade pulled out his radio. "Wilson, Ryan, you copy?"

"Copy, Dad," Wilson's voice crackled back.

"I want every available deputy moving toward these coordinates." Wade read off the location from the map. "Establish a perimeter. Nobody gets in or out of that forest without us knowing."

"Roger that. We're ten minutes out."

Jr. turned back to his screens, his jaw set with determination. Somewhere in those woods, his uncle was running for his life. Injured, bound, probably terrified—but alive. And fighting.

"Come on, Uncle Billy," Jr. whispered. "Just stay alive a little longer. We're coming."

On the main screen, the drone footage showed nothing but endless forest—thousands of acres of dense pine and oak, ravines and creeks, a hundred places to hide or be hidden.

Finding one man in all that would be nearly impossible.

But they had to try.

Behind Jr., the command center continued its organized chaos. Phones rang. Data streamed. Maps updated in real-time. Four sixteen-year-old boys coordinated a search operation that would've impressed a military unit.

And thirty miles away, Billy Benson stumbled through the forest, his wrists bound, his arms bleeding, his breath ragged through the gag.

The race was on.

And the clock was ticking.

Chapter 9: Bound and Running

Billy had no idea how long he'd been running.

Hours, certainly. The darkness had given way to gray pre-dawn light filtering through the trees, and now the sun was climbing higher, casting long shadows through the dense forest. His legs burned. His lungs screamed. But he kept moving.

He had to keep moving.

The forest was a maze of pine and oak, thick underbrush tearing at his clothes and skin. With his hands bound behind his back, Billy couldn't push branches away, couldn't catch himself when he stumbled. He'd fallen twice already, hitting the ground hard on his shoulder, the impact sending fresh waves of pain through his already-tortured body.

The ropes around his chest had become pure agony. His biceps were on fire where the hemp cut into flesh, and he could feel blood—warm and sticky—running down his arms, soaking into the waistband of his jeans. His white undershirt was stiff with dried sweat and fresh blood.

The gag was the worst part. His mouth was cotton-dry, his throat raw. Every breath through his nose felt like sucking air through a straw. His lips were cracked and bleeding where the cloth pressed against them. He'd tried for hours to work the gag loose with his tongue, but it was tied too tight.

Billy crashed through another thicket, branches whipping his face. He tasted blood—didn't know if it was from his split lip or somewhere else. Didn't matter. Just keep moving.

East. He was pretty sure he was still heading east. The sun had risen on his left, which meant east. Away from that shed. Away from those men. Away from the gasoline and the death that waited there.

But east toward what?

Billy had no idea where he was. The ride in the truck yesterday had been long and winding, probably thirty miles or more. He could be anywhere in Kings County. Could be out of Kings County entirely.

No. Focus. Don't think about that.

Think about home. Think about Jake.

God, Jake. His brother would be losing his mind right now. Billy could picture him—pacing the ranch house like a caged animal, ready to tear apart anyone who got in his way. Jake had always been the hothead, the one who acted first and thought later. But he'd also been Billy's protector since they were kids, even though Billy was only a year younger.

"I'm trying, brother," Billy mumbled against the gag. "I'm trying to get home."

The words came out as nothing but muffled sounds.

Billy stumbled over a root and barely caught himself, his shoulder slamming into a tree trunk. Pain exploded through his already-injured body. He stood there for a moment, leaning against the rough bark, chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath through his nose.

Keep moving. They're coming. You know they're coming.

He pushed off the tree and kept going.

His mind drifted as he walked, exhaustion and pain blurring everything together. He thought about Jr.—the kid would be working the tech right now, him and his three friends hunched over computers and drones, trying to find him. Billy had taught Jr. everything he knew about the emergency system, and the kid had taken it and made it better. Smarter. More powerful.

If anyone could find him, it was Jr. and the wiz kids.

Just have to stay alive long enough for them to do it.

Billy's boot caught on something and he went down hard, unable to catch himself with his hands bound. He hit the ground face-first, the impact knocking what little air he had from his lungs. For a moment he just lay there, tasting dirt and blood, his body screaming at him to stop, to rest, to give up.

No.

Not giving up. Not dying in these woods.

Billy rolled onto his side, then his back, then struggled to his knees. Getting up without the use of his hands was nearly impossible, but he managed it—rocking forward, using his legs to push himself upright. His head spun. His vision blurred.

Keep moving.

He stumbled forward again, weaving between trees. The forest seemed endless. No roads. No buildings. No signs of civilization. Just trees and brush and the occasional bird call echoing through the canopy.

Billy thought about Edna. Her smile. The way she'd looked at him last week when he'd picked her up for their date, like he was the best thing in her world. They'd been together since eighth grade—nine years of growing up together, of learning what it meant to love someone.

He was supposed to have dinner with her last night. At the Nelsons'. Sheriff Wade would've made his famous brisket, and Edna would've sat next to Billy, her hand finding his under the table when her dad wasn't looking.

Instead, Billy was running through the woods like a hunted animal, bound and bleeding and half-dead from exhaustion.

"I'll make it up to you," he whispered against the gag. "I promise."

The sun climbed higher. Billy had been moving for—what, six hours now? Seven? Time had lost all meaning. He was running on pure adrenaline and stubbornness, his body pushed past the point of collapse.

He heard water.

Billy stopped, his heart suddenly pounding harder. That was definitely water. Running water. A creek, maybe, or a small river.

Water meant people might be nearby. Water meant he could follow it downstream until he found something. Someone.

Billy changed direction, heading toward the sound. His pace quickened despite his exhaustion. Hope—actual, real hope—flared in his chest for the first time since he'd escaped.

He crashed through the underbrush and there it was: a creek, maybe ten feet wide, water running clear over smooth stones. It was the most beautiful thing Billy had ever seen.

He stumbled down the small embankment and fell to his knees at the water's edge. Without his hands, he couldn't scoop water to drink, but he bent forward and dunked his face into the creek, the cold shock of it bringing him fully awake. He couldn't drink much with the gag in, but he managed to get some water into his mouth around the edges of the cloth, swallowing desperately.

It tasted like heaven.

Billy knelt there for a long moment, his face dripping, his body trembling with exhaustion. Every muscle ached. His biceps felt like they were being cut apart by the ropes. His wrists were numb where the bonds had cut off circulation.

But he was alive.

And he had water now. A direction to follow.

Billy forced himself to stand. He looked downstream—the water wound through the trees, heading roughly southeast. That seemed as good a direction as any.

He started walking along the creek bank, his boots squelching in the soft earth. The water babbled cheerfully beside him, completely indifferent to his suffering.

Behind him, somewhere in the forest, four armed men were hunting him.

Ahead of him, somewhere beyond these endless trees, his family was searching.

Billy just had to survive long enough for the right people to find him first.

He kept walking, kept moving, kept fighting.

Because that's what Bensons did.

Chapter 10: Two Searches

The Kidnappers - 8:15 AM

The scarred man found blood on a tree trunk, dark and fresh. "He's two hours ahead of us, still heading east."

"Boss, we got tracks," he radioed.

The boss's voice crackled back. "Stay on him. He's gotta be exhausted by now. We're closing the gap."

The four armed men spread through the forest, following the trail of blood and broken branches. Their escaped hostage couldn't run forever.

The Consortium - 8:20 AM

The convoy had been in the field for over an hour, ever since the drones spotted the open shed door at first light. Three teams moved through the forest in coordinated search patterns, satellite phones crackling with updates.

Jake crashed through underbrush with Celab at his side, eyes scanning for any sign of his brother. "Billy!" he called out. "BILLY!"

"Jake, north team, we've got boot prints near the creek," Wilson's voice came through the radio. "Single set, heading downstream."

"That's him," Jr.'s voice cut in from the mobile command center. "Drone thermal shows the creek runs southeast for three miles. If he followed it—"

"Then that's where we go," Sheriff Wade ordered. "All teams converge on the creek. Move fast but stay alert. Those kidnappers are out here too."

Thirty men adjusted course, vehicles and ATVs racing toward new coordinates while others moved on foot through terrain too rough for wheels.

Billy - 8:25 AM

Billy heard voices.

He froze mid-step, his heart hammering. The voices were distant, muffled by trees, but they were definitely voices. Men. Multiple men.

Were they searching for him? Or hunting him?

Billy couldn't tell. He pressed himself against a large oak tree, trying to control his ragged breathing through his nose. The gag made it nearly impossible to stay quiet.

The voices grew closer.

"—tracks go this way—"

"—can't be far—"

Billy's entire body tensed. Friend or foe? Family or kidnappers? He had no way to know.

He stayed frozen, hidden behind the tree, as the voices passed within a hundred yards of his position. Then gradually faded.

Billy waited a full minute before moving again. His legs trembled as he pushed away from the tree and continued along the creek bank, moving as quietly as he could with his hands bound behind him.

The Net Tightens - 8:45 AM

"Drone's got a heat signature," Daniel's voice crackled over the network. "Human-sized, moving along the creek, coordinates uploading now."

"Is it Billy?" Jake demanded.

"Can't confirm, but it's alone and moving slowly. Could be him."

"We're three minutes out," Wade said. "Jake, you're closest from the north. Move in but stay sharp."

"On it." Jake broke into a run, Celab and Robert Beaumont right behind him.

From the east, the scarred man's radio squawked. "Movement near the creek. I see something."

The boss's voice: "Take the shot if you have a clear line. No witnesses."

Both groups were converging.

And Billy, exhausted and unaware, kept moving downstream, the water babbling beside him, unable to hear the search closing in from both sides.

The race had come down to minutes.

Who would reach him first?

Chapter 11: Found

Billy heard the gunshots.

Three rapid cracks echoing through the forest, maybe a quarter mile away. Then more—a full firefight erupting somewhere ahead of him.

His first instinct was to run away from the noise. But something made him stop. Something made him think.

If the kidnappers were shooting, they were shooting at someone. And the only people out here looking for him would be—

"Family," Billy breathed against the gag.

He changed direction, moving toward the gunfire. His legs burned, his vision swam, but he pushed forward. If that was Jake out there, if that was the consortium—

The shooting intensified. Billy crashed through underbrush, unable to use his hands to push branches away. He stumbled, caught himself, kept moving.

Then he heard a voice. Distant but clear.

"BILLY!"

Jake. That was Jake's voice.

Billy tried to yell back, but the gag turned it into a muffled sound. He kept moving toward the voice, faster now, desperation giving him strength he didn't know he had left.

He burst through a thicket and there they were.

Jake, Celab, Robert Beaumont, and three other men spread out in defensive positions. And beyond them, through the trees, four figures with rifles were retreating, firing as they went.

"Uncle Billy!" Another voice—Jr., coming from a different direction with Sheriff Wade and Wilson.

Billy's legs gave out. He went down hard on his knees, unable to catch himself with his bound hands. But he didn't care. They'd found him. His family had found him.

Jake reached him first, dropping his rifle and sliding to his knees beside Billy. "Jesus Christ. Billy. Billy, look at me."

Billy's eyes focused on his brother. Jake's face was a mask of rage and relief and something that looked like tears.

"Get the gag off him," Celab said, already pulling out a knife. "Get these damn ropes off."

Rough but gentle hands pulled the gag from Billy's mouth. He gasped, sucking in air, his throat raw.

"Jake," Billy croaked. His voice was barely recognizable. "Took you long enough, brother."

Jake let out a sound between a laugh and a sob. "You stubborn son of a bitch."

Celab was cutting the ropes around Billy's chest, being careful not to cut into the already-damaged flesh. When the pressure released, Billy groaned—the sudden rush of blood to his biceps was almost worse than the constriction had been.

"Easy, easy," Jr. said, appearing at Billy's other side. The kid's face was streaked with tears he didn't bother hiding. "We got you, Uncle Billy. You're okay now."

"Wrists," Billy managed. "Get my wrists."

Celab moved behind him and cut through the bonds. Billy's arms fell to his sides, useless. He couldn't even lift them—the muscles were too damaged, the nerves too numb.

More gunshots cracked through the forest. Sheriff Wade's voice rang out: "Cease fire! All targets down! Cease fire!"

The shooting stopped.

"Wade, status?" Jake called out, not taking his eyes off Billy.

"Four suspects, all deceased," Wilson's voice came back. "They're not getting up."

Billy slumped forward. Jake caught him, pulling him against his chest. "I got you, little brother. I got you."

"Missed my date," Billy mumbled. His head was spinning. "Edna's gonna kill me."

"You're worried about Edna right now?" Jake's voice cracked. "You crazy bastard."

"We need to get him medical attention," Celab said. "His arms are shredded. He's been bleeding for hours."

"No hospital," Billy protested weakly. "Just... just take me home."

"Billy, you need—"

"Home." Billy's voice was firmer now, despite his exhaustion. "I need to go home. No hospital. Just... home."

Jr. was already on his satellite phone. "Mom? Mom, we found him. He's alive." A pause. "Yeah, he's hurt but conscious. We're bringing him home." Another pause. Jr. looked at Billy, then at his dad Josh who'd just arrived. "He refuses hospital. Says he wants to come home."

Rebecca's voice came through the phone, loud enough for everyone to hear. "Put me on speaker."

Jr. did.

"Billy Benson, you listen to me," Rebecca said in her best nurse voice. "I can fix you at home if you promise to let me work. I've got my full kit. But you do what I say, when I say it. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am," Billy managed. Even half-dead, you didn't argue with Rebecca when she used that tone.

"Good. Josh, get him home. I'll have everything ready."

The satellite phone crackled with other voices now. Tom and Sarah, hearing that their son was alive. Pops demanding to know if Billy could still hold a beer. Edna's voice, breaking with emotion.

"Billy? Billy, are you there?"

Jake held the phone to Billy's ear.

"Hey, beautiful," Billy said, his voice rough. "Sorry I'm late for dinner."

Edna's sob-laugh came through clear. "You idiot. You beautiful, stubborn idiot. I love you."

"Love you too," Billy said. His eyes were closing. "Be home soon. Promise."

"We need to move," Sheriff Wade said, kneeling beside the brothers. "Can you walk, son?"

"No, sir," Billy admitted. "Legs are done."

"Then we carry you." Jake stood, pulling Billy up with him. Celab moved to Billy's other side, and together they lifted him. Billy's arms hung useless at his sides, blood still seeping from the rope wounds on his biceps.

The convoy back to civilization was a blur. Billy drifted in and out of consciousness, aware of voices around him, of the ATV beneath him, of Jake's hand on his shoulder the whole ride.

When they finally reached the vehicles, someone—Robert Beaumont, maybe—said, "It's Christmas Eve. We got our Christmas miracle."

Billy hadn't even realized what day it was.

"Best Christmas present ever," Jr. said from somewhere nearby. "Uncle Billy's coming home."

The drive back to the ranch took forever and no time at all. Billy was vaguely aware of being transferred to a truck, of lying across the back seat with his head in Jake's lap, of Celab driving like a madman while staying on the phone with Rebecca, describing Billy's injuries.

"Severe rope burns on both biceps, deep lacerations, probably nerve damage. Wrists are torn up. Dehydration. Exhaustion. But he's conscious. He's talking. He's gonna make it."

Billy felt Jake's hand in his hair, gentle despite the calluses. "Damn right he's gonna make it. Bensons don't die easy."

"Especially stubborn ones," Billy mumbled.

Jake's laugh was wet. "Especially you."

When they pulled into the Benson Ranch, it seemed like the entire county was there. All six consortium families. Sheriff Wade's entire extended family. Pops on the porch with his cigar, standing tall despite his age.

Rebecca was waiting with her medical kit, Josh at her side. Sarah was crying, Tom's arm around her. And Edna—Edna pushed through the crowd and ran to the truck the second it stopped.

"Easy," Jake warned as he helped Billy out. "He can't really stand."

"I don't care," Edna said, and threw her arms around Billy's neck. He couldn't hug her back—his arms still wouldn't work—but he leaned into her, breathing in her familiar scent.

"Told you I'd make it home," he whispered.

"You're an idiot," she whispered back. "My idiot."

"Alright, lovebirds, medical time," Rebecca said, all business. "Billy, inside. Now. Everyone else, give us space."

They carried Billy into the house, into the command center that the wiz kids had set up. Rebecca had transformed it into a makeshift medical bay, complete with IV stands, monitors, and enough supplies to stock a small clinic.

"On the table," she ordered. "Jake, Celab, help me get his shirt off. Carefully."

They cut away Billy's blood-soaked undershirt. The rope burns on his biceps were angry and deep, still oozing blood. His wrists weren't much better.

"This is going to hurt," Rebecca warned, pulling on gloves. "But I need to clean these wounds and assess the damage."

"Do it," Billy said. "Just... can Edna stay?"

Rebecca looked at Edna, then nodded. "She can stay. But if you pass out, I'm kicking her out."

"Deal."

For the next two hours, Rebecca worked with the skill and efficiency of someone who'd done this a thousand times. She cleaned wounds, assessed nerve damage, stitched where necessary, bandaged everything. Billy gritted his teeth through most of it, Edna holding his hand—the one that could still feel pressure.

"You'll get full function back," Rebecca finally said. "But it's going to take time. Physical therapy. And you're on mandatory rest for at least two weeks."

"Two weeks?" Billy protested. "But the ranch—"

"Will survive without you," Tom said from the doorway. He'd been watching the whole time, Sarah beside him. "Your mother and I almost didn't survive the last twenty-four hours. You're resting."

"Yes, sir," Billy said quietly.

Pops appeared behind them, cigar smoke trailing. "You gave us all a hell of a scare, boy."

"Sorry, Pops."

"Don't be sorry. Be grateful. And be ready for one hell of a Christmas dinner. Everyone's staying. All six families. We're celebrating you being alive and home."

Billy looked around at the faces surrounding him. His family. His extended family. The consortium that had moved heaven and earth to find him.

"Best Christmas ever," he said, his voice thick with emotion.

"Damn right it is," Jake said, appearing with a beer. "Now rest up. You've got a dinner to attend tonight."

"Tonight? I just—"

"It's Christmas Eve, Billy," Sarah said, tears streaming down her face. "And you're home. We're having our Christmas dinner tonight, and you're going to be there if Rebecca has to wheel you in herself."

Rebecca smiled. "Oh, I'll wheel him in. After he sleeps for a few hours."

"Sleep sounds good," Billy admitted. His eyes were already closing.

The last thing he felt before he drifted off was Edna's hand in his and Jake's presence beside him.

He was home.

He was safe.

And it was Christmas.

Chapter 12: Christmas Dinner

The Benson Ranch had never looked more alive.

Every room was packed with people, voices overlapping in laughter and conversation. The smell of roasted turkey, ham, and a dozen side dishes filled the air. Children ran underfoot while adults gathered in clusters, retelling the story of Billy's rescue for what had to be the hundredth time.

And in the corner of the main room, beside the roaring fireplace, Pops had set up what could only be described as a liquor store.

"Jesus, Pops," Ray said, staring at the array of bottles. "Did you rob a liquor store?"

Pops grinned around his cigar, standing proudly beside his display. Whiskey, bourbon, brandy, rum, vodka, tequila—at least twenty bottles lined up on the table he'd commandeered. "What? It's Christmas. And we're celebrating. Now what are you drinking, boy?"

"I think the question is what aren't we drinking," Josh said, shaking his head with a smile.

Billy sat in the oversized armchair that had been dragged into the main room specifically for him, his arms bandaged from wrist to shoulder, looking like he'd gone ten rounds with a rope factory and lost. But he was grinning, Edna perched on the arm of the chair beside him, her hand resting gently on his shoulder.

"You comfortable?" she asked for the fifth time.

"I'm perfect," Billy said, and meant it.

Jake appeared with a beer, pressing it into Billy's bandaged hand. "You can hold this, right?"

"Barely, but yeah." Billy's fingers closed around the bottle. The nerve damage would heal, Rebecca had said, but for now his grip was weak.

"Then drink up, little brother. You earned it."

Celab flopped onto the couch beside them, his own beer in hand. "Best Christmas Eve ever. Billy's home, those bastards are dead, and Pops has enough alcohol to sedate a small army."

"Speaking of which," Billy Jr. said, appearing with Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. All four boys were flushed and grinning, cups of eggnog in their hands. "Pops' eggnog recipe is incredible."

"How many of those have you had?" Josh asked suspiciously.

"Only three," Jr. said.

"Each," Billy Renzo added, then giggled.

Rebecca appeared, hands on her hips. "Billy Junior Benson, that eggnog is half rum."

"Is it?" Jr. said innocently. "I couldn't taste it."

"That's because Pops makes it strong enough to strip paint," Rebecca said, but she was smiling. "You boys slow down or you'll be passed out before dinner."

"Yes, ma'am," all four said in unison, then immediately took another sip.

Pops cackled from his liquor station. "That's my great-grandsons! They know how to celebrate!"

"Pops, you're a terrible influence," Sarah said, but even she was smiling. The relief of having Billy home was palpable—no one could stay upset tonight.

Tom appeared beside Billy's chair, his face still showing the strain of the last twenty-four hours, but softer now. "How you feeling, son?"

"Like I got tied up and left in a shed," Billy said, then grinned. "But I'm home. So pretty damn good, actually."

Tom's hand squeezed Billy's shoulder—the non-injured one. "You gave us a hell of a scare."

"Sorry, Dad."

"Don't be sorry. Just be here. That's all that matters."

The doorbell rang, and Wilson opened it to reveal a tall, lean man in his seventies with a medical bag in one hand and—God help them all—a banjo case in the other.

"Doc Peterson!" Pops roared. "Get your ass in here!"

"Merry Christmas, you old bastard," Doc Peterson called back, stepping inside. He'd been Pops' brother-in-arms in Vietnam, the medic who'd saved Pops' life twice and still had the scars to prove it. Now he was Kings County's most beloved country doctor—and its worst musician.

"Please tell me you're not planning to play that thing," Ray muttered.

"Oh, he's definitely planning to play it," Josh said with resignation.

Doc Peterson made his way through the crowd to Billy's chair, setting down both the medical bag and the banjo. "Let me look at you, young man. Rebecca called and said you'd been through hell."

"Yes, sir," Billy said. "But Rebecca fixed me up pretty good."

"Let me see." Doc examined Billy's bandages with professional efficiency, checking Rebecca's work, testing Billy's grip and range of motion. "Damn fine job, Rebecca. These will heal clean if he doesn't do anything stupid."

"I'm right here," Billy protested.

"And you're on bed rest," Doc said firmly. "Two weeks minimum. No arguments."

"That's what I told him," Rebecca said.

"See? Even the professionals agree." Edna kissed the top of Billy's head. "You're stuck with me for two weeks."

"Oh no," Billy said with mock horror. "Whatever will I do."

Doc Peterson straightened, satisfied with his examination. "Well, if that's settled—" He reached for the banjo case.

A collective groan went up from everyone who knew what was coming.

"Pops, no," Tom said. "Please. Not the banjo."

"It's Christmas!" Pops said, already moving toward his old friend. "And we're celebrating! Doc, you remember 'Jingle Bells'?"

"Do I remember?" Doc pulled out the banjo with theatrical flair. "I wrote the damn thing!"

"You absolutely did not," Sarah said.

"Details!" Pops grabbed his own banjo—where had that come from?—and the two Vietnam vets positioned themselves in front of the fireplace.

"This is going to be bad," Jake predicted.

"Catastrophically bad," Celab agreed.

"I'm recording this," Jr. said, pulling out his phone.

Pops and Doc exchanged a look, nodded once, and launched into what could only generously be described as an attempt at "Jingle Bells."

It was spectacular in its awfulness.

Pops was off-key. Doc was off-tempo. Neither seemed to notice or care. They plucked and sang with the enthusiasm of men who'd survived war together and figured they'd earned the right to torture their families with terrible music.

"JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE BELLS, JINGLE ALL THE WAY—"

"Oh God," Wilson said, covering his ears.

"Make it stop," Ryan Nelson pleaded.

But Billy was laughing. Actually laughing, tears streaming down his face, his bandaged arms wrapped around his middle. Jake was laughing too, and Celab, and soon the whole room was caught up in it—not at the music, which was truly dreadful, but at the pure joy of being together, of being alive, of being home.

The wiz kids were practically falling over each other, drunk on eggnog and relief and the giddy knowledge that they'd helped save Billy's life.

"OH WHAT FUN IT IS TO RIDE IN A ONE HORSE OPEN SLEIGH—HEY!"

The final note was so off-key that one of the dogs started howling.

Pops and Doc took a bow to a mixture of applause and groans.

"Encore!" someone shouted—probably one of the drunk wiz kids.

"NO!" came the immediate response from everyone else.

Dinner was called shortly after, and the crowd moved to the massive table that had been set up to accommodate all six families. Turkey, ham, mashed potatoes, green beans, rolls, casseroles, pies—enough food to feed an army, which is basically what they had.

Billy was helped to a seat at the center of the table, Edna on one side and Jake on the other. Jr. sat across from him with his three best friends, all of them still grinning like idiots.

Tom stood at the head of the table and raised his glass. The room quieted.

"I want to thank everyone here," Tom began, his voice thick. "The last twenty-four hours have been the worst of my life. But they've also shown me what this consortium really means. What family really means." He looked around the table at all six families represented. "You all dropped everything. You mobilized. You searched. You brought my son home."

"Damn right we did," Robert Beaumont said.

"Billy's family," Pops added. "And you don't leave family behind."

Tom nodded, his eyes wet. "So tonight we celebrate. We celebrate Billy being home. We celebrate Christmas. And we celebrate all of you." He raised his glass higher. "To family. To the consortium. And to my stubborn, brave, crazy son who broke out of a shed and ran through the woods for seven hours to get home."

"To Billy!" the room chorused.

Billy raised his beer—awkwardly, with his bandaged hand—and grinned. "To the wiz kids who found me. To Jake and Celab who never stopped looking. To Grandpa Wade and his deputies. To all six families. And to Pops—" He looked at his grandfather. "—who definitely robbed a liquor store to make this happen."

Laughter filled the room.

"And to Edna," Billy added quietly, looking at her. "For putting up with my stupidity."

"Always," Edna said, kissing his cheek.

They ate. They drank. Stories were told and retold. The wiz kids demonstrated the drone technology for anyone who'd listen. Pops and Doc threatened another song but were shouted down. Gifts were exchanged among the Benson boys—Jake gave Billy a new work belt with "Try Not To Get Kidnapped" engraved on it. Billy flipped him off with his bandaged hand, which just made everyone laugh harder.

As the night wound down and families began to leave, Jake pulled Billy aside—as much as one could with Billy still in his chair and Edna refusing to leave his side.

"You scared the hell out of me, little brother," Jake said quietly.

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just—" Jake's voice cracked. "Just don't do it again. I can't lose you, Billy. You're my best friend."

"You're not losing me," Billy promised. "Takes more than four idiots with guns to take out a Benson."

"Damn right it does."

They sat there together as the house slowly emptied, the fire crackling in the hearth, Pops passed out in his chair with an empty glass in his hand and a cigar stub in the ashtray beside him.

Jr. came over, swaying slightly, his friends already passed out on various couches. "Uncle Billy?"

"Yeah, kid?"

"I'm glad you're home."

"Me too, Jr. Me too." Billy looked at his nephew, at this sixteen-year-old who'd orchestrated a high-tech rescue operation. "You saved my life, you know. You and your friends."

Jr. flushed. "We just ran the equipment."

"You found me when no one else could. That's everything." Billy reached out with his good hand and pulled Jr. into an awkward hug. "Thank you."

"You're welcome," Jr. said, his voice muffled against Billy's shoulder.

By midnight, only the immediate Benson family remained. Sarah tucked a blanket around Pops in his chair. Tom stood at the window, looking out at the ranch he'd almost lost a son on. Rebecca cleaned up with Josh's help while the wiz kids snored on the couches.

And Billy sat in his chair with Edna curled up against him, Jake stretched out on the floor beside them, Celab snoring on the other couch, all of them too exhausted and too grateful to move.

"Merry Christmas, Billy," Edna whispered.

Billy looked around at his family—blood and chosen, all of them together, all of them safe.

"Merry Christmas," he said. "Best one ever."

Outside, snow began to fall—a rare Texas Christmas snow that would have the kids excited in the morning and Pops swearing about having to work in it.

But inside the Benson Ranch, all was warm and bright and full of love.

Billy was home.

And that was all that mattered.

The Long Ordeal

 

Chapter 1: Morning Routine

The sun was already hot at six-thirty in the morning, typical for July in Kings County, Texas. The Benson Ranch kitchen smelled like coffee, bacon, and Sarah's biscuits—the kind that could make a grown man weep.

Tom Benson sat at the head of the long wooden table, reading something on his phone while sipping black coffee. Pops was across from him, already on his second cup, spiked with a splash of whiskey that Sarah pretended not to notice. At seventy-six, Pops did what Pops wanted, and what he wanted most mornings was his "breakfast medicine," as he called it.

"Gonna be a hot son of a bitch today," Pops announced to no one in particular, his gravelly voice cutting through the morning chatter.

"Language, Pops," Sarah called from the stove, not even turning around.

"Hell, Sarah, it's just weather commentary."

Josh came in from the mudroom, clipboard in hand, his boots leaving dusty prints on the tile. As general manager, he ran the day-to-day operations of the ranch, and breakfast was where he handed out assignments. Rebecca followed behind him, carrying a platter of scrambled eggs.

There was a thunder of footsteps from the second floor—the unmistakable sound of the frat house emptying out.

Jake and Billy came barreling down the stairs first, shoving each other and arguing about something. Behind them came Billy Jr., sixteen years old, already broad-shouldered from ranch work, grinning about whatever chaos had just happened upstairs. Then Celeb, twenty-one, still half-asleep. And finally Colt—the cousin from Baton Rouge who'd visited for a week last year, graduated high school, and never left. Everyone called him Louisiana for his thick drawl that got even thicker when he was tired or drunk.

All five residents of the frat house, descending like a stampede.

The frat house was on the second floor, next to Pops' bedroom, the new command center they'd built for all the consortium's tech equipment, and a single bathroom that was far too small for five boys. Most mornings it was a war zone up there—fights over shower time, toothpaste theft, wet towels on the floor, and someone always using all the hot water.

"Took you long enough," Pops called out as they hit the bottom of the stairs. "Thought you girls were putting on makeup."

"Blame Jake," Billy said. "Took twenty minutes in the shower."

"Because someone used all the hot water before me," Jake shot back.

"That was Celeb!"

"Was not."

"Hell, wasn't me neither," Colt drawled, his Louisiana accent thick. "Y'all just slow as molasses."

Jake had Billy in a headlock by the time they reached the kitchen. "Say it!"

"Never!" Billy grunted, twisting free and shoving his brother into the doorframe.

"Boys!" Tom didn't even look up from his phone. "Sit down before your mother takes a wooden spoon to both of you."

"I'm twenty-two years old," Jake protested, dropping into his chair.

"Then act like it," Sarah said, bringing over the biscuits.

Billy grinned and grabbed three biscuits before anyone else could reach them. "Jake started it."

"Liar."

Jr. slid into the chair next to Pops, still grinning.

Rebecca set down the eggs and looked at her son. "What's so funny, Junior?"

"Nothing, Mama."

"Bullshit," Pops muttered into his coffee. "Kid's got mischief written all over him. I like it."

Jr. tried to suppress his smile and failed. Pops winked at him.

"Children," Ray commented dryly as he walked in from the office, dressed too nicely for ranch work as usual. As business manager, he spent most of his time crunching numbers or meeting with buyers. "Actual children."

"Jealous," Jake shot back.

"Of what? Your maturity?"

Celeb slid into the seat next to Billy and immediately grabbed bacon. At twenty-one, he'd been part of the Benson household for fourteen months now, ever since the consortium formed with his parents, the Beaumonts. Moving into the frat house had been the best decision he'd ever made—even if the bathroom situation was a nightmare and Colt snored like a chainsaw.

Colt took the last open seat, yawning wide. "Y'all got any more coffee?"

"Help yourself, Louisiana," Sarah said, nodding toward the pot.

Pops leaned over to Jr., lowering his voice. "You boys hiding any of that Shiner Bock from me?"

Jr.'s eyes went wide. "No, sir, Pop."

"That's a damn shame. You should be." Pops winked again.

Rebecca shot her father-in-law a warning look, but there was no heat in it. Everyone knew Pops was a bad influence, and everyone—especially the frat house crew—loved him for it. The beer was hidden under the floorboards, and Pops knew it. Hell, he'd probably helped them pry up the boards.

Once everyone had loaded their plates, Josh stood up with his clipboard. This was the signal. The table quieted.

"Alright, listen up," Josh said. "Got a full day. Ray, you're meeting with the cattle buyer from Fort Worth at ten. Don't let him lowball us."

"Never do," Ray said.

"Dad, you and I are checking irrigation on the south forty. System's been acting up."

Tom nodded. "Been meaning to get to that."

"Celeb, you're on equipment maintenance. Wilson Nelson's coming by with that welder we borrowed. Get the gate hinges fixed and check the hydraulics on the baler."

"Got it."

"Colt, you're helping Celeb. Two-man job."

"Yes, sir," Colt drawled.

"Jake, Billy, Jr.—you three are on fence line repair. North pasture, near the property line with the old Hutchinson place. Some posts came down in that storm last week. Take the tools, the new posts, and enough wire. Should take you most of the day."

Jake leaned back in his chair. "All three of us for fence repair?"

"It's a long stretch," Josh said. "And you'll have it done by noon if you quit yapping and actually work."

Billy elbowed Jake. "He's saying you talk too much."

"He's saying we talk too much," Jake corrected.

"I'm saying get it done," Josh said flatly, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Jr. was already excited. He loved working with his uncles—Billy and Jake treated him like an equal, not a kid. Plus, any day out of the house with those two meant stories, banter, and probably something that would make his mama shake her head. "We taking the Silverado?"

"Yeah," Josh said. "Load it up after breakfast. And Junior—"

"Yes, sir?"

"Your mama wants you home by six. No excuses."

"Yes, sir."

Rebecca reached over and squeezed her son's hand. As a practical nurse at Kings County Hospital, she worked long shifts, and she liked knowing where her boy was when she couldn't see him. Especially when he was out with Jake and Billy, who had a talent for getting into harmless trouble.

"Anyone else need anything before I head out?" Josh asked.

"Yeah," Pops said, raising his coffee mug. "More of this."

Sarah grabbed the pot and refilled it, shaking her head. "You're going to outlive us all out of pure spite."

"Damn right I am."

The table erupted in laughter. Tom folded up his phone and dug into his breakfast. Ray checked his watch. Jake and Billy started arguing about who was driving the truck. Colt was already planning what he and Celeb would tackle first in the equipment barn.

It was a normal morning.

A good morning.

The kind of morning that made you forget, just for a moment, that bad things could happen.

---

By seven-fifteen, the Silverado was loaded. Tools, fence posts, rolls of wire, work gloves, water jugs, and a cooler with sandwiches Sarah had packed. Jake climbed into the driver's seat. Billy took shotgun. Jr. hopped in the back bench seat, ball cap pulled low against the sun already blazing overhead.

"See you boys tonight," Tom called from the porch, coffee mug in hand.

"Don't work too hard!" Pops shouted after them, cigar already lit, smoke curling up in the still morning air.

"Wouldn't dream of it!" Jake called back.

Sarah appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a towel. "Junior, you hear me? Six o'clock!"

"Yes, ma'am!" Jr. hollered out the window.

"Love you, Grandpa!" Jr. called to Tom as the truck started rolling.

Tom raised his mug in reply, a smile on his weathered face.

Jake fired up the engine, and they rolled out down the long gravel drive, dust kicking up behind them in a golden cloud. The ranch stretched out in every direction—rolling pastures, clusters of live oaks, cattle grazing in the distance.

Billy leaned out the window, letting the wind hit his face. "Gonna be a hot one."

"Yep," Jake agreed, turning onto the dirt road that led north.

Jr. grinned in the back seat, already thinking about how much shit he and his uncles were going to talk while working. Days like this were his favorite—just the three of them, hard work, and no one looking over their shoulders.

None of them had any idea what was waiting for them in the north pasture.

None of them knew it would be the last normal morning for a long time.

Chapter 2: The Ambush

The north pasture was about as far from the main house as you could get and still be on Benson land. The fence line stretched along what used to be the old Hutchinson property—abandoned for years now, ever since old man Hutchinson died and his kids moved to Dallas and never looked back.

It was hot. Damn hot. The kind of July heat that made your shirt stick to your back within minutes and turned the inside of a truck into an oven.

Jake killed the engine and climbed out, already pulling his shirt off. "Jesus Christ, it's gotta be a hundred degrees already."

"Hundred and five, according to the radio," Billy said, following suit and tossing his shirt in the truck bed. "And it's only nine-thirty."

Jr. was already shirtless, having stripped down five minutes into the drive. At sixteen, he'd spent enough summers doing ranch work to know better than to work fence line in the Texas heat wearing a shirt you'd just have to wring out every twenty minutes.

They unloaded the gear—post hole diggers, a bag of concrete mix, fence posts, rolls of wire, work gloves, and the cooler. The fence line was a mess. Storm last week had taken down at least six posts, and the wire was tangled and torn in places.

"Alright," Jake said, surveying the damage. "Let's start at the south end and work our way up. Jr., you're on wire detail. Billy and I will handle the posts."

"Yes, sir," Jr. said, grabbing the wire cutters.

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, the only sounds the clang of tools, the grunt of effort, and the occasional curse when something didn't cooperate. The sun beat down mercilessly, and within an hour all three were drenched in sweat.

"You bring enough water?" Billy asked, wiping his forehead with his arm.

"Sarah packed two gallons," Jr. said. "Plus whatever's in the cooler."

"Bless that woman," Jake muttered.

They'd gotten three posts replaced when they heard the vehicle.

Billy looked up first, squinting against the sun. "You expecting anyone?"

Jake shook his head. "Nope."

A white pickup truck was coming down the dirt road that ran along the old Hutchinson property. It slowed as it approached, then stopped about thirty yards away.

Four men got out.

Something about the way they moved made Jake's gut tighten. They weren't dressed like ranch hands. And they sure as hell weren't smiling neighborly.

"Help you fellas?" Jake called out, straightening up.

The men spread out slightly, not saying anything. Then Jake saw the guns.

"Run!" Jake shouted.

But it was too late. The men moved fast—practiced, coordinated. Two of them rushed Jake, and he swung wild, connecting once before a rifle butt slammed into his stomach and dropped him to his knees, gasping.

Billy tried to tackle one of them but got hit from behind, going down hard in the dirt.

Jr. tried to run for the Silverado, but a hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him back. He hit the ground, the wind knocked out of him.

Within seconds, all three Bensons were on the ground, arms wrenched behind their backs. Rough rope was wrapped around their wrists, pulled tight and knotted. Rough hands shoved rags into their mouths—Jr. gagged on the taste of oil and dirt—and then duct tape was wound around their heads, sealing the rags in place.

Jake struggled, thrashing, trying to headbutt someone, anyone. It earned him another blow to the ribs.

"Quit fighting or the kid gets worse," one of them said.

Jake went still, his eyes finding Jr., who was wide-eyed and breathing hard through his nose.

They were hauled to their feet and dragged toward the white pickup. Jr. stumbled, his boots scrabbling in the dirt, and strong hands shoved him into the truck bed. Billy was thrown in next, then Jake.

One of the men climbed in with them, rifle across his lap. Another tied their ankles together with more rope.

The truck started moving.

Jr. tried to look back at the Silverado, still sitting there by the fence line, doors open, tools scattered. Evidence of a normal workday interrupted.

No one would find them for hours.

The truck turned onto a paved road, then another, heading northeast. Away from the ranch. Away from home.

Jake made eye contact with Billy, then with Jr. Even through the fear, there was something in Jake's eyes—a promise. We're getting out of this.

But as the miles stretched on and the sun climbed higher, that promise felt harder and harder to believe.

---

They drove for what felt like forever. Maybe thirty minutes. Maybe an hour. It was hard to tell with the heat and the fear and the pain from the ropes cutting into their wrists.

Finally, the truck slowed and turned onto a rutted dirt road. Trees closed in on both sides—live oaks and mesquite. Then the trees opened up, and there it was.

An old barn. Gray wood, half-collapsed roof on one side, windows boarded up. Middle of nowhere.

The truck stopped. The men dragged them out one by one and hauled them inside.

The barn was dim and hot, smelling of rotting wood and old hay. There was a clear space in the middle where the floor had been swept clean.

This was planned. This wasn't random.

They dropped Jr. first, then Billy, then Jake. All three of them on their stomachs in the dirt, hands still bound behind their backs with rope, tape over their mouths, breathing hard through their noses.

One of the men walked around them slowly, assessing. Another brought in heavy coils of coarse hemp rope from the truck.

One of them crouched down next to Jake, pulling out a phone.

"Before we get started," he said. "Let's send the family a preview."

He took a picture of Jake.

Then Billy.

Then Jr.

"They'll pay," one of them said. "Three million for three Bensons? They'll pay."

Jake's eyes went wide. He started thrashing again, trying to get up, trying to do something.

A boot pressed down on his back, pinning him.

"Save your energy," the man said. "We got work to do. And you three aren't going anywhere."

Chapter 3: The Binding

The kidnappers worked with a methodical efficiency that was somehow worse than violence. They had done this before. They had planned this.

"Him first," one of them said, pointing at Jake.

Two men grabbed Jake by the shoulders and dragged him toward the center of the cleared space. He fought—Jake always fought—bucking and twisting despite the rope already binding his wrists. It earned him nothing but a knee to the kidney that made him gasp into the rag stuffed in his mouth.

They forced him onto his knees, then pushed him forward onto his stomach. One man knelt on his back, keeping him pinned while another brought over the coils of thick, coarse hemp rope.

Billy and Jr. were forced to sit against the barn wall, hands still tied behind their backs, tape over their mouths, and watch. Jr.'s eyes were wide with terror. Billy's jaw was clenched tight, his mind already working, trying to figure out how to get them out of this.

The man with the rope started with Jake's torso. He looped the hemp rope around Jake's chest, just below his armpits, and pulled it tight. Then again, and again—three, four, five bands of rope circling Jake's bare chest, each one pulled taut and knotted at his spine. The coarse fibers bit into his sun-bronzed skin.

"Arms next," the man said.

They cut the rope binding Jake's wrists—just long enough to reposition his arms. Before Jake could react, they wrenched his arms behind his back again, palms together, and began wrapping rope around his biceps, above the elbow. Tight loops, cinched and knotted. Then below the elbows—more rope, more knots, frapping between his arms to lock them together. His elbows were pulled close enough that his shoulder blades jutted out.

Jake grunted in pain, his face pressed against the dirt floor.

Then the wrists. They wrapped rope around and around, binding his wrists together so thoroughly there was no hope of wiggling free. More frapping between the wrists, tightening everything.

"Boots," one of them said.

They grabbed Jake's ankles and crossed his work boots at the heel. More hemp rope wrapped around and around his ankles, then his boots, binding them together. Then—and this was when Jr. realized just how bad this was going to be—they pulled Jake's bound boots up toward his bound wrists and connected them with another length of rope. A hogtie. Tight enough that Jake's back arched, his body bowed.

Jake tried to thrash, but there was nowhere to go. The rope didn't give. His muscles strained uselessly against the bindings.

One of the kidnappers stepped back, assessing their work. "Good. Next."

They grabbed Billy.

"No—" Billy tried to yell through the gag, twisting away, but it was useless. They dragged him to the center of the barn floor, away from Jr., and forced him down just like they'd done with Jake.

Jr. watched in horror as they repeated the process on his uncle. The same methodical binding—rope around Billy's chest, five tight bands. Arms wrenched behind his back, rope around his biceps, his elbows, his wrists. Each loop pulled tight, each knot secured. Billy's face contorted in pain as they cinched the rope between his elbows, forcing his shoulders back.

Then his boots. Ankles bound, boots lashed together, then pulled up and connected to his wrists in a cruel hogtie.

Billy's breathing was harsh and fast through his nose, his eyes squeezed shut against the pain.

"Last one," the man said, turning toward Jr.

Jr. tried to scramble backward, but there was nowhere to go. His back was already against the barn wall. Hands grabbed him—rough, strong—and hauled him to his feet, then threw him down next to Billy.

"Please—" Jr. tried to say through the gag, but it came out as nothing but a muffled whimper.

They weren't gentle with him. Maybe because he was the youngest. Maybe because they didn't care.

The rope went around his chest first. Jr. could feel every coarse fiber of the hemp as they wrapped it around him—once, twice, three times, four, five. Each loop tighter than the last, constricting his ribs, making it harder to breathe. His chest was already slick with sweat, and the rope bit into his skin.

Then his arms. They yanked his arms behind his back so hard he thought his shoulders might dislocate. Rope around his biceps—tight, burning. Rope around his elbows—tighter still, pulling them together. He could feel his circulation being cut off, his fingers already starting to tingle.

His wrists were next, bound together so tightly the rope felt like it was fusing with his skin.

Then they grabbed his boots. Jr. tried to kick, one last desperate attempt, but a fist to his ribs stopped that. They crossed his ankles, wrapped rope around them, around his boots, and pulled everything tight.

And then—the worst part—they pulled his boots up and tied them to his wrists.

The hogtie was immediate and agonizing. His back arched involuntarily, his muscles screaming. He couldn't straighten out. He couldn't move. He could barely breathe.

Jr. made a choked sound into the gag, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes.

"Eyes," one of the kidnappers said.

They moved to Jake first, yanking off his ball cap and tossing it aside. Then they wrapped duct tape around his head, over his eyes, sealing him in darkness. Same with Billy—cap removed, tape over his eyes. Then Jr.—the last thing he saw before the tape covered his eyes was Billy's face, contorted in pain but trying to stay strong.

Then darkness.

Jr. could hear them moving, hear the sound of a phone camera clicking. They were taking pictures. Proof of life. Proof they had the Bensons.

"Alright, line them up," one of the men said.

Jr. felt hands on him, rolling him, dragging him. He was positioned next to someone—Billy, he thought, from the sound of his breathing. And Jake on the other side.

Then he felt it—a rope being looped around his neck. Not tight enough to choke, but tight enough to feel. He heard Billy make a strangled sound, then Jake. They were all connected. One long rope around all three of their necks.

And then another rope, this one around their boots, binding all six feet together.

"Try to move, you choke each other," one of the kidnappers said, his voice cold and matter-of-fact. "Try to run, you choke each other. You're not going anywhere."

Jr. could hear them walking away, boots on the dirt floor. A door creaking open, then slamming shut. The sound of the truck starting up outside, then driving away.

And then—silence.

Just the three of them, bound, gagged, blindfolded, hogtied, and tethered together in an abandoned barn in the middle of nowhere.

Jake made a muffled sound—anger, frustration, fury.

Billy's breathing was slow and controlled, even through the pain. Thinking. Always thinking.

Jr. just tried not to panic. Tried not to pull on the rope around his neck. Tried not to think about what would happen in twenty-four hours if no one found them.

Tried not to think about the fact that he was supposed to be home by six o'clock for dinner.

Chapter 4: The Discovery

By two o'clock in the afternoon, Sarah was starting to worry.

"They should've checked in by now," she said, wiping her hands on her apron for the third time in ten minutes.

Tom looked up from the account books spread across the kitchen table. "Give them another hour. You know how those boys get when they're working. Time gets away from them."

But it was Rebecca who felt it first—that cold knot in her stomach that every mother knows. The one that says something's wrong.

"Junior always checks in," she said quietly. "Always. Even if it's just a text."

Josh came in from the office, phone in hand. "Anyone heard from the boys? They're not answering."

"Nothing," Tom said, his concern growing.

By three o'clock, Josh and Tom were in one of the ranch trucks, heading north toward the fence line. Rebecca rode with them, her nursing instincts on high alert.

They found the Silverado at three-twenty.

Doors open. Tools scattered. Water jugs sitting in the sun, still half-full. Three shirts in the truck bed.

But no Jake. No Billy. No Jr.

"Jesus Christ," Josh breathed.

Tom was already on his phone. "Wade? We got a problem. The boys are missing. All three of them."

---

By four o'clock, the Benson Ranch kitchen was packed. Tom, Sarah, Josh, Rebecca, Ray, Pops, Celeb, Colt. Sheriff Wade Nelson had arrived with his wife Mary and their sons Wilson and Ryan, both deputies. The Beaumonts—Robert and Caroline—were there too.

Everyone was talking at once until Pops slammed his hand on the table.

"Quiet!" His voice, honed by years of barking orders in Vietnam, cut through the chaos. "Wade, what do we know?"

"Not much," Wade said grimly. "Truck's still there. No signs of struggle at first glance, but—"

Tom's phone buzzed. Then Sarah's. Then Josh's. Then Rebecca's.

All at the same time.

Tom looked at his screen and went white.

The photo showed Jake—shirtless, arms bound behind his back with thick rope, body arched in a hogtie, duct tape over his eyes, more tape around his mouth. Lying on a dirt floor.

Sarah made a sound like she'd been punched.

The next photo was Billy. Same brutal binding. Same position.

Then Jr.

Rebecca's knees buckled. Josh caught her, but he was staring at the image of his son—his boy—trussed up like an animal, blindfolded, helpless.

Another message came through. This one was text:

We have your sons. $3,000,000. You have 24 hours. Wire transfer instructions to follow. If payment is not received, we execute one every 6 hours. Starting with the youngest. No police. No FBI. You contact anyone outside your family, they die.

The kitchen erupted.

Sarah was sobbing. Rebecca was shaking, her nurse's mind racing through all the ways those bindings could cause damage—circulation cut off, positional asphyxiation, dehydration in this heat.

"We pay," Tom said immediately. "Whatever they want, we pay."

"Damn right we pay," Pops growled. "And then we kill every single one of those sons of bitches."

Wade held up his hand. "We need to think this through—"

"There's nothing to think through!" Josh's voice cracked. "That's my son! Those are my brothers!"

"I know," Wade said. "And we're getting them back. All of us. This stays in the family. No one else."

Ray was already on his phone. "I need to talk to Frank Mitchell at Kings National. We need three million liquid, and we need the transfer to look real but buy us time."

"How much time?" Tom demanded.

"Depends on what Frank can do with the wire protocols. A day if we're lucky."

"They'll be dead in a day!" Rebecca's voice was sharp, desperate.

"Then we find them before the deadline," Wade said flatly.

Pops stood up, walked to the corner of the kitchen, and hit the emergency button mounted on the wall.

Throughout the ranch, throughout the Nelson property, throughout all six consortium ranches, speakers crackled to life:

"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Benson Ranch. All hands respond."

Within minutes, the encrypted network was live. Satellite phones activated. Every consortium family checking in.

"What do we need?" Robert Beaumont's voice came through clear.

"My boys have been taken," Tom said, his voice steady despite the rage burning in his eyes. "Three million dollar ransom. Twenty-four hours. We need the consortium fathers here. Armed. Now."

"On our way," came the immediate response from Anthony Renzo.

"Ten minutes out," from Michael Mattern.

"Already rolling," from Carlos Rodriguez.

Within the hour, the command center next to the frat house was operational. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—Jr.'s best friends, all sixteen, all tech-savvy beyond their years—were setting up equipment.

"We got the photos," Billy Renzo said, his voice tight. He and Jr. had been best friends since they were six years old. "I'm pulling metadata now."

"Check the cell towers," Daniel added, fingers flying over a keyboard. "If they're still in range, we can triangulate."

Ryan was already prepping the drones. "Thermal imaging's online. We can cover a fifty-mile radius if we coordinate flight patterns."

Downstairs, Ray was on the phone with Frank Mitchell, president of Kings National Bank.

"Frank, I need a favor. A big one."

"What kind of favor, Ray?"

"The kind where you help me fake a three-million-dollar wire transfer to buy time while we find three kidnapped boys."

There was a pause. "Jake, Billy, and Junior?"

"You heard already?"

"Small county, Ray. What do you need?"

"I need the transfer to look legitimate, but I need it to fail. Banking protocols, international verification delays, anything that buys us hours without tipping off the kidnappers that we're stalling."

"Give me thirty minutes," Frank said. "I'll have something set up. And Ray? You bring those boys home."

"That's the plan."

Back in the kitchen, the consortium fathers started arriving. Anthony Renzo, a broad-shouldered man who ran cattle and horses. Michael Mattern, quiet but deadly with a rifle. Carlos Rodriguez, former Marine like Pops. All of them armed, all of them grim-faced.

"How many men we got?" Pops asked.

Tom counted. "You, me, Josh, Ray, Wade, Wilson, Ryan, Robert, Anthony, Michael, Carlos, Celeb, Colt. That's thirteen."

"Thirteen's enough," Pops said, loading his old M1 Garand. "Quality over quantity."

Rebecca was in the corner, crying quietly, and Sarah was holding her. Both mothers, both terrified.

Tom walked over, put his hand on Rebecca's shoulder. "We're getting them back."

"They're hurting," Rebecca whispered. "Those ropes—the way they're tied—Josh, they could—"

"Don't," Josh said, but his own voice was shaking. "Don't go there. We're getting them back."

Ray came out of the office. "Frank's setting it up. The wire transfer will initiate on schedule but will get flagged for verification due to the amount and international destination. Should buy us eight to twelve hours before they get suspicious."

"Make it work," Tom said.

Another message came through on the phones. Wire transfer instructions. An account in the Cayman Islands. A deadline: 4:00 PM tomorrow.

Less than twenty-four hours.

Tom typed back: Transfer initiated. Bank requires 24-hour verification for amounts over $1M. Expect completion by deadline.

The response was immediate: No delays. 4 PM or the boy dies.

Rebecca made a sound like a wounded animal.

"We're not waiting for a deadline," Pops said, checking his rifle. "Those tech kids find anything, we roll. Every one of us."

Wade looked around the room at the assembled men. Fathers. Brothers. Family. "We go in quiet. We go in smart. And we bring them home."

"Damn right," Pops said.

Upstairs, Billy Renzo's voice came over the intercom. "Got something! Photo metadata shows GPS coordinates were stripped, but I'm running the image through reverse geolocation based on light angles and shadow patterns. Narrowing search area to northeast quadrant, approximately twenty to forty miles out."

"That's still a lot of ground," Wilson said.

"Then we start searching," Tom replied. "Get those drones in the air. Check every abandoned property, every barn, every structure within that radius."

Josh was already pulling up maps on his tablet. "Old Hutchinson place is out that way. Been abandoned for years. And there's the Miller property, the old Patterson barn..."

"Make a list," Wade said. "We'll check them all."

Tom looked at the photo of his sons one more time. Jake's defiant anger even in binding. Billy's calculated stillness. Jr.'s fear barely controlled.

"We're coming," he whispered. "Hold on, boys. We're coming."

Chapter 5: Darkness in the Barn

Time had no meaning in the darkness.

Jr. didn't know if it had been minutes or hours since the kidnappers left. The only sounds were his own breathing through his nose, ragged and fast, and the similar sounds from Jake and Billy somewhere near him.

The hogtie was agony. His back was arched so severely he could feel every vertebra screaming in protest. His shoulders burned from having his arms wrenched behind him, elbows pulled together. The coarse hemp rope bit into every part of his body—chest, biceps, elbows, wrists, ankles, boots.

And worst of all was the knowledge that if he moved too much, the rope around his neck would tighten. Not just on him, but on Billy and Jake too.

He tried to stay still. Tried not to panic.

Failed.

A whimper escaped through the gag, muffled but audible.

Immediately, he heard Jake make a sound—something between a grunt and what might have been words if not for the tape and rag. It's okay. We're okay.

But they weren't okay.

Jr.'s fingers were tingling, going numb. The circulation to his hands was being cut off by the ropes. He tried to wiggle his fingers, but they barely responded. His boots—still crossed and bound tight—were losing feeling too.

The heat was unbearable. Even in the shade of the barn, the July temperature had to be over a hundred degrees. Sweat poured off him, making the ropes slick against his skin, but somehow they didn't loosen. If anything, the moisture made the coarse hemp chafe worse.

He was so thirsty. They'd only had a few swigs from the water jug before the attack. How long could a person survive without water in this heat? A day? Two?

Don't think about that, he told himself. Grandpa's coming. Pop's coming. Dad's coming.

But what if they didn't come in time?

What if the kidnappers came back first?

What if—

Billy made a sound. Deliberate. Rhythmic. Three short grunts, three long, three short.

SOS.

Jr. almost laughed—would have, if the gag hadn't prevented it. Leave it to Billy to try Morse code through a gag while hogtied and blindfolded.

Jake responded with a grunt that sounded distinctly like shut up.

Despite everything, Jr. felt a tiny bit of comfort. His uncles were still themselves. Still fighting. Still thinking.

He could do this. They could do this.

---

Jake was furious.

The rage burned hotter than the heat, hotter than the pain. He'd let this happen. He should have been more alert, should have seen the truck coming sooner, should have gotten Jr. to safety.

Instead, all three of them were trussed up like animals, waiting for either rescue or execution.

He tested the ropes for the hundredth time. Pulled with his arms, trying to create any slack in the binding. Nothing. Whoever had tied them knew what they were doing. The knots were solid, the rope was thick, and every loop was cinched tight with frapping that made escape impossible.

His wrists were raw. He could feel blood, slick and warm, where the rope had rubbed his skin away. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. And his back—Christ, his back was on fire from the arch of the hogtie.

But worse than the physical pain was the helplessness.

Jake Benson didn't do helpless. He was the oldest. The protector. The hothead who jumped into fights first and thought about consequences later.

And now he couldn't do anything but lie here in the dark and wait.

He heard Jr. whimper again, and it nearly broke him. The kid was sixteen. Sixteen. He should be worrying about his girlfriend Anna and passing his driver's test, not wondering if he was going to be executed in some abandoned barn.

Jake made another sound through the gag, trying to communicate reassurance. Trying to say I'm here, I've got you, we're getting out of this.

But the tape and rag turned it into nothing but muffled noise.

---

Billy was thinking.

That's what Billy did. While Jake raged and Jr. tried not to panic, Billy analyzed.

The ropes were professionally done. Military or law enforcement training, maybe. Or someone who'd done this before. The hogtie was textbook—severe enough to be completely immobilizing but not quite severe enough to cause immediate injury. The rope around all their necks was psychological as much as physical—it kept them from trying to escape because any struggle would choke the others.

Smart. Cruel, but smart.

The kidnappers wanted money. Three million. That meant they knew the Benson family could pay. Which meant they'd done research. Which meant this wasn't random.

Who would target them specifically?

Old grudges? Business rivals? Someone from one of the other ranches they'd outbid at auction?

Billy ran through possibilities, trying to keep his mind occupied, trying not to think about the pain or the heat or the thirst.

The bank transfer would take time. Dad and Ray would stall. They had to. And while they stalled, Pop and Grandpa and the whole consortium would be looking.

The wiz kids—his nephew's friends—would be pulling metadata from the photos, tracking cell signals, deploying drones. Those boys were smart. Scary smart when it came to tech.

They'd be found. They had to be found.

Billy just hoped it would be before the twenty-four-hour deadline.

He heard Jr. whimper again, heard Jake grunt in response, and Billy tried his Morse code trick one more time. Anything to let them know he was still here, still with them, still fighting.

Three short. Three long. Three short.

We're going to make it.

---

Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. It was impossible to tell.

The heat became oppressive. Jr. felt dizzy, his head swimming. Dehydration setting in. His lips were cracked and bleeding behind the gag. His throat was raw from breathing through his nose for so long.

His muscles had gone from burning to cramping to a deep, nauseating ache that radiated through his entire body. He couldn't hold the arched position much longer. But if he let his body go slack, the rope connecting his boots to his wrists would pull tighter, bending him even more.

He was trapped in his own body.

Please, he thought. Please find us. Please.

And then, faintly, he heard it.

An engine.

A vehicle approaching.

Jake heard it too—his whole body went rigid.

Billy made a questioning sound.

The engine grew louder, then stopped. A door opened. Footsteps.

The barn door creaked open, and even through the blindfold, Jr. could sense the change in light.

"Still alive," one of the kidnappers said. "Good. Your family's stalling on the wire transfer. That's not smart."

Footsteps approached. Jr. felt a boot press against his side, not hard enough to hurt but enough to show dominance.

"You got eighteen hours left," the man said. "Then we start with the youngest. Make sure your daddy knows that."

Another phone camera clicked. More proof of life.

Then the footsteps retreated. The door slammed. The engine started and drove away.

And the three Bensons were alone again in the darkness.

Jr. started to cry. He couldn't help it. Silent tears soaking into the duct tape over his eyes.

Jake made a sound—anger, frustration, determination.

Billy's breathing stayed steady. Still thinking. Still planning.

They just had to survive eighteen more hours.

Chapter 6: The Hunt Begins

The command center was a controlled chaos of technology and determination.

Billy Renzo sat at the main console, three monitors glowing in front of him, fingers flying across the keyboard. Ryan Mattern was next to him, managing the drone feeds. Daniel Rodriguez had headphones on, monitoring cell tower data and running triangulation algorithms.

"Talk to me," Tom said, standing behind them with Pops, Wade, and Josh.

"Got the metadata stripped from the photos, but I'm running them through geolocation software," Billy Renzo said. "Based on shadow angles, sun position, and the background structures visible, I'm narrowing it down."

"How narrow?" Josh asked, his voice tight.

"Northeast quadrant, twenty to forty miles out. Rural properties, minimal cell coverage. They picked the location deliberately."

"Show me," Wade said.

Billy pulled up a map on the center monitor. A red circle highlighted the search area. "This is our target zone. Approximately three hundred square miles."

"That's a lot of ground," Wilson said from the doorway.

"Then we divide it up," Pops said. "How many drones we got operational?"

"Six," Ryan Mattern answered. "All equipped with thermal imaging and night vision. We can run them in shifts to cover more ground."

"Do it," Tom said. "Start with abandoned properties. Old barns, outbuildings, anything that could hide three people."

Daniel pulled off his headphones. "I'm pulling up property records now. Cross-referencing with aerial imagery from the last five years. Looking for structures that show up on old surveys but might be abandoned now."

Josh was already at another terminal, pulling up maps. "Old Hutchinson place is in that zone. Been empty for ten years. There's also the Miller barn, the Patterson property, couple of old homesteads near the county line..."

"Make a list," Wade said. "We'll prioritize based on access roads and distance from the abduction site."

Downstairs, the consortium fathers were gearing up. Anthony Renzo was checking rifles. Michael Mattern was loading ammunition into magazines. Carlos Rodriguez—the former Marine—was organizing tactical gear.

"We go in teams of three," Wade said, coming down from the command center. "Each team takes a sector. Stay on the encrypted channels. If you find anything—anything—you call it in before you move."

"What if we find them?" Anthony asked.

"You assess the situation," Wade said. "How many hostiles, what kind of firepower, what's the layout. Then you call for backup. We don't go in half-cocked and get those boys killed."

Pops checked the magazine on his M1 Garand. "And if they're about to execute one of them?"

Wade met his eyes. "Then you do what you have to do."

Ray came in from the office, phone still pressed to his ear. "Frank's got the wire transfer set up. It'll initiate at six AM tomorrow, right on schedule. But he's built in 'verification delays' that should give us until at least two PM before the kidnappers realize it's not going through."

"That's twenty hours," Tom said. "More if we're lucky."

"Twenty hours to search three hundred square miles," Josh said quietly.

"Then we better get started," Pops said.

---

By six PM, the first drones were in the air.

Ryan Mattern piloted Drone One, sweeping the northern section of the search grid. Daniel Rodriguez had Drone Two on the eastern sector. Billy Renzo was coordinating from the command center, watching all six feeds simultaneously.

"Drone One, I've got a structure," Ryan said. "Bearing two-seven-zero, about three miles from the Hutchinson property line."

"Pull in closer," Billy said. "Let's see thermal."

The drone descended, its thermal camera switching on. The image showed a small barn, mostly collapsed on one side. No heat signatures.

"Empty," Ryan confirmed. "Moving on."

"Drone Two, I've got something," Daniel said. "Old farmhouse, looks abandoned. Checking thermal now."

The feed showed the ghostly green-and-white image of a structure. Two faint heat signatures inside.

"Could be animals," Daniel said. "Deer maybe, or—wait. Those shapes are too uniform. Could be people."

"Mark the coordinates," Wade said immediately. "We're rolling."

Tom, Josh, and Robert Beaumont were in the first truck within minutes. Wade, Wilson, and Ryan Nelson in the second. Pops, Ray, and Celeb in the third.

"Stay back until we confirm," Wade radioed to the other vehicles as they approached the farmhouse. "Could be squatters, could be our guys, could be the hostiles."

They parked a quarter mile out and approached on foot, rifles ready.

The farmhouse was in worse shape up close—windows broken, porch sagging, front door hanging off its hinges.

Wade signaled. Wilson moved left, Ryan right. Tom and Josh came up behind Wade.

"Sheriff's office!" Wade called out. "Anyone in there, come out with your hands visible!"

Silence.

Then a rustling sound, and two figures emerged—teenagers, dirty and scared, carrying backpacks.

"Don't shoot!" one of them yelled. "We're just camping, man!"

Wade lowered his rifle. "Jesus Christ, boys. You picked a hell of a place to camp."

"Sorry, sir. We didn't—"

"Get out of here," Wade said. "And next time, camp somewhere that doesn't look like a meth lab."

The teenagers scrambled away.

Tom let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "False alarm."

"Back to the trucks," Wade said. "We keep looking."

---

By eight PM, they'd checked six locations. All empty.

By ten PM, the drones had covered a third of the search grid. Nothing.

By midnight, the families were exhausted but refused to stop. The mothers—Sarah, Rebecca, Caroline, and Mary—had set up a food station in the kitchen, keeping coffee brewing and sandwiches ready for when the men rotated back.

Rebecca hadn't stopped crying since the photos arrived. Sarah held her hand, both women trying to be strong for each other.

"They're alive," Sarah said quietly. "Those pictures—they were alive when those were taken."

"But for how long?" Rebecca whispered. "Those ropes, Sarah. As a nurse, I can tell you—if they're tied that tight for too long, the damage—"

"Don't," Sarah said firmly. "Don't go there. Tom and Josh and Pops—they're going to find them."

Upstairs, Billy Renzo rubbed his eyes. He'd been staring at screens for eight hours straight. But he couldn't stop. Not when his best friend was out there, tied up, scared, maybe dying.

"Come on, Jr.," he muttered. "Give me something. Give me a sign."

Daniel brought him a cup of coffee. "We'll find him. We'll find all of them."

"We're running out of time."

"Then we work faster."

Another drone feed came in. Another abandoned barn. Another empty building.

The search continued through the night.

Somewhere out there, in the darkness, Jake, Billy, and Jr. were waiting.

Waiting for rescue.

Waiting for hope.

Waiting to know if the next sound they heard would be their family—or their executioners.

Chapter 7: Breaking the Silence

Jake had been working his jaw for what felt like hours.

The duct tape was wrapped tight around his head, sealing the oil-soaked rag in his mouth, but it wasn't impossible. Nothing was impossible. He just had to be patient—something Jake had never been good at.

He started by working his jaw side to side, slowly, carefully. The tape pulled at his skin, but he kept going. Then he tilted his head, trying to rub the edge of the tape against his shoulder. The hogtie made it nearly impossible, but he managed to get some contact.

Rub. Pull. Work the jaw. Rub again.

The tape stretched slightly. Not much, but enough to give him hope.

He kept at it, ignoring the burning in his shoulders, the cramping in his legs, the fire in his back. The gag was the priority. If he could get the gag off, he could talk to Billy and Jr. Could coordinate. Could plan.

Could let them know they weren't alone.

---

Billy heard what Jake was doing—the subtle sounds of movement, the slight increase in breathing. Smart. If they could communicate, they had a chance.

He started working his own gag, following Jake's lead. Jaw side to side, stretching the tape. Head tilted, rubbing against his shoulder. The coarse hemp rope around his chest made every movement agonizing, but he pushed through it.

The tape was industrial strength, meant to seal them silent. But nothing lasted forever. Not even duct tape in hundred-degree heat with sweat pouring down their faces.

Billy worked methodically, patiently. That's what Billy did—he calculated, he planned, he executed. Getting the gag off was just another problem to solve.

---

Jr. watched—or would have, if he could see through the tape over his eyes—as he heard both his uncles working at their gags. If they were trying, he could try too.

He started moving his jaw, working it side to side like he'd heard Jake doing. The rag tasted awful—oil, dirt, something chemical—and it was making him gag for real. But he kept going.

His neck hurt from the strain of the hogtie, and every movement threatened to pull on the rope connecting all three of them around their necks. He had to be careful. Had to move slowly.

But he had to try.

---

It took hours.

The sun was setting outside—they could tell from the way the heat in the barn shifted slightly—when Jake finally felt the tape give.

He worked his jaw one more time, felt the edge of the tape peel away from his cheek, and managed to push the rag forward with his tongue. Not all the way out, but enough that he could spit it partially free.

"Billy," Jake rasped, his voice barely a whisper. His throat was raw and dry.

Billy's head jerked toward the sound. He redoubled his efforts, and within minutes, his own gag came loose enough to talk.

"Jake," Billy breathed. "You okay?"

"No. You?"

"No."

"Jr.," Jake called out softly. "You with us, kid?"

Jr. made a muffled sound, still working at his gag. It took another ten minutes, but finally he managed to work the rag loose enough to speak.

"I'm here," Jr. said, his voice cracking. "I'm scared."

"I know," Jake said. "We all are. But we're getting out of this."

"How?" Jr. asked. "We can't move. We can't—"

"Listen to me," Billy cut in, his voice calm and measured despite the pain. "We're alive. That means they want us alive. That means Grandpa and Dad and Pop are coming."

"The ransom—"

"Ray's handling it," Jake said with certainty. "You know Ray. He'll stall them, make it look real, buy time. And while he's doing that, the wiz kids are tracking us. Your friends—Billy, Ryan, Daniel—they're smart. They'll find us."

"We've been here for hours," Jr. said, tears in his voice. "What if they don't find us in time?"

"They will," Billy said firmly. "You know Pop. You think he's going to let anyone hurt us? Hell, he's probably leading a damn army right now."

Despite everything, Jr. almost laughed. "Yeah. Yeah, he is."

"That's right," Jake said. "And when they get here, we need to be ready. We need to know what we're dealing with."

"Four men," Billy said immediately. "All armed. Rifles, probably semi-automatic. They moved like they had training—military or law enforcement."

"Why us?" Jr. asked. "Why the Bensons?"

"Money," Billy said. "Three million. They know we have it. Or they think we do."

"The consortium," Jake said, working it out. "They know about the consortium. Know that between all six families, we can come up with that kind of cash."

"Which means this was researched," Billy continued. "Planned. They knew we'd be out in the north pasture today. Knew it was far enough from the house that no one would hear or see."

"Inside job?" Jr. asked.

"Maybe," Billy said. "Or just good surveillance."

They were quiet for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts, their own pain.

"My hands are numb," Jr. said finally. "I can't feel my fingers."

"Mine too," Jake admitted. "Circulation's cut off. These ropes—whoever tied them knew what they were doing."

"We can't get out of them," Billy said. It wasn't a question.

"No," Jake said. "Not without help."

Another silence.

"Jake?" Jr. said quietly.

"Yeah, kid?"

"If they come back before—before the family gets here—"

"Don't."

"But if they do—"

"Then we fight," Jake said fiercely. "However we can. We don't make it easy for them. You hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Billy?" Jr. said.

"I'm here."

"Tell Mama—if something happens—tell her I love her."

"You'll tell her yourself," Billy said firmly. "When we get home."

"But if—"

"No," Jake interrupted. "No goodbyes. We're getting out of this. All three of us."

Jr. was quiet for a long moment. Then: "Okay."

"That's my boy," Jake said. "Now conserve your energy. We don't know when they're coming back, and we need to stay sharp."

"Jake?" Billy said.

"Yeah?"

"When we get out of this, I'm never working fence line again."

Despite everything—the pain, the fear, the hopelessness of their situation—Jake laughed. A short, hoarse bark of a laugh that hurt his ribs. "Deal."

Jr. laughed too, a sound caught between a sob and genuine amusement.

And for a moment, in the darkness of the barn, bound and helpless and waiting for either rescue or death, they were just three Bensons. Brothers and nephew. Family.

---

They heard the vehicle about an hour later.

"Quiet," Billy hissed immediately.

All three of them went still, working their gags back into place as best they could, hoping the kidnappers wouldn't notice the loosened tape.

The barn door opened. Footsteps.

"Still alive," one of the men said. "Good."

A boot pressed against Jake's side. He didn't move, didn't react, pretended he was too weak or too scared to fight back.

"Your family's stalling," the man continued. "Banking problems, they say. We'll give them a few more hours. But if that money doesn't come through—" He kicked Jake, harder this time. "—we start with the kid."

The footsteps retreated. The door slammed. The truck drove away.

The three Bensons lay in the darkness, breathing hard, hearts pounding.

"They're stalling," Billy whispered once the sound of the engine faded. "That's good. That's what we need."

"Eighteen hours," Jr. said. "He said eighteen hours."

"Then the family has eighteen hours to find us," Jake said. "And I guarantee you, they're looking."

"They'll find us," Billy said with certainty. "They have to."

In the darkness, none of them mentioned what would happen if they didn't.

Chapter 8: The Breach

"I've got it," Billy Renzo said, his voice cutting through the exhausted silence of the command center. It was four AM. They'd been searching for fourteen hours straight.

Everyone in the room snapped to attention.

"What've you got?" Tom demanded, moving behind him.

"Cross-referenced the geolocation data with property tax records and old aerial surveys. There's a barn—old Hutchinson property, about thirty-two miles northeast. Hasn't been on any active registry for twelve years. Perfect place to hide someone."

"Drone confirmation?" Wade asked.

"Sending Drone Four now," Ryan Mattern said, his fingers dancing across the controls.

The feed came up on the main monitor. The barn materialized on screen—weathered gray wood, sagging roof, isolated by thick trees. And then the thermal imaging kicked in.

Three heat signatures on the floor. Close together. Not moving much.

And four more signatures. Moving. Pacing.

"That's them," Josh breathed. "That's my son."

"Mount up," Pops said, already heading for the door. "Now."

"We go loaded," Wade said. "Sidearms, rifles, tactical gear. Billy, Ryan, Daniel—you three are coming with portable command. iPads, satellite phones, drone support. You stay back but you stay armed."

The three sixteen-year-olds nodded, their faces grim. They'd trained for this. The consortium didn't raise soft boys.

Within minutes, four trucks were rolling out into the pre-dawn darkness. Tom, Josh, and Pops in the lead vehicle. Wade, Wilson, and Ryan Nelson in the second. Robert Beaumont, Anthony Renzo, and Michael Mattern in the third. Ray, Carlos Rodriguez, Celeb, and Colt in the fourth.

The wiz kids rode in the second truck with Wade, iPads glowing, maintaining drone surveillance and coordinating positions.

---

They parked half a mile out and approached on foot through the woods. The sky was just starting to lighten—that gray hour before dawn when everything was shadows and silence.

Billy Renzo set up the portable command station behind a stand of live oaks, tablet propped on a truck hood. "Four hostiles. Three inside the barn, one outside—looks like he's on patrol. Our guys are on the floor, northeast corner. Still not moving much."

"Because they're tied up," Josh said, his voice tight with controlled fury.

"We take out the patrol first," Wade said. "Silent. Then we breach simultaneously from three points—front, side, back. Fast and overwhelming."

"I'm going in first," Pops said. It wasn't a request.

Wade looked at the old man—seventy-six years old, Vietnam vet, still deadly with a rifle. "You got point."

They spread out. Carlos and Wilson moved to take the perimeter guard. Anthony and Michael circled to the back entrance. Tom, Josh, and Robert positioned at the side.

Wade, Pops, Ray, and Celeb took the front.

"On my mark," Wade whispered into the encrypted channel.

Carlos's voice came back. "Perimeter guard is down. Repeat, perimeter is down."

"Thermal shows the three inside are armed," Daniel's voice crackled through. "Two near the door, one near the captives."

Pops's grip tightened on his M1 Garand.

"Breach in three... two... one... go."

---

It happened fast.

The doors exploded inward simultaneously. Flash of movement, shouts, gunfire.

Two kidnappers at the front door spun toward the breach, raising weapons. Wade and Ray fired—controlled bursts—and both men went down.

The back door—Anthony and Michael storming through, catching the third kidnapper from behind. He got one shot off before Michael's rifle barked and he crumpled.

But the fourth man—the one near the captives—had a pistol.

And he was standing over Jr.

Pops saw it the instant he came through the door. The kidnapper raising the gun, pointing it down at the blindfolded, bound boy on the floor.

Pops didn't hesitate.

One shot. Clean. Through the head.

The kidnapper dropped like a puppet with cut strings, the unfired pistol clattering away.

"Clear!" Wade shouted. "All hostiles down! Clear!"

And then they were rushing in—Tom, Josh, Pops, all of them, converging on the three bound figures in the corner.

"Junior!" Josh dropped to his knees beside his son. "Junior, I'm here. I've got you."

Tom was already at Jake, pulling out a knife. "It's okay, son. We're here. You're okay."

Pops knelt by Billy, his weathered hands gentle despite the violence they'd just committed. "Easy, boy. Easy now. Let's get these ropes off."

Josh pulled the tape off Jr.'s eyes first. The boy blinked, tears streaming down his face as he saw his father.

"Dad," Jr. choked out.

"I've got you," Josh said, his own voice breaking. "I've got you."

Tom ripped the tape from Jake's mouth, then started sawing at the rope around his neck—the one connecting all three of them.

"'Bout damn time," Jake rasped, and despite everything—the pain, the fear, the hours of torture—he managed a crooked grin. "Was starting to think you guys got lost."

"Shut up," Tom said, but he was laughing and crying at the same time.

"Seriously, Pop, you could've called ahead. I wasn't exactly dressed for company." Jake gestured with his chin at his bare, rope-burned chest.

"You're an idiot," Billy said as Pops cut the gag from his mouth.

"Yeah, but I'm your idiot," Jake shot back.

Josh was working frantically at the ropes binding Jr.'s arms. The knots were brutal, pulled so tight the rope had cut into the boy's skin. "These sons of bitches," Josh muttered. "These goddamn—"

"Language, Pop," Jr. said weakly, and Josh laughed—a sound somewhere between relief and rage.

"That's my boy."

The ropes came off in stages. First the one around their necks. Then the one binding their boots together. Then the individual hogties—cutting the rope that connected boots to wrists, watching as each of them could finally, finally straighten their backs.

Jake groaned as his body unbent. "Oh Jesus. Oh Christ, that hurts."

"Easy," Tom said, supporting him. "Easy, son. Don't move too fast."

Billy's arms came free, and Pops had to catch him as he slumped forward, circulation rushing back into his hands with painful intensity. "Got you," Pops said. "I got you, boy."

Jr. was sobbing openly as Josh cut through the last of the ropes around his wrists. His hands were purple, swollen, rope-burned and bloody. But he was free.

"Can you stand?" Josh asked.

"I... I don't know."

"Then I'll carry you," Josh said, already scooping his son up.

Jake tried to stand on his own and his legs buckled. Tom caught him. "Idiot."

"Hey, at least I tried," Jake said. "That's gotta count for something."

"You're making jokes," Billy said, leaning heavily on Pops. "Of course you're making jokes."

"What else am I gonna do? Cry? That's Jr.'s job."

"Screw you," Jr. said, but he was smiling through the tears.

Wade appeared in the doorway. "Ambulance is twenty minutes out. Rebecca's with them."

"Mama's coming?" Jr. asked.

"Wild horses couldn't stop her," Wade said.

Outside, the sun was rising. Golden light spilling through the trees, touching the barn, warming the air.

The Bensons were going home.

Chapter 9: The Homecoming

The hospital visit was mercifully quick.

Rebecca had taken charge the moment the ambulance arrived, her nurse training kicking in despite her tears. She assessed rope burns, circulation issues, dehydration. IV fluids for all three. Antibiotics. Pain medication. The doctor wanted to keep them overnight for observation.

"Not a chance in hell," Pops said from the doorway.

The doctor looked at the old man—weathered, armed, and absolutely not negotiating.

"They're going home," Pops continued. "Today."

"Sir, they've been through significant trauma—"

"Which is why they need to be home. With family. Where they belong."

The doctor looked at Rebecca, who was holding Jr.'s hand and nodding. "He's right. They need to be home."

"Against medical advice—"

"Noted," Tom said. "We're leaving."

By eleven AM, three bandaged, bruised, but alive Bensons were loaded into trucks and headed back to the ranch.

---

The smell hit them before they even parked—mesquite smoke, barbecue, Sarah's biscuits.

"Oh my God," Jake breathed from the passenger seat. "Is that brisket?"

"And ribs," Billy said from behind him. "I can die happy now."

"Don't even joke," Tom said, but he was grinning.

The ranch was transformed. Long tables set up under the live oaks. The consortium families had descended—Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes, Beaumonts, Nelsons—all of them bringing food, bringing celebration, bringing relief.

Sarah, Caroline, and Mary had organized a Texas BBQ that would feed an army. Brisket, ribs, pulled pork, corn on the cob, coleslaw, potato salad, and enough biscuits to feed all of Kings County.

The trucks pulled up and everyone converged.

Jr. was immediately wrapped in his mother's arms, Rebecca sobbing and holding him like she'd never let go. Sarah had Jake and Billy, both boys towering over their mother but letting her fuss anyway.

"You're home," Sarah kept saying. "You're home, you're home, you're home."

"We're home, Mama," Jake said.

Pops was already heading to the makeshift bar he and Wade had set up under the big oak—bottles of whiskey, beer on ice, the good stuff saved for special occasions.

And if there was ever a special occasion, this was it.

Wade grinned as the first people to line up were Jr. and his three friends—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. All sixteen. All heroes in their own right.

"ID, boys?" Wade asked, deadpan.

Jr. looked at his grandfather Tom, then at Pops, then back at Wade.

Pops laughed, a sound like gravel and joy. "Hell, Wade, the boy just survived a kidnapping. I think he's earned a beer."

"That was the answer I was looking for," Wade said, handing each of the boys a cold bottle. "You four saved lives today. That counts for something."

Billy Renzo held up his beer. "To Jr."

"To all of us," Jr. said, clinking bottles with his friends.

They drank, grinning and laughing, the weight of the last twenty-four hours finally lifting.

---

By noon, everyone was eating. Plates piled high, stories being told, laughter echoing across the ranch.

Billy and Jake held court at one of the tables, recounting the kidnapping with the kind of dark humor that comes after surviving something terrible.

"And then they hogtied us," Billy said. "Professional job. Military-grade rope work."

"Couldn't move an inch," Jake added. "Thought my shoulders were gonna dislocate."

"But the worst part," Billy continued, "was being tied to these two idiots. Any movement and we choked each other."

"Hey, I was a perfect captive," Jake protested. "Jr.'s the one who kept whimpering."

"I was terrified!" Jr. shot back, grinning despite himself.

"Kid did good though," Jake said, suddenly serious. He looked at his nephew. "Real good. Didn't panic. Kept his head. Worked his gag off just like we did."

"Jr. became a man today," Billy said, raising his beer. "No question."

The table erupted in cheers. Jr. turned red but couldn't stop smiling.

Anna appeared at his side—his girlfriend, sixteen and worried sick for the last day. She wrapped her arms around him and kissed him hard enough to make the table whistle and cheer.

"Don't ever do that again," Anna said fiercely.

"Yes, ma'am," Jr. said, grinning like an idiot.

Edna found Billy, her own relief evident as she kissed him. "You scared me half to death."

"Sorry," Billy said. "Wasn't exactly my plan."

"Next time, don't get kidnapped."

"I'll add it to my to-do list."

---

By two PM, everyone was full and happy. The sun was warm, the beer was cold, and the Bensons were home.

Pops stood up, reaching for something behind his chair.

"Oh no," Ray muttered.

"Here we go," Tom said, grinning.

Pops pulled out his banjo.

"The torture begins again!" Jake yelled, and the whole gathering erupted in laughter.

"Shut up and listen," Pops said, but he was grinning. He strummed a few chords, adjusted the tuning, then launched into an old country song—off-key, enthusiastic, absolutely terrible.

And absolutely perfect.

Jr. sat between his parents, Anna on one side, his wiz kid friends nearby, watching his great-grandfather play banjo like a man half his age. Jake and Billy were arguing about something. Celeb and Colt were trying to steal extra ribs. The consortium families were laughing and drinking and celebrating.

This was family.

This was home.

And after twenty-four hours in hell, it was everything.

Pops caught Jr.'s eye across the yard and winked. Jr. grinned and raised his beer.

The banjo played on. The sun shone warm. And the Bensons—all of them, bruised and battered but alive and together—were exactly where they belonged.

Home.

THE END