Chapter 1. Bound, Beaten, Gagged, Abandoned
Jack Benson stood by the stream that boarders the Benson ranch. He was checking the irrigation pumbs when he was surrounded by 4 rednecks weating masks and holding guns and ropes. His cocky nature was true... white ifebeater showing off his powerful arms, bluejeans, brown beaten up cowboy hat, Tractor Supply work boots, aleft hand in his pocket... he knew they were abducting him... "Go ahead you mother fuckers, put your ropes on me, but when I get out, you boys are fuckin' dead." They tied Jakes wrists behind his back, gagged him, dumped him in their truck, bound his boots, covered him with a tarp, and beat him up until he was knocked out cold.
The barn was old. The wooden ladder back chair was strong and sturdy...Three slats composing the back, and 4 legs seperate under the seat. Jake's neck was roped to the top rung. His arms were behind, wrists still tied, but now lashed to the bottom rung. His biceps, bent at the elbows behind the chair were lashed to the sides, from, his shoulder to his elbow, circled 8 or 9 times, and tightly frapped. His bulging bicep was being squashed by the ropes. Roped around his torso lashed his to the middle rung. His tied boots were pulled under the seat and hogtied to his wrists, his thighs were tied together and lashed to the seat. The bandanna gag were not sealed with duct tape. And he was alone. He could not know he had been photographed for ransom.
Chapter 2. Where's Jake?
Billy checked his watch. Jake had been out at the south irrigation pumps for over two hours. Should've been a thirty-minute job, tops.
He keyed his radio. "Jake, you copy?"
Static.
"Jake, come on brother, where you at?"
Nothing.
Billy Jr. looked up from the workbench in the equipment shed, wrench in hand. "Still no answer?"
"Nah. Third time I've tried him." Billy frowned, that uneasy feeling creeping up his spine. Jake was a hothead, yeah, but he always answered his radio. Always.
"Let's go check on him," Jr. said, already moving toward the door.
They took Billy's truck, kicking up dust on the ranch road that led down to the stream. The sun was high, beating down on the Texas grassland. Everything looked normal—cattle grazing, fence lines intact, the cottonwoods swaying by the water.
Then Billy saw it.
Jake's truck. Parked crooked by the stream bank, driver's door hanging open.
"Shit." Billy hit the brakes and they both jumped out.
The irrigation pump was running fine, water flowing steady through the pipes. But Jake wasn't there. His toolbox sat open on the ground, tools scattered. And by the water's edge—
"Uncle Billy." Jr.'s voice was tight. He was crouched down, holding something.
Rope. Cut pieces of it. Fresh cuts, the fibers still clean.
Billy's gut dropped. He scanned the area—boot prints in the mud, lots of them. Too many. Tire tracks heading back toward the county road, deep impressions like a truck had been loaded heavy.
"Jake!" Billy shouted, his voice echoing across the water. "JAKE!"
Nothing. Just the wind and the sound of the stream.
Jr. stood up, his face pale but his jaw set. The kid was only sixteen, but he had that Benson steel in him. He pulled the satellite phone from his belt, flipped open the cover, and without hesitation pressed the red button.
The mechanical voice activated immediately, broadcasting across the encrypted network:
"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Nelson Junior."
Jr. keyed the mic, and when he spoke, his voice was steady, controlled—sounding older than his sixteen years.
"All consortium members, this is Billy Junior. We have a Code Red situation. Uncle Jake is missing. I repeat, Jake Benson is missing. His truck has been abandoned at the south stream border. Evidence of abduction—cut ropes, multiple boot prints, signs of a struggle. He is not responding to radio contact. All hands to the Benson ranch house immediately. This is not a drill."
The radio exploded with responses.
Sheriff Wade Nelson's voice came first, calm but commanding. "Copy, Junior. We're en route. ETA five minutes."
"On our way." That was Robert Beaumont, his truck engine already roaring in the background.
Then the panic hit.
"Oh my God—what happened? Is he hurt?" Sarah Benson's voice cracked with fear.
"Jake? Someone took Jake?" Mary Nelson, the sheriff's wife, her voice shaking.
"Junior, baby, are you okay? Where are you? Is Billy with you?" Rebecca's voice was shaking, the mother in her overriding everything else. "Oh God, Jake—is he—"
"I'm okay, Mom. Uncle Billy's with me. We're at the south stream. We're okay," Jr. said, his voice gentler now.
"Those bastards." That was Edna Nelson, Billy's girlfriend, her voice tight with fury and fear. "Billy, you find him. You hear me? You find him."
Billy grabbed his radio. "I will, baby. I promise."
Pops' gravelly voice cut through the chatter like a blade. "Everyone shut the hell up and listen. Tom, you copy?"
"Copy, Pops. We're two minutes out."
"Robert, Wilson, Ryan—saddle up. Ladies, get to the command center and stay on comms. Junior—good work hitting that button, son. Now both of you secure that scene and get back here. We got work to do."
"Yes sir, Great Grandpa," Jr. said.
Celeb's voice came through, breathless. "Billy, Junior—I'm at the north pasture. Heading back now. Two minutes."
"Copy that, Celeb," Billy responded.
Billy stared at the cut ropes in his hand, his fists clenching around them. Jake was tough, cocky, damn near indestructible. But someone had taken him. Someone had come onto Benson land and taken his brother.
And whoever they were, they were about to find out what it meant to mess with the consortium.
Chapter 3. Alone in the Dark
Jake's head pounded. His vision swam as consciousness crept back in, dragging him up from the black.
Pain. That's what he felt first. Sharp, burning pain around his neck. His wrists. His biceps screaming where the ropes bit into muscle. Every breath pulled against the rope around his torso, making his ribs ache.
He tried to move. Couldn't. His arms were wrenched behind him, lashed tight to something hard and wooden. His neck—Jesus, his neck—was yanked back, forcing his head up at an unnatural angle. He couldn't drop his chin, couldn't look down. The rope was cutting into his throat with every swallow.
His boots. They were tied too, pulled up behind him in some kind of—shit, a hogtie. The strain in his shoulders was unbearable, his body arched backward in the chair like a bow pulled too tight.
The gag. The bandanna was still jammed in his mouth, soaked with spit and blood. He tried to work his jaw, tried to push it out with his tongue, but it was wedged in deep. He couldn't yell. Couldn't call for help.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Jake forced air through his nose, slow and steady. Panic wouldn't help. He'd been in tight spots before. He was a Benson. He was tough. He'd get out of this.
But the cocky voice in his head—the one that always had a wisecrack ready—was quiet now.
The barn was dark. Not pitch black, but close. Slivers of light leaked through gaps in the old wooden walls, enough to make out shapes but not details. Dust hung in the air. The place smelled like rot and hay and something metallic. Blood, maybe. His blood.
He tested the ropes again. Pulled hard. Nothing. The knots were tight, professional. Whoever tied him knew what they were doing. And the chair—it was solid. Heavy wood. Ladder-back. The kind that didn't break easy.
His biceps throbbed. He could feel the ropes digging in, circling his arms eight, nine times, frapped so tight the muscle bulged around them. Warm wetness trickled down his skin. Blood. The ropes around his neck were the worst—every time he moved, they cut deeper, and he could feel drops sliding down his chest, soaking into his wifebeater.
Where the hell am I?
He didn't know. Didn't recognize the barn. Could be anywhere in Kings County. Could be outside the county.
How long have I been here?
No way to tell. Hours, maybe. His mouth was dry as dirt, his tongue swollen. Thirst clawed at his throat.
And then the thought he'd been pushing down surged up, cold and sharp:
What if nobody finds me?
No. No, that wasn't happening. Billy would come. Billy always came. They were brothers, damn near twins. Billy wouldn't stop looking.
But what if he couldn't? What if they didn't know where to look?
Jake's breathing quickened. The gag was suffocating him. The ropes were bleeding him. And he was alone.
Think, dammit. Think.
He shifted his weight, testing the chair. It creaked but didn't give. He rocked forward. The rope around his neck pulled tighter, choking him. He gasped, stopped, let his body settle back.
His wrists. If he could just get some slack in the wrists—
He twisted his hands, ignoring the burn, trying to work the knots. Nothing. They were tied to the bottom rung of the chair, cinched so tight his fingers were going numb.
The hogtie. That was the real problem. His boots were lashed to his wrists, pulling everything taut. If he could just—
Jake threw his weight to the side. The chair tipped, then slammed back down. Pain exploded through his shoulders. He bit down on the gag, tasting copper.
Come on, you son of a bitch.
He did it again. Harder this time. The chair rocked, legs scraping against the dirt floor. One more time—
The crack was loud in the silence.
The chair lurched. Jake felt it—the back right leg gave way, splintering at the joint. The chair tilted hard to the side, and suddenly he was falling, crashing down onto his shoulder with a bone-jarring impact.
He hit the ground hard. The weight of the chair came down on top of him, pinning him at an awkward angle. The rope around his neck yanked tight—tighter than before—as his body twisted against the bindings. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. The hogtie pulled his arms and legs back even harder now, his spine arching painfully.
His vision blurred. Red spots danced at the edges.
No. No no no—
He'd made it worse. So much worse.
The chair was half-collapsed beneath him, the broken leg jutting out at an angle. He was lying on his side now, face pressed into the dirt, the ropes cutting deeper than ever. Blood ran freely down his arms, pooling beneath him.
And he still couldn't move.
Jake's chest heaved. The gag muffled the sound that tried to escape his throat—something between a groan and a scream.
He was trapped. Bleeding. Choking.
And nobody was coming.
Chapter 4. Ransom
The Benson ranch house was packed. Every member of the consortium had converged on the main living room—ranchers, deputies, families—crowding around the long wooden table that served as the nerve center in times like these.
Pops sat at the head, a cigar clenched between his teeth, his weathered hands flat on the table. Tom stood beside him, jaw tight, eyes dark. Billy paced like a caged animal, fists opening and closing. Sarah Benson sat with her hands clasped, knuckles white, Mary Nelson beside her trying to keep it together. Rebecca hovered near the base of the stairs, looking up toward the command center.
Sheriff Wade Nelson stood with his arms crossed, his deputy sons Wilson and Ryan flanking him. Robert Beaumont leaned against the doorway, his face grim. Celeb stood near Billy, waiting.
Edna stood near Billy, her hand on his arm, keeping him grounded.
Upstairs, Jr. and Louisiana were already in the command center—the room next to the frat house and Pops' bedroom that the consortium had turned into their tech hub. Six monitors lined the wall, satellite feeds streaming in real time. Jr.'s fingers flew across three keyboards while Louisiana pulled up camera logs, scrubbing through timestamps.
"Got it," Jr. said into his headset. "Pulling the south stream feed now. Louisiana, sync the iPads."
"On it."
Downstairs, Billy Jr.'s three buddies—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—moved through the room, handing out iPads to everyone. Eighteen in total, all synced to the command center upstairs.
"Alright," Pops said, his voice cutting through the low murmur of conversation. "Somebody talk. What do we know?"
Billy stopped pacing. "Jake's been taken. Abducted from the south stream around 10:30 this morning. We found cut ropes, boot prints, tire tracks heading toward the county road. No sign of him. No contact."
"Jr., you got the feeds?" Wade asked, looking up toward the ceiling.
Jr.'s voice crackled through the speakers. "Yessir. Pulling it up now. Everyone check your iPads."
The screens lit up in unison.
The footage was grainy but clear enough. 10:27 a.m. The south stream. Jake standing by the irrigation pump, toolbox open, wrench in hand. Then—movement. Four men emerging from the tree line, wearing masks, carrying ropes and rifles.
"There," Wade said, pointing at his screen. "Four of them. Coordinated."
Jake saw them. The footage had no sound, but you could see him straighten up, that cocky tilt to his head. His mouth moved—probably saying something smart-ass. His hand went to his pocket, casual, like he wasn't worried.
"Jesus, Jake," Billy muttered. "Always gotta run your mouth."
The men closed in fast. Jake didn't fight—he knew better. One of them shoved him to his knees. Another yanked his arms behind his back, wrapping rope around his wrists. A third jammed a bandanna into his mouth, gagging him. The fourth kept a rifle trained on him the whole time.
Sarah turned away. "I can't watch this."
Mary put an arm around her.
They tied his boots next, then hauled him up and dragged him toward a dark blue Chevy parked just off-camera. The truck bed was open. They threw Jake in like a sack of feed, tied his boots to his wrists, and covered him with a tarp.
Then one of them pulled back the tarp and hit him. Hard. Once. Twice. Three times. Until Jake stopped moving.
"Sons of bitches," Pops growled.
The men climbed into the truck and drove off, heading east toward the county road.
"Freeze that," Wade said.
Jr. paused the feed. "Already on it. Running the plates—wait, they're covered. But I got the make and model. Late-model Chevy Silverado, extended cab, dark blue. Partial VIN visible on the door. Running it now."
"Good work, son," Wade said.
Louisiana's voice came through the speakers. "Got the county road camera. Tracking the truck now."
The feed switched. Highway 33, heading east. The Chevy appeared at 10:41, moving fast but not reckless. It passed two more cameras before turning off onto a dirt access road near the old Miller property.
"There," Wilson said. "They went north."
"That's ranch land," Robert said. "Abandoned for years."
"Perfect place to stash someone," Ryan added.
Jr.'s voice cut back in. "Lost visual after that turn. No cameras out there. But I'm pulling property records now. Seeing what's in that area."
Tom's phone buzzed. Then Billy's. Then Pops'. Then everyone's.
The room went silent.
Tom pulled his phone out, looked at the screen, and his face went white.
"Jesus Christ."
"What is it?" Sarah asked, standing up.
Tom didn't answer. He just turned the phone around.
The photo filled the screen.
Jake. Tied to a wooden chair in a dark barn. His neck roped to the top rung, head yanked back. His arms behind him, biceps circled with rope, bulging and bleeding. His torso lashed to the chair. His boots pulled under the seat, hogtied to his wrists. The bandanna gag still in his mouth.
And blood. Blood dripping from the ropes around his neck, soaking into his white wifebeater. Blood running down his arms from where the ropes had cut into his biceps. Dark stains on the ropes around his wrists.
Another photo. Different angle. Closer. His face—eyes closed, head tilted back, bruises forming on his jaw.
Another. Full body shot. The chair. The hogtie. The blood.
Another. Side angle. The rope tension on his neck. The way his spine arched from the strain.
Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. "Oh my God—"
Rebecca grabbed the stair railing, her voice shaking. "He's bleeding—he's—"
"Those motherfuckers," Billy hissed, his voice pure venom.
Edna's eyes filled with tears. Mary turned away, unable to look.
Then a text came through. Same number. Same sender.
$500,000. Cash. We'll tell you where to find him. You have 24 hours. No cops. No FBI. Or he starves to death tied to that chair.
Pops slammed his fist on the table. "Like hell."
Wade leaned over, reading the message. "They're not offering to release him. They're selling information. That means they've already left him somewhere. Abandoned him."
"He could be dying right now," Sarah said, her voice breaking.
"He's not dying," Billy said, his voice hard. "He's tough. He'll hold on."
"For how long?" Rebecca whispered.
Pops stood up, cigar smoke curling around him. "We're not paying these bastards a goddamn dime. They want half a million to tell us where our boy is? Fuck that. We find him ourselves."
"How?" Tom asked. "They could've dumped him anywhere within a hundred miles."
Jr.'s voice crackled through the speakers. "Not anywhere. Somewhere isolated. Somewhere nobody would hear him. An old barn, a shed, maybe an abandoned property. And we know they headed north off Highway 33. That narrows it down."
"That's still a lot of ground to cover," Wilson said.
"Then we cover it," Pops snapped. "We got drones. We got thermals. We got every able-bodied man and woman in this room. We find that boy, and we find him fast."
Wade nodded. "Agreed. Jr., Louisiana—keep tracking that truck. Pull every camera feed within fifty miles. I want to know where they went after that turn."
"On it," Jr. said.
"Robert, Wilson, Ryan—get the drones prepped. I want eyes in the sky in thirty minutes. Thermal and night vision. Celeb, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel—you're on drone ops with them."
"Yessir," the boys said in unison.
Pops looked around the room, his eyes hard as steel. "Jake's out there. He's hurt, he's bleeding, and he's alone. But he's a Benson, and Bensons don't quit. So neither do we. We find him. We bring him home. And then we deal with the bastards who did this."
"Damn right," Tom said.
Billy stared at the photo on his phone one more time—Jake, bound and bleeding, trapped in the dark.
"Hold on, brother," he whispered. "We're coming."
Chapter 5. The Hunt
The command center was packed. Jr. sat at the main console, three keyboards in front of him, six monitors glowing above. Louisiana worked to his right, pulling up satellite imagery. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez manned three more workstations, each handling different feeds—traffic cameras, property records, thermal overlays.
Behind them, Billy, Wade, Pops, Ray, and Josh crowded around the center table, watching the iPads synced to the monitors. The air was thick with tension and cigar smoke.
"Got something," Louisiana said, highlighting a section of road on the center monitor. "Truck turned off Highway 33 at 10:53. Picked them up again on a ranch access camera two miles north at 11:02."
Jr. zoomed in. "Same truck. Dark blue Chevy. Still heading north."
"Where's that lead?" Wade asked.
"Old Miller territory," Jr. said. "Been abandoned since the eighties. Couple hundred acres, mostly scrub land. There's an access road that connects to County Road 47."
"Keep tracking," Pops said, leaning over Jr.'s shoulder.
Billy Renzo pulled up a topographical map. "If they kept going north, there's nothing out there but abandoned ranches and dry creek beds."
"Next camera is fifteen miles out," Jr. said, his fingers flying. "Give me a second."
The room fell silent.
"There," Jr. said. "Got them. 11:47 a.m. at the intersection of County Road 47 and Route 9. That's damn near twenty miles from where they grabbed him."
"They're running," Josh said, his jaw tight.
"Or they already dumped him," Ray added.
Billy slammed his fist on the table. "Can you track them further?"
"Working on it," Louisiana said, scrubbing through feeds. "There's a gas station camera at Route 9. If they kept going east, we'll see them."
Minutes passed. Daniel pulled up feed after feed, Ryan cross-referenced license plate databases, Billy Renzo tracked cell tower pings.
"Got it," Louisiana said. "12:15 p.m. Same truck, pulling into a motel parking lot just outside Hanford. They parked and went inside."
"Motel?" Ray's voice was sharp. "They're staying put?"
"Looks like it," Jr. said. "I'm pulling the motel's exterior cameras now. We should be able to ID them when they come out."
"Send the address to Wade," Pops ordered. "We're going to pay them a visit."
Two hours later, Sheriff Wade Nelson stood in the parking lot of the Sunset Motel, flanked by Wilson, Ryan, Tom, and Billy. Pops sat in the truck, watching through the window, a cigar clenched between his teeth.
Room 14. The dark blue Chevy was parked right outside.
Wade knocked. Hard.
"Sheriff's department. Open up."
Movement inside. Then the door cracked open. A man in his thirties, unshaven, wearing a stained tank top. His eyes went wide when he saw the badges.
"What's this about?"
Wade didn't answer. He pushed the door open, Wilson and Ryan behind him.
Inside, three more men sat around a cheap table, playing cards. Beer cans littered the floor. The air reeked of cigarettes and sweat.
"Kings County Sheriff," Wade said, his voice hard. "You boys are under arrest for kidnapping."
The men scrambled up. One reached for his waistband.
"Don't even think about it," Ryan said, his hand on his sidearm.
They cuffed all four of them. Didn't say a word. Loaded them into two trucks and drove them back to the Benson ranch.
The barn behind the Benson house was dark. Quiet. The four men sat tied to chairs—not like Jake, just their hands behind them, their feet free. But the look on their faces said they knew they were in deep shit.
Pops stood in front of them, cigar glowing in the dark. Tom, Billy, Ray, and Josh flanked him. Wade leaned against the wall, arms crossed.
"Where is he?" Pops said, his voice low and dangerous.
The first man—the one who'd answered the door—spat on the ground. "Fuck you, old man."
Pops didn't flinch. He took a slow drag on his cigar, then flicked ash onto the man's boot.
"Wrong answer."
Billy stepped forward, fists clenched. "You got one chance. Tell us where Jake is, or I swear to God—"
"Or what?" the man sneered. "You gonna kill us? In front of the sheriff?"
Wade pushed off the wall, stepped into the light. "You think I'm here to stop them? Boy, I'm here to make sure nobody interrupts."
The second man shifted nervously. "We don't know where he is, man. We just—we just tied him up and left him. That's it."
"Where?" Ray demanded.
Silence.
Pops leaned in close, his voice dropping to a whisper. "My grandson is out there. Bleeding. Alone. You're gonna tell me where, or I'm gonna make you wish you had."
The third man laughed, bitter and sharp. "You ain't getting shit from us. We want our money first. Half a million, cash. Then we talk."
Billy lunged. Wade and Josh grabbed him, held him back.
"You motherfuckers—"
Pops held up a hand. "Enough."
He turned, walked toward the barn door, then stopped. Looked back over his shoulder.
"You boys just made the biggest mistake of your lives. We'll find him. Without you. And when we do, you're gonna rot in a cell for the rest of your miserable existence."
He walked out. The others followed.
Back in the command center, all five wiz kids worked in synchronized chaos. Jr. pulled up a map, overlaying the truck's route. Billy Renzo calculated time stamps. Ryan Mattern cross-referenced property records. Daniel Rodriguez pulled weather data. Louisiana coordinated it all on the main screen.
"They grabbed Jake at 10:27. They were at the motel by 12:15. That's less than two hours. If they stopped to tie him up somewhere, it had to be between here and here." Jr. highlighted a section of the map. "Thirty-five square miles. Give or take."
"That's a lot of ground," Ray said.
"Then we search all of it," Billy said, his voice flat. "Drones. Thermal. Night vision. We search every inch."
Jr. nodded. "We got six drones. Full battery life gives us about two hours per drone. If we rotate them, keep them in the air continuously, we can cover the whole area in—" He did the math. "Twelve to fourteen hours."
Billy Renzo pulled up the drone control interface. "I can run two simultaneously. Ryan and Daniel can each take one. That's four in the air at once."
"Louisiana and I will coordinate the grid and monitor thermal signatures," Jr. said.
"Then we start now," Pops said, stepping into the room. "Get those drones up. I want every barn, every shed, every structure flagged. We're bringing that boy home."
"Yessir," all five boys said in unison.
Billy looked out the window. The sun was setting, the sky turning orange and red.
"Hold on, Jake," he whispered.
Miles away, in the dark barn, Jake lay on his side in the dirt. The broken chair pinned him at an awkward angle, the rope around his neck cutting deeper with every shallow breath. Blood pooled beneath him, warm and sticky. His vision blurred, fading in and out.
Nobody's coming.
The thought whispered through his mind, cold and final.
His body screamed in pain. His lungs burned. And the darkness closed in.
Chapter 6. Heat Signature
The night stretched on.
In the command center, the wiz kids worked in shifts but never stopped. Jr. and Louisiana anchored the main console, monitoring the grid overlay as it slowly filled in—square mile by square mile. Billy Renzo controlled two drones simultaneously, his eyes flicking between screens. Ryan Mattern handled the thermal imaging, scanning for heat signatures. Daniel Rodriguez coordinated battery swaps and flight paths.
Downstairs, the adults rotated through—bringing coffee, food, staying close. Billy couldn't sleep. Neither could Tom or Josh. They sat at the kitchen table, watching the iPads, waiting.
Pops sat in his chair by the window, cigar burning down to ash, staring out into the dark.
"Grid section Alpha-7 complete," Jr. said at 11:47 p.m. "No hits. Moving to Alpha-8."
"Copy," Billy Renzo said, adjusting the flight path on drone three.
The process was methodical. Exhausting. Each drone covered roughly two square miles per battery cycle. They'd land, swap batteries, launch again. The thermal cameras picked up cattle, coyotes, the occasional deer. But no human heat signature. Not yet.
At 1:23 a.m., Sarah brought up sandwiches. Nobody ate much.
At 3:15 a.m., Rebecca checked in. "Any word?"
"Not yet, Mom," Jr. said, his voice tired but steady. "We're at eighteen square miles. Seventeen more to go."
At 4:40 a.m., Ray came up with more coffee. "How you boys holding up?"
"We're good," Louisiana said. "We'll find him."
Dawn broke at 6:12 a.m. The first light crept across the Texas sky, orange and pink. Billy stood on the porch, watching the horizon, his fists clenched.
"Come on, Jake," he whispered. "Where are you?"
At 7:53 a.m., Ryan Mattern leaned forward, his eyes narrowing at his screen.
"Wait. I got something."
Jr. spun in his chair. "Where?"
"Grid section Delta-4. Thermal signature. Faint, but it's there. Human-sized."
Louisiana pulled up the coordinates. "Old barn. Abandoned property, registered to the Miller estate. Hasn't been used in decades."
Jr. zoomed in on the satellite image. The structure was barely standing—roof half-collapsed, walls rotting. Middle of nowhere, surrounded by scrub land.
"That's it," Jr. said. "That's gotta be it."
Billy Renzo repositioned the drone for a closer pass. The thermal image sharpened. A heat signature, prone, barely moving.
"He's alive," Ryan said, his voice tight. "But barely. Core temp is low. He's been out there all night."
Jr. hit the intercom. "Pops, we got him."
The ranch house exploded into motion.
Billy was already grabbing his keys. Tom and Josh ran for the trucks. Wade, Wilson, and Ryan suited up, checking sidearms. Robert and Celeb loaded medical supplies—blankets, water, first aid kits.
Rebecca grabbed her nursing bag. "I'm coming with you."
"No arguments," Wade said.
The wiz kids shut down the monitors and grabbed their gear. "We're coming too," Jr. said.
Pops came down the stairs, cigar in hand, his face set like stone. "Let's go get our boy."
The convoy rolled out at 8:07 a.m.—six trucks, twenty people, all heading for the coordinates Jr. had locked in.
Jr. rode with Billy and Pops, his iPad showing the route. "Ten minutes out. The barn's on the north side of the property, half a mile off the access road."
"We see it," Billy said, his knuckles white on the steering wheel.
At 8:19 a.m., the convoy skidded to a stop outside the old barn.
Billy was out of the truck before it fully stopped, running toward the structure. Tom was right behind him. Jr. grabbed a knife from the toolbox and sprinted after them. Pops moved slower but steady, his eyes locked on the barn.
The door hung off its hinges. Billy kicked it open.
"JAKE!"
The smell hit them first—blood, sweat, dirt. Then they saw him.
Jake, on his side in the dirt, still tied to the broken chair. The rope around his neck had cut deep, blood crusted on his skin. His arms were purple where the ropes had strangled the circulation. His wifebeater was soaked through—blood and sweat mixed together. The hogtie was still tight, pulling his body into an unnatural arch.
His eyes were closed. He wasn't moving.
"Jesus Christ," Tom breathed.
Billy dropped to his knees beside him. "Jake. Jake, can you hear me?"
Nothing.
Jr. was already there with the knife. "I got the ropes. Uncle Billy, hold him steady."
Pops knelt on the other side, his weathered hands working the knots with practiced precision. Tom held Jake's shoulder, keeping him from rolling.
Behind them, the others gathered in a semicircle—Wade, Josh, Ray, Robert, Celeb, the other wiz kids, Wilson, Ryan. Their hands folded, heads bowed. Some praying. Some just watching in silence.
Rebecca pushed through to the front, her nursing bag in hand. She knelt beside Jake, pressing two fingers to his neck.
"Pulse is there. Weak, but steady. Keep cutting."
Jr. worked the rope around Jake's neck first, sawing carefully through the blood-crusted fibers. "Almost... got it."
The rope fell away. Dark grooves marked Jake's throat where it had cut in.
"Wrists next," Pops said, his voice tight.
Billy held Jake's arms while Jr. cut through the bindings. When the ropes came off, Jake's hands were swollen, the skin purple and torn.
"Biceps," Jr. said, moving to the ropes circled around Jake's arms. Eight, nine wraps, frapped tight. Blood had soaked into the fibers. Jr. cut carefully, one wrap at a time.
When the last rope fell away, Jake's arm went slack, muscle bruised and mangled.
"Hogtie," Tom said.
Pops worked the knot at Jake's boots while Jr. cut the rope connecting them to his wrists. When it finally gave, Jake's body went limp, the tension releasing all at once.
Billy caught him, easing him flat onto the ground.
Rebecca moved in immediately, checking vitals. Pulse. Breathing. Pupil response.
"He's hypothermic. Dehydrated. Significant blood loss. We need to get him warm and get him to the hospital. Now."
They wrapped him in blankets. Billy and Tom lifted him carefully, carrying him toward the truck. The others parted, making way.
As they loaded him into the back, Jake's eyes fluttered. His lips moved, barely a whisper.
Billy leaned in close. "What'd you say?"
Jake's voice was hoarse, cracked, but unmistakably cocky.
"Took you... long enough."
Billy laughed—half relief, half disbelief. "You stubborn son of a bitch."
Jake's mouth twitched. Almost a smile.
Then his eyes closed again.
Chapter 7. Justice
Three weeks later, the Kings County Courthouse was packed.
Every seat in the gallery was filled—consortium members, ranchers, townsfolk who'd heard the story. The Benson family sat in the front row: Pops, Tom, Sarah, Billy, Ray, Josh, Rebecca, and Jr. The Nelsons were there too—Wade in uniform, Mary, Edna, Wilson, and Ryan. Robert and Caroline Beaumont. Celeb and Louisiana. The wiz kids sat together, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez all in pressed shirts, looking older than their sixteen years.
Jake sat at the prosecution table, clean-shaven, wearing a button-down shirt that couldn't quite hide the scarring on his neck. The rope burns had faded some, but they were still visible—dark lines where the ropes had cut in, a permanent reminder.
The four defendants sat at the defense table, their cocky attitudes from the motel long gone. They looked smaller now, diminished in their orange jumpsuits, wrists shackled.
The prosecutor, a sharp woman named Helen Vargas, stood and called her first witness.
"The State calls Jake Benson."
Jake stood, buttoned his shirt, and walked to the witness stand. He was sworn in, sat down, and looked directly at the four men who'd taken him.
No fear. Just that Benson steel.
"Mr. Benson," Vargas began, "can you tell the court what happened on the morning of August 14th?"
Jake nodded. "I was checking the irrigation pumps on the south stream of our ranch. Around 10:30. Routine maintenance."
"And then?"
"Four men came out of the tree line. Wearing masks. Carrying ropes and rifles."
"Did you resist?"
Jake's mouth twitched—almost a smile. "I knew better. Told them they were making a mistake, but I didn't fight. They had guns."
"What happened next?"
"They tied my wrists behind my back. Gagged me with a bandanna. Tied my boots together. Threw me in the back of a truck, hogtied me, covered me with a tarp, and beat me until I was unconscious."
A murmur rippled through the courtroom. The judge banged his gavel once.
"When you woke up, where were you?"
"In an old barn. Middle of nowhere. I was tied to a wooden chair." Jake's voice stayed steady, but his jaw tightened. "My neck was roped to the top rung. Arms behind me, wrists tied to the bottom. My biceps were lashed to the chair—circled eight or nine times, frapped tight. Torso roped to the middle rung. My boots were pulled under the seat and hogtied to my wrists. I couldn't move. Couldn't yell through the gag."
"How long were you there?"
"Twenty-two hours. Give or take."
Vargas let that sink in. "Mr. Benson, the defense has suggested that your injuries were minimal. That this was merely a case of unlawful restraint, not kidnapping with intent to harm. Can you show the court your injuries?"
Jake stood. Unbuttoned his shirt. Pulled it off.
The courtroom went silent.
The rope burns on his neck were still visible—thick, dark grooves that wrapped around his throat like a collar. His biceps showed deep scarring where the ropes had cut through skin and into muscle. His wrists bore matching marks, purple and raised.
Sarah turned away, her hand over her mouth. Mary Nelson reached for Wade's hand. Even the judge leaned forward, his expression grim.
"These ropes," Jake said, his voice carrying across the room, "cut into me for almost a full day. The ones around my neck bled every time I moved. The hogtie pulled so tight I couldn't straighten my legs. I tried to get free—broke one of the chair legs. Made it worse. I ended up on my side, choking, bleeding into the dirt."
He looked at the four men. "They didn't just tie me up. They left me to die."
Vargas nodded. "Thank you, Mr. Benson. No further questions."
The defense attorney stood, a thin man with wire-rimmed glasses. "Mr. Benson, isn't it true that you provoked my clients at the stream? That you threatened them?"
Jake shrugged. "I told them they were dead when I got out. Yeah."
"So you threatened them first."
"They came at me with guns and ropes. I ran my mouth. That's what I do."
A few people in the gallery chuckled. Even the judge smirked.
"And isn't it true," the attorney pressed, "that you attempted to escape, and that your injuries were largely self-inflicted when you broke the chair?"
Jake leaned forward. "I tried to escape because I was tied to a chair in the middle of nowhere, bleeding, with no food, no water, and no idea if anyone would find me. Breaking that chair made it worse, yeah. But I wouldn't have been in that position if your clients hadn't kidnapped me, beat me, and left me to die."
The attorney hesitated. "No further questions."
The trial lasted three days. The prosecution presented the surveillance footage, the ransom photos, the text messages demanding $500,000. The wiz kids testified about tracking the truck. Wade testified about the arrest. Rebecca testified about Jake's condition when they found him—hypothermic, dehydrated, barely conscious.
The defense tried to argue that the men had only intended to scare Jake, not kill him. That the ransom demand was just a bluff.
The jury didn't buy it.
After four hours of deliberation, they returned.
"On the charge of kidnapping in the first degree, how do you find?"
"Guilty."
"On the charge of aggravated assault?"
"Guilty."
"On the charge of attempted extortion?"
"Guilty."
The judge banged his gavel. "The defendants will be remanded into custody pending sentencing."
Two weeks later, the four men stood before the judge for sentencing.
"You abducted an innocent man from his own property," the judge said, his voice hard. "You beat him, bound him, and left him to die in an abandoned barn. You then attempted to extort his family for information on his location. The cruelty and premeditation of your actions are beyond comprehension."
He looked at each of them in turn.
"I hereby sentence each of you to life in prison without the possibility of parole."
The gavel came down.
Jake sat in the front row, watching as they were led away in chains. Billy clapped him on the shoulder. Pops leaned over and muttered, "Good riddance."
Outside the courthouse, the consortium gathered on the steps. The sun was bright, the air warm. Jake stood in the center, hands in his pockets, that cocky grin back on his face.
"Alright," Pops said, lighting a cigar. "Let's go home. We got a BBQ to throw."
Chapter 8. Victory BBQ
The Benson ranch was alive with celebration.
Three long tables stretched across the front lawn, loaded with brisket, ribs, pulled pork, corn, coleslaw, and enough sides to feed an army. The grill smoked steady, Tom and Josh manning it like generals. The sun was high, the Texas sky clear and blue.
And at the center of it all, Pops had set up his free whisky and beer stand—a folding table stacked with bottles of Jack Daniels, Jim Beam, Maker's Mark, and cases of Lone Star and Shiner Bock.
"Come and get it!" Pops hollered, cigar between his teeth. "Drinks on the house. Hell, drinks on me!"
The consortium lined up—ranchers, deputies, families. Pops poured heavy, his weathered hands steady as ever. Wade stood beside him, keeping an eye on things but not saying much.
When the wiz kids came up—Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—Pops didn't hesitate. He grabbed the Jack Daniels and poured five glasses, neat. Colt (Louisiana) was right behind them.
Wade glanced over, then just smiled and shook his head.
"You're corrupting my nephew, Pops," Wade said.
"Hell, he earned it," Pops said. "They all did. Found Jake when nobody else could."
The boys took their glasses, knocked them back, and didn't cough once. Jr. grinned. "Thanks, Great Grandpa."
"Damn right," Pops said.
The food came off the grill in waves. Plates piled high. Conversations overlapped—laughter, storytelling, toasts to Jake's survival and the consortium's teamwork. Jake sat at the center table, flanked by Billy and Celeb, looking like himself again. The scars were still there, but the cocky grin was back.
Then, just as everyone was settling in, Pops stood up and whistled loud.
"Alright, alright! Settle down, folks. Got a little entertainment for y'all."
He walked over to his truck and pulled out two banjos. Old Doc Peterson—a wiry man in his seventies with a grey beard and a mischievous grin—met him halfway.
"Oh no," Billy muttered.
"Here we go," Ray said, covering his face.
Pops and Doc sat on the porch steps, tuning their banjos. Or trying to. The strings were barely in tune, and when they started strumming, it was clear they hadn't practiced in years. Maybe decades.
They launched into what might've been "Foggy Mountain Breakdown," but it was hard to tell. The notes clashed, the rhythm staggered, and when they started singing—harmonizing, if you could call it that—it was pure torture.
"Good Lord," Sarah said, laughing despite herself.
"Make it stop," Rebecca said, covering her ears.
Mary and Edna were in tears, laughing so hard they couldn't breathe.
Jake stood up, shaking his head. "Nope. Not happening."
He walked to his truck, opened the door, and connected his phone to the speakers. A second later, the opening riff of Deep Purple's "Smoke on the Water" blasted across the ranch at full volume.
Pops and Doc stopped mid-strum, looking offended.
"Hey! We were in the middle of a song!" Pops yelled.
"That wasn't a song, Great Grandpa," Jr. called out. "That was a crime!"
The crowd erupted in laughter and applause. Jake turned the volume up even louder, and the classic rock took over. People started clapping along, some even dancing.
Pops grumbled, but Doc just laughed and set his banjo down. "Guess we're a little rusty."
"A little?" Wade said, grinning.
Hours later, after the sun had set and the plates were cleared, the frat house was packed.
Billy, Jake, Celeb, Jr., and Colt lived there—two bunk beds and a mattress squeezed between them where Colt slept. But tonight, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were staying over, and the room was chaos.
"Where the hell am I supposed to sleep?" Billy Renzo said, looking around.
"Floor," Jake said from the top bunk, not looking up.
"Floor's taken," Colt said from his mattress.
"Then the porch," Billy said from the bottom bunk.
"Screw that," Daniel said. "I'm taking the top bunk with Jake."
"Like hell you are," Jake said. "This bunk's mine."
"Share it, princess," Daniel shot back.
Jr. knelt by the corner, pried up the loose floorboard, and pulled out two cases of Lone Star. "Alright, shut up and drink. We got enough beer for everybody. Barely."
He started passing out bottles. Billy Renzo grabbed two. Ryan Mattern snatched one from his hand.
"Hey!"
"You took two, jackass."
"I earned two."
"We all earned two," Jr. said, cracking his open.
They settled in where they could—Jake and Daniel squeezed on the top bunk, Billy and Celeb on the bottom, Jr. and Ryan Mattern leaning against the wall, Colt and Billy Renzo sprawled on the mattress.
"Man, that trial was something," Billy Renzo said, taking a long pull. "Jake didn't hold back."
"Did you see the jury's faces when he took his shirt off?" Ryan Mattern said. "They looked ready to string those guys up themselves."
"Life without parole," Daniel said. "Damn."
"They deserved worse," Jake said, his voice flat.
The room went quiet for a second. Then Billy reached up and slapped Jake's leg. "Hey. You're here. You're alive. That's what matters."
Jake smirked. "Yeah, thanks to you idiots taking your sweet time finding me."
"Twenty-two hours!" Jr. said. "We covered thirty-five square miles in the dark with drones. Cut us some slack."
"I'm just saying," Jake said, grinning now. "Billy would've found me in ten."
"Shut up," Billy said, laughing.
"Speaking of Pops," Celeb said, "that banjo situation was brutal."
"I thought my ears were bleeding," Colt said.
"Doc Peterson was worse," Ryan Mattern said. "At least Pops was trying."
"Trying to kill us," Daniel muttered, and they all cracked up.
"Jake shutting them down with Deep Purple was the best part of the night," Jr. said.
"Somebody had to," Jake said. "That wasn't music. That was assault."
They drank, laughed, argued about who flew the drones better, who stayed awake longest, who spotted the heat signature first (Ryan Mattern won that one, begrudgingly). The banter was relentless, the kind that only came from trust forged in fire.
Billy Renzo grabbed the last beer from the case. Colt lunged for it.
"Hey! That's mine!"
"You already had three!"
"So did you!"
Jr. grabbed it out of both their hands and downed half of it. "Now it's mine."
"You're a dick, Junior," Billy Renzo said.
"Yeah, well, I'm the one who built the drone network," Jr. said, grinning.
"We all built it," Daniel shot back.
"I built it better."
"Shut up," they all said in unison.
Outside, the ranch was quiet now. The lights from the main house glowed warm in the distance. The stars spread across the Texas sky, endless and bright.
And in the frat house, eight boys—brothers in every way that mattered—sat crammed together, drinking beer they weren't supposed to have, talking about the night they saved a life.
Because that's what brothers do.
