Chapter 1: 5:30 Sharp
The door to the frat house banged open at 5:30 sharp, and Pops Benson's gravelly voice cut through the predawn darkness.
"Rise and shine, boys! Come on now, daylight's burning."
Jake groaned from the top bunk. "Pops, the sun ain't even up yet."
"Well, the cows don't know that." The old man tapped the bedframe. "Billy Junior! Celeb! Louisiana! Let's go, boys."
Jr. sat up first, hair sticking in every direction. "We're up, Pops."
"That's my great-grandson." Pops paused at the door. "Jake, that new truck of yours... you did good, son. Your great-great-granddaddy would've been proud."
The door closed softly behind him.
At 76, Pops was lean and hard as jerky, a Vietnam vet with a vocabulary that could make Sarah wince. But these boys—Jake and Billy, his grandsons; Jr., his great-grandson; and Celeb and Louisiana, folded in through the consortium—they were all his.
Jake dropped down from the bunk, stretching. "Old man's getting soft."
"Soft, my ass," Billy said, pulling on jeans. "He's just in a good mood."
They moved around each other with the practiced choreography of brothers who'd shared the same room their entire lives. Jake was the hothead, quick to anger. Billy was steadier, the one who thought before he swung.
"So," Billy grinned, "how's it feel to have a payment you can't afford?"
"I can afford it just fine."
"That's why you've been eating ramen for three weeks?"
"Strategic budgeting." Jake was grinning now too. "And that truck is worth every penny."
"Until the first scratch," Jr. said, lacing his boots. At sixteen, he was already built like his father Josh—broad shoulders, strong hands, the kind of muscle that came from real work.
"Ain't gonna be no scratches. I'm treating that truck like it's made of glass."
Louisiana snorted from his mattress on the floor. "You? The guy who rolled his last truck jumping that creek bed?"
"That was different. This one's perfect."
They clattered downstairs to organized chaos. Sarah stood at the stove, flipping eggs and bacon. Tom sat with his coffee and tablet. Ray was already dressed for business. Josh came through the back door. "Truck's loaded."
Pops was at the table, cigar lit, coffee black as motor oil. When the boys filed in, his weathered face creased into almost a smile.
"There they are. Thought you'd all turned into city boys."
"Five minutes exactly, Pops," Jr. said, dropping into the chair next to him.
The old man mussed Jr.'s hair, quick and almost embarrassed. "Morning, grandson," he said to Jake.
"Morning, Pops."
"Hell of a truck you got there." Pops studied him. "You worked hard for that. Shows."
Plates appeared on the table in rapid succession. Sarah moved between stove and table like a general commanding troops.
"Billy Junior," she said, "Anna's mother called. You're taking her to the movies Friday?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Pops chuckled. "That's my great-grandson. Treat that girl right. Nelson family's good people."
Jake piled food onto his plate. "I was thinking I'd take the new truck out to the north fence line today. Check those posts."
Billy raised an eyebrow. "North fence? Or you just want an excuse to put miles on that truck?"
"Can't it be both?"
Tom looked up. "North fence does need checking. But Jake, you just dropped thirty grand. Maybe ease into the ranch work."
"It's a truck, Dad. Made for work."
Pops shook his head, fondness in his eyes. "Jake, you be smart out there. North fence line's rough terrain."
"I will, Pops. Promise."
The old man squeezed Jake's shoulder. "You come back safe. All of you. I'm too old to be worrying about my grandsons."
"We'll be careful," Celeb said.
Pops leaned back, cigar smoke drifting. "Lost too many good men in my life. Ain't losing any of you. Not on my watch."
The words hung heavy. Pops didn't talk about Vietnam much, but when he did, everyone listened.
"We'll be fine, Pops," Jake said quietly. "Just routine fence work."
They finished quickly, then Jake pushed back. "I'm gonna get started."
"Hold up," Billy said. "We're coming out to see this miracle truck first."
"Damn right we are," Pops said, standing. "Man buys a truck like that, least we can do is admire it properly."
They filed outside into cool predawn air. The sky was lightening in the east, deep purple-blue before sunrise. The ranch spread around them—barns, outbuildings, corrals, everything neat and well-maintained.
And there was Jake's new RAM 1500.
It gleamed even in dim light, black paint so clean it looked wet, chrome catching the first rays of sun.
"Well, hell," Celeb said quietly. "That is a nice truck."
Jake's grin could have lit up the whole ranch.
They circled it slowly, admiring. Pops ran his hand along the bed rail, almost reverent.
"What'd you end up with?" Tom asked. "The 5.7?"
"Nah, the 3.0 turbo inline-six. 540 horsepower, 521 pound-feet of torque."
Josh whistled. "Damn."
Pops nodded. "It's a fine truck, Jake. Real fine. You earned this."
The old man's eyes were soft in a way they rarely were. "You make me proud, boy. You and Billy both." He glanced at Jr., Celeb, Louisiana. "All of you do."
"Pops..."
"Don't get emotional. Just stating facts." He cleared his throat. "Now get to work."
They dispersed—Josh to the equipment barn, Ray inside, Tom to the east pasture. Jr., Celeb, and Louisiana headed for the ATVs.
Billy clapped Jake's shoulder. "Seriously. Nice truck. Just be careful, yeah? Pops worries more than he lets on."
Jake looked back at the house where Pops was visible through the window, settling into his chair. "I know."
Jake climbed into the cab. The engine started with a satisfying rumble. Through the windshield, Pops raised his coffee mug in salute.
Jake returned it with a wave, then put the truck in gear.
This was going to be a good day.
He headed toward the north fence line, sun rising behind him, painting the Texas sky orange and gold, windows down, radio playing.
Nobody knew that in a few hours, everything would change.
Nobody knew that Jake's new truck—his pride and joy—would be the reason three desperate men decided to make the worst decision of their lives.
The RAM 1500 drove smoothly over the rough ranch roads, and Jake smiled, heading into a day that would become a nightmare before lunch.
Chapter 2: The Ambush
The north fence line was a good thirty-minute drive from the main ranch, following service roads that wound through rolling Texas hills. Jake had the windows down, radio playing, one hand on the wheel. The RAM handled the rough terrain like it was nothing—suspension smooth, engine purring.
He was thinking about Billy's teasing, about Pops' warning to be careful, grinning to himself as he navigated a turn.
That's when he saw the truck.
It was blocking the road completely—an ancient Chevy pickup, rust-eaten and dying, sitting sideways across the narrow service road. No way around it. Hills rose steep on both sides.
Jake slowed, frowning. What the hell?
He stopped about twenty feet back, putting the RAM in park. Maybe someone broke down? But the placement was weird. Too deliberate.
The hair on the back of his neck stood up.
Jake reached for his radio just as three men emerged from behind the Chevy.
They had bandannas tied over their faces.
They had semi-automatic rifles in their hands.
"Oh, fuck."
Jake slammed the truck into reverse, but they were already moving, spreading out, rifles coming up.
"Don't move, boy!" The lead man's voice cut across the morning air. "You so much as touch that gear shift, we'll put a round through your engine block!"
Jake's foot hovered over the gas. Could he make it? Reverse fast enough, turn around, outrun them?
The crack of a rifle shot answered that question. The bullet hit his hood, punching through metal with a sound that made Jake's stomach drop.
"Next one goes through your windshield!" the leader shouted. "Now shut it off and get out! Slow!"
Jake's hands were shaking. He killed the engine, mind racing. His radio was on the passenger seat. His phone was in the center console. He could grab them, hit the emergency button—
"Hands where we can see 'em! Out of the truck NOW!"
Jake pushed the door open, hands raised. The morning air hit his bare chest—he'd stripped off his shirt before leaving, figuring he'd be working in the sun.
"That's it. Nice and easy."
They closed in fast. The leader—older, maybe forty, with cold eyes visible above the bandanna—kept his rifle trained on Jake's chest. The other two circled around.
"Please," Jake said, trying to keep his voice steady. "Take the truck. Keys are in it. Just take it and go."
"Oh, we're taking it," the leader said. "But first, you're gonna stay nice and quiet for a while."
One of the others—younger, twitchy with nerves—grabbed Jake's arms and yanked them behind his back. Rope bit into his wrists immediately, wrapping tight.
"Turn around, boy. We're gonna tie your wrists proper."
Jake turned, and the man yanked the rope tighter, making Jake hiss through his teeth.
"What the fuck?" Jake's temper flared despite the fear. "You're gonna take my truck AND tie me up?"
"Shut the fuck up!" The leader stepped forward and backhanded Jake hard across the face. The impact snapped Jake's head to the side, stars exploding across his vision.
Before he could recover, rough hands shoved a knotted bandanna between his teeth and tied it brutally tight around his head. Jake tried to spit it out, but they'd tied it too well.
Then they kicked his feet out from under him.
Jake went down hard, face-first into the dirt road. The impact drove the air from his lungs. Dust filled his nose. He could taste blood where he'd bit his tongue.
Hands grabbed his ankles, rope wrapping around his boots. Jake bucked and struggled, but they had him pinned—one knee pressed between his shoulder blades, crushing him down.
"Feisty son of a bitch," someone muttered.
"Just tie him."
The ropes burned his wrists as Jake fought, thrashing like a caught animal. It was useless. There were three of them, and they knew what they were doing.
One of them—the twitchy one—climbed into Jake's truck. Through the dust and his watering eyes, Jake watched him rifle through the cab. He grabbed the radio from the passenger seat, then Jake's wallet from the center console.
The man's head snapped up. "Holy shit. Hey! This is Jake Benson!"
The leader's boot stopped inches from Jake's ribs. "What?"
"Benson. According to his license. The Benson Ranch. You know—the consortium? They own like half the damn county."
Jake felt the shift in the air. Felt the moment everything changed.
The leader crouched down next to Jake's head, studying him with those cold eyes. "Well, well. Ain't that interesting."
"What're you thinking, Reese?"
"I'm thinking," the leader—Reese—said slowly, "that we just got a hell of a lot more than a nice truck."
No. No, no, no.
Jake thrashed harder, trying to scream through the gag, trying to break free. They just laughed.
"Bring him," Reese ordered. "We're taking him with us."
They hauled Jake to his feet and dragged him toward the RAM. He fought every step, boots scraping the dirt, but it was like fighting a riptide.
They threw him into the truck bed. Jake's shoulder hit the metal hard enough to make him see stars again. Before he could even try to sit up, they were on him with more rope.
Strong hands grabbed his bound ankles and yanked them up behind him, connecting them to his wrists. The position arched Jake's back painfully, every muscle straining. Hogtied.
"That'll keep him quiet."
One of them reached down and pulled the roll tarp over the bed, sealing Jake in darkness. The bed was already hot from the morning sun, airless, smelling of new rubber and plastic.
Two doors slammed. The engine started—HIS engine, HIS truck—and they began to move.
Jake immediately started working his wrists, twisting, pulling, searching for any give in the ropes. There was none. They'd tied him too well. His wrists were already raw, blood making the rope slick.
Through the truck bed floor, he could feel every turn, every bump. They were driving away from the ranch. Away from help. Away from Pops and Billy and everyone who could save him.
His perfect morning. His perfect truck. His perfect day.
All gone in minutes.
Pops' voice echoed in his head: You come back safe. All of you. I'm too old to be worrying about my grandsons.
Jake closed his eyes against the hot darkness and kept struggling with the ropes, even though he knew it was useless.
Even though he knew that by the time anyone realized he was missing, he'd be long gone.
Behind them, the old Chevy sat abandoned in the middle of the service road at the northern edge of the Benson ranch—rust-eaten, dying, the only clue that something had gone terribly wrong.
Chapter 3: The Old House
The drive felt endless. Jake lost track of time in the suffocating darkness of the truck bed, his body screaming from the hogtied position. Every bump sent fresh waves of pain through his arched spine. His wrists were slick with blood, rope fibers embedded in torn skin.
Finally, the truck slowed. Turned. The sound changed—gravel to dirt, then the crunch of weeds under tires. They stopped.
Doors opened. Footsteps. Then the tarp pulled back, blinding Jake with sudden daylight.
"Get him out."
Hands grabbed him, hauling him over the tailgate. His boots hit dirt and his legs buckled—they'd been tied too long. They caught him, half-carrying, half-dragging him toward a structure.
Through watering eyes, Jake saw an old farmhouse. Abandoned, probably. Peeling paint, sagging porch, windows covered with plywood. Middle of nowhere. No other houses visible. Just scrub brush and empty Texas flatland stretching in every direction.
They dragged him inside. The place smelled like rot and dust. Empty beer cans scattered across the floor. Old furniture, torn and moldy. They took him through to what might have once been a living room.
And there, crossing the ceiling, was an exposed beam.
Jake's stomach dropped.
"String him up," Reese said. "I want pictures that'll make daddy open his wallet."
They cut the rope connecting his ankles to his wrists, and Jake's legs dropped. He tried to kick, tried to fight, but his muscles were cramped and useless. They threw him against a support post and held him there while Reese walked around, studying him like a piece of meat.
"Boy's got some fight in him," Reese said. "Let's take some of that out."
The first punch caught Jake in the stomach, driving the air from his lungs. The gag turned his grunt into a choked sound. The second hit his ribs. The third snapped his head back, splitting his lip.
They worked him over methodically. Stomach, ribs, face. Jake tried to protect himself, but with his wrists still bound behind his back, there was nothing he could do. He could only take it.
His left eye swelled shut. His right was puffing up. Blood ran from his nose, from his split lip. His ribs felt like they were on fire.
"That's enough," Reese finally said. "Don't want to damage the merchandise too much. Yet."
They hauled Jake upright. His legs barely held him. Blood dripped from his chin onto his bare chest, mixing with the sweat already covering his skin.
"Get that rope over the beam."
One of them—the twitchy one—threw a rope over the overhead beam. They untied Jake's wrists, but before he could even think about fighting, they yanked his arms over his head and retied them, tight and professional.
They pulled. Jake's arms stretched upward, shoulder joints protesting. They kept pulling until his boots left the ground completely, his full weight hanging from his bound wrists.
The pain was immediate and intense. His shoulders screamed. His wrists felt like they were being sawed through.
But they weren't done.
"Bring his arms back."
They grabbed his elbows, forcing them together behind his head. Jake tried to resist, but his muscles were already exhausted. They bent his head down, tied his elbows together behind it, then ran rope from his biceps to his neck, creating a cruel web that kept his head forced down and his arms in an impossible position.
More rope around his boots, binding them together so he couldn't kick or find leverage.
Jake hung there, suspended, every muscle straining, sweat already streaming down his bare torso in rivulets. The position made it hard to breathe. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled from their sockets.
"Perfect," Reese said. "Now get his phone. Time to send mommy and daddy a message."
The twitchy one pulled Jake's iPhone from his pocket. He held it up, and Jake heard the camera shutter click. Once. Twice. Three times.
Through his swollen eyes, Jake could barely see them. Could barely think through the pain. His chest heaved, sweat dripping from his armpits, running down his ribs in steady streams.
"What should we ask for?" the third man said. "Fifty grand?"
"Fifty?" Reese laughed. "Boy's family owns half the county. We're asking for two-fifty. Quarter million."
"You think they'll pay it?"
"Look at him." Reese walked closer, grabbing Jake's chin and forcing his head up. Jake tried to jerk away, but there was nowhere to go. "He's their son. Their grandson. Course they'll pay."
Reese let go and Jake's head dropped back down, the rope at his neck forcing it to stay bent forward.
"Send the pictures," Reese ordered. "And the message. Tell them we want two hundred fifty thousand dollars. Cash. And tell them if they call the cops, they'll find pieces of their boy scattered across three counties."
More camera clicks. Jake's vision was starting to blur. The pain was constant now, a living thing. His wrists screamed. His shoulders burned. His ribs ached with every shallow breath.
"Message sent," the twitchy one said.
"Good." Reese looked up at Jake, hanging there like a piece of meat. "Now we wait. And you, boy—you better hope your family loves you enough to pay up. 'Cause if they don't..." He smiled behind his bandanna. "Well, we'll still have a nice truck out of this deal."
They left him hanging there, walking out of the room. Jake heard them in another part of the house, heard beer cans opening, heard them laughing about what they'd do with the money.
And Jake hung there in the dim light, sweat pouring off him, face swollen and bloody, every breath an agony, working his raw wrists against the ropes even though he knew it was hopeless.
Even though he knew all he could do now was wait and pray that someone would find him before these men decided he wasn't worth keeping alive.
Chapter 4: Discovery
Billy wiped the sweat from his forehead and straightened up from the fence post he'd just secured. The morning sun was climbing higher, heating up the east pasture where he and Jr. had been working for the past two hours.
"That's the last one," Jr. said, gathering up the tools. "Should probably check if Jake needs help with the north line."
Billy nodded, reaching for the radio clipped to his belt. "Jake, you copy? How's it going up there?"
Static.
"Jake?" Billy tried again. "Come back."
Nothing.
Jr. looked up from loading the ATV. "Maybe he's out of range?"
"Shouldn't be. North fence isn't that far." Billy frowned, keying the radio again. "Jake, this is Billy. You there?"
More static.
"Could be his radio died," Jr. suggested, but his voice had an edge to it now. They both knew Jake. The hothead might be reckless with trucks, but he never went anywhere without a working radio.
"Let's go check on him," Billy said, already swinging onto the ATV.
They made good time across the ranch, following the service roads toward the north fence line. The closer they got, the tighter the knot in Billy's stomach became. Something felt wrong.
"There," Jr. said, pointing ahead.
A truck. But not Jake's gleaming black RAM.
It was an old Chevy, rust-eaten and dying, sitting sideways across the road like a roadblock.
Billy killed the ATV's engine fifty yards back. They approached on foot, cautious.
"That's not Jake's truck," Jr. said quietly.
"No shit." Billy's hand went to his radio. "But why is it blocking the road right where Jake would've come through?"
The Chevy was empty. Abandoned. Keys still in the ignition. The thing looked like it hadn't run properly in years.
Billy looked down at the dirt road. Tire tracks. Boot prints. Lots of them. Signs of a struggle—scuff marks, disturbed dirt.
And there, in the dust: drops of blood.
"Oh, fuck," Billy breathed. "Jr., hit your button. Now."
Jr.'s hand was already moving to the emergency device on his belt. He pressed it hard.
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JUNIOR." The mechanical voice echoed across the empty hills, broadcast on every radio frequency the consortium used.
Jr. keyed his radio, his voice tight but controlled. "This is Jr. at the north fence service road. Jake is missing. Repeat, Jake Benson is missing. Found an abandoned vehicle blocking the road. Signs of struggle. Some blood. Jake's truck is gone."
The radio exploded.
"Say again?" That was Tom, Jake's father.
"Jr., what the hell do you mean missing?" Josh, Jr.'s father.
"Where are you exactly?" Ray, already thinking logistics.
And then Pops' voice, cutting through everyone else like a knife: "Billy Junior, you tell me what the fuck is happening right now."
"North fence service road, Pops," Jr. said, his voice steady despite the fear. "About three miles in from the ranch boundary. There's an old truck blocking the road. Jake's RAM is gone. There's blood on the ground."
"Don't touch anything," a new voice said. Sheriff Wade Nelson. "I'm ten minutes out. Billy, Jr., you stay put and secure the scene."
"Copy that," Billy said, his voice hollow. He was staring at the blood drops, his mind racing. Jake. His brother. His twin in everything but birth.
More voices on the radio—Sarah, panicked. Celeb and Louisiana, confused. Rebecca asking what she should do. The whole consortium lighting up with questions and fear.
"Everyone get to the main house," Tom's voice cut through, firm despite the strain. "Wade's heading to the scene. The rest of us need to be ready to move once we know what we're dealing with."
Billy crouched down, studying the scene without touching anything. Three sets of boot prints, all different from Jake's. Tire tracks from the RAM heading away—east, not back toward the ranch. The abandoned Chevy sitting there like a taunt.
"They took him," Billy said quietly.
"We don't know that," Jr. said, but his voice shook.
"Look at this." Billy pointed to the scuff marks, the pattern of the struggle. "They ambushed him. Used this piece of shit as a roadblock. He stopped, they grabbed him."
"Why? Why take him?"
Before Billy could answer, they heard engines. Multiple vehicles coming fast.
Sheriff Wade Nelson arrived first, his patrol truck skidding to a stop, lights flashing. His two sons—Deputies Wilson "Horse" Nelson and Ryan Nelson—were right behind him in their own patrol vehicles.
Wade was out and moving before his truck fully stopped. "Nobody touch anything," he ordered, already pulling on latex gloves. "Billy, Jr., step back from the scene."
They moved back as Wade and his sons began their work. Wade crouched where Billy had been, studying the blood, the boot prints, the tire tracks. Horse was photographing everything. Ryan was examining the abandoned Chevy.
"Dad," Horse called out. "This truck's registered to a Reese Cullen. Address in Dawson County. Got a record—armed robbery, assault, parole violation."
Wade's jaw tightened. "Run associates. Anyone else on the registration."
Billy's radio crackled. "Billy, what's happening?" Pops' voice was rough, barely controlled.
"Sheriff Nelson's processing the scene, Pops. They found the truck's registered to someone with a record."
"Then what the fuck are we standing around for? Let's go get him!"
"Pops—" Wade said, keying his own radio, "—we need to do this right. If they took Jake, going in hot could get him killed."
"And waiting could get him killed too!"
Wade looked at Billy, then at the blood on the ground, the abandoned truck. His face was grim. "Everyone to the main house. Now. We need to coordinate this properly."
The drive back to the ranch felt like it took hours instead of minutes. By the time they arrived, the driveway was packed with vehicles. The consortium families were gathering—Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes. Everyone armed, everyone ready, everyone scared.
Pops stood on the porch, cigar clenched between his teeth, his face like carved stone. When Billy and Jr. pulled up, the old man came down the steps fast.
"Tell me," Pops said.
Billy told him. Everything. The abandoned truck, the blood, the signs of struggle, Jake's RAM gone.
Pops listened, his hands shaking slightly—the only sign of the rage and fear building inside him. When Billy finished, the old man turned and punched the porch post hard enough to split the wood.
"Those sons of bitches took my grandson."
"We don't know for sure—" Wade started.
"Don't." Pops' voice was deadly quiet. "Don't you dare tell me we don't know. They blocked the road, they grabbed him, they took his truck. What the hell else would they do?"
Tom came out of the house, Sarah behind him, her face pale. Josh, Ray, Celeb, Louisiana—everyone was converging.
Then everyone's phones buzzed at once.
Billy pulled his out, his stomach dropping.
It was a text. From Jake's number.
But it wasn't from Jake.
The image loaded, and Billy heard someone gasp. Sarah made a sound like she'd been punched.
Jake.
Hanging from a beam by his wrists, his bare torso glistening with sweat that ran in rivulets down his chest and dripped from his armpits. His face was a mess—left eye swollen completely shut, right eye puffed and barely open, blood dried on his split lip and running from his nose. His head was forced down, chin nearly to his chest, held there by ropes that wrapped from his biceps to his neck. His elbows were tied together behind his head in an impossible position that made his shoulders strain. His boots were bound together, feet dangling above the floor. A bandanna was tied brutally tight around his head, gagging him.
Every muscle in Jake's body was taut with strain, tendons standing out in his neck and arms. The lighting was harsh, showing every detail—the rope burns on his wrists, the bruises already forming on his ribs, the sheen of sweat covering him.
He looked terrified. And in pain. And helpless.
Below the image, a message:
We have your boy. $250,000 cash. Instructions to follow. Call the cops, you get him back in pieces.
Billy couldn't breathe. Couldn't look away. That was Jake. His brother. His twin in everything that mattered.
Pops took Billy's phone with shaking hands. Stared at the image of his grandson strung up like an animal. His jaw worked, but no sound came out at first.
"Those motherfuckers," he finally whispered. Then louder: "Those goddamn motherfuckers!"
Sarah was crying. Tom had his arm around her, his own face pale and tight. Josh looked like he wanted to put his fist through something.
Jr. stood frozen, staring at his phone, at the image of Jake. Then he looked up—at Louisiana standing next to him, at his friends who'd just arrived—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez, all of them standing by their trucks, all of them holding their phones with identical expressions of shock and rage.
"Let's go!" Jr. said suddenly, his voice cracking with urgency. He was already moving toward the house. "Command center. Now. Louisiana, you too. We need to find him."
The five of them ran for the stairs—Jr., Louisiana, and the three sixteen-year-olds—taking them two at a time, racing toward the command center next to the frat house.
Behind them, Pops looked up at the assembled families, his eyes blazing with a fury Billy had never seen before.
"Get everyone inside," Pops said, his voice like gravel and broken glass. "Arm up. We're getting my boy back. And God help those bastards when we find them."
Chapter 5: The Wait
The command center was chaos.
Jr. burst through the door first, Louisiana right behind him, followed by Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. The room was packed with equipment the consortium had just installed—high-end computers, multiple monitors, satellite tracking systems, drone controls. Fifty thousand dollars' worth of cutting-edge tech that the adults had bought for the boys, half-joking that they were building their own CIA operation.
Nobody was joking now.
"Pull up the truck's GPS," Jr. said, already sliding into a chair and firing up the main system. "Jake's RAM has to have factory tracking."
"On it," Ryan Mattern said, fingers flying across another keyboard.
Louisiana grabbed one of the satellite phones. "What's the number for RAM's tracking service?"
"I got it," Daniel said, already pulling it up on his phone.
Billy Renzo was moving fast, grabbing the stack of iPads from the charging station. "I'm syncing these to the main system. Everyone downstairs needs to see what we're seeing."
Below them, the main house was filling with people. Through the floor, they could hear boots on hardwood, voices raised, weapons being loaded. The consortium was mobilizing.
"Got the GPS login," Ryan said. "Accessing now."
The monitor flickered. A map appeared, zooming in on Kings County, Texas. A blinking red dot showed Jake's truck.
"There!" Jr. pointed. "That's it. That's his RAM."
They all leaned in, staring at the dot. It was stationary, about fifty miles northeast of the ranch.
"Is it moving?" Louisiana asked.
"No. Been sitting there for..." Ryan checked the timestamp. "Twenty-three minutes."
"Getting visual now," Daniel said, already launching the drone protocols. "Drone Two has the range. Launching in three... two... one..."
Through the window, they could see one of the high-end drones lift off from its pad behind the barn, its motors nearly silent as it climbed and banked northeast.
"Fifty miles, ETA eighteen minutes," Daniel reported, hands steady on the controls. "Thermal imaging online. Night vision ready if we need it."
Billy Renzo had the iPads synced. "Okay, these are all linked to the command center now. Everything we see, they see. Encrypted radio controls built in—just key the side button and talk. Everyone on the same frequency."
He grabbed the stack and headed for the door. "I'm distributing these downstairs. Keep working."
Downstairs, the situation was controlled chaos of a different kind.
The main living room had become a war room. Pops sat in his chair, cigar clenched so tight it was bent, eyes fixed on nothing. Tom paced, phone pressed to his ear, coordinating with Ray about liquid assets. Sarah sat on the couch, Rebecca beside her, both women pale and silent.
Billy stood by the window with Celeb, both of them armed, both barely holding it together.
"We should go now," Celeb said quietly. "Get the coordinates and go."
"Grandpa Wade says wait," Billy said, but his hand was tight on his rifle.
Sheriff Wade Nelson stood at the dining table with a map spread out, his sons Horse and Ryan flanking him. Josh was there too, along with Robert Beaumont and the other consortium family representatives—Marco Renzo, Thomas Mattern, and Carlos Rodriguez. All of them armed. All of them ready.
Billy Renzo came down the stairs fast, arms full of iPads. "Okay, listen up. These are synced to the command center. Everything the boys see upstairs, you'll see on these. They've got encrypted radio controls—press and hold the button on the side to talk. Everyone's on the same frequency."
He started handing them out—one to Wade, one to Tom, one to Josh, one to Pops, one to Horse and Ryan to share, one to Billy and Celeb, more to Robert, Marco, Thomas, and Carlos.
"Drone's in the air," Billy Renzo continued. "ETA to Jake's location is about eighteen minutes. We'll have visual and thermal imaging."
"Good," Wade said, taking his iPad and studying the screen. The map was already displayed, the red dot marking Jake's truck clearly visible. "This is real-time?"
"Real-time," Billy Renzo confirmed. "Jr.'s got the main controls upstairs, but you can all see what he sees."
Pops took his iPad, staring at the screen like it might give up Jake's location through sheer force of will. "Eighteen minutes."
"Yes, sir."
"That's too long."
"It's what we've got," Billy Renzo said gently. "But once that drone's overhead, we'll know exactly what we're dealing with."
Tom's iPad buzzed with an alert. He looked at the screen. "Jr. just pulled up property records. The coordinates match an old farmhouse owned by Reese Cullen."
"That's the name on the abandoned truck," Wade said, cursing under his breath. "Dumb bastard took Jake to his own house."
"Makes our job easier," Horse said.
"Or it's a trap," Ryan Nelson countered.
"Either way, we need to know what we're walking into," Wade said. He keyed the radio on his iPad. "Jr., you copy?"
Upstairs, Jr.'s iPad crackled. "Copy, Sheriff. We've got Drone Two at forty-two miles out. Fifteen minutes to target."
"What's the plan once you've got visual?"
"Full sweep of the property. Thermal imaging to count bodies—we'll know how many hostiles we're dealing with. Check the house structure, entry points, anything that might help with a rescue op."
"Good. Keep us posted."
"Will do."
The families gathered around, everyone watching their iPads now, seeing the same map, the same blinking red dot, the same drone icon moving steadily northeast.
"We don't go in blind," Wade said firmly. "These men have already proven they're willing to hurt Jake. We need a plan."
"Plan's simple," Pops growled from his chair. "We go get my grandson. Anyone stands in the way, we put them down."
"Pops—"
"Don't 'Pops' me, Wade. That's my boy hanging from a goddamn rope." The old man's voice cracked. "You saw the picture. You saw what they did to him."
"I saw it," Wade said quietly. "And that's exactly why we can't go in hot. They'll kill him before we get through the door."
Sarah stood up suddenly. "I want to see the coordinates. I want to know where my son is."
Tom showed her his iPad, the map clear on the screen. Sarah stared at it, memorizing it, like if she looked hard enough she could see through the screen to Jake himself.
"We're going to get him back," Tom said, putting his arm around her. "I promise."
"Don't make promises you can't keep," Sarah said, but her voice broke on the last word.
Celeb moved closer to Billy. "Once we have visual, how long before we move?"
"Depends on what we see," Billy said, eyes fixed on his iPad screen. "But if Grandpa doesn't give the order soon, I'm going anyway."
"I'm with you."
They looked at each other, an understanding passing between them. Brothers. Not by blood, but by choice.
Upstairs, Jr.'s screen showed the drone approaching the coordinates. "Ten miles out," he reported. "Dropping altitude for better imaging."
Daniel was monitoring thermal. "I'm already picking up heat signatures. Stand by for count."
Louisiana had pulled up satellite imagery of the property, overlaying it on another screen. "Old farmhouse, looks abandoned. One main structure, couple of outbuildings. Lots of open ground around it."
"No cover for approach," Ryan Mattern noted. "They'll see us coming."
"Not if we come at night," Jr. said.
Below, everyone's iPads updated with the new information—satellite overlay, thermal imaging beginning to come online.
Billy's phone buzzed. A text from Jake's number. Another message from the kidnappers:
You have 6 hours to get the money together. We'll send instructions for the drop. No cops. No tricks. Or we start sending pieces.
Billy showed it to Pops first. The old man read it, his face going darker with each word.
"Six hours," Pops said. "They think they're calling the shots."
"For now, they are," Wade said. "They have Jake. That gives them leverage."
"Leverage." Pops spat the word like poison. "I'll show them leverage."
Jr.'s voice came through every iPad at once. "We're over the target. Getting visual now."
Everyone's screens updated. Drone camera feed, crystal clear, showing an old farmhouse from above. Jake's RAM 1500 was parked beside it, gleaming black paint standing out against the weathered wood and overgrown weeds.
"Thermal imaging online," Daniel's voice reported. "Counting heat signatures... I've got four bodies. Three in the main structure, one... Jesus."
"What?" Wade demanded.
"One signature is elevated. Off the ground. That's got to be Jake."
The thermal image showed it clearly—three figures moving around on one level, one figure suspended above ground level in another room.
"They've still got him strung up," Jr. said, his voice tight.
On every iPad in the house, the families stared at the thermal image showing Jake hanging in that abandoned farmhouse.
Pops stood up slowly, his iPad gripped so tight his knuckles were white. "Wade. I want a plan. Now. Not in six hours. Now."
Wade was already studying the drone footage, his sons flanking him. "We're not doing recon. We're going in. All of us."
"About damn time," Billy said.
"But we do this smart," Wade continued. "The boys upstairs—they're coming with us. Mobile command center. They can give us GPS directions, real-time drone feeds, coordinate communications."
Jr.'s voice came through the iPad. "We're already packing up the portable equipment. Laptops, satellite phones, backup batteries. Give us five minutes."
"Good," Wade said. He looked around the room at the assembled men. "Tom, Josh, Billy, Celeb, Robert, Marco, Thomas, Carlos—you're all with me. Horse and Ryan will take point."
"What about me?" Pops said, his voice dangerous.
Wade looked at the old man—76 years old, Vietnam veteran, harder than leather, and currently radiating enough fury to level a city block.
"You're coming," Wade said simply. "That's your grandson."
"Damn right I am." Pops stood, already moving toward where his rifle was leaned against the wall. "Ray, you stay here. Coordinate communications from base. Sarah, Rebecca, Mary—you stay with him."
"Pops—" Sarah started.
"No arguments," Pops said, his voice gentler now. He walked to Sarah and took her hands. "I'm bringing your boy home. That's a promise from a man who doesn't break them. You understand?"
Sarah nodded, tears streaming down her face.
"Good." Pops grabbed his rifle, checked the magazine with movements that were pure muscle memory from fifty years ago. "Let's move."
The women wanted to protest, but they could see it in the men's faces—this was happening. The consortium was mobilizing for war.
Upstairs, the wiz kids were moving fast, packing equipment into ruggedized cases. Laptops, portable monitors, satellite phones, extra batteries, backup hard drives with all the drone footage and GPS data.
"We'll set up in one of the vehicles," Jr. said, hefting a case. "Maintain constant feed from the drone, coordinate movements, be their eyes in the sky."
"Hell yeah," Louisiana said, grabbing another case.
They came down the stairs loaded with equipment, the four sixteen-year-olds and Louisiana looking like they were setting up for a military operation. Which, in a way, they were.
Outside, the men were gearing up. Rifles, sidearms, extra magazines. Body armor for those who had it. The consortium families didn't mess around—these were ranchers, yes, but ranchers who took protecting their own seriously.
Marco Renzo checked his rifle. "Three against all of us. They don't stand a chance."
"They hurt Jake," Carlos Rodriguez said quietly. "They're dead men. They just don't know it yet."
Billy and Celeb stood together, checking their weapons with the practiced ease of men who'd grown up shooting. Billy's jaw was tight, his eyes hard.
"You ready for this?" Celeb asked.
"Been ready since I saw that picture," Billy said.
Pops moved through the group, checking weapons, giving orders, falling back into the role he'd worn in Vietnam. Men twice his age deferred to him without question.
The wiz kids loaded their equipment into Wade's truck—the biggest vehicle, with the most room. They'd set up in the back seat and cargo area, turning it into a mobile command post.
Wade gathered everyone around. "Listen up. We're going in smart, but we're going in hard. The boys will coordinate from the truck—they'll have eyes from the drone, they'll guide us in. When we hit that house, we hit it fast. Our priority is Jake. Getting him out safe. Everything else is secondary."
"What about the kidnappers?" Josh asked.
Pops answered before Wade could. "If they're smart, they'll surrender. If they're not..." His eyes were cold. "Then they made their choice."
Nobody objected.
"Mount up," Wade ordered. "We roll in two minutes."
The men moved to their vehicles. Wade's truck with Horse driving, Wade in passenger, the wiz kids in back with all their equipment. Tom's truck with Josh, Pops, and Billy. Robert Beaumont's truck with Celeb, Marco, Thomas, and Carlos.
Pops climbed into Tom's truck, his rifle between his knees. Billy was beside him, and the old man put his hand on his grandson's shoulder.
"We're getting him back," Pops said quietly. "Both of you. Together."
"Yes, sir," Billy said.
On the porch, Sarah stood with Rebecca and Mary, Ray beside them with his iPad ready to coordinate from base. Sarah was crying, but she stood straight, watching the vehicles prepare to leave.
"Be safe," she whispered. "All of you. Please be safe."
The vehicles started moving, kicking up dust as they headed down the driveway.
In the back of Wade's truck, Jr. had already set up the mobile command center. Laptop open, connected to the satellite system, drone feed live on one screen, GPS map on another. Billy Renzo had the communications array running. Daniel and Ryan Mattern were monitoring thermal imaging. Louisiana was coordinating with the drone.
"Command, this is Mobile One," Jr. said into his radio. "We're rolling. ETA to target fifty minutes. Drone is holding position overhead."
"Copy that, Mobile One," Ray's voice came through, steady and professional. "Keep me updated every five minutes. Sarah wants to know everything."
"Will do, Command."
Sarah watched the dust settle where the trucks had disappeared. Rebecca put an arm around her.
"They're bringing him home," Rebecca said. "All of them."
"I know," Sarah whispered. "I know."
Ray was already at the dining table, his iPad displaying everything the mobile command center could see. He'd coordinate from here, be the voice of reason if things went sideways, call in additional resources if needed.
In Tom's truck, Pops stared at his iPad screen, watching the thermal image that showed Jake still hanging in that house. His hands were steady on his rifle. He'd been a young man the last time he'd gone into combat, but some things you never forgot.
"Pops," Tom said quietly, driving. "You don't have to—"
"Yes, I do," Pops said. "That's my boy, Tom. Your boy. Our boy. And I'll be damned if I sit at home while someone else brings him back."
Billy looked at his grandfather, saw the steel in the old man's eyes, and understood. This wasn't about age or capability. This was about family.
The three trucks moved in convoy, heading northeast, toward an abandoned farmhouse fifty miles away where Jake hung from a beam, semiconscious and fighting to stay alive.
And in the lead truck, Pops Benson checked his rifle one more time, muscle memory from Vietnam taking over, ready to do whatever it took to get his grandson back.
The consortium was coming.
And God help anyone who stood in their way.
Chapter 6: Joyride
The convoy rolled northeast, three trucks in formation, kicking up dust on the back roads of Kings County. In Tom's truck, Pops sat with his rifle across his lap, watching the iPad screen that showed the drone feed, the thermal imaging, Jake's heat signature still suspended in that room.
"How long?" Pops asked, his voice tight.
"Thirty-eight minutes to target," Tom said, eyes on the road.
Too long. Every minute was too long.
In the lead truck, Jr. had the mobile command center fully operational. The laptop screen split between drone footage and GPS tracking. Daniel kept the thermal imaging updated. Billy Renzo monitored all radio frequencies. Ryan Mattern tracked their progress on the map. Louisiana coordinated between all three vehicles.
"Command, this is Mobile One," Jr. said into his radio. "Convoy is thirty-eight minutes from target. All systems operational. Drone maintaining position."
"Copy that, Mobile One," Ray's voice came back from the ranch. "Sarah's asking about Jake's... about the thermal reading."
Jr. looked at the screen. The elevated heat signature was still there, but it seemed weaker somehow. Less movement.
"Still elevated," Jr. said carefully. "No significant movement in the past twenty minutes."
In the ranch house, Sarah's hand went to her mouth. Rebecca held her tighter.
"He's conserving energy," Ray said into the radio, his voice steady for Sarah's sake. "Smart boy. He's waiting."
In the third truck, Celeb was checking his rifle for the fifth time. Marco Renzo sat beside him, equally tense. Thomas Mattern and Carlos Rodriguez were in back, both armed, both ready.
"What's the plan when we get there?" Celeb asked over the iPad radio.
"Depends on what we find," Wade's voice came back. "But we go in quiet if we can. Fast if we can't."
"And if they resist?" That was Pops' voice, hard as iron.
A pause. Then Wade: "Then we handle it."
In the abandoned farmhouse, Reese cracked open another beer. The twitchy one—Donnie—was pacing by the window. The third man, Carl, sat at the table playing with his phone.
"It's been hours," Donnie said. "No response to the ransom."
"They're getting the money together," Reese said, but he sounded less confident than before. "Takes time to pull together a quarter million in cash."
"I'm bored as hell," Carl said, standing up and looking out the window at Jake's RAM 1500 sitting in the dirt. "Let's check out that truck. He ain't going anywhere."
Reese looked toward the room where Jake hung. They could hear nothing from in there—no struggling, no movement. Just silence.
"Yeah, alright," Reese said. "Kid's probably passed out anyway. Let's see what that fancy truck can do."
Donnie grinned. "Hell yeah. I want to see if it's as good as they say."
They grabbed their beers and headed outside, leaving Jake alone in the farmhouse, hanging from the beam, semiconscious and bleeding.
In the convoy, Jr.'s screen suddenly flickered. "Wait. Movement."
Everyone's iPads updated. The thermal imaging showed all three figures in the main structure moving toward the location where Jake's truck was parked.
"What are they doing?" Wade asked over the radio.
"Stand by," Jr. said, zooming the drone feed. "They're... they're going to the truck."
On every screen, they watched as the three heat signatures approached the RAM 1500.
"Son of a bitch," Billy said quietly. "They're taking it for a ride."
And they were. Through the drone feed, they could see three figures climbing into Jake's truck. The engine started—even from the drone's altitude, they could see the exhaust plume.
"Mobile One, Command," Ray's voice was urgent. "Are they moving Jake?"
"Negative," Jr. said, checking the thermal. "Jake's signature is still in the structure. They're leaving him there."
The RAM 1500 pulled away from the farmhouse, heading down the dirt road toward the main highway.
"Tracking it," Billy Renzo said, his fingers flying across the keyboard. "GPS is active. We've got continuous location."
On Pops' screen, he watched Jake's truck—the truck his grandson had worked so hard for, had saved every penny to buy—drive away with three kidnappers inside.
"They're taking it for a goddamn joyride," Pops said, his voice dangerous. "While my boy hangs there bleeding."
"At least Jake's alone now," Wade said over the radio. "No guards. That's good for us."
"How long until we reach the farmhouse?" Tom asked.
Jr. checked the GPS. "Thirty-two minutes at current speed."
"And the truck? Where's it headed?"
Billy Renzo tracked the RAM's movement. "East on County Road 47. They're... they're accelerating. Seventy miles an hour now. Eighty."
In Jake's truck, Reese had the accelerator floored, whooping as the powerful engine responded. Donnie was in the passenger seat, hanging out the window. Carl was in back, laughing.
"This thing flies!" Reese shouted over the wind.
"Better than that piece of shit we had," Donnie said.
"We should keep it," Carl suggested. "After we get the ransom. Just drive this beauty down to Mexico."
"Hell yeah," Reese said, taking a turn too fast. The truck fishtailed, tires squealing, but the RAM's suspension held.
In the mobile command center, Jr. watched the erratic driving pattern. "They're going too fast for these roads. They're going to—"
The GPS tracker swerved violently, then the speed indicator dropped rapidly.
"They crashed," Billy Renzo said. "Or they're... wait, they're turning around. Coming back."
But the driving was even more erratic now. Swerving, overcorrecting, the speed fluctuating wildly.
"What are they doing?" Louisiana asked.
"Showing off," Daniel said grimly. "Or drunk. Maybe both."
For twenty minutes, they watched the GPS track Jake's truck as it tore through the back roads near the farmhouse. The kidnappers were racing, taking jumps, treating the thirty-thousand-dollar truck like a toy.
Then the tracker went off-road. Completely off-road, heading across open ground.
"No," Billy breathed, watching his iPad. "No, no, no."
The speed dropped to forty, then thirty, bouncing wildly. Then the tracker stopped moving entirely.
"They're stuck," Jr. said. "Or they crashed. GPS shows them about two miles east of the farmhouse, middle of a field."
"Are they moving?" Wade asked.
"Negative. Truck is stationary. Heat signatures are... they're getting out. Walking away from the vehicle."
On every screen, they watched the three figures abandon Jake's RAM and start walking back toward the farmhouse.
"Goddamn idiots stuck it in a ditch," Horse said over the radio.
Pops' hands were white-knuckled on his rifle. First they'd taken his grandson. Then they'd taken his grandson's truck. And now they'd destroyed it.
"How far are we?" Pops asked, his voice deadly calm.
"Twenty-six minutes," Tom said.
"Too long."
In the mobile command center, Jr. was recalculating. "Command, this is Mobile One. The kidnappers are on foot, approximately two miles from the farmhouse. That's twenty-five, thirty minutes walking. And Jake's still alone in the structure."
"What are you thinking?" Wade asked.
"We could be at the farmhouse before they get back," Jr. said. "If we push it. If we go now."
There was a pause. Then Pops' voice, hard and certain: "Then we push it. Tom, floor it."
"All vehicles, increase speed," Wade ordered. "We're going in hot."
The three trucks accelerated, eating up the distance. In the mobile command center, Jr. kept the drone feed focused on the farmhouse, on the thermal signature showing Jake hanging alone in that room.
"Hang on, Jake," Jr. whispered. "We're coming. Just hang on."
Two miles away, across an empty field, three men trudged through tall grass, cursing the truck they'd just stuck axle-deep in a wash. They were laughing about it, joking about how they'd make the Benson family buy them another one.
They had no idea that twenty armed men were bearing down on them.
They had no idea that a 76-year-old Vietnam vet was coming for blood.
They had no idea that in twenty-four minutes, their world was going to end.
The convoy raced northeast, and Pops checked his rifle one more time, thinking about his grandson hanging from that beam, thinking about what he was going to do to the men who'd put him there.
The clock wasn't just ticking anymore.
It was about to run out.
Chapter 7: The Rescue
The convoy skidded to a stop a quarter mile from the farmhouse, dust billowing around the three trucks. Wade was out before his vehicle fully stopped, Hand signals only. No radios. The element of surprise was all they had.
In the mobile command center, Jr. kept his voice to a whisper. "Thermal shows Jake's still alone in the structure. Heat signatures of the three kidnappers are still approximately one mile east, on foot, heading back."
"How long before they reach the house?" Wade asked quietly.
"Fifteen, maybe twenty minutes at their current pace."
"More than enough time." Wade looked at the assembled men—his sons, Tom, Josh, Billy, Celeb, Pops, Robert, Marco, Thomas, Carlos. Twenty armed men against an empty house. "We go in quiet. Fast. Get Jake out. Then we deal with them when they come back."
Pops checked his rifle one more time, his hands steady despite his age. "Let's move."
They approached on foot, spreading out, using what little cover the scrub brush provided. The farmhouse sat weathered and alone, Jake's RAM gone, nothing moving except the curtains in the broken windows.
Wade took point with Horse and Ryan. They reached the sagging porch first, weapons up, moving like they'd done this a thousand times before.
The door was unlocked. It swung open with a creak that sounded like a gunshot in the silence.
Horse went in first, rifle sweeping left. Ryan went right. Wade followed.
"Clear," Horse whispered.
The others poured in behind them—Tom, Josh, Billy moving together, Pops right behind them, the others fanning out to secure the structure.
Empty beer cans. Cigarette butts. Trash everywhere. Signs of occupation but no one home.
Then Billy heard it. A sound so faint he almost missed it.
Breathing. Labored. Coming from a room to the left.
"In there," Billy said, already moving.
Pops was faster. The old man moved with a speed that belied his years, pushing past Billy, shouldering the door open.
And there was Jake.
Hanging from the beam just like in the photo, but worse somehow. So much worse in person. His bare torso was slick with sweat and blood, rivulets running down from his raw wrists. His face was a nightmare of swelling and bruises, both eyes nearly swollen shut. The rope connecting his biceps to his neck kept his head forced down. His boots dangled above the floor, bound together. The bandanna gag was soaked through.
He wasn't moving. Wasn't struggling. Just hanging there, barely conscious.
"Jake," Pops said, his voice breaking. "Son, we're here. We got you."
Jake's head lifted slightly. Through the swelling, one eye cracked open just enough to see. To recognize.
"Pops?" The word was muffled by the gag, barely audible, but Pops heard it.
"Yeah, boy. It's me. We're getting you down. Just hold on."
Tom was already there, Billy beside him, both of them working the ropes. Wade pulled out a knife.
"Support his weight," Wade ordered. "Tom, Josh, grab him. When I cut the main line, he's going to drop."
Tom and Josh positioned themselves on either side of Jake, arms around his torso. His skin was hot to the touch, fever-warm. His breathing was ragged.
"Got him," Tom said, his voice thick.
Wade cut the rope holding Jake's wrists to the beam. Jake's full weight dropped onto Tom and Josh, and he made a sound—half gasp, half sob—as his shoulders finally released from that impossible position.
"Easy, easy," Josh said. "We got you, Jake. We got you."
They lowered him to the ground carefully. Billy was already working on the rope around his elbows, the cruel binding that had kept his arms behind his head. Celeb was cutting the rope around his boots.
Pops knelt down, his rifle set aside, his hands shaking as he reached for the bandanna gag. "This is gonna hurt, son. I'm sorry."
He untied it as gently as he could, but Jake still flinched, the dried blood on his split lip cracking fresh. The bandanna came away and Jake gasped, sucking in air like a drowning man breaking the surface.
"That's it," Pops said, his hand on Jake's face, gentle despite the calluses. "Breathe, boy. Just breathe."
Jake's wrists were still bound. Billy cut through the rope carefully, revealing torn skin, rope burns so deep they'd need stitches. Blood flowed freely now that the pressure was released.
"Jesus Christ," Billy breathed. "Jake—"
"M'okay," Jake managed, his voice a rasp. "M'okay."
"You're not okay," Tom said, pulling his son against his chest. "But you will be. You're safe now."
Sarah's voice came through every iPad at once, panicked. "Is he—please, someone tell me—"
"He's alive," Tom said into his iPad, his voice breaking. "Sarah, he's alive. We got him."
The sound that came through the iPad was pure relief, Sarah sobbing, Rebecca and Mary crying with her.
Wade was on his radio. "Horse, Ryan, secure the perimeter. They're still out there. Billy, get the med kit from the truck. Move."
Billy Renzo and the wiz kids were already running, grabbing the first aid supplies they'd packed.
Jake tried to sit up, tried to move, but his body wasn't responding right. Everything hurt. Everything was on fire.
"Don't move," Pops said, his hand firm on Jake's shoulder. "You just lay there, son. Let us handle this."
"The truck," Jake managed. "They took—"
"We know," Billy said, back already with the med kit. "Don't worry about the truck. We're worried about you."
Jr.'s voice came through the iPads. "Uh, guys? The heat signatures are getting closer. Half a mile out now. Ten minutes maybe."
Wade stood up, his face hard. "Good. Let them come."
"Wade—" Tom started.
"They did this," Wade said, gesturing to Jake lying on the floor, barely conscious, bleeding from a dozen places. "They hung a twenty-year-old kid from a beam and beat him half to death. They're not walking away from this."
Pops was already standing, picking up his rifle. "Damn right they're not."
"Pops, you stay with Jake," Wade said.
"The hell I will." Pops' eyes were cold, Vietnam-cold, the kind of cold that came from seeing too much death and being ready to deliver more. "Tom, you stay with your boy. Billy, Celeb, you too. The rest of us are going to have a conversation with these gentlemen about what happens when you take a Benson."
Billy Renzo had bandages out, wrapping Jake's wrists as carefully as he could. Jake hissed through his teeth at every touch.
"I know, I know," Billy Renzo said. "Almost done."
Jake's eyes found his brother. "Billy?"
"Right here, Jake. I'm right here."
"Thought I was gonna—" Jake's voice broke. "Thought they were gonna kill me."
"No," Billy said fiercely. "No way. We'd burn the whole county down before we let that happen."
Louisiana appeared in the doorway with water. "Here. Small sips."
They helped Jake drink, his throat so raw from the gag that even water hurt going down.
Outside, Jr.'s voice came through again. "Three hundred yards and closing. They're going to see the trucks any second now."
Wade moved to the window. Through the broken glass, he could see three figures emerging from the scrub brush, walking casual, laughing about something.
Then they saw the trucks.
They stopped. Stared. Started to turn, to run—
"Now," Wade said.
Horse and Ryan were already moving, flanking left and right. Wade went straight down the middle. Pops was with him, rifle up, moving like he'd never left the jungle.
The three kidnappers froze, caught in the open with nowhere to go. Twenty armed men materialized from behind the trucks, from around the house, surrounding them completely.
"On the ground!" Wade shouted. "Now! Hands behind your heads!"
Reese, Donnie, and Carl dropped fast, faces in the dirt, hands clasped behind their heads. They knew when they were beaten.
"Please," Reese said, his voice muffled by dirt. "Please, we didn't—"
Pops walked up to him, rifle pointed at his head. For a long moment, nobody breathed.
"My grandson," Pops said quietly, "is in that house. Hanging from a beam. You beat him. You tied him up like an animal. You left him there to die."
"We weren't going to—"
"Shut up." Pops' voice was deadly calm. "You don't get to talk. You don't get to explain. You took one of mine. And now you're going to answer for that."
Wade put a hand on Pops' shoulder. "Let me handle this."
"Wade—"
"I know. Believe me, I know. But we do this right. By the book. So they rot in prison for the rest of their lives instead of us going to prison for killing them."
Pops' finger was on the trigger. For a heartbeat, for an eternity, everyone thought he might pull it.
Then he lowered the rifle.
"You're right," Pops said. "Prison's worse anyway. They'll learn real quick what happens to men who hurt kids."
Horse and Ryan had the three men cuffed in seconds, reading them their rights even though nobody was really listening.
Inside the house, Jake was trying to sit up again. Tom had his arm around him, supporting him.
"Easy," Tom said. "You've got cracked ribs at least. Maybe worse."
"Need to see—" Jake managed. "Need to see they're—"
"They're in custody," Billy said. "Grandpa Wade has them. It's over, Jake. It's over."
Jake's good eye found the window, saw the three men on their knees in the dirt, saw Pops standing over them with his rifle, saw the entire consortium surrounding them.
And then the adrenaline that had kept him conscious, kept him fighting, finally gave out.
"Jake?" Billy's voice was sharp. "Jake, stay with me."
But Jake's eye was rolling back, his body going limp.
"He's passing out," Tom said. "Billy, get the truck. We need to get him to a hospital. Now."
They moved fast, carrying Jake out of that house, laying him carefully in the back of Tom's truck. Billy climbed in with him, keeping pressure on the worst of the wounds.
Sarah's voice came through the iPad, desperate. "Is he—Tom, please—"
"We're bringing him home," Tom said, his voice steady even though his hands were shaking. "Sarah, we're bringing our boy home."
The convoy reversed course, Tom's truck in the lead now, racing back toward Kings County Hospital. In the back, Billy held his brother, watching his chest rise and fall, praying every breath wouldn't be the last.
Behind them, Wade loaded the three kidnappers into his patrol truck. They'd go to county lockup. They'd be arraigned. They'd face charges—kidnapping, assault, extortion, maybe attempted murder.
And in a Texas prison, they'd learn what happened to men who hurt someone the whole county loved.
Pops climbed into Wade's truck, his rifle across his lap, staring at the three men in the back seat through the metal grating.
"You're lucky," Pops said quietly. "You're lucky my grandson's alive. 'Cause if he wasn't..."
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
The convoy split—Tom heading to the hospital, Wade heading to the county jail, the wiz kids still coordinating everything from their mobile command center.
And in Tom's truck, Jake drifted in and out of consciousness, hearing his father's voice, feeling Billy's hands keeping him alive, knowing that somehow, impossibly, he was safe.
He was going home.
Chapter 8: Sunday BBQ
The Sunday sun blazed over the Benson Ranch, turning the whole property golden. Three days since the rescue. Three days since Jake had hung from that beam, more dead than alive. Three days, and he was already insisting he was fine, even though the bandages on his wrists said otherwise.
The consortium had gathered for a celebration BBQ—all the families, everyone who'd been part of bringing Jake home. The ranch was alive with people, trucks parked everywhere, kids running through the yard, the smell of roasting meat hanging heavy in the air.
Pops had outdone himself. A whole pig turned slowly on the spit, skin crackling and perfect. Two beef briskets smoked low and slow in the big barrel smoker. Tables were loaded with sides—potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, cornbread, Sarah's famous macaroni and cheese.
And in the corner of the yard, Pops had set up his legendary free liquor table. Bottles of everything—whiskey, bourbon, beer in massive coolers, even wine for the ladies. A hand-lettered sign read: "FREE DRINKS - POPS' ORDERS."
"Even for us?" Louisiana asked, eyeing the table.
"Especially for you boys," Pops said, cigar clenched between his teeth. "You helped bring Jake home. You earned it."
Jr., Louisiana, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez exchanged looks. They were all sixteen or seventeen—definitely not legal drinking age.
"Pops," Jr. started, "we're not—"
"I don't give a damn," Pops said. "One beer each. Maybe two. You're men now. Act like it."
The wiz kids grinned and grabbed beers, careful not to push their luck.
Jake sat in a lawn chair near the house, his wrists wrapped in fresh bandages, his face still showing the bruises though the swelling had gone down. He was shirtless—too hot for a shirt, and besides, the bandages around his ribs made it uncomfortable anyway. A plate of food sat barely touched on his lap.
Sarah fussed over him constantly, bringing water, asking if he needed anything, checking that he was comfortable.
"Mom, I'm fine," Jake said for the hundredth time.
"You're not fine. You were hanging from a beam three days ago."
"And now I'm not. See? Progress."
She swatted his shoulder gently, then went back to managing the food tables.
The consortium families mingled—Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes. Everyone who'd been part of the rescue, everyone who'd armed up and rolled out to bring one of their own home. The bonds between the families had always been strong, but after this? They were ironclad.
Wade Nelson stood with Tom and Josh, all three men holding beers, watching the party unfold.
"Hell of a week," Wade said.
"Hell of a week," Tom agreed.
Across the yard, Pops had pulled out his banjo. The thing was ancient, probably older than most of the people at the party, and Pops couldn't play it worth a damn. But that never stopped him.
He launched into what might have been "Oh! Susanna" or might have been something he was making up on the spot. Either way, it was gloriously off-key.
"Kill me now," Celeb muttered.
"Come on, it's not that bad," Louisiana said.
"It's worse."
But everyone was grinning. After the week they'd had, even Pops' terrible banjo playing sounded like heaven.
Jake was laughing, wincing because laughing hurt his ribs, when he heard it.
A horn. Blaring. Coming from the road.
Then music—loud, aggressive, unmistakable. Deep Purple's "Highway Star" at full volume, the opening riff cutting through the air like a chainsaw.
Everyone turned toward the driveway.
A black RAM 1500 came roaring up the drive, horn honking in rhythm with the music, dust billowing behind it. The truck was massive, gleaming, clearly brand new. Billy was behind the wheel, grinning like a maniac. Jr. was in the passenger seat, hanging out the window. The bed was packed with the wiz kids—Louisiana, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—all of them standing up, whooping and hollering.
The music was so loud it completely drowned out Pops' banjo.
Pops stopped playing, looked at the truck, then started laughing. "Well, hell. Guess I've been upstaged."
The RAM pulled to a stop right in front of where Jake was sitting. Billy killed the engine but left the music blaring for a few more seconds before shutting it off.
"Surprise!" Billy shouted, climbing out.
Jake just stared. "What the hell is that?"
"That," Jr. said, jumping down from the passenger side, "is your new truck."
"My—what?"
Tom walked over, grinning. "Insurance paid out almost twenty thousand for the totaled truck. But we figured—hell, you've been through enough. So Billy, Jr., Celeb, me, Josh, Ray, and a few others—we all pitched in another five grand."
"Five thousand dollars?" Jake's voice cracked.
"Give or take," Billy said. "And we got you something better. Way better."
The wiz kids piled out of the truck bed, all of them talking at once.
"It's the RAM 1500 Limited," Billy Renzo said.
"Top of the line," Ryan Mattern added.
"Check the specs," Jr. said, pulling out his phone like he'd memorized them. "3.0-liter inline-six turbo diesel, 480 horsepower, 1,025 pound-feet of torque—"
"That's almost double what the old one had," Daniel interrupted.
"Premium leather seats with heating and ventilation," Louisiana continued. "Twelve-inch touchscreen, adaptive cruise control, surround-view camera, wireless charging—"
"Harman Kardon premium audio with 19 speakers," Billy Renzo said. "That's what you just heard. Crystal clear, even at full volume."
"Panoramic sunroof," Jr. added. "Power running boards. Spray-in bed liner. RamBox cargo management system—"
"And it's the night edition," Billy finished. "Black wheels, black badges, murdered out. Looks mean as hell."
Jake couldn't speak. He just stared at the truck, then at his family, then back at the truck.
"The insurance is only five bucks more a month than the old truck," Tom said. "And we're covering that. All of us. Consider it paid for."
"I can't—" Jake's voice broke. "You guys didn't have to—"
"Yeah, we did," Billy said firmly. "You're our brother. Our family. And you almost died for a truck. Least we could do is make sure the replacement is worth it."
Sarah was crying. Rebecca had her arm around her. Half the women at the party were crying too.
Pops walked over, banjo under his arm, and looked at the truck appraisingly. "That's a damn fine vehicle."
"Thanks, Pops," Jake managed.
"You gonna sit there or you gonna ride in it?"
Jake tried to stand, winced, and Billy and Jr. were immediately there, helping him up carefully.
"Easy," Billy said. "Ribs, remember?"
"I remember."
They helped Jake to the truck. The passenger door opened and Jake saw the interior—leather everywhere, the huge touchscreen, the premium materials. It smelled new, that intoxicating new truck smell.
They got Jake settled in the passenger seat, careful of his injuries.
"I'm driving," Billy said. "Your wrists are wrapped and your ribs are cracked. No arguments."
Jr. climbed in the driver's side back seat. The wiz kids piled in—Louisiana and Billy Renzo on either side of Jr., Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez squeezed in somehow. Celeb jumped in the back, standing in the bed.
"Wait!" Pops' voice cut through the noise.
The old man was walking over, banjo still in hand. He climbed into the front passenger side, somehow squeezing in next to Jake.
"You think I'm missing this?" Pops said. "Not a chance. Scoot over, boy."
Sarah started to protest, but Tom put a hand on her arm. "Let them go."
"But Jake's hurt—"
"And he's surrounded by his brothers and his grandfather. He's fine, Sarah. Let them have this."
The RAM's engine rumbled to life—deeper, more powerful than the old one. Jake could feel it through the seat.
"Oh man," Jake breathed. "That sound."
"Right?" Billy said, grinning. "Wait till you hear it accelerate."
"Where to?" Jr. asked from the back.
"Let's do a joy ride," Jake said, his grin spreading despite the pain in his ribs.
Billy put the truck in gear. "Highway Star" came back on—that monster sound system filling the cab with pure rock and roll.
They pulled out, the whole consortium watching, and Billy hit the gas.
The RAM launched forward with authority, the turbo diesel delivering instant torque. Jake was pressed back into the heated, ventilated leather seat, laughing despite his injuries.
"Holy shit!" Jake shouted over the music.
"Told you!" Billy shouted back.
They roared down the ranch road toward the highway, windows down, music blaring, the truck full of noise and life and joy. In the back, the wiz kids were singing along. Pops had given up on his banjo and was just laughing, his weathered face creased with genuine happiness.
They drove through Kings County, the new RAM eating up the miles effortlessly. Billy tested the acceleration, the handling, the brakes. The truck responded like a dream—powerful, smooth, sophisticated.
"This is insane," Jake said, running his hand over the dashboard. "This is better than anything I could have afforded."
"That's the point," Jr. said from the back. "You deserved better. So we got you better."
They passed the north fence line where Jake had been ambushed, but nobody mentioned it. They passed the road that led to the old farmhouse, and nobody mentioned that either.
This wasn't about what had happened. This was about what came after.
They ended up at the overlook on the east side of the ranch, where you could see the whole county spread out below. Billy parked and they all climbed out—carefully with Jake, everyone helping.
The sun was starting to set, painting the Texas sky in shades of orange and red and purple. The ranch was visible in the distance, the BBQ still going strong.
Pops stood at the edge of the overlook, banjo quiet now, cigar smoke drifting in the evening air.
"Come here, boys," he said.
They gathered around him—Jake and Billy and Jr., Celeb and Louisiana, the wiz kids. All of them. His boys.
"I'm proud of you," Pops said quietly. "All of you. What you did this week—the way you came together, the way you brought Jake home—that's what family does. That's what this consortium is about."
"Pops—" Jake started.
"Let me finish." The old man's voice was rough with emotion. "I'm 76 years old. I've seen a lot. Did a lot. Lost a lot. But standing here with you boys? This is what matters. This is what it's all about."
He looked at each of them in turn, his eyes soft in a way they rarely were.
"You take care of each other," Pops continued. "Always. No matter what. You understand me?"
"Yes, sir," they said together.
"Good." Pops cleared his throat, gruff again. "Now let's get back before your grandmother thinks I kidnapped you all."
They piled back into the truck, all of them, somehow finding room. The drive back to the ranch was quieter, peaceful, the kind of quiet that comes after a storm has passed.
When they pulled up to the house, the party was still going strong. The pig was carved, the beef was served, and plates were being filled all around.
Jake climbed out of the truck carefully, his brothers steadying him. His wrists ached. His ribs hurt. His face was still bruised.
But he was home. He was safe. He was surrounded by family.
And he had one hell of a nice truck.
"Jake!" Sarah called out. "Come eat something. You need to keep your strength up."
"Yes, ma'am," Jake said, grinning.
Billy clapped him on the shoulder. "Welcome home, brother."
"Good to be home."
They walked toward the party together—the Benson boys and their extended family, the consortium that had become something more than just a business arrangement. They'd become brothers in every way that mattered.
And as the sun set over the ranch, as Pops picked up his banjo again and launched into another gloriously off-key song (which nobody could hear over the sound system still playing softly from Jake's new truck), as the families laughed and ate and celebrated, Jake looked around at all of it and thought: Yeah. This is what it's all about.
This is home.
THE END
