Jake and Billy Benson watch, helplessly bound and gagged to chairs, as their captors lashed Caleb Beaumont spread-eagled against the wall in the abandoned house basement and recorded him having the shit beaten out of him. Bloodied and tortured, he only cursed them. Finally he slumped. They cut him down, tied his wrists behind his back, pulled his bloody arms together and tied them off at his elbows, and hogtied him. One of them went over and pulled up Billy's head. "You're next for the ransom video, so prepare yourself." They left. Caleb looked up at his two best friends, fury in his eyes. The three of them knew they had one chance... they had to get out of the fucking ropes!
Chapter 1: Breakfast at the Benson Ranch
The sun was barely up over Kings County when the Benson kitchen came alive with the sound of boots on hardwood and chairs scraping across the floor. Sarah Benson had been up since five, and the smell of bacon, eggs, biscuits, and strong coffee filled the sprawling ranch house.
"Move your ass, Jake, you're in my spot," Billy said, shoving his older brother's shoulder as he grabbed for a chair.
"Your spot? Since when do you have a spot?" Jake shot back, not budging an inch. "Sit somewhere else, little brother."
"Both of you sit down and shut up," Ray said from across the table, already nursing his second cup of coffee and reviewing something on his tablet. "Some of us are trying to think."
"That's a first," Billy muttered, earning a laugh from Caleb, who slid into the seat next to him.
"I heard that," Ray said without looking up.
Pops shuffled in from the back hallway, cigar already clamped between his teeth despite the early hour. Sarah shot him a look that could have melted steel.
"Pop, I swear to God, if you light that thing at my breakfast table—"
"Relax, Sarah, it ain't even lit," Pops said, dropping into his chair at the head of the table. "Yet."
"Pops, you're gonna get yourself killed one of these days," Josh said, grinning as he poured himself coffee. "And Mom's gonna be the one who does it."
"Your mother's been threatening to kill me for forty years," Tom said, settling in next to Sarah. "I'm starting to think she doesn't mean it."
"Don't test me, Tom Benson," Sarah said, but there was warmth in her voice as she set a platter of biscuits down in the center of the table.
Billy Jr. came bounding in with Louisiana right behind him, both of them still half-asleep but moving on autopilot toward the food.
"Morning, Pops," Billy Jr. said.
"Morning, Junior. You sleep worth a damn or were you and Louisiana up all night messing with those computers again?"
"We were calibrating the new drone system," Billy Jr. said defensively.
"That's a 'no' then," Jake said. "Kid doesn't sleep. Just like his old man."
"I sleep plenty," Josh said. "I just get up early because I'm not lazy like some people."
"Who's lazy?" Billy said, already piling eggs onto his plate. "I've been up since five-thirty."
"Doing what? Snoring?" Jake said.
"Your face is snoring."
Caleb laughed. "That doesn't even make sense, man."
"It makes perfect sense," Billy said. "His face is loud and annoying."
"Jesus Christ, you two," Pops said, shaking his head. "You've been at each other since you could talk. Give it a rest for five damn minutes."
"Language, Pop," Sarah said sharply.
"What? I didn't even use a good one yet."
Louisiana, sitting quietly between Billy Jr. and Caleb, finally spoke up in his slow Baton Rouge drawl. "Y'all always like this in the mornin'?"
"Every single day," Ray said, still not looking up from his tablet.
"Gets worse after breakfast," Jake added.
"Much worse," Billy agreed.
Tom cleared his throat. "All right, settle down. Josh, you got the assignments?"
Josh nodded, setting down his coffee and pulling out a folded piece of paper. "Yeah. Ray, you're meeting with the Mattern and Rodriguez families this afternoon about the grain contracts. Pop, I need you to look at the new breeding stock with me around ten. Billy Jr., you and Louisiana are helping with the equipment inventory in the barn and then you can work on that drone system—"
"Yes!" Billy Jr. said, fist-pumping.
"—but the inventory comes first," Josh finished firmly. "All of it."
Billy Jr. slumped slightly but nodded.
Josh continued. "Billy, Jake, Caleb—I need you three to head out to the north pasture. We've got fence line that needs checking and some repairs. Take the tools, take the truck, and plan on being out there most of the day. It's a good eight miles out, so pack water and food."
"North pasture?" Billy said. "That's the ass-end of nowhere."
"Which is why I'm sending the three of you," Josh said. "You won't get distracted."
"We never get distracted," Jake said.
"You got distracted last week fixing the windmill and ended up racing horses instead."
"That was research," Caleb said with a grin. "We were testing their speed."
"Uh-huh," Josh said. "Just get the fence done. Radio in when you're out there and check back every two hours. Cell service is spotty, so use the encrypted channel."
"Yes, sir, General Manager, sir," Billy said with an exaggerated salute.
"Smart-ass," Josh muttered.
Pops leaned back in his chair, studying the three young men. "You boys be careful out there. Take your rifles. Never know what you might run into."
"Pop, it's fence repair, not a war zone," Jake said.
"Humor an old man," Pops said. "I didn't survive Vietnam by being careless."
"Yeah, yeah," Billy said, but there was affection in his voice. "We'll take the rifles."
"And extra ammo," Pops added.
"Pop—"
"And extra ammo."
Billy sighed. "And extra ammo."
"Good boys," Pops said, finally lighting his cigar as Sarah groaned and opened a window.
The rest of breakfast passed in the usual chaos—more teasing, more arguments about who ate the last biscuit, more of Pops saying things that made Sarah threaten to throw him out of his own house. By seven-thirty, everyone was scattering to their assignments.
Billy, Jake, and Caleb loaded up the truck with tools, water, sandwiches, and—at Pops' insistence—two rifles and a box of ammunition. They climbed into the cab, Billy behind the wheel, and headed north.
"Eight miles of fence line," Jake said, leaning back in the passenger seat. "This is going to take all damn day."
"Could be worse," Caleb said from the middle. "Could be mucking stalls."
"True," Billy said, turning onto the dirt road that led toward the far pastures. "At least we're together. The three amigos."
"The three idiots, more like," Jake said, but he was grinning.
They drove on, the ranch disappearing behind them in the rearview mirror, heading toward the empty stretch of land where the work—and the ambush—waited.
Chapter 2: The Ambush
The north pasture was as isolated as it got on the Benson ranch—eight miles of dirt road winding through scrub brush and rocky terrain before opening up into rolling grassland bordered by aging fence line. The summer sun was already beating down hard by the time Billy pulled the truck to a stop near the first section that needed work.
"Christ, it's hot," Jake said, climbing out and stretching. "Should've brought more water."
"We brought plenty," Caleb said, grabbing the toolbox from the truck bed. "You just drink like a camel."
"Your mom drinks like a camel," Jake shot back.
"Real mature," Billy said, pulling on his work gloves. "Let's get this done before we all melt."
They worked in comfortable rhythm, the three of them falling into the easy pattern they'd developed over months of ranch work together. Billy handled the wire cutters and stretchers, Jake drove the posts, and Caleb worked the staples and ties. The banter never stopped.
"You see Edna last night?" Jake asked, grinning at his brother.
"Yeah, why?" Billy said, not looking up from the wire he was threading.
"Just wondering if you're gonna marry that girl or keep stringing her along."
"Shut up."
"I'm just saying, you've been together since high school—"
"We're twenty-one, Jake. Not exactly ancient."
"Pops married Grandma when he was nineteen," Caleb pointed out.
"Yeah, and look how that turned out," Billy said. "She died twenty years ago and he's still talking to her."
"That's love, man," Jake said.
"That's crazy," Billy corrected. "But yeah, maybe. I don't know. We'll see."
They worked another hour, finishing two sections of fence and moving on to the third. The radio on Billy's hip crackled once—static and fragments of conversation from back at the ranch—but nothing clear. They were at the edge of reliable range.
"Should probably check in," Caleb said, wiping sweat from his forehead.
Billy unclipped the radio. "Ranch, this is Billy. We're at section three, everything's good. Over."
Static.
He tried again. "Ranch, this is Billy, do you copy?"
More static, then a brief crackle that might have been Josh's voice, but it cut out.
"Figures," Jake said. "We're in a dead zone."
"We'll check in when we move closer," Billy said, clipping the radio back. "It's fine."
They didn't notice the SUV parked a quarter-mile away, hidden behind the tree line. Didn't see the two men with binoculars watching them work. Didn't hear the quiet conversation over a handheld radio as the men confirmed their targets and moved into position.
By noon, the boys had finished four sections and were debating whether to break for lunch or push through one more.
"I vote lunch," Jake said. "I'm starving."
"You're always starving," Billy said.
"That's because I work harder than you."
"Bullshit."
"Gentlemen, gentlemen," Caleb said in an exaggerated drawl. "Let's compromise. We eat and then we finish the last section. Best of both worlds."
"Fine," Billy said. "But we're eating in the shade by the truck. I'm not standing out here like an idiot."
They walked back toward the truck, fifty yards away across the open pasture. They were halfway there when the SUV came roaring out of the tree line, cutting them off from the vehicle.
"What the hell—" Jake started.
Two men jumped out, both wearing ski masks despite the heat, both carrying handguns.
"On the ground! Now!" one of them barked.
For a split second, all three boys froze. Then instinct kicked in.
Jake lunged forward, going for the closest man. Billy broke left, sprinting for the truck—and the rifles. Caleb threw himself at the second man, catching him off-guard.
But there were more of them.
A third man appeared from behind the SUV, taser in hand. He caught Billy mid-stride, and the younger Benson went down hard, convulsing. Jake got two good punches in before the butt of a pistol cracked across the back of his head and he crumpled. Caleb fought like a wildcat, landing a solid hit that broke one man's nose before three of them swarmed him, driving him into the dirt.
"Get the zip ties!" someone shouted.
"Fucking kids fight like animals—"
"Shut up and tie them!"
Billy was still twitching from the taser when they yanked his arms behind his back and bound his wrists. Jake was dazed, blood running down the back of his head. Caleb was cursing, thrashing, until someone hit him hard in the ribs and drove the air from his lungs.
"Bag them. Let's go."
They threw hoods over the boys' heads and dragged them to the SUV. Billy felt himself thrown into the back, felt Jake land beside him, heard Caleb still fighting even as they shoved him in. The doors slammed. The engine roared.
And they were gone.
Back at the fence line, the Benson truck sat silent in the Texas sun, tools scattered on the ground, two rifles still locked in the gun rack behind the seats. The radio on Billy's hip—knocked loose in the fight—lay in the dirt, crackling with static.
At the ranch, no one noticed yet that the boys hadn't checked in.
But they would.
Soon.
Chapter 4: Captives and the First Video
Billy woke to the smell of mold and concrete dust. His head pounded, his wrists burned, and for a moment he couldn't remember where he was. Then it all came rushing back—the SUV, the masked men, the fight.
He tried to move and couldn't. His arms were yanked behind the chair, bound tight with rope. His wrists were already going numb from how tight they'd tied them. His ankles were lashed to the chair legs. Duct tape across his mouth.
He forced his eyes open.
Basement. Abandoned house, by the looks of it. One bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Cracked concrete walls. No windows. Jake was in a chair to his left, still unconscious, blood dried on the back of his head, rope binding him the same way. Billy's heart clenched.
To his right—nothing. The third chair was empty.
Where the hell was Caleb?
Then he heard it. A groan. Movement.
Billy twisted his head and saw him.
Caleb was against the far wall, arms stretched wide and tied at the wrists to iron rings bolted into the concrete. His feet were barely touching the ground. Spread-eagled. Helpless.
Their eyes met.
Caleb's jaw was set, his face pale but his eyes blazing with fury. He tried to say something through the gag, but it came out muffled.
A door at the top of the stairs opened. Footsteps.
Three men came down—still masked, still armed. One of them carried a video camera. Another was pulling on boxing gloves.
"Well, well," the one with the camera said. "Sleeping Beauty's awake." He looked at Billy, then at Jake, who was starting to stir. "Good. We need you boys conscious for this. Witnesses, you know."
Billy's blood went cold.
The man with the boxing gloves flexed his fingers, testing the fit. "Your families are rich, right? Big ranchers. Lots of land. Lots of money."
Caleb just glared at him.
"We're gonna make a little movie," the man continued. "Show your folks how serious we are. Show them what happens if they don't pay."
He nodded to the man with the camera, who raised it and hit record. A red light blinked on.
"This is a message to the Benson and Beaumont families," the man said, looking directly into the camera. "We have your boys. If you want them back alive, it's going to cost you. Two million dollars. Each."
Billy's stomach dropped. Six million total.
"You've got forty-eight hours," the man continued. "We'll send instructions. And just so you know we're serious—"
He turned and drove his fist into Caleb's ribs.
The sound was sickening—a meaty thud that echoed in the basement. Caleb's body jerked, a muffled scream tearing through the gag. Billy lunged against his restraints, the chair rocking. Jake was awake now, eyes wide with horror, thrashing against the ropes.
The man swung again. And again. Methodical. Brutal. Ribs, stomach, kidneys, face.
Caleb took it. Every punch. Didn't beg. Didn't cry. Just grunted through the pain and stared daggers at his captors between blows. Blood poured from his nose, his lip split open.
"Tough kid," the man said, breathing hard. He grabbed Caleb's hair and yanked his head up. "Let's see how tough."
He ripped the gag off Caleb's mouth.
"Got anything to say to your families? Want to beg them to pay up?"
Caleb spat blood. "Fuck you."
A hard right cross snapped Caleb's head to the side. Then a left. Then another right that split his eyebrow open. Blood ran down his face.
"Fuck. You," Caleb said again, slower this time, teeth red.
The man hit him twice more—body shots that drove the air from Caleb's lungs. Caleb's head dropped forward, gasping, his body sagging against the restraints. But when he lifted his head again, his eyes—swollen and bloodshot—were still full of fire.
"Cut him down," the man with the camera said. "We've got enough."
They sliced through the ropes at Caleb's wrists and he collapsed to his knees. Before he could even try to move, they yanked his arms behind his back and tied his wrists together with fresh rope. Then they pulled his arms up—elbows forced together behind him until Caleb hissed in pain—and tied them off with more rope.
"On your stomach," one of them ordered.
They forced Caleb onto the concrete floor and hogtied him—ankles bound with rope, another length of rope connecting his ankles to his wrists, pulling his body into a painful arch.
Caleb's face was pressed against the dirty floor, his breathing ragged, blood pooling beneath his cheek. But when his eyes found Billy and Jake, there was no surrender in them. Only rage.
One of the men walked over to Billy and grabbed his hair, yanking his head up. Billy tried to bite him through the gag.
"You're next for the ransom video, so prepare yourself," the man said. He shoved Billy's head back down.
Then they left. The door slammed. The lock clicked.
Silence.
For a long moment, none of them moved. Then Caleb shifted on the floor, his eyes locking onto Billy and Jake. Even beaten, even bloodied, even hogtied, there was something fierce and unbroken in his expression.
Billy looked at Jake. Jake looked back.
They all knew it in that moment, without saying a word.
No one was coming to pay a ransom. Not in time. Maybe not at all.
If they were getting out of here, it was going to be on them.
Caleb tested the ropes at his wrists, wincing. His jaw set.
They had one chance.
They had to get out of the fucking ropes.
Six Hours Later – The Benson Ranch
Billy Jr. was staring at the drone monitor when the email notification pinged across every device in the command center. Louisiana looked up from the radio console.
"What is that?" Louisiana asked.
Billy Jr. clicked it open. A video file. Unknown sender.
His hand was shaking as he hit play.
Five seconds in, his face went white.
"Oh my God," he whispered.
Louisiana was beside him instantly. They watched together—watched Caleb take punch after punch, watched the blood, watched him spit defiance even as they beat him.
When it ended, Billy Jr. didn't hesitate.
He slammed his hand down on the red emergency button on the console.
Immediately, every radio, every satellite phone, every device on the consortium network crackled to life with the automated message:
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY BENSON JUNIOR."
The message repeated three times, then cut to the encrypted frequency.
Billy Jr. grabbed the mic, his voice shaking but clear. "This is Command. All consortium members, converge on Benson Ranch immediately. This is not a drill. We have a kidnapping. Billy, Jake, and Caleb have been taken. Ransom video received. All hands needed now."
Louisiana was already on his phone, texting the other wiz kids—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez.
GET HERE NOW. EMERGENCY. BILLY JAKE AND CALEB KIDNAPPED.
Within seconds, responses flooded back.
ON OUR WAY
5 MINUTES OUT
COMING
Downstairs, the house exploded into motion. Doors slammed. Engines started. Josh, Tom, Pops, and Ray came running up the stairs to the command center.
"What happened?" Josh demanded.
Billy Jr. just pointed at the screen. Josh hit play.
The color drained from his face.
By the time the video ended, Sarah, Rebecca, and Edna had arrived, drawn by the commotion. Sarah watched and started sobbing. Rebecca grabbed the desk for support. Edna's hand went to her mouth, tears streaming down her face—that was her Billy tied to that chair, forced to watch.
Sheriff Wade burst through the door, still buckling his gun belt. Wilson and Ryan Nelson were right behind him.
"We got the 911," Wade said. "What—"
He saw the screen. Saw Caleb's bloody face frozen in the frame. Saw his grandson's two uncles bound to chairs.
His jaw set like iron.
Outside, vehicles were already arriving. The Renzos. The Matterns. The Rodriguezes. Within ten minutes, the Benson ranch yard was filling with trucks. Men with rifles. Families demanding answers.
Robert and Caroline Beaumont came running into the command center, Caroline's face already streaked with tears.
"Where's Caleb?" Robert demanded. Then he saw the screen. "Oh God. Oh God—that's our nephew—"
Caroline's knees buckled. Robert caught her, but his eyes never left the screen, watching his nephew—the boy who'd lived with them for fourteen months, who'd become like a son—take punch after punch.
Billy Jr. hit the external speaker button, his voice broadcasting to the growing crowd in the yard.
"Everyone, listen up!" His voice cracked but held. "Billy, Jake, and Caleb were taken this afternoon from the north pasture. We just received a ransom video. They want six million dollars in forty-eight hours."
Murmurs of shock and anger rippled through the crowd.
Then Pops stepped forward, his cane tapping on the floor. The room went silent. Outside, men stopped talking, straining to hear.
"No ransom," Pops said, his voice carrying through the speakers.
Sarah turned to him, tears streaming. "Pop—"
"No ransom," Pops repeated, louder. "We don't negotiate with kidnappers. They'll take the money and kill the boys anyway. That's how this works."
"Then what do we do?" Caroline sobbed.
"We find them," Pops said. "We hunt them down. We bring our boys home. And we deliver justice to the men who did this."
Sheriff Wade stepped up beside him. "I'm with Pops. Those boys are family. My grandson's uncles. My daughter's boyfriend." He looked out at the crowd through the window. "We don't pay. We hunt."
Robert Beaumont's face was white, his hands shaking. But when he spoke, his voice was steel. "That's my nephew. He's lived under my roof for over a year. He's family." He looked at Caroline, who was sobbing in his arms. She nodded.
"Find them," Robert said, his voice rising. "Find all three of them. And those men—" His eyes went cold. "Texas justice."
A roar of agreement went up from the crowd outside. Men raised their rifles. Voices shouted affirmation.
Pops nodded. "Then here's how this works. Josh, Tom, Ray—you three coordinate search teams. Wade, you and your deputies handle the law enforcement side and coordinate with neighboring counties. Robert, you work with the Mattern and Rodriguez families—divide up sectors."
"Yes, sir," they answered in unison.
Pops turned to the command center. "Billy Jr."
"Yes, sir?"
"You and Louisiana are running operations from here. Get every drone we have in the air. Thermal imaging, night vision, everything. I want continuous coverage. And get your friends here. Now."
"They're already on their way," Billy Jr. said.
As if on cue, three more trucks roared into the yard, tires skidding on gravel. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez came sprinting up the stairs, breathless.
"We're here," Billy Renzo said. "What do you need?"
"Everything," Billy Jr. said. "We're running a full grid search. Four counties. Thermal imaging. Satellite tracking. Every piece of tech we've got."
The four sixteen-year-olds immediately spread out in the command center like a well-oiled machine. Billy Renzo pulled up topographical maps on two of the iPads. Ryan Mattern started prepping the drone launch sequences. Daniel Rodriguez coordinated the encrypted radio frequencies, assigning channels to different search teams.
Louisiana pulled up the satellite phone network on the main monitor. "I'm putting all search teams on encrypted channel seven as primary. Drone feeds on channel nine. Command stays on channel five."
"Copy that," Billy Jr. said. He looked at his three friends. "We're going to find them."
"Damn right we are," Ryan Mattern said.
Downstairs, the consortium had mobilized into a small army. Forty men, maybe more. Rifles, shotguns, pistols. Radios. Maps spread across truck hoods. Search grids being drawn. The Benson ranch had become a forward operating base.
Pops walked slowly to the window and looked out at the assembled militia. Then he turned back to the monitor, where the video was frozen on Caleb's bloody, defiant face.
"Hold on, boys," he said quietly. "The whole damn county's coming for you."
In the command center, the four wiz kids worked in focused silence, fingers flying across keyboards and tablets. The first drone launched from the yard, its rotors whining as it climbed into the darkening sky.
The hunt had begun.
Chapter 5: The Hunt
The first six hours were chaos organized by desperation.
Search teams fanned out across Kings County and into the neighboring counties—Caldwell, Gonzales, and Guadalupe. Every dirt road, every abandoned building, every remote property was fair game. The consortium men moved in pairs and trios, armed, radioed, and deadly serious.
In the command center, the four wiz kids worked like a synchronized machine.
Billy Jr. had all ten drones in rotation—six in the air at any given time, the others charging and swapping out. Each drone carried thermal imaging cameras that could pick up body heat signatures through walls and roofs.
Louisiana coordinated the radio traffic, his Baton Rouge drawl surprisingly calm as he managed fifteen different search teams.
Billy Renzo tracked every search on a digital map, marking off cleared areas in real-time.
Ryan Mattern handled the satellite phones, keeping the encrypted network running smoothly.
Daniel Rodriguez monitored police scanners and emergency frequencies.
By 2:00 AM, they'd searched over a hundred locations. Nothing.
At 5:47 AM, Billy Jr. was staring at the map, exhausted, when something caught his eye.
"Wait," he said. "Go back. Drone Three—what was that?"
Ryan pulled up the feed. A structure barely visible through the trees—an old farmhouse, maybe twenty miles outside the search perimeter.
"Thermal?" Billy Jr. asked.
Ryan switched views. Three heat signatures. Basement level.
Billy Jr.'s heart stopped. "Oh my God."
He grabbed the mic, his voice cracking. "All teams, this is Command. We have three heat signatures at—" he read off the coordinates. "Repeat, three heat signatures. Basement level. Possible contact."
The radio exploded with responses.
"Team One en route!"
"Team Four, we're closest—five minutes out!"
"Command, this is Sheriff Nelson. I'm right behind them."
Pops was on his feet, leaning on his cane. "That's them. I know it."
Billy Jr. stared at the screen, watching the heat signatures. Three bodies. One on the floor. Two in chairs.
"Come on," he whispered. "Please be them."
Louisiana's hand was on his shoulder. "It's them, Billy. It's gotta be."
The radio crackled. "Command, Team Four is on site. We're going in."
Billy Jr. held his breath.
Thirty seconds of silence.
Then: "Command—we've got them! Repeat, we have all three boys! They're alive!"
The command center erupted. Billy Jr. dropped the mic, his hands shaking. Louisiana let out a whoop. The other three wiz kids were hugging, shouting.
Pops closed his eyes, his jaw tight. "Thank God."
Downstairs, Sarah's scream of relief echoed through the house. Caroline collapsed into Robert's arms, sobbing. Edna was crying and laughing at the same time.
Billy Jr. grabbed the mic again. "What's their condition? Over."
There was a pause. Then Josh's voice, tight and controlled. "They're beaten up pretty bad. Caleb's the worst. But they're conscious. They're talking. We're bringing them home."
"Copy that, Dad," Billy Jr. said, his voice breaking. "Bring them home."
Pops tapped his cane on the floor. "Billy Jr."
"Yes, sir?"
"Get me a location on those kidnappers. They can't have gone far."
Billy Jr.'s face hardened. He looked at his friends. They nodded.
"On it, Pops," he said.
The boys were safe.
Now it was time for justice.
Chapter 6: The Escape
Caleb waited until the footsteps upstairs stopped. Waited until he heard the TV turn on. Waited until the voices faded and the house went quiet.
Then he started working the ropes.
The hogtie was brutal—his back arched, wrists bound to ankles, every muscle screaming. But whoever tied him had made one mistake: they'd used rope instead of zip ties, and rope could stretch. Rope had give.
He twisted his wrists slowly, ignoring the pain, ignoring the blood running down his arms where the rope bit into his skin. Jake and Billy watched from their chairs, their eyes locked on him, willing him to succeed.
Thirty minutes. That's how long it took. Thirty minutes of slow, agonizing work, flexing and relaxing, twisting and pulling, until he felt the knot at his wrists start to loosen.
Then suddenly—his hands were free.
Caleb gasped. But his arms were still yanked up behind him, the rope binding his elbows together keeping them pinned painfully high. He couldn't reach it. His shoulders screamed.
He rolled onto his side and attacked the rope around his ankles. This one was easier. Within two minutes, his feet were free.
He struggled to his knees, his arms still bound at the elbows behind his back, and crawled across the basement floor to Billy.
"My elbows," he whispered. "Get the rope off my elbows."
Billy twisted in his chair, his own hands still bound behind him, and felt for the knot at Caleb's elbows. His fingers were numb from the ropes, but he worked at it, pulling, loosening.
Finally, it came free.
Caleb's arms dropped, and he nearly cried from the relief. He flexed his shoulders, wincing, then immediately started working on Billy's wrists.
"Come on, come on," he whispered.
The rope came loose. Billy's hands were free. Together they untied his ankles, then ripped the duct tape from his mouth.
Billy sucked in air. "Jake," he croaked.
They moved to Jake, working faster now. Within three minutes, all three of them were free, standing in the middle of the basement, bruised and rope-burned but unbroken.
Jake pulled the gag from his mouth. "We gotta move. Now."
Caleb pointed to the stairs. "I heard two of them upstairs. Don't know where the third one is."
"Don't care," Billy whispered. "We're getting the hell out of here."
They crept up the stairs, every step a risk. At the top, the door was unlocked—the kidnappers hadn't expected them to get free. Billy pushed it open slowly.
The house was dark except for the flickering light of a TV in the front room. They could hear snoring. Heavy, deep snoring.
"Back door," Caleb mouthed.
They moved like ghosts through the kitchen, past empty beer cans and cigarette butts. The back door was right there. Unlocked.
Jake turned the knob. The door opened.
They slipped out into the night.
The woods were twenty yards away. They ran.
Billy Jr. was staring at the thermal feed when the three heat signatures moved.
"Wait—what—" He leaned closer. "They're moving!"
Louisiana jumped up. "What?"
"The heat signatures! They're moving! They're out of the basement—they're outside!"
Ryan Mattern pulled up the GPS overlay. "They're running! West into the woods!"
"Oh my God," Billy Renzo said. "They escaped."
Billy Jr. grabbed the radio, his hands shaking. "All teams, this is Command! The boys have escaped! Repeat, the boys are free and moving west through the woods from the target location! Thermal tracking now!"
Pops was at his shoulder instantly. "Can you guide them?"
"Yes, sir," Billy Jr. said. He looked at his three friends. "We're going after them."
"What?" Louisiana said.
"We can track them on the drone. We can guide them to safety. We're the only ones who can see them right now." Billy Jr. was already grabbing keys. "You coming or not?"
The other three didn't hesitate. They ran.
Within two minutes, all four boys were in Billy Jr.'s truck, Billy Renzo riding shotgun with a tablet showing the drone feed, Ryan and Daniel in the back with radios and GPS.
Louisiana was driving—he was the best driver of the four.
Billy Jr. keyed the encrypted radio. "Dad, this is Billy Jr. We're mobile. We have thermal tracking on Billy, Jake, and Caleb. We're going to guide them out."
There was a pause. Then Josh's voice, tight but trusting. "Copy that, Junior. We're ten minutes behind you. Keep them safe."
"Yes, sir."
Louisiana hit the gas. The truck roared down the dirt road toward the coordinates.
Billy, Jake, and Caleb ran.
They ran through brush and trees, stumbling over roots, adrenaline masking the pain of their bruises and rope burns. Caleb's ribs ached with every breath. Jake's head throbbed. Billy's wrists burned where the ropes had cut into them.
But they ran.
Behind them, they heard shouting. The kidnappers had discovered the empty basement.
"Keep moving!" Jake gasped.
They crashed through the woods for ten minutes before they heard it—water. A stream.
They burst through the trees and saw it—a creek, maybe fifteen feet wide, running fast and cold.
"Thank God," Billy said.
All three of them collapsed at the water's edge. Caleb dunked his head in, washing the blood from his face. Billy and Jake stripped off their torn shirts and splashed water on their bruised bodies, cleaning off the blood and dirt.
For one moment—one brief, beautiful moment—they felt relief.
Then they heard the engines. Trucks. Close.
"They're coming," Jake said, already on his feet.
"We gotta keep moving," Caleb said.
But Billy held up a hand. "Wait. Listen."
A different sound. Closer. A truck—but only one.
Then a voice crackled from somewhere in the trees, tinny and electronic.
"Billy! Jake! Caleb! It's Billy Jr.! We've got you on thermal! Head north! Fifty yards north and we're at the road!"
All three of them looked at each other, disbelief and hope flooding their faces.
"Junior?" Billy shouted.
"Yeah! Move north! Now! We're right there!"
They ran. Through the trees, stumbling, exhausted. And then they saw it—headlights. A truck parked on a dirt road, four teenage boys standing beside it, waving.
Billy Jr. saw his uncles and Caleb burst from the tree line—bruised, shirtless, rope burns visible on their wrists and ankles—and his throat closed up.
"Get in!" he shouted. "Now!"
Billy, Jake, and Caleb piled into the truck bed. Louisiana hit the gas before the tailgate even closed.
"Go, go, go!" Billy Jr. yelled.
They roared down the dirt road just as the kidnappers' vehicles broke through the trees behind them.
Billy Jr. grabbed the radio. "Command, this is Billy Jr. We have all three boys. Repeat, we have them. They're safe. Heading to rendezvous point."
Josh's voice came back immediately. "Copy, Junior. Where's the rendezvous?"
Billy Jr. looked at the GPS. "County Road 312, two miles north of the target house."
"We're three minutes out," Josh said. "Meet you there."
Louisiana pulled the truck onto the side of the road and stopped. The four wiz kids jumped out. Billy, Jake, and Caleb climbed from the truck bed, adrenaline still pumping through their veins.
"You guys okay?" Billy Renzo asked.
"We're good," Billy said, his jaw set. His wrists were raw with rope burns, bruises darkening his arms and ribs, but his eyes were clear and hard. "Pissed off, but good."
Jake rolled his shoulders, testing. "Nothing broken. Just beat to hell."
Caleb flexed his hands, wincing at the rope burns. His face was bruised and swollen, but when he looked up, there was fire in his eyes. "I'll live."
Then they heard it—the rumble of multiple engines. Headlights appeared on the road, coming fast. A convoy of trucks.
The consortium had arrived.
Josh's truck screeched to a halt, and he was out before it even stopped moving. Tom was right behind him. Pops climbed out slower, leaning on his cane. Robert Beaumont jumped from another truck, his face wild with relief. Ray emerged from another vehicle. More trucks pulled up—Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes. Armed men poured out.
"Billy! Jake!" Josh shouted.
The three young men met them halfway. Josh grabbed his brothers, checking them over quickly—bruises, rope burns, but standing strong. Robert reached for Caleb, gripping his nephew's shoulders, tears streaming down his face. Tom pulled his sons close.
"You're okay," Josh said, relief flooding his voice.
"We're fine," Billy said. Then his voice turned hard. "But the kidnappers are still back there. In that house."
Jake stepped forward, dried blood on the back of his head, his eyes blazing. "Two of them for sure. Maybe three."
Caleb's bruised face was set like stone. "Let's get them."
The words hung in the air.
Then Pops smiled—cold and sharp. "You heard the boys."
Sheriff Wade stepped forward, his face grim. He looked at his deputies—Wilson and Ryan Nelson. "Boys, you stay here with me. We're going to call this in proper, file reports, coordinate with the neighboring counties. Law enforcement protocol."
Wilson opened his mouth to protest, but Wade cut him off. "That's an order."
Wade turned to the assembled consortium men—forty strong, armed, angry. His voice was quiet but clear. "I can't stop private citizens from checking on an abandoned property. Especially if they're concerned about trespassers." His eyes were hard. "Just make sure those trespassers are alive when you're done. I need to arrest somebody."
Pops nodded. "Understood, Sheriff."
Wade stepped back, pulling Wilson and Ryan with him. "We'll be right here. Taking statements. Doing paperwork."
Josh turned to Billy Jr. and the wiz kids. "You four—"
"We're coming," Billy Jr. said firmly.
"Junior—"
"We found them, Dad. We tracked them. We're coming." Billy Jr.'s voice was steady. Beside him, Louisiana, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez stood shoulder to shoulder, faces set.
Josh looked at Tom. Tom looked at Pops.
Pops studied the four sixteen-year-olds, then nodded slowly. "They earned it. They come."
Billy, Jake, and Caleb were already climbing into the back of Josh's truck, adrenaline overriding pain.
"You three should rest—" Tom started.
"Not a chance," Billy said. "We're finishing this."
Jake was right beside him. "They beat the shit out of Caleb. They tied us up. They're getting what's coming."
Caleb said nothing, just climbed into the truck bed, his bruised face grim.
Robert Beaumont grabbed a rifle from his truck. "My nephew. My fight."
The men loaded up. Billy Jr. and the wiz kids piled into their truck, Louisiana behind the wheel again.
"Stay behind us," Josh called to them. "And stay in the truck when we get there."
"Yes, sir," Billy Jr. said. He didn't mean it, and Josh probably knew it, but there wasn't time to argue.
The convoy turned around, headlights cutting through the darkness, and roared back toward the abandoned house.
In the lead truck, Billy, Jake, and Caleb sat in the bed, bruised and battered, riding into the night.
Behind them, the wiz kids followed.
And on the side of the road, Sheriff Wade Nelson stood with his sons, radio in hand, deliberately looking the other way.
"How long you think it'll take them?" Ryan Nelson asked.
Wade lit a cigarette. "Long enough for us to finish our paperwork."
The convoy disappeared into the darkness.
Justice was coming.
Texas style.
Chapter 7: Texas Justice
The convoy rolled up to the abandoned house with headlights blazing, surrounding it on three sides. Forty men poured out of trucks, rifles ready, faces grim.
The kidnappers' SUV was still parked out front.
Josh raised his fist. The men went silent.
"They're in there," he said quietly. "We do this smart. Surround the house. Nobody gets out."
The consortium men spread out in a loose perimeter, moving with surprising coordination for civilians. These were ranchers who'd hunted together for years, who knew how to move quietly, how to work as a team.
Pops walked slowly to the front of the group, his cane tapping on the dirt. Billy, Jake, and Caleb stood beside him, bruised and shirtless but standing tall.
"You boys ready?" Pops asked.
"Yes, sir," they answered in unison.
Billy Jr. and the wiz kids stayed by their truck, watching with wide eyes.
Josh stepped up to the front door and pounded on it with his fist. "This is Josh Benson! We know you're in there! Come out now with your hands up!"
Silence.
Then scrambling inside. Voices shouting.
"We're armed!" someone yelled from inside. "We've got guns!"
"So do we," Tom called back. "About forty of them. You do the math."
More silence.
Then the front door cracked open. A man stepped out, hands raised, masked face pale with fear. A second man followed, then a third.
The consortium men surged forward, yanking the kidnappers down the steps and slamming them face-first into the dirt. Hands pulled the masks off, revealing three terrified faces.
"You picked the wrong boys," Robert Beaumont said, his voice shaking with rage. He grabbed the man who'd beaten Caleb and hauled him to his feet. "You beat my nephew."
The man's eyes went wide. "I—we didn't—"
Robert's fist connected with his jaw. The man went down hard.
"Get up," Robert said.
The man stayed down. Robert kicked him. "I said get up!"
Josh pulled Robert back. "Easy. We need them conscious."
But the other consortium men weren't holding back. Fists flew. Boots connected with ribs. The three kidnappers tried to cover up, tried to protect themselves, but there were too many.
Billy, Jake, and Caleb watched, arms crossed, as the men who'd tortured them got a taste of their own medicine.
"Enough!" Pops finally barked.
The men stepped back, breathing hard. The three kidnappers lay on the ground, bloodied and groaning.
"On your knees," Josh ordered.
They struggled up, hands raised, faces swollen and bleeding.
Billy stepped forward and looked at the man who'd beaten Caleb. "Not so tough now, are you?"
The man spat blood. "You're all going to jail for this."
Jake laughed. "Yeah? Good luck with that."
Pops tapped his cane on the ground. "Shut your mouth before I shut it for you."
A radio crackled. Wade's voice came through. "How we looking out there?"
Josh keyed his radio. "Three suspects in custody, Sheriff. Looks like they resisted arrest."
"Resisted, huh?" Wade's voice was dry. "Well, I guess I better come take a look. Give me five minutes to finish this paperwork."
"Copy that."
The five minutes felt like an eternity. The kidnappers knelt in the dirt, surrounded by angry men with rifles. No one spoke. The tension was thick enough to cut.
Finally, headlights appeared. Wade's cruiser pulled up, followed by Wilson and Ryan Nelson in their patrol vehicles.
Wade climbed out slowly, surveying the scene. The three bloodied kidnappers. The forty armed men. The three shirtless, bruised young men standing with their families.
"Well," Wade said. "Looks like you boys had quite an adventure."
"They kidnapped us," Billy said flatly. "Beat us. Tried to ransom us for six million dollars."
Wade nodded. "I saw the video." His eyes went cold as he looked at the kidnappers. "Nasty piece of work, that."
He walked over to the three men kneeling in the dirt. Wilson and Ryan pulled out handcuffs.
"You three are under arrest for kidnapping, assault, and extortion," Wade said professionally. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?"
The three men nodded, dazed and bleeding.
"Good," Wade said. "Cuff 'em, boys."
Wilson and Ryan moved forward, roughly pulling the kidnappers' arms behind their backs and snapping the cuffs on.
Billy Jr. had his phone out, recording everything.
"You getting this, Junior?" Wade asked.
"Yes, sir," Billy Jr. said, holding the phone steady.
"Good. Make sure you get it all on record. For evidence."
Then Pops stepped forward, his cane tapping on the ground. He looked down at the three handcuffed men with cold, hard eyes.
"Hold on a goddamn minute," Pops said. "I want to make sure these worthless sons of bitches understand something."
Wade raised an eyebrow but stepped back, crossing his arms.
Pops leaned on his cane and looked at each kidnapper in turn, his voice low and deadly. "You have the right to remain silent," he said slowly, deliberately. "Which is what you dumb bastards should've done before you decided to kidnap three boys from families who own half this damn county."
The kidnappers stared up at him, fear in their eyes.
"You have the right to an attorney," Pops continued, his voice getting harder. "And you're gonna need a damn good one—hell, you're gonna need the best goddamn lawyer money can buy—because every rancher, every lawman, and every judge in four counties is gonna hear about what you worthless pieces of shit did to our boys."
He leaned closer, his eyes like ice.
"You have the right to know this—" Pops' voice dropped to a whisper that somehow carried to every man standing there. "If you ever touch our boys again, if you ever threaten our families again, if you even think about coming back to this county—hell, if you even drive through this county after you get out of prison—there won't be any goddamn rights read. There won't be any arrests. There won't be any trials. There'll just be three shallow graves out in the back forty where nobody—and I mean nobody—will ever find your sorry asses. Do you understand me?"
All three men nodded frantically.
"I can't hear you!" Pops barked.
"Yes! Yes, sir!" they stammered. "We understand!"
"You better fucking understand," Pops said. "Because this is Texas, boys. We take care of our own. And when you mess with our family—" He tapped his cane hard on the ground. "You answer to all of us."
He straightened up and looked at Wade. "Sheriff, these assholes are all yours now."
Wade nodded, fighting a smile. "Appreciate it, Tom. Wilson, Ryan—load 'em up."
The two deputies hauled the kidnappers to their feet and shoved them toward the patrol cars. The three men were shaking, eyes wide with terror.
As they were loaded into the cruisers, Billy Jr. was still recording, capturing every moment.
"Did Pops just re-read them their rights?" Louisiana whispered.
"Hell yeah, he did," Billy Renzo said, grinning.
"That was the best thing I've ever seen," Ryan Mattern added.
Daniel Rodriguez was trying not to laugh. "Pops is a legend."
Billy Jr. lowered his phone as the cruisers pulled away, sirens wailing. He looked at his grandfather, who was lighting a cigar.
"That was amazing, Pops," Billy Jr. said.
"Damn right it was," Pops said, puffing smoke. "Those bastards needed to hear it twice."
Josh put his arms around Billy and Jake. "Let's go home."
Robert had his arm around Caleb. "Come on, nephew. Let's get you cleaned up."
Tom clapped Ray on the shoulder. "It's over."
The consortium men started loading back into their trucks, the adrenaline fading, replaced by exhaustion and relief.
Pops walked past the four wiz kids, his cane tapping. He paused and looked at them.
"You boys did good tonight," he said. "Real damn good. You found them. You saved them."
"Thank you, Pops," Billy Jr. said.
"Now let's go home," Pops said. "I need a drink. Hell, I need three drinks."
The convoy turned back toward the ranch, headlights cutting through the darkness.
Behind them, the abandoned house stood empty and silent.
Justice had been served.
Texas style.
Chapter 8: Homecoming
The convoy rolled into the Benson ranch just after dawn, kicking up dust in the golden light. The yard was still full of trucks—families who'd stayed behind, waiting. Sarah, Caroline, Rebecca, Edna, Anna, and Mary Nelson stood on the porch, hands clutched together.
When they saw Billy, Jake, and Caleb climbing out of the truck bed—bruised, shirtless, but walking on their own—the tears started.
Sarah ran down the steps and grabbed her sons, pulling them into a fierce hug. "Thank God. Thank God."
Caroline was sobbing as she reached for Caleb. "You're home. You're home."
Edna threw her arms around Billy, crying and laughing at the same time. Rebecca held Jake's face in her hands, checking him over. Anna wrapped herself around Billy Jr., who was grinning ear to ear.
"We're okay, Mom," Billy said, his voice rough. "We're okay."
"You're not okay," Sarah said, looking at the bruises, the rope burns. "You need a doctor—"
"We need food," Jake said. "And about a gallon of water."
"And sleep," Caleb added.
"Food first," Pops said, walking up the steps. "Sarah, fire up that kitchen. These boys earned a real breakfast."
Within thirty minutes, the Benson kitchen was chaos again—but this time it was celebration. Sarah and Caroline cooked everything they had—eggs, bacon, sausage, pancakes, biscuits, hash browns. The coffee pot never stopped.
Billy, Jake, and Caleb sat at the table, surrounded by family, eating like they hadn't seen food in a week. Billy Jr. and the wiz kids crowded around them, rehashing every moment of the rescue.
"When we saw you on the thermal feed running through the woods—" Louisiana started.
"That was the craziest thing I've ever seen," Ryan Mattern finished.
"You guys saved our asses," Jake said, raising his coffee cup. "For real."
"We just tracked you," Billy Jr. said. "You saved yourselves."
Caleb looked at his cousin. "You did good, Colt. Real good."
Louisiana grinned. "We're family. That's what we do."
Pops walked in with a bottle of Jack Daniels and set it on the table with a thunk. "All right, boys. You earned this."
Sarah turned from the stove. "Pop, it's seven in the morning—"
"Sarah, those boys just escaped from kidnappers and survived a damn ordeal. They're getting a drink." Pops poured three glasses and slid them across the table to Billy, Jake, and Caleb. Then he poured one for himself.
"To the three toughest sons of bitches I know," Pops said, raising his glass.
The three young men raised theirs, wincing at the burn as they drank.
"That's terrible," Billy croaked.
"Damn right it is," Pops said, grinning. "But it gets the job done."
More consortium families filtered in as the morning wore on. The Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes. The men who'd been on the search teams. Everyone wanted to see the boys, to clap them on the back, to hear the story.
By mid-morning, the living room was packed. Billy Jr. stood up, his phone in hand.
"Hey! Everyone! I got the whole thing recorded. The arrest. Everything."
"Put it on the TV!" someone shouted.
"Let's see it!" another voice called.
Billy Jr. connected his phone to the big screen, and suddenly the room went silent as the video started playing.
The footage showed the abandoned house, the consortium men surrounding it, the three kidnappers being dragged out and slammed to the ground. The masks being ripped off. Robert Beaumont's fist connecting with the man who'd beaten Caleb.
"Yeah!" someone shouted.
Then the camera steadied as Wade stepped forward, professional and calm.
Wade's voice was clear and authoritative: "You three are under arrest for kidnapping, assault, and extortion. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?"
The three bloodied kidnappers nodded.
"Good. Cuff 'em, boys."
Someone in the living room whistled. "That's how it's done, Sheriff."
"Professional," another voice added approvingly.
Then Pops stepped into frame, his cane tapping, and the entire room leaned forward.
"Hold on a goddamn minute," Pops' voice rang out from the speakers. "I want to make sure these worthless sons of bitches understand something."
The room erupted in laughter and anticipatory cheers.
"Here we go!" Ray shouted.
"Turn it up!" someone yelled.
On screen, Pops leaned on his cane, looking down at the handcuffed men with cold, hard eyes. His voice was deliberate, each word landing like a hammer:
"You have the right to remain silent. Which is what you dumb bastards should've done before you decided to kidnap three boys from families who own half this damn county."
The room exploded with hoots and hollers.
"Tell 'em, Pops!"
"Damn right!"
Pops continued on screen: "You have the right to an attorney. And you're gonna need a damn good one—hell, you're gonna need the best goddamn lawyer money can buy—because every rancher, every lawman, and every judge in four counties is gonna hear about what you worthless pieces of shit did to our boys."
More cheers. Someone was pounding the table. Another man was laughing so hard he had tears running down his face.
Then Pops leaned closer to the kidnappers, and his voice dropped to a deadly whisper that the phone's microphone barely caught:
"You have the right to know this—if you ever touch our boys again, if you ever threaten our families again, if you even think about coming back to this county—hell, if you even drive through this county after you get out of prison—there won't be any goddamn rights read. There won't be any arrests. There won't be any trials. There'll just be three shallow graves out in the back forty where nobody—and I mean nobody—will ever find your sorry asses. Do you understand me?"
The room went completely silent, hanging on every word.
On screen, the kidnappers nodded frantically.
"I can't hear you!" Pops barked.
"Yes! Yes, sir! We understand!"
"You better fucking understand," Pops said, his voice rising. "Because this is Texas, boys. We take care of our own. And when you mess with our family—you answer to all of us."
The living room absolutely exploded. Men were on their feet, shouting, laughing, slapping each other on the back. Someone whistled so loud it hurt ears. Another man threw his hat in the air.
"THAT'S HOW YOU DO IT!" Billy Renzo's dad shouted.
"Play it again!" someone yelled.
"Pops, you're a goddamn legend!" another voice called out.
"Best Miranda rights I've ever heard!" a third man added.
Wade was laughing so hard he could barely breathe, wiping tears from his eyes. "Tom, I gotta admit, your version was better than mine."
"Damn right it was," Pops said, puffing his cigar, looking extremely pleased with himself. "No offense, Wade."
"None taken," Wade said, still laughing. "That was beautiful."
"Do it again!" Ryan Mattern's dad shouted. "Play it again!"
Billy Jr. rewound the video. The room quieted just enough to hear every word.
When Wade delivered his official Miranda rights, people nodded respectfully, murmuring approval.
"That's proper police work," someone said.
"By the book," another added.
But when Pops started—"Hold on a goddamn minute"—the room was already laughing in anticipation.
"You dumb bastards—" Pops' voice came through the speakers.
"YES!" someone shouted.
"—worthless pieces of shit—"
More laughter and cheering.
"—best goddamn lawyer money can buy—"
The room was roaring now.
"—three shallow graves out in the back forty—"
Men were doubled over laughing.
"—you better fucking understand—"
Someone was banging on the wall in approval.
"BECAUSE THIS IS TEXAS, BOYS!"
Standing ovation. Absolute pandemonium.
Billy Jr. was grinning from ear to ear. "You want to see it again?"
"YEAH!" the room roared.
He played it a third time. Then a fourth. Each time, the reaction was the same—respectful attention for Wade's professional delivery, then absolute chaos for Pops' version.
"I'm gonna need a copy of that," Robert Beaumont said, wiping his eyes.
"Me too," Tom said.
"Hell, we all need copies," Ray added.
"I'm putting this on a flash drive for everyone," Billy Jr. said.
"The hell you are," Sarah said from the kitchen doorway, but she was smiling, shaking her head.
"Frame it and put it on the wall," someone suggested.
"Mount it like a trophy!"
"Show it at every family gathering from now on!"
Pops raised his glass of Jack Daniels, his cigar clamped between his teeth. "To the Kings County justice system. One professional reading—" he nodded at Wade, "—one Texas reading. Both got the point across."
Wade raised his glass, still chuckling. "Amen to that, Tom. Amen to that."
The room dissolved into more laughter, more banter, more storytelling. Men were slapping Pops on the back, shaking his hand, telling him he should run for office.
"Can you imagine Pops as a judge?" someone said.
"The courtroom would never be the same!"
"He'd scare every criminal in Texas straight!"
Billy leaned over to Jake and Caleb. "We survived a kidnapping, beat the shit out of by boxing gloves, hogtied, escaped through the woods, and got rescued. But I think Pops just stole the whole show."
Jake laughed. "He always does."
Caleb was grinning despite the pain in his ribs. "Your grandfather is a force of nature."
"Damn right I am," Pops said from across the room, somehow having heard them over all the noise. "And don't you forget it."
Billy Jr. played the video one more time by popular demand. The room erupted all over again at Pops' performance.
Louisiana looked at Billy Jr., Ryan, and Daniel. "You think we'll ever do anything that legendary?"
"Not a chance," Billy Jr. said, watching his grandfather hold court, cigar in one hand, Jack Daniels in the other, surrounded by laughing men. "That's once in a lifetime right there."
Pops poured another round of whiskey for the men around him—Josh, Tom, Ray, Robert, Wade, Wilson, Ryan Nelson, and a dozen others.
"To family," Pops said, raising his glass high.
"To family!" they answered in unison.
"To Texas justice!" someone added.
"To the boys who made it home!" another voice called.
Glasses clinked. Laughter filled the room. The video played one more time in the background, and men who'd already seen it five times still gathered around to watch Pops deliver his speech again.
Billy, Jake, and Caleb sat together at the kitchen table, eating seconds, their bruises already turning purple, their rope burns bandaged, but alive and home.
Sarah stood in the kitchen doorway, one arm around Caroline, watching her family. Tears streamed down both women's faces, but they were smiling.
Rebecca had her arms around Josh. Edna And sat close to Billy, her hand in his. Anna leaned against Billy Jr., who kept replaying the video every time someone asked.
The sun climbed higher over Kings County, pouring golden light through the windows of the Benson ranch house. The coffee pot kept brewing. The Jack Daniels kept pouring. The stories kept getting better with each telling.
And in the middle of it all, Pops sat in his chair like a king on a throne, cigar smoke curling around him, his cane beside him, his family surrounding him.
"Now that," he said, puffing his cigar and grinning at Wade, "is how you read somebody their goddamn rights."
The room erupted one more time.
It was good to be home.
THE END
