Just a little Grok Fun on a snow day

 

 

Solitary Confirment. 

48 hours.

The Fires of Hell

 

Chapter 1: The Abduction

The kitchen still smelled like the night before—sweat, mud, and exhaustion. Billy Benson shuffled to the coffee maker, his boots dragging against the tile floor. Every muscle in his body ached. Twenty-one years old and he felt like he'd been run over by the damn cattle they'd spent all night chasing down.

"Coffee," he muttered, more to himself than to Jake.

His brother leaned against the counter, eyes half-closed, looking just as wrecked. At twenty-two, Jake was only a year older, but they'd been mistaken for twins their whole lives. Right now, they both looked like death.

"Double pot," Jake said, his voice hoarse. "I don't care if it kills me. I need it."

Billy reached for the coffee grounds, his hands still trembling slightly from adrenaline and fatigue. Five-thirty in the morning they'd finally gotten back. Fence down on the north pasture, forty head of cattle scattered across three properties. It had taken him, Jake, and half the consortium's hands to round them up in the dark.

"Think anyone noticed we're not out there yet?" Billy asked, scooping coffee into the filter.

Jake snorted. "Everyone knows we pulled an all-nighter. Ray said to sleep in. We earned it."

The coffee maker gurgled to life. Billy grabbed two mugs from the cabinet, the ceramic clinking together. Outside, he could hear the distant sounds of the ranch—trucks, voices, the normal rhythm of a working day. Everyone else was already out there. The frat house had been empty when they'd stumbled in at dawn. Billy Jr. and his buddies were probably out helping with the Rodriguez family's fence repair. Celab and Colt were with the morning crew on the south pasture.

Just the two of them in the big house.

"You think Pops is gonna chew us out for that fence?" Jake asked, rubbing his face.

"Probably. You know him. Even if it wasn't our fault—"

The back door opened.

Billy glanced up, expecting maybe Celab coming back for something he forgot. Instead, four men stepped inside. Big men. Strangers. One wore a cowboy hat, the brim pulled low. The others were dressed in work clothes—jeans, boots, long sleeves despite the Texas heat.

Billy's stomach dropped.

"Kitchen's closed, boys," Jake said, straightening up. His voice had an edge now. Alert. "You need something, you go through the front office."

The man in the cowboy hat smiled. It wasn't friendly. "We need you two to stay real quiet and this'll go easy."

Billy's hand moved toward his radio on his belt. Gone. He'd left it charging in the bedroom.

"Who the hell are you?" Billy demanded, taking a step back. His mind raced. The guns. The gun cabinet was in the den, locked. His phone was in his front pocket, but—

"Don't," the cowboy said quietly.

Two of the men moved fast—faster than Billy expected. One grabbed Jake, slamming him back against the counter. The other came at Billy. He tried to swing, his fist connecting with something—shoulder, maybe jaw—but exhaustion made him slow. A fist drove into his ribs and he doubled over, gasping.

"Billy!" Jake roared, thrashing against the man holding him.

Billy tried to straighten up, tried to breathe, but rough hands grabbed his arms and wrenched them back. Pain shot through his shoulders. He kicked backward, connected with a shin, heard a grunt.

"Little bastard—"

A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. Billy's vision swam. Then he felt it—cold metal pressed against his teeth, forcing his mouth open. The barrel of a gun.

Everything stopped.

Billy froze, his heart hammering so hard he thought it might explode. The metal tasted like oil and rust. His eyes darted to Jake. His brother was in the same position—gun shoved in his mouth, eyes wide with rage and terror.

"That's better," the cowboy said, his voice calm. Almost conversational. "Now, you boys are gonna behave, or I'm gonna paint this kitchen with your brains. Nod if you understand."

Billy's whole body shook. He nodded. Barely.

Beside him, Jake did the same.

"Good. Real good."

The cowboy gestured to the other men. "Tie 'em up."

The guns stayed in their mouths while hands moved fast and efficient. Billy felt his arms yanked roughly behind his back, wrists crossed. Rope—thick and coarse—wrapped around them. Once, twice, three times, the loops tightening with each pass. Then the rope cinched between his wrists, crushing them together. The binding cut deep into his skin, so tight his hands went numb almost immediately.

He tried to move his fingers. Nothing. The rope didn't budge. Professional work. No slack. No escape.

Beside him, they were doing the same to Jake. His brother grunted as they wrenched his arms back, the rope wrapping and tightening around his wrists.

"Gag them," the cowboy ordered. "Can't have them yelling when we move them."

The gun pulled out of Billy's mouth and before he could suck in a breath to scream, cloth was shoved between his teeth. He gagged on it, the taste of dust and sweat making his stomach lurch. Hands tied the gag tight behind his head, the knot digging into his skull.

He tried to speak. Only muffled sounds came out.

Jake was fighting again—twisting, trying to slam his shoulder into the man behind him. It earned him a vicious punch to the kidney that left him gasping and doubled over.

"Easy, boys," the cowboy said, crouching down in front of them. Up close, Billy could see his face—weathered, maybe fifty, with cold blue eyes that showed nothing. No anger. No excitement. Just business. "This ain't personal. You two just got unlucky. Wrong name, wrong time."

Billy's mind spun. Wrong name? The consortium. They wanted the consortium.

The cowboy stood, pulling a small bottle from his jacket pocket. Even from where Billy stood, hands bound and useless behind his back, he could read the label: Chloroform. A white rag came out next.

"Ok boys," the cowboy said to his men. "Now that they're tied up, hold them so I can knock them out. Then put them in the truck."

Terror spiked through Billy like lightning. He lunged sideways, trying to run—anywhere, just away. His legs were free but hands grabbed him before he made it two steps. They slammed him face-first against the kitchen counter, pinning him there. Someone grabbed his hair, yanking his head back.

"Mmmph! MMMPH!" Billy screamed into the gag, thrashing with everything he had left.

Jake was fighting too—kicking, twisting, his muffled yells filling the kitchen. But with four men and their hands bound, it was useless.

"Hold him still," the cowboy said calmly.

Rough hands clamped down on Billy's head, forcing it sideways against the counter. The rag—soaked and dripping with chloroform—pressed down over his nose and mouth, the gag doing nothing to stop it.

The smell was instant and overwhelming. Sweet, sickly, chemical. It burned his sinuses and filled his lungs. He tried to hold his breath but his body betrayed him, gasping reflexively. The chemical taste coated his tongue, his throat.

His vision blurred. The kitchen lights smeared into long streaks. His legs buckled.

Somewhere nearby, he heard Jake's muffled screams cut off abruptly.

Billy's body went slack, his muscles turning to water. The hands holding him were the only thing keeping him upright. The world spun, tilted, and then collapsed into darkness.

The last thing he heard was the cowboy's voice, distant and echoing:

"Load 'em up. We're on a schedule."

Then nothing.

---

The cowboy—his name was Garrett, though these boys would never know it—watched as his men hoisted the unconscious brothers like sacks of feed. The younger one, Billy, had fought hard. Even exhausted and bound, the kid had nearly broken free. Heart. The kid had heart.

Didn't matter now.

"Clean it up," Garrett said, gesturing to the mess. "Leave the rope scraps. Smash their radios. Make it clear what happened here."

One of his men swept the cut pieces of rope—the excess from binding their wrists—onto the floor. Another stomped on the radios sitting on the counter, plastic and circuits crunching under his boot. A chair got kicked over for good measure. The coffee pot was still brewing, filling the kitchen with that rich, bitter smell.

"Let's move," Garrett said.

They carried the brothers out through the back door. The white pickup truck was backed up close to the house, tailgate down. They dumped both of them into the bed like cargo—Billy first, then Jake. Both were limp, faces pale, wrists still bound tight behind their backs. Their legs sprawled awkwardly, boots scraping against the truck bed.

Garrett climbed into the passenger seat. The driver, a man named Dutch, started the engine.

"Barn's forty minutes out," Dutch said. "We good on time?"

"We're good," Garrett said. He glanced back through the rear window at the two unconscious brothers. "Nobody's even gonna know they're gone for hours. By the time they figure it out, we'll have them strung up and the photos sent."

"You really think the consortium's gonna pay?" Dutch asked, pulling onto the dirt road that led away from the ranch.

Garrett smiled. "They'll pay. These aren't just any ranch hands. These are Bensons. Tom Benson's youngest boys." He lit a cigarette, cracking the window. "They'll pay every cent, or they'll get their boys back in pieces."

The truck rumbled down the empty road, dust kicking up behind them. In the bed, Billy and Jake lay unconscious, bound and gagged, their faces slack. The sun climbed higher in the sky, the Texas heat already brutal even in the morning.

Back at the ranch house, the kitchen sat silent. Coffee dripped into the pot. A chair lay on its side. Cut pieces of rope littered the floor like shed snakeskin. Shattered radios lay in pieces on the counter.

And nobody knew.

Not yet.

Chapter 2: The Discovery

Billy Jr. wiped the sweat from his forehead as he climbed out of the ATV. The Texas sun was merciless—already pushing ninety-five degrees and it wasn't even noon yet. Beside him, Colt killed the engine and stretched, his Louisiana drawl cutting through the heat.

"Man, I need about a gallon of water," Colt said, pulling off his work gloves. "And maybe a cold shower."

"Water first," Billy Jr. said, heading toward the back door. "We gotta get back out there in twenty minutes. Rodriguez fence ain't gonna fix itself."

They'd been out since seven that morning, helping Daniel's family repair a section of fence that had collapsed during last night's chaos. The same chaos that had kept Billy and Jake out all night. Billy Jr. smiled thinking about his uncles—probably still crashed upstairs in their bunks, dead to the world.

He pushed open the back door and stopped.

The kitchen looked wrong.

A chair was on its side. Coffee was still brewing—the pot nearly full, like someone had started it and never came back. And on the floor...

"What the hell?" Colt said, stepping past him.

Rope. Cut pieces of rope scattered across the tile like someone had trimmed excess bindings and just dropped them. And on the counter—shattered plastic. Billy Jr. recognized the pieces immediately. Those were Billy and Jake's radios, the ones they always kept clipped to their belts.

Smashed. Destroyed.

"Billy..." Colt's voice had lost its usual easy drawl. "Something's wrong."

Billy Jr.'s heart started hammering. He moved fast, his boots crunching on broken plastic as he crossed to the counter. The coffee maker gurgled, filling the pot. Two mugs sat beside it, empty. Waiting.

"Billy! Jake!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "You guys here?"

Silence.

He ran. Through the kitchen, up the stairs two at a time, Colt pounding up behind him. The second floor hallway stretched before them—Pops' bedroom at one end, the bathroom, then the command center and the frat house room at the other end.

Billy Jr. burst through the frat house door. The bunk beds were empty—sheets rumpled like someone had been sleeping but got up hours ago. Celab's bunk was made. His own bed untouched. And Colt's mattress on the floor between the two bunks, empty.

"They ain't here," Colt said from behind him, breathless. "Billy, what—"

"Command center. Now."

Billy Jr. crossed the hall and slammed through the door. The tech hub—monitors lined the walls, iPads charging on the desk, the encrypted satellite phones in their rack. His fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the security camera feeds.

"Come on, come on..." he muttered, scrolling through the footage.

"What're we looking for?" Colt asked, leaning over his shoulder.

"Anything. They were making coffee. They wouldn't just leave—"

Billy Jr. pulled up the exterior cameras. Kitchen had no interior coverage—they'd never thought they'd need it. But the back door camera, the one covering the service entrance...

The footage jumped to 9:31 AM.

Billy Jr.'s blood turned to ice.

The back door opened. Four men emerged, carrying—

"Oh my God," Colt whispered.

Billy and Jake. Unconscious. Limp. Their heads lolling, arms hanging loose behind their backs like they were bound. The men carried them like sacks of grain, rough and careless.

"No, no, no..." Billy Jr.'s hands shook on the mouse.

A white pickup truck was backed up to the house. The men dumped Billy into the bed first, then Jake. Both of them motionless, faces pale in the harsh morning sunlight. Their wrists were clearly tied behind their backs—Billy Jr. could see the rope even from the camera angle.

Then the truck pulled away, kicking up dust as it headed down the service road toward the highway.

Billy Jr. tried to zoom in on the license plate. Too much dust. Too far. The resolution pixelated into useless blocks.

"Can you see the plate?" Colt asked urgently.

"No. Damn it, no!"

He rewound the footage, watching it again. The men's faces were partially visible—one wore a cowboy hat, brim pulled low. Work clothes. Boots. They moved with purpose, professional. This wasn't random.

Billy Jr. grabbed the encrypted satellite phone from the rack. His fingers found the emergency button—the big red one they'd installed but never used. Never thought they'd need.

He pressed it.

The system activated instantly. Every phone, every radio, every iPad in the consortium network lit up with the alert:

"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JUNIOR."

"What do we do?" Colt asked, his accent thick with panic.

"We find them," Billy Jr. said, his voice steadier than he felt. He pulled up the drone interface on the main monitor. "Get the drones ready. All ten of them. We're looking for a white pickup truck, headed east from the ranch, last seen—" he checked the timestamp, "—nine thirty-one AM. Two hours ago."

"Two hours," Colt breathed. "They could be anywhere."

Billy Jr. didn't answer. He was already pulling up maps, calculating routes, his mind racing. Two hours. Billy and Jake had been gone for two hours. And from the looks of it, they'd been drugged or knocked out. The way they'd been hanging limp...

Please let them be alive.

The sound of trucks skidding to a stop outside made them both jump. Doors slamming. Voices shouting.

"Billy Junior! Where are you?!"

His dad. Josh's voice, raw with panic.

Billy Jr. ran out of the command center, down the stairs, Colt right behind him. His father burst through the kitchen door first, followed by Ray, then Tom and Sarah. And behind them—Pops. Seventy-six years old and moving faster than Billy Jr. had seen in years, his face red, eyes wild.

"What the hell is going on?!" Josh demanded, grabbing Billy Jr. by the shoulders. "The alert—"

"They took them," Billy Jr. said, the words tumbling out. "Billy and Jake. Four men. Around nine-thirty this morning. They were unconscious—tied up. Thrown in a truck—"

"What?!" Sarah's hand flew to her mouth.

Tom's face went white. "Show me. Now."

Billy Jr. led them upstairs to the command center. The room filled quickly—too many bodies in the small space, but no one cared. He pulled up the exterior footage. They watched in silence as the four men carried the unconscious brothers out and dumped them in the truck bed like cargo. When the truck drove away, Sarah let out a choked sob.

"The kitchen," Ray said quietly. "The ropes. The smashed radios. They tied them up down there."

"Probably gagged them too," Josh added, his voice tight. "That's why nobody heard anything."

"Those sons of bitches," Pops growled. His hands were shaking—not from age, but from rage. "Those goddamn sons of bitches drugged my boys and took them right out of my house."

"We're getting them back," Tom said firmly. He turned to Billy Jr. "Can you track that truck?"

"Working on it. I've got the drones prepping now. If they're still on the road, we'll find them."

More vehicles arrived outside. Billy Jr. could hear them through the second-floor window—the wiz kids and their families, probably. Then sirens. Sheriff Wade.

Josh squeezed Billy Jr.'s shoulder. "You did good hitting that button. Now let's bring them home."

Billy Jr. nodded, turning back to the monitors. His hands were still shaking, but his mind was clear. Somewhere out there, Billy and Jake were in trouble.

And he was going to find them.

---

Sheriff Wade Nelson's heavy boots pounded up the stairs, Wilson and Ryan right behind him, both in their deputy uniforms. Mary, Rebecca, and Edna followed, crowding into the already-packed command center.

"Talk to me," Wade said, his sheriff's voice cutting through the chaos.

Tom gestured to the monitors. "Kidnapping. Two hours ago. Four men, white pickup, headed east. They drugged Billy and Jake, tied them up, and took them."

Billy Jr. pulled up the footage again. Wade watched, his jaw tightening with every second.

"Professionals," Wade said grimly. "Look at how they move. Organized. Quick. This was planned."

"Inside job?" Wilson asked.

"Maybe," Wade said. He pulled out his radio. "This is Sheriff Nelson. I need an APB on a white pickup truck, last seen on County Road 12 heading east at approximately nine-thirty AM. Suspects are armed and dangerous. They have two hostages—Billy and Jake Benson, ages twenty-one and twenty-two. Suspects should be considered extremely dangerous."

"Copy that, Sheriff," dispatch responded.

Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez thundered up the stairs, breathing hard. They squeezed into the command center doorway.

"We got the alert," Billy Renzo said. "What do you need?"

"Drones," Billy Jr. said immediately. "All of you, grab an iPad. We're doing a grid search. Start with every road heading east from here. Thermal imaging on. We're looking for that white truck or any structure they might've taken them to."

The three sixteen-year-olds moved without hesitation, each grabbing an iPad from the charging station and pulling up the drone interface.

"I'm launching drones one through four," Daniel said, his fingers flying across the screen.

"Five through seven are mine," Ryan Mattern added.

"I've got eight, nine, and ten," Billy Renzo confirmed.

Within minutes, all ten drones were airborne, spreading out in a coordinated search pattern across Kings County. The command center's main monitor split into ten feeds—aerial views of roads, fields, abandoned buildings.

Pops pushed his way to his bedroom across the hall and came back with a glass of brandy already in his hand despite the early hour. "Seventy-six goddamn years old," he muttered, "and I gotta watch my great-grandsons hunt for my grandsons because some bastards think they can waltz onto Benson land and take what's ours."

"We'll find them, Pops," Josh said quietly.

"Damn right we will," Pops growled. "And when we do, those sons of bitches are gonna wish they'd never been born."

Sarah sat down in one of the chairs, Rebecca and Edna flanking her. Mary put a hand on her shoulder. The command center was packed wall-to-wall now—too hot, too crowded, but no one was leaving.

"They're strong boys," Mary said softly. "They'll hold on."

Tom stood behind Billy Jr., watching the drone feeds. "Anything?"

"Not yet," Billy Jr. said, his eyes scanning each screen. "But we will. We've got seventy-five thousand dollars worth of equipment and the best damn crew in Texas. We're bringing them home."

On the screens, the drones flew on, searching.

Somewhere out there, Billy and Jake were waiting.

Hold on, Billy Jr. thought. Just hold on.

Chapter 3: The Barn

Billy's head was splitting.

That was the first thing he felt when consciousness dragged him back—pain. Sharp, throbbing pain behind his eyes, like someone had driven a spike through his skull. His mouth tasted like chemicals and copper. His stomach lurched.

He tried to move and couldn't.

Panic hit him like ice water. His eyes snapped open.

The world was upside down.

No—he was upside down. Hanging. His boots were above him, secured to something—a rafter, a beam. Blood pounded in his head with every heartbeat, a relentless pressure that made his vision swim. His arms hung uselessly below him—no, behind him. Still tied. The rope cut into his wrists, tighter than before, like it had settled and locked while he was unconscious.

He tried to speak. Cloth filled his mouth. The gag. Still there.

"Mmmph!" The sound came out strangled, desperate.

"Billy?"

Jake's voice. Muffled, hoarse, but close. Billy twisted his head—agony shot through his neck—and saw his brother. Right beside him. Maybe three feet away. Hanging just like him. Upside down, hands bound, gagged. Jake's face was red, veins standing out on his forehead from the blood pooling there.

Their eyes met.

The terror in Jake's eyes probably matched his own.

Billy tried to assess their situation through the pounding in his head. They were in a barn—old, abandoned by the looks of it. Dust motes floated in beams of sunlight streaming through gaps in the walls. The smell was overwhelming—rot, mildew, animal droppings. The floor was maybe eight feet below them. Dirt and scattered hay.

Their boots were tied to a crossbeam with what looked like the same thick rope that bound their wrists. Professional knots. No way to reach them even if his hands were free.

Which they weren't.

Billy tested the binding on his wrists. The rope was so tight his hands were completely numb. He couldn't feel his fingers. Couldn't move them. The circulation had been cut off—how long had they been unconscious? An hour? Two?

He looked at Jake again. His brother was doing the same thing—twisting, testing, trying to find any give in the rope. There wasn't any.

"Mmmph! Mmm!" Jake's muffled sounds were urgent, angry.

Billy nodded. He understood. They had to get out of here. But how?

Time passed. Billy didn't know how much. The sun moved across the barn, the light shifting. The pressure in his head built until he thought his skull might crack open. His vision kept blurring at the edges. Nausea rolled through him in waves—aftereffects of the chloroform, probably.

He tried everything. Swinging his body to reach the beam above them. Useless—the rope was too short, the angle wrong. Trying to pull his wrists apart. The binding didn't budge. Attempting to work his boots free. Impossible with his hands bound.

Beside him, Jake was doing the same. Struggling. Fighting. Getting nowhere.

The heat was brutal. Even in the shade of the barn, the Texas summer was merciless. Sweat poured off both of them—or rather, up. Running from their legs toward their heads, making everything slick. Billy's shirt was soaked. His arms, hanging behind and below him, ached from the unnatural position. Rope burns formed where the binding cut into his wrists every time he moved.

Hours passed. Had to be hours. The sun was definitely lower now, the light more golden. Billy's body screamed at him. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. His head throbbed with a pain so intense he wanted to vomit—but couldn't, not with the gag.

"Mmm... mmmph..." Jake's sounds were weaker now. Exhausted.

Billy met his brother's eyes again. They were both in bad shape. How long could a person hang upside down before... before what? Brain damage? Stroke? Death?

He didn't want to think about it.

Then Billy remembered. His phone. It was in his front pocket—he'd felt it there when they grabbed him in the kitchen. Did they take it? He couldn't reach down to check, not with his hands bound behind him. But maybe...

If he could get the gag off. Voice activation. Siri. Call for help.

Hope flickered in his chest.

Billy started working his jaw. The gag was tight, knotted behind his head, but maybe if he could just... He rubbed his face against his shoulder—awkward, painful with his arms bound below him. The cloth caught on his shirt collar. He worked it. Again. Again.

"Mmm?" Jake was watching him, confused.

Billy kept going. Rubbing, twisting his jaw, trying to work the fabric down. His neck cramped. His shoulders screamed. But the gag moved. Just a fraction.

He kept at it.

More time passed. The light was definitely fading now—late afternoon, maybe early evening. Billy's whole world had narrowed to this one task. Work the gag down. Get it off his mouth. Call for help.

The cloth slipped. Just a little. Caught on his chin.

Billy twisted harder, ignoring the pain in his neck. The gag scraped across his jaw, his cheek. The knot was still tight behind his head but the fabric over his mouth was loosening.

Almost there.

One more hard twist and the gag slipped down around his neck.

Billy gasped, sucking in air. His mouth was dry as sand, his lips cracked. But he could breathe. He could speak.

"Jake," he croaked. His voice was barely recognizable.

"Mmm! Mmmph!" Jake's eyes were wide, urgent.

"I'm gonna... phone..." Billy's head spun. The words wouldn't come right. Too much blood in his brain. Too much pain.

He took a shaky breath. "Hey Siri."

Nothing.

His phone. Was it even on? Was Siri activated? He couldn't remember. Panic clawed at him.

"Hey Siri!" Louder this time.

A faint chime. From his pocket.

"Call Billy Junior."

The pause felt like an eternity. Then—ringing. Distant, tinny, coming from his front pocket.

"Come on, come on..." Billy whispered.

The ringing stopped. A click.

"Billy? Uncle Billy, is that you?!" Billy Jr.'s voice, frantic, coming through the phone speaker in his pocket.

"Barn," Billy gasped. "Abandoned... don't know where... hung up... hurry..."

"We're tracking you right now! Hold on, we're coming!"

The line stayed open. Billy could hear voices in the background—his dad, Tom, others shouting, coordinating. The sound of the command center. They'd found him. They were coming.

"Jake," Billy said, his voice cracking. "They're coming. They found us."

"Mmmph!" Jake's muffled response sounded like relief and desperation mixed together.

Billy's vision was darkening at the edges. The pressure in his head was unbearable. His whole body felt like it was shutting down. But they were coming.

Just hold on, he told himself. Just a little longer.

The barn was nearly dark now. Shadows stretched across the floor below them. Billy could hear Jake's breathing—ragged, labored. His own wasn't much better.

Time crawled. Minutes felt like hours. Billy faded in and out, his consciousness flickering. The pain was everywhere now—head, shoulders, wrists, back. Everything hurt.

Somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard engines. Trucks. Or maybe he was hallucinating.

"Stay awake," he mumbled, not sure if he was talking to Jake or himself.

The darkness crept in further. Billy's eyes drifted closed.

Stay awake.

They're coming.

Just hold on.

Chapter 4: The Hunt

The command center had become a war room, but it was too small to hold everyone.

Billy Jr. sat hunched over the main monitor, eyes burning from staring at ten drone feeds for the past three hours. His three friends surrounded him—Billy Renzo working drones one through three, Ryan Mattern on four through six, Daniel Rodriguez managing seven through nine. Billy Jr. handled drone ten himself while coordinating the search grid.

Tom, Wade, Josh, Ray, and Pops crowded around the monitors, watching over their shoulders. Everyone else had spread throughout the house—the command center simply couldn't fit them all.

Downstairs, Sarah sat at the kitchen table with Rebecca, Edna, and Mary, each with an iPad showing the drone feeds. Caroline Beaumont and the other consortium mothers occupied the dining room, also monitoring screens. Robert Beaumont and Celab stood on the front porch with Colt, watching the driveway. The Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez fathers were in the living room, checking their hunting rifles and discussing tactical approaches in low voices.

Wilson and Ryan Nelson patrolled between rooms, their deputy uniforms and sidearms making them the unofficial security.

"Anything?" Tom asked for the hundredth time.

"Nothing, Grandpa," Billy Jr. said, his voice hoarse. "We've covered every major road heading east. Checked abandoned structures within a fifty-mile radius. If they're out there, they're well hidden."

Pops stood in the corner, on his third glass of brandy. "Those bastards knew what they were doing. Professionals. Goddamn professionals."

Wade's radio crackled. "Sheriff, dispatch here. Nothing on that APB. No sightings of the white pickup."

Wade's jaw tightened. "Copy that. Keep looking."

Tom's phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Everyone in the command center froze.

"It's them," Tom said quietly.

A text message. No words. Just two photos loading.

"Billy, get these on the network," Tom said. "Everyone needs to see this."

Billy Jr.'s fingers flew across his keyboard. "Uploading to all iPads now."

Throughout the house, iPads chimed simultaneously. The same two photos appearing on every screen.

The first image loaded slowly, pixelating from top to bottom.

In the kitchen, Sarah's scream cut through the house. "NO! OH GOD, NO!"

Rebecca's sob followed.

On every iPad, the same horrific image: Billy and Jake hanging upside down by their boots from a barn rafter. Hands bound behind their backs. Gags in their mouths. Their faces were red, swollen from blood pooling in their heads. Sweat soaked their shirts. The rope burns on their wrists were visible even in the photo—raw, bleeding.

The second photo was a wider shot. The same barn. Dark stains spread across the dirt and hay floor below them.

In the command center, Pops' face went purple. His hands shook as he stared at Billy Jr.'s monitor.

Then the text came through on Tom's phone:

$2,000,000. Electronic transfer. You have 24 hours. Instructions will follow. If you try to find them, we burn the barn. It's already soaked in gasoline. Your boys will burn alive. Pay or they die.

Billy Jr. pushed the message to all the iPads.

Silence for one heartbeat.

Then Pops exploded.

"THOSE SONS OF BITCHES!" He hurled his glass across the room. It shattered against the wall. "THEY STRUNG UP MY BOYS LIKE ANIMALS!"

His roar echoed through the house.

From downstairs, Sarah's voice: "They've been hanging there for hours! Look at their faces! Oh God, look at their wrists—"

Rebecca's voice, breaking: "Mama, we have to do something—"

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Robert Beaumont appeared in the doorway, face grim. "What do we do? Do we pay?"

"Bullshit we pay!" Pops snarled. His face was purple, veins standing out on his neck. "You think they're gonna let them go? Those boys saw their faces!"

More people crowded into the hallway outside the command center. The room was too small but everyone pressed close, trying to see.

"We can get two million," Ray said quietly, his voice tight. "The consortium has the funds. We can transfer it—"

"And then what?" Wade said grimly. "These are professionals. They know Billy and Jake can identify them. Even if we pay, there's no guarantee—"

"So what?" Sarah appeared in the doorway, her face streaked with tears, Rebecca and Mary behind her. "We just leave them there?"

"No," Tom said, his voice steel. "We find them. We go get them."

"The barn's soaked in gasoline!" Caroline said from the hallway. "They'll burn it!"

"Then we better get there before they light the match," Tom said.

Billy Jr. stared at his monitor, the photos burned into his vision. His uncles. His best friends. Hanging there like slaughtered cattle. His hands clenched into fists.

The command center was too hot, too crowded. Billy Jr. could barely breathe. He turned back to his monitor, pulling up the search grid again. "We'll find them," he muttered. "We have to find them. We'll—"

His phone rang.

The sound cut through the chaos. Everyone stopped talking.

Billy Jr. looked down at his phone on the desk.

The caller ID read: Uncle Billy

Time stopped.

"Oh my God," Billy Jr. whispered.

Then he grabbed the phone and screamed. "UNCLE BILLY!"

He slammed his hand down on the emergency button.

"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JUNIOR."

The alarm blared through every speaker in the house, every radio, every iPad in the consortium network.

Footsteps thundered from every direction. Celab and Colt pounded up the stairs. The consortium fathers came running. Wilson and Ryan Nelson took the stairs three at a time.

Billy Jr. answered the phone, his hands shaking so hard he almost dropped it. "Uncle Billy? UNCLE BILLY, IS THAT YOU?!"

The voice on the other end was weak, hoarse, barely recognizable. But it was Billy.

"Barn... abandoned... don't know where... hung up... hurry..."

The command center erupted.

"Is that Billy?!" Josh lunged forward.

"MY SON!" Sarah screamed from the doorway. "Is that my son?!"

Billy Jr.'s fingers flew across the keyboard with one hand while pressing the phone to his ear with the other. "Uncle Billy, stay with me! I'm tracking you right now!"

Tom grabbed Billy Jr.'s shoulder. "Can you get his location?"

"Working on it, Grandpa!" Tears streamed down Billy Jr.'s face. The GPS signal started populating on his screen. "Uncle Billy, where are you? Can you tell me anything?"

The voice came back, weaker. "Barn... old... can't... hurts..."

"I know it hurts, I know!" Billy Jr.'s voice cracked. "Just hold on! We're coming for you!"

Sarah pushed through the crowd, shoving people aside. "Billy? Baby, can you hear me?"

"The line's open," Billy Jr. said. "Uncle Billy, if you can hear us, we're tracking your phone right now!"

The command center was wall-to-wall bodies now. Everyone who'd been scattered throughout the house had converged. The hallway was packed. People pressed into the doorway, craning to see.

The GPS coordinates locked in.

"GOT IT!" Billy Jr. shouted. "Thirty-two miles east! Old Morrison barn off County Road 47!"

"I know that place!" Ray said. "Been abandoned for fifteen years!"

Wade was already on his radio. "All units, we have a location. Morrison barn, County Road 47, thirty-two miles east of Benson Ranch."

Tom's voice boomed through the house. "Everyone who can shoot, get ready! We mobilize in five minutes!"

The command center exploded into action. People ran in every direction. Down the stairs to grab weapons. To the trucks to prep vehicles. The organized chaos of a family going to war.

Billy Jr. kept the phone pressed to his ear. "Uncle Billy? Uncle Billy, can you still hear me?"

Faint breathing. Then Billy's voice, barely a whisper. "Jake... get Jake too... please..."

"We're getting both of you!" Billy Jr. said, his voice breaking. "I promise!"

Sarah grabbed the phone from Billy Jr.'s hand. "Billy! Baby, it's Mama! You hold on, you hear me? Your daddy and your brothers are coming for you!"

More faint breathing. Then: "Mama..."

Sarah's sob echoed through the command center. "Yes, baby, I'm here! We're all here!"

Pops pushed forward, taking the phone. "Billy! You listen to me, boy! You and Jake hold on! You hear me? You hold the hell on because we're coming and God help those sons of bitches when we get there!"

A weak sound that might have been a laugh. Or a sob. "Pops..."

"Damn right it's Pops!" The old man's voice was shaking with rage and fear. "Now you stay awake! Billy Junior's gonna keep this line open and you're gonna stay awake until we get there!"

Tom turned to the room. "Robert, get every man who can shoot to the front yard NOW. Wade, you and your boys get the tactical gear. Josh, Ray—every rifle we have. We're going in armed and we're going in fast."

People scattered. Down the stairs, out to the vehicles, grabbing weapons from gun safes.

Billy Jr. took the phone back from Pops. "Uncle Billy, we're coming now. Thirty minutes. You and Jake just hold on for thirty more minutes."

He pulled up the drone interface with his free hand. "Billy, Ryan, Daniel—redirect all drones to Morrison barn. I want thermal imaging. I need to know how many kidnappers and exactly where they are."

"On it," Daniel said, his fingers flying across his iPad.

Wade turned to his sons. "Wilson, Ryan—get the rifles from my truck. Body armor for everyone who fits. Suppressed weapons if we have them."

"What about us?" Billy Renzo asked.

"Drones," Billy Jr. said. "We keep eyes overhead. Real-time intel on movement inside that barn."

Celab stood up. "I'm going."

"Me too," Colt added, his Louisiana drawl thick. "They're my brothers."

Tom nodded. "Get your rifles. You're with us."

Rebecca grabbed her son's arm. "No! Billy Junior, you're not—"

"Mom, I have to! I'm the only one who can run the drone network!"

"Then you stay behind the line," Rebecca said, her voice shaking. "You don't engage. You're tech support only."

"Yes ma'am."

"Same goes for the rest of you," Wade said to Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. "You're intel. Eyes on those iPads."

More people thundered up the stairs. The Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez fathers, armed with hunting rifles.

"What do you need, Sheriff?" Mr. Renzo asked.

"Four armed kidnappers holding Billy and Jake in a barn thirty-two miles east," Wade said. "Place might be soaked in gasoline. We go in fast, we go in quiet, and we bring those boys home."

"We're with you," Mr. Mattern said.

Tom turned to Billy Jr. "What's the thermal imaging showing?"

The first drones had reached the barn. Billy Jr. pulled up the feed. "Four heat signatures inside. Two hanging—that's Billy and Jake. Two moving around on the ground. Wait—" He zoomed in. "Three kidnappers on the ground floor. One outside near a vehicle."

"The white pickup?" Josh asked.

"Has to be." Billy Jr. switched views. "Yeah, white pickup out front. No plates."

"What about the gasoline?" Ray asked.

Billy Jr. enhanced the image. "Can't tell from thermal. But if it's there—"

"We know," Tom said grimly. "Which is why we don't miss."

Pops grabbed Billy Jr.'s phone again. "You still with us, boy?"

A weak response. "Still... here..."

"Good! Your daddy and your brothers are loading up right now. We're coming for you. You and Jake both. You understand?"

"Jake's... bad... been hanging... long time..."

Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. "How long?"

Billy Jr. checked the timestamp from the ransom photos. "At least four hours. Maybe more."

"Jesus Christ," Ray whispered.

"Then we better hurry," Wade said. He keyed his radio. "All units, weapons check. We roll out in two minutes."

The house was chaos. Men checking rifles, loading magazines. The women—Sarah, Rebecca, Edna, Mary, Caroline—gathered around the kitchen table with iPads.

"We'll monitor from here," Mary said. "Keep the radio channel open."

Billy Jr. handed his mother an iPad. "Keep this feed up. That's the thermal imaging. If anything changes—if more heat signatures show up—you radio us immediately."

Rebecca hugged her son tightly. "You come home. All of you."

"We will, Mom."

Tom grabbed his rifle. "Okay, listen up! Thirty minutes to Morrison barn. Wade's taking tactical command. When we get there, we split into three teams. Team Alpha flanks north. Team Bravo south. Team Charlie—me, Josh, and Wade—straight in the front."

"What about the gasoline?" Robert asked.

"We're betting they haven't lit it yet," Wade said. "And we're going in so fast they won't have time. Suppressed weapons. Coordinated shots."

"And if they do light it?" someone asked.

"Then we grab Billy and Jake and we run like hell," Tom said flatly.

Pops drained his brandy and grabbed a shotgun. "I'm riding with Wade."

"Pops, you're drunk," Josh said.

"I'm drunk enough to shoot straight and pissed enough not to miss," Pops growled. "Now let's go get my boys."

Tom turned to Billy Jr. "You keep that line open with Billy. I don't care if he can't talk. You keep him awake."

"Yes sir, Grandpa."

Billy Jr. spoke into the phone. "Uncle Billy? We're coming now. Thirty minutes. You and Jake just hold on for thirty more minutes."

A long pause. Then, so faint Billy Jr. almost couldn't hear it: "Hurry..."

---

The convoy formed up in the ranch yard.

Wade's sheriff truck took point—Pops in the passenger seat with a shotgun across his lap, Wilson and Ryan Nelson in the back with tactical rifles. Behind him, Tom and Josh in Tom's heavy-duty pickup, both armed with hunting rifles.

Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez, Celab, and Colt climbed into the bed of Tom's truck. Each of the four wiz kids had an iPad. Celab and Colt both carried rifles.

Ray and Robert Beaumont took another truck, loaded with ammunition and medical supplies. The Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez fathers formed the rear guard—six more armed men.

"Drones in position?" Tom called back.

"All ten overhead," Billy Jr. confirmed, phone still pressed to his ear. "We've got full coverage."

In the kitchen, Sarah, Rebecca, Edna, Mary, and Caroline stood at the window, watching the convoy. Each held an iPad, monitoring feeds.

"God protect them," Mary whispered.

Sarah's hands shook as she stared at her screen. Somewhere in that barn, her youngest sons were dying.

"Hold on, babies," she whispered. "Just hold on."

Wade's voice crackled through the radio. "All units, final radio check. Sound off."

"Tom's truck, copy."

"Ray here, copy."

"Renzo family ready."

"Mattern family, we're with you."

"Rodriguez family, copy."

"Good," Wade said. "Billy Jr., you've got command of intel. Keep those drones overhead. I want constant updates."

"Copy that, Grandpa Wade," Billy Jr. said, phone in one hand, iPad in the other. "Uncle Billy, we're rolling out now. Stay with me."

Faint breathing on the other end. Still alive.

Wade looked at Pops. "You ready, old man?"

"I was ready three hours ago," Pops growled. "Now drive, Sheriff."

Wade keyed his radio one more time. "All units. Let's bring our boys home."

The engines roared to life. Headlights cut through the darkness. The convoy pulled out, dust kicking up behind them as they headed east on County Road 47.

Inside the lead truck, Pops stared out the window, his jaw set. "Those sons of bitches better pray we get there before I do."

Wade didn't disagree.

In the back of Tom's truck, Billy Jr. kept his phone pressed to his ear. "Uncle Billy? You still there?"

Nothing but breathing. Shallow. Labored.

"Just hold on," Billy Jr. whispered. "We're coming."

The convoy sped through the Texas night—armed men racing to save two young men hanging upside down in a barn thirty-two miles away.

Behind them, five women watched drone feeds and prayed.

Ahead of them, four kidnappers prepared for a fight.

And somewhere between consciousness and death, Billy and Jake hung on.

Just barely.

Chapter 5: The Rescue

The convoy was fifteen minutes out, headlights cutting through the darkness on County Road 47.

In the bed of Tom's truck, Billy Jr. sat hunched over his iPad, watching the drone feeds. His three friends were doing the same, each monitoring different angles of the Morrison barn.

"Still got four heat signatures inside," Daniel said. "Two hanging, two moving around."

"Wait—" Billy Renzo leaned closer to his screen. "One of them just went outside."

Billy Jr. switched to that drone's feed. The thermal imaging showed a figure emerging from the barn, looking up. Then the figure pulled something from his pocket.

"What's he doing?" Ryan Mattern asked.

The figure stood at the barn entrance. Then Billy Jr. saw it—a small heat bloom. A flame.

"Oh my God," Billy Jr. whispered.

The flame touched the ground. Fire spread instantly, racing across the barn floor in the thermal feed, climbing the walls.

"FIRE!" Billy Jr. screamed into the radio. "FIRE! FIRE! FIRE! THEY'RE BURNING THE BARN!"

Wade's voice crackled back. "Say again?"

"THEY LIT IT! THE BARN'S ON FIRE! UNCLE BILLY AND UNCLE JAKE ARE STILL INSIDE!"

In the lead truck, Wade's foot slammed the accelerator to the floor. "ALL UNITS, FULL SPEED! THEY'RE BURNING THE BARN!"

The convoy roared forward, engines screaming. Tom's truck lurched as Josh pushed it to the limit. In the back, Billy Jr. and his friends grabbed the sides to keep from being thrown out.

"How bad is it?" Tom shouted back.

Billy Jr. stared at his screen. The fire was spreading fast, but not everything was engulfed yet. "We've got maybe five minutes before the whole thing goes up!"

"Then we better get there in four," Tom said grimly.

The speedometer climbed. Eighty. Ninety. The trucks flew down the county road, throwing up dust and gravel.

Billy Jr. kept his eyes on the screen. Through the thermal imaging, he could still see Billy and Jake's heat signatures—hanging motionless in the center of the barn. The fire was spreading toward them.

"Come on, come on," he muttered.

"Movement outside!" Daniel said. "Four figures running toward the pickup truck!"

"They're trying to escape," Billy Jr. said into the radio. "Kidnappers are fleeing the barn!"

"Copy that," Wade's voice came back, cold as ice. "We'll be ready for them."

The barn came into view ahead—orange flames already visible through the walls, black smoke pouring into the night sky.

"Three minutes," Billy Renzo said, watching his screen. "Maybe less before those support beams give out."

Wade's truck skidded to a stop a hundred yards from the barn. Through the headlights, four men were visible, running for the white pickup.

"KIDNAPPERS FLEEING!" Wade shouted. "All units, weapons free! Do NOT let them escape!"

Pops was out of the truck before it fully stopped, shotgun raised.

"YOU SONS OF BITCHES!" he roared.

He fired.

The buckshot caught one of the men square in the back. He went down hard, face-first into the dirt. Didn't move.

Wade and his sons were out next, rifles up. Wilson fired—a clean shot that dropped the second kidnapper near the truck's tailgate.

Tom's truck screeched to a halt behind them. He and Josh jumped out, rifles already shouldered.

"Light the barn?!" Tom snarled. "You light the goddamn barn?!"

He fired. The third kidnapper—Dutch—spun and fell, clutching his chest.

Garrett made it to the driver's door. His hand was on the handle when Pops' second shot caught him in the shoulder. He stumbled, tried to raise his pistol.

Wade's rifle cracked. Garrett dropped.

All four kidnappers lay motionless in the dirt.

"CHECK THEM!" Wade ordered. Wilson and Ryan moved forward, weapons trained, checking pulses.

"All dead, Sheriff," Wilson called back.

But the barn was fully engulfed now. Flames roared through the structure, the heat so intense it could be felt from fifty yards away. Black smoke poured into the night sky.

"BILLY! JAKE!" Tom shouted, starting toward the barn.

Then Billy Jr. was past him, sprinting full speed toward the flames.

"UNCLE BILLY!" he screamed. "UNCLE JAKE!"

Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were right behind him. Celab and Colt followed, all five of them running straight for the burning barn.

"BILLY JUNIOR, STOP!" Josh shouted.

They didn't stop.

"Those damn kids!" Pops roared. He dropped his shotgun and ran after them despite his age.

Tom, Wade, and Robert Beaumont exchanged one look and then sprinted after the boys.

Billy Jr. hit the barn door first. The heat was like a physical wall, but he didn't stop. He plunged into the smoke and flames.

The interior was hell. Flames climbed the walls on all sides. The support beams were burning. Smoke choked the air, thick and black. Billy Jr. couldn't see more than a few feet.

"UNCLE BILLY!" he screamed, coughing. "WHERE ARE YOU?!"

"There!" Daniel pointed through the smoke.

Billy and Jake. Hanging upside down from the center rafter, maybe fifteen feet ahead. Surrounded by flames. The rope holding their boots was starting to smolder.

Billy Jr. ran. His friends followed. The heat was unbearable. His lungs screamed for air but there was only smoke.

Then Pops was beside him, coughing but moving. "I got Jake! You get Billy!"

Tom and Wade appeared through the smoke, Robert right behind them.

"Cut them down!" Tom shouted. "NOW!"

Wade pulled a knife from his belt and reached up toward Jake's boots. The rope was thick, the angle awkward. He sawed at it while Pops and Robert positioned themselves to catch Jake when he fell.

Tom and Billy Jr. went for Billy. Tom boosted Billy Jr. up so he could reach the rope around his uncle's boots.

"I got it!" Billy Jr. said, his knife blade biting into the rope. "Almost—"

The rope snapped.

Billy dropped. Tom caught him, staggering under the weight. Billy was completely limp, unconscious, his face dark red from hanging upside down for hours. His wrists were still bound behind his back, the rope cutting deep into his skin.

"Got him!" Tom gasped. "Let's move!"

Wade's rope snapped a second later. Jake fell into Pops' arms, nearly knocking the old man down. Robert grabbed Jake's legs, and together they held him.

"GO! GO! GO!" Wade shouted.

They turned toward the door. The flames had spread. A support beam cracked and fell, missing Celab by inches. The ceiling was collapsing.

Billy Jr. grabbed his uncle's shoulders while Tom held his legs. They ran, stumbling through flames and smoke. Behind them, Pops and Robert carried Jake, Wade and the other boys clearing debris out of their path.

The barn door was ahead—a rectangle of darkness against the orange flames.

They were ten feet from it when Billy Jr. heard the sound.

A low hiss. Then a roar.

"PROPANE!" Wade screamed. "RUN!"

They burst through the door and into the night air. Billy Jr.'s legs gave out and he fell, still clutching his uncle. Tom dragged them both forward, away from the barn.

Behind them, the propane tanks exploded.

The blast was deafening. A ball of fire erupted from the barn, consuming what was left of the structure. The shockwave knocked everyone flat. Burning debris rained down around them.

Billy Jr. lay on the ground, gasping for air, his uncle's unconscious body beside him. His ears were ringing. Everything hurt.

"Billy?" he croaked. "Uncle Billy?"

Hands pulled him up. His dad. Josh was there, coughing, soot-covered.

"You okay?" Josh asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay. But Uncle Billy—"

Tom was already kneeling beside Billy, knife out. He cut through the rope binding Billy's wrists. The bindings had cut so deep they'd bled through his shirt. When Tom pulled the rope away, Billy's hands were purple, swollen, the circulation completely cut off.

"Jesus," Tom whispered.

A few feet away, Pops was cutting Jake free, his hands shaking. "Come on, boy. Come on."

Jake's wrists looked just as bad. Raw. Bleeding. The rope had dug grooves into his skin.

Sarah appeared, running from the trucks. Rebecca was right behind her, medical bag in hand.

"My babies!" Sarah dropped to her knees beside Jake. "Oh God, look at them—"

"They're alive," Wade said. He had his fingers on Jake's neck, checking his pulse. "Pulse is weak but steady."

Rebecca moved to Billy, checking his airways, his breathing. "He's got smoke inhalation. Possible brain swelling from hanging upside down that long."

Billy's eyes fluttered open. Barely. Unfocused.

"B-Billy Junior?" he whispered.

"I'm here!" Billy Jr. grabbed his uncle's hand. "I'm right here! We got you! You're safe!"

"Jake..."

"Jake's here too. We got you both."

Billy's eyes closed again.

"We need to get them to a hospital," Rebecca said. "Now. Both of them need—"

"No."

It was Billy. His voice was weak but firm. His eyes opened again, clearer this time.

"No hospital," he said.

"Billy, you've been hanging upside down for hours," Rebecca said. "You need—"

"No. Hospital." Billy's hand tightened on Billy Jr.'s. "Home. Just... home."

Jake stirred beside him. "No... hospital..." he echoed, his voice barely audible.

Sarah looked at Rebecca, tears streaming down her face. "Can you treat them at home?"

Rebecca hesitated. Then she looked at her father. Wade nodded slowly.

"I can stabilize them," Rebecca said. "But if they deteriorate—"

"We know," Tom said. He looked at his sons. "You boys want to go home?"

"Home," Billy whispered.

"Damn right," Pops said. He stood up, his face black with soot, his eyes red. "Benson boys don't run crying to hospitals. We take care of our own."

Wade stood. "Alright. Let's get them loaded up. Gently. Keep their heads elevated. They've had enough blood in their brains for one night."

Tom and Josh lifted Billy carefully while Pops and Robert did the same with Jake. They carried them to Tom's truck, laying them in the bed on blankets the women had brought.

Billy Jr. climbed in beside his uncles, still holding Billy's hand. The other wiz kids crowded in around them. Celab and Colt sat at their feet.

"You boys did good," Tom said quietly to Billy Jr. "Real good. That early warning saved their lives."

"We all did it together, Grandpa," Billy Jr. said, his voice shaking.

Sarah climbed into the truck bed too, cradling Jake's head in her lap. Rebecca sat beside Billy, monitoring his breathing.

The convoy reformed. Slower this time. More careful. The burning barn lit up the night behind them as they pulled away.

Inside Wade's truck, Pops stared out the window, his shotgun across his lap.

"Those sons of bitches got what they deserved," he said quietly.

Wade didn't disagree.

Behind them, the Morrison barn collapsed in on itself, flames consuming the last of the structure. By morning, there would be nothing left but ash and four dead kidnappers lying in the dirt.

But Billy and Jake Benson were going home.

Alive.

Chapter 6: Home

Doc Peterson's truck pulled into the ranch yard thirty minutes after the convoy arrived, his medical bag already in hand before he'd fully stopped. He was seventy-four years old, retired from Kings Hospital five years ago, but still kept his license active. And when Pops Benson called, you answered. Especially when Pops called.

They'd served together in Vietnam—1st Cavalry Division, 1968. Pops had saved Doc's life in the Tet Offensive. Doc had returned the favor three months later outside Hue. Fifty-six years later, they still talked twice a week and drank together once a month.

"Where are they?" Doc asked, climbing the porch steps.

"Upstairs," Tom said, meeting him at the door. "Second floor. Rebecca's with them."

Doc took the stairs faster than a man his age should. Behind him, Pops followed with a bottle of Jack Daniels.

"You bring the whole bar, Benson?" Doc asked without turning around.

"Medicinal purposes, Peterson."

"That's what you said in Da Nang right before you got us kicked out of that bar."

"That wasn't the whiskey's fault. That was the Marine's fault for having a big mouth."

"You threw the first punch."

"He insulted the 1st Cav."

"He said we couldn't shoot straight."

"Exactly. An insult."

Doc shook his head, grinning. "Fifty-six years and you're still looking for fights."

"Found one tonight," Pops said, his voice going hard. "Four sons of bitches learned what happens when you mess with Benson boys."

Doc stopped at the top of the stairs and looked at his old friend. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. My grandsons almost weren't. But they are now. Let's keep it that way."

The frat house room was crowded. Billy and Jake lay in their bunk beds—Billy on the bottom left, Jake on the bottom right. Rebecca had already started IVs on both of them, fluids dripping steadily. Their wrists were bandaged, white gauze wrapped around the rope burns. Both were conscious now, but barely—eyes half-open, faces still flushed from hours of hanging upside down.

Sarah sat between the beds, one hand on each of her sons. Josh stood behind her, his face drawn. Tom and Ray filled the doorway.

Doc Peterson set his bag down and went to Billy first. "Let's see what we got here, son."

He checked Billy's pupils with a penlight, his pulse, listened to his lungs with a stethoscope. "Smoke inhalation's not too bad. Lungs sound clear enough. Pulse is coming back strong." He moved to Billy's wrists, gently lifting the bandages. "Rebecca, you do this?"

"Yes sir," Rebecca said.

"Good work. Textbook. You learn that from me or your fancy medical books?"

"Little of both," Rebecca said, smiling slightly.

"She learned it from me," Pops said. "I taught her field medicine when she was twelve."

"You taught her how to make a tourniquet out of a belt," Doc said. "I taught her actual medicine."

"Same thing."

"Not even close."

Doc looked at Billy. "You feel anything in your fingers yet?"

"Tingles," Billy croaked. "Hurts like hell."

"Good. Pain means the nerves are waking up. Means you're not permanently damaged." Doc moved to Jake, repeating the examination. "Same here. You boys are damn lucky. Another hour hanging like that and we'd be talking stroke, brain damage, maybe worse. Much worse."

"They're going to be okay?" Sarah asked, her voice shaking.

"They'll be sore for a week. Wrists will take longer to heal—two, maybe three weeks before they can use their hands normally. But yeah, they'll be fine." Doc looked at Pops. "Now about that Jack Daniels you promised me..."

Pops grinned and poured two shots into plastic medicine cups. Doc handed one to Billy, one to Jake.

"Doctor's orders," Doc said. "For the pain and the nerves. Drink up."

Billy downed his without hesitation. Jake did the same, wincing.

"That's horrible," Jake muttered.

"It's supposed to be," Doc said. "Builds character. Isn't that what you always said in 'Nam, Benson?"

"Still say it," Pops said. He poured two more shots—one for himself, one for Doc. They clinked plastic cups.

"To stupid kids who run into burning buildings," Doc said.

"And to the boys who survive it," Pops added.

They drank together.

"Remember that hooch fire outside Pleiku?" Doc said. "You ran in to save that case of whiskey."

"Wasn't just whiskey," Pops protested. "There were important documents."

"It was whiskey."

"There might have been documents near the whiskey."

"You almost died for bourbon."

"And I'd do it again," Pops said. "Priorities, Peterson."

Rebecca adjusted Jake's IV, shaking her head at the two old men. "You two are impossible."

"We prefer 'experienced,'" Doc said.

"We prefer 'survivors,'" Pops corrected.

Outside, vehicles were arriving. Lots of them. The entire consortium was converging on the ranch—word had spread fast. The Beaumont family pulled up first, followed by the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Sheriff Wade and his family were already there.

By the time the sun fully set, the ranch house was packed. People filled the kitchen, the living room, the porch. Everyone wanted to see Billy and Jake, to hear the story, to celebrate that the boys were alive.

And then Jake's Steak House arrived.

Three delivery trucks pulled up, loaded with food. Brisket, ribs, chicken, sides—enough to feed an army. Jake Martinez himself climbed out of the lead truck.

"Heard you boys had a hell of a day," Jake said, shaking Tom's hand. "This one's on the house. Consortium takes care of its own."

The food was set up buffet-style in the dining room and kitchen. People loaded plates, grabbed drinks, and spread throughout the house. The atmosphere shifted from relief to celebration. Voices rose, laughter echoed. Stories were already being told and retold.

Pops held court on the porch, bottle of Jack Daniels in one hand, glass in the other. Doc Peterson sat beside him in a rocking chair, his own glass never empty. A crowd gathered around them—the consortium fathers, Sheriff Wade, Robert Beaumont.

"Seventy-six goddamn years old," Pops was saying, "and I'm still faster than those sons of bitches. Dutch went down like a sack of flour. Never saw it coming."

"Your first shot missed," Doc pointed out. "I was watching. You were three feet to the left."

"I was establishing a baseline."

"You were drunk."

"Drunk enough to shoot, sober enough to hit," Pops corrected. "Second shot was perfect."

"Because Wade shot him first."

"I softened him up," Pops insisted.

Wade grinned. "You were both shooting. One of us hit him. Does it matter which?"

"It matters," Pops said.

"It doesn't," Doc said. "What matters is he's dead and your boys are alive. That's a win in any war."

Pops raised his glass. "Amen to that."

They drank.

"You remember that ambush near Khe Sanh?" Doc said. "When you were convinced you'd shot three VC but it turned out I'd shot two of them?"

"That never happened."

"It absolutely happened. I counted the bodies."

"You counted wrong."

"I'm a doctor. I don't count wrong."

"You're a drunk. You count wrong all the time."

"Says the man on his fourth glass of Jack."

"Fifth," Pops corrected. "And I'm pacing myself."

Laughter rippled through the group. Mary Nelson shook her head at both of them.

"You two are going to drink yourselves to death," she said.

"We've been trying for fifty-six years," Doc said. "Haven't managed it yet."

"Clearly doing something wrong," Pops added.

Inside, Billy Jr. and his three friends sat at the kitchen table with Celab and Colt, plates piled high with brisket and ribs. They were still filthy—soot-covered, smelling like smoke, but grinning.

"You should've seen Billy Jr.," Daniel was saying to anyone who'd listen. "Didn't even hesitate. Just ran straight into the fire."

"We all did," Billy Jr. said.

"Yeah, but you were first," Ryan Mattern added. "Like, way first. You were ten feet ahead of us."

"I wasn't counting."

"We were," Billy Renzo said. "You went in like a crazy person."

Tom appeared beside the table with Pops and Doc Peterson, who were both carrying bottles—Pops with his Jack Daniels, Doc with a bottle of bourbon he'd pulled from his truck.

"You boys," Pops said, setting down seven shot glasses. "Line 'em up."

Rebecca looked up sharply from across the room. "Dad—"

"They earned it," Pops said firmly. He poured seven shots of Jack. "Billy Junior. Billy Renzo. Ryan. Daniel. Celab. Colt." He looked at each of them. "You boys ran into a burning building to save my grandsons. That takes guts. That takes heart. That takes balls the size of church bells."

"Pops!" Sarah said from the doorway.

"It's true!" Pops said. "Doc, back me up here."

Doc Peterson nodded solemnly. "Medical opinion: these boys have enormous balls."

"Doctor!" Mary said, scandalized.

"It's science," Doc said, completely straight-faced.

Josh stepped forward. "Pops, they're sixteen—"

"They're heroes," Pops interrupted. "And heroes get whiskey. Isn't that right, Doc?"

"That's what we did in Vietnam," Doc agreed. "Any man—or boy—who saves lives gets a drink. It's tradition."

"It's illegal," Rebecca said.

"So were half the things we did in 'Nam," Pops said. "We turned out fine."

"That's debatable," Wade muttered.

Pops ignored him. "Now drink up, boys. One shot. Then you're done. But you've earned this one."

Billy Jr. grabbed his glass. His friends followed. They downed the shots together, faces twisting at the burn.

"Oh God!" Billy Renzo coughed. "That's awful!"

"Welcome to manhood," Doc said.

"It gets better," Pops added. "Or you get used to it. One of those."

Then Pops reached into his jacket and pulled out a wooden box. Cuban cigars. The real deal. Illegal, expensive, and Pops' most prized possession besides his grandsons.

"Oh no," Tom said. "Pops, those are—"

"Special occasions only," Pops said. He opened the box, revealing six perfectly rolled cigars. "And if six boys running into a burning building to save family isn't a special occasion, I don't know what the hell is."

"I'll take one," Doc said immediately.

"You're a doctor!" Mary protested.

"I'm a retired doctor," Doc corrected. "Big difference." He took a cigar from Pops. "Besides, we smoked these in Saigon. What's one more going to hurt?"

Pops handed cigars to the six boys. "Boys, you light 'em like this..." He demonstrated with his lighter, puffing until the end glowed orange. "Don't inhale. Just puff and let the smoke sit in your mouth. Taste it. That's a fifty-dollar cigar right there."

"Seventy-five," Doc corrected. "I know what you paid."

"Sixty," Pops said.

"You told me seventy-five last month."

"I lied to make you jealous."

Soon all six teenagers were puffing on Cuban cigars, trying not to cough, looking simultaneously proud and nauseous. Pops and Doc sat back, grinning, their own cigars lit.

"Remember teaching those South Vietnamese how to smoke?" Doc said.

"Remember? I got them hooked on Cubans. Probably still smoking them."

"Probably why we lost the war," Doc said. "You corrupted them."

"I civilized them," Pops corrected.

"Same thing."

The party went on for hours. Food disappeared. Pops' bottle of Jack Daniels emptied and was replaced. Doc's bourbon bottle made the rounds. Stories were told—the discovery of the kitchen, the drone footage, the phone call, the shootout, the rescue. Each telling got more dramatic, more heroic.

Pops and Doc told their own stories from Vietnam—carefully edited for the younger audience, but still full of danger and close calls. By the end of the night, it was hard to tell where truth ended and legend began.

Billy and Jake were carried downstairs at one point so people could see them, congratulate them, thank God they were alive. Both were still weak, still in pain, but smiling. Sarah never left their sides.

"Thought we were done for," Jake admitted to the crowd. "Hanging there for hours. Couldn't feel our hands. Couldn't breathe right. Blood pounding in our heads. Then we heard Billy Junior's voice on that phone and we knew..."

"We knew you'd come," Billy finished weakly.

"Damn right we came," Pops said, raising his glass. "Bensons don't leave family behind. Isn't that right, Doc?"

"That's right," Doc said. "Nobody left behind. That was the rule in 'Nam. Still is."

By midnight, people started drifting home. The Beaumonts first, then the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Hugs all around. Promises to check in tomorrow. The house slowly emptied until it was just the Bensons—Tom and Sarah, Josh and Rebecca, Ray, Pops, Doc Peterson, and the boys.

"You staying?" Pops asked Doc.

"You got a spare room?"

"I got a couch."

"Good enough," Doc said. "I'm too drunk to drive anyway."

"Lightweight," Pops said.

"I'm three years older than you."

"Excuses."

Billy and Jake were carried back upstairs to the frat house. This time, all the boys followed—Billy Jr., Celab, Colt. They squeezed into the small room, Billy Jr. climbing into his bunk above Billy, Celab into his above Jake. Colt sprawled on his mattress on the floor between the two bunk beds.

The room was dark and quiet. The adrenaline was finally wearing off. Exhaustion settling in like a weight.

"How you feeling?" Billy Jr. asked, leaning over the side of his bunk to look down at his uncle.

"Like I got hit by a truck," Billy said, his voice hoarse. "But alive. Thanks to you."

"We all did it," Billy Jr. said.

"You hit that emergency button," Jake said from his bunk. "You tracked the phone. You saw the fire on the drones. You ran in first. You saved us, Billy Junior."

"We all ran in," Billy Jr. said again.

"Yeah, but you went first," Celab added. "That takes guts."

"Or stupidity," Colt drawled. "Jury's still out, cher."

They lay there in the darkness, too tired to talk much but too wired to sleep just yet.

"Hey," Jake said suddenly. "Anybody else dying of thirst?"

"I could drink a gallon," Billy agreed.

Billy Jr. sat up. "I'll grab some water bottles—"

"Forget water," Colt said. He rolled off his mattress and went to the corner of the room, near the window. He knelt down and pulled up a loose floorboard.

Billy Jr. blinked. "What are you—"

Colt reached into the space under the floor and pulled out a six-pack of beer. Cold. Condensation dripping off the bottles.

"What the hell?" Billy Jr. said.

"You didn't know?" Colt grinned. "Pops keeps it stocked."

"Wait, what?" Celab sat up in his bunk.

Colt pulled out another six-pack. Then another. "There's like four cases under here. Pops fills it up every morning. Been doing it since we moved in."

"Are you serious?" Billy Jr. said.

The door opened. Pops stood there, Doc Peterson beside him, both holding their bottles.

"Found my stash, did you?" Pops said, grinning like the devil.

"Pops!" Billy Jr. said. "You've been—how long have you—"

"Since the day you boys moved in," Pops said. "Figured you'd need it eventually. And tonight seems like a damn good night to crack one open."

"I helped," Doc added. "Bought half those cases."

"You did?"

"Sure did. Boys need to be boys. Especially good boys. They earn some fun."

"Does Dad know?" Billy Jr. asked.

"Does Tom know what?" Tom's voice came from the hallway.

Pops and Doc turned. Tom stood there, Josh and Ray behind him, all three staring at the beer bottles Colt was holding.

"Is that—" Tom started.

"Beer," Josh finished flatly. "Under the floorboards."

"Pops, have you been hiding beer in the frat house?" Ray demanded.

"Hiding's a strong word," Pops said. "I prefer 'strategically placing for future morale purposes.'"

"That's not better," Tom said.

"How long?" Josh asked.

"Fourteen months," Pops said without hesitation.

Tom's jaw dropped. "Fourteen months? You've been stocking beer for sixteen-year-olds for over a year?"

"Seventeen now," Pops corrected. "Well, most of them. Billy Junior will be seventeen in two months. Close enough."

"Close enough?" Ray said. "Pops!"

"And I helped," Doc added cheerfully. "Don't forget that part."

"You're supposed to be a doctor!" Tom said.

"Retired doctor," Doc corrected. "Big difference. And medically speaking, these boys need to relax after today. Beer's good for that."

"That's not medical advice," Josh said.

"Sure it is," Pops said. "Doc prescribed it. Didn't you, Doc?"

"Absolutely," Doc said, nodding seriously. "One to two beers for stress relief and emotional processing. It's in all the medical journals."

"It absolutely is not," Rebecca called from downstairs.

"She doesn't know," Doc called back. "She's too young to have read the old journals!"

Tom looked at his father, then at Doc, then at the boys, then at the beer. His face was torn between anger and exhausted resignation. Finally, he sighed deeply.

"One beer each," Tom said. "That's it."

"Two," Pops countered.

"One."

"They ran into a burning building, Tom."

"While we're being honest," Doc added, "they also charged in before any of us could stop them. That's initiative. Leadership. Courage. All beer-worthy qualities."

Tom hesitated. Then: "Two. But that's it. And this stash is gone tomorrow morning."

"Sure it is," Pops said, winking at the boys.

"I mean it, Pops."

"I believe you mean it," Pops said. "Doesn't mean it's happening."

Tom, Josh, and Ray shook their heads and left, muttering about Pops and Doc and their terrible influence.

Pops and Doc handed out beers—one to each of the boys who could sit up. Billy and Jake got theirs in bed, struggling to open them with bandaged hands. Pops opened the bottles for them.

"You know," Doc said, settling into the desk chair, "in Vietnam, we'd do this after every bad mission. Sit around, drink a beer, decompress. Talk about what happened. Process it."

"Did it help?" Billy Jr. asked.

"Sometimes," Doc said. "Sometimes it just gave us something to do besides think about dying."

"That's cheerful," Celab muttered.

"War's not cheerful," Pops said. "But survival is. And you boys survived something today. Something big. Something most people never face. So you drink a beer, you toast to being alive, and you remember that you did something good. Something heroic."

He raised his bottle of Jack Daniels. "To family. To Bensons and those crazy enough to call themselves Bensons. To boys who become men when it matters most."

"And to boys who run into burning buildings," Doc added, raising his bourbon. "Because they're either very brave or very stupid."

"Both," Pops said. "Always both."

They clinked bottles and glasses together.

Billy took a long drink and sighed. "Best beer I've ever had."

"That's because you're alive to drink it," Doc said. "Everything tastes better when you shouldn't be here to taste it."

"Deep, Doc," Jake said.

"I'm drunk," Doc admitted. "It happens."

"You're always drunk," Pops said.

"Pot. Kettle. Black."

They sat in the darkness, drinking their beers, the two old men telling quiet stories about close calls and stupid decisions and the friends they'd lost. The boys listened, realizing that Pops and Doc had been through their own version of today fifty-six years ago. And they'd survived. And they'd kept surviving.

One by one, the beers emptied. Billy and Jake were asleep first, their bodies finally surrendering to exhaustion and medication. Colt followed, sprawled on his mattress. Then Celab, then Billy Jr., still clutching his empty bottle.

Pops and Doc stood quietly and left the room, closing the door behind them.

In the hallway, Doc looked at his old friend. "Hell of a day."

"Hell of a day," Pops agreed.

"Your boys are okay."

"Thanks to other boys who had the guts to save them."

Doc nodded. "Billy Junior's got your crazy, you know. That running-into-danger thing. That's all you."

"I know," Pops said. "Scares the hell out of me."

"But you're proud."

"Damn right I'm proud." Pops took a drink from his bottle. "He's got heart. They all do. That's what matters."

They walked downstairs together. Tom was waiting in the living room.

"They asleep?" Tom asked.

"Like the dead," Doc said. "Which, thank God, they're not."

"Amen to that," Tom said. He looked at his father. "Fourteen months, Pops? Really?"

"Really," Pops said unapologetically.

"And you're not going to stop."

"Nope."

Tom sighed. "At least tell me next time."

"Where's the fun in that?"

Doc laughed and headed for the couch. "I'm crashing here. Wake me if anyone dies."

"Reassuring," Tom said.

"I'm a doctor. It's my job."

Pops headed to his bedroom, still carrying his bottle. At the door, he turned back to Tom.

"Those boys did good today," Pops said. "All of them. Billy, Jake, Billy Junior, the whole crew. You raised them right, Tom. Your dad would be proud."

Tom's throat tightened. "Thanks, Pops."

"Now go to bed. Tomorrow we deal with the sheriff's report and the cleanup. Tonight, we sleep knowing everyone's home."

Pops closed his bedroom door.

Tom stood alone in the hallway for a moment, listening to the quiet house. Upstairs, his sons—all of them—were safe. Alive. Sleeping in their bunks.

He climbed the stairs one more time, opened the frat house door quietly, and looked inside. Five boys crammed into a room meant for four. Billy and Jake in their bunks, bandaged and breathing steadily. Billy Jr., Celab, and Colt sprawled in their spots. Empty beer bottles on the floor.

Tom smiled despite himself.

Benson boys.

All of them.

He closed the door and went to bed.

THE END

Junior saves the day!

 

Billy Benson Junior strained against the ropes binding him to the chair, sweat saturating his shirt and the coarse fibers burning his arms. He watched helplessly as his Uncles Billy and Jake, strung up before him, were beaten and gut-punched until they sagged lifelessly in their restraints. When the captors turned the camera toward him, his face revealed only anger and determination. The consortium knew that Junior was already planning how to save his uncles from further torture.

Chapter 1: The Trap

The door to the frat house burst open with a bang that rattled the windows.

"Get your lazy asses out of those bunks!" Pops bellowed, his gravelly voice cutting through the pre-dawn darkness. "Sun's burning daylight and you bastards are still snoring like a bunch of goddamn hogs!"

Billy groaned from the top bunk, throwing an arm over his eyes. "Pops, the sun ain't even up yet."

"Then you're already behind!" Pops flicked on the overhead light, flooding the cramped room with harsh fluorescence.

Jake sat up in the bunk below Billy, squinting and grinning. "Morning, Pops. Sleep well?"

"Better than you will tonight if you don't get moving." Pops moved through the room like a drill sergeant, nudging Celab's bunk with his boot. "Up, Beaumont. You too, Louisiana." He kicked the mattress on the floor where Celab's cousin sprawled. "And Junior, I know you're awake. Stop playing possum."

From the other top bunk, Billy Jr. swung his legs over the side, already half-dressed. At sixteen, he'd learned that the fastest way through Pops' wake-up calls was cooperation. "I'm up, Pops."

"That's my boy." Pops surveyed his troops with satisfaction, then his eyes drifted to the corner of the room. He shuffled over to the loose floorboard near Jake's bunk and knelt down with a grunt. "You boys are running low on provisions."

Billy's head popped over the edge of his bunk. "Pops, you don't have to—"

"Shut it." Pops pulled up the board and retrieved two empty Lone Star bottles. From his jacket pocket, he produced four fresh ones, cold and sweating. He tucked them carefully into the hiding spot and replaced the board. "Your grandmother would skin me alive if she knew, so keep your damn mouths shut."

"Yes, sir," they chorused, grinning.

Pops stood, knees popping. "Now get dressed and get to breakfast. Your mama's making biscuits and gravy, and if you're late, Ray's gonna eat your share." He paused at the door. "And Junior?"

"Yeah, Pops?"

"Wear your good boots. Josh has you boys moving supplies today, and I don't want you bitching about blisters."

The door slammed behind him.

Celab's cousin sat up on his mattress, hair sticking up in every direction. "Does he wake y'all up like that every morning?"

"Pretty much," Billy said, dropping from the top bunk in one smooth motion. "You get used to it."

"I kind of like it," Jake admitted, pulling on his jeans. "Beats an alarm clock."

Junior was already lacing up his boots. "Come on, before Ray eats everything."

---

The kitchen was chaos in the best possible way.

Sarah Benson moved between the stove and the counter with practiced efficiency, pulling fresh biscuits from the oven while Tom poured coffee for the early risers. Ray and Josh were already seated, plates half-empty, discussing feed prices and market projections. Rebecca was packing Josh's lunch, occasionally swatting at Billy Jr. when he tried to steal bacon from the serving platter.

"Morning, Mama," Billy said, kissing Sarah's cheek before grabbing a plate.

"Morning, baby. There's gravy on the stove."

The frat house crew filled in around the long table, passing platters and bowls in a well-rehearsed dance. Pops settled into his chair at the head, brandy-laced coffee in hand, and surveyed his kingdom with satisfaction.

"Alright," Josh said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. "Ray and I are meeting with the Matterns about that cattle contract. Dad, you and Rebecca are handling the feed delivery to the north pasture."

Tom nodded. "Got it."

"Billy, Jake, Junior—I need you three to move supplies out to the south line shack. We've got fencing materials, tools, and about two dozen salt licks that need to get out there before the weekend crew starts repairs."

"How much are we hauling?" Jake asked.

"Enough to fill the flatbed. Celab, you and your cousin are with Ray and me."

Celab looked disappointed. "Aw, I wanted to go with Billy and Jake."

"Next time," Josh said. "I need the extra hands for the contract meeting."

Billy Jr. was already calculating logistics in his head. "We taking the Chevy or the Ford?"

"Ford. It's got the better suspension for the back roads."

"When do we leave?" Billy asked.

"Thirty minutes. Load up, head out, get it done." Josh stood, grabbing his hat from the peg. "Should take you most of the morning. Radio in when you're heading back."

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

Pops pointed his fork at Junior. "You got your sat phone?"

Junior patted his pocket. "Always."

"Good. Keep it on. And don't let these two idiots get you killed."

"Hey!" Billy and Jake protested together.

Sarah swatted Pops with a dish towel. "Don't say things like that."

"I'm just being realistic, woman."

The table erupted in laughter.

---

Twenty minutes later, Billy, Jake, and Junior were loading the last of the salt licks onto the Ford's flatbed. The morning sun was just cresting the horizon, painting the ranch in shades of gold and amber. Junior secured the load with ratchet straps while Billy and Jake double-checked the tool boxes.

"Think we'll be done by lunch?" Jake asked.

"If we don't screw around," Billy said. "But we're definitely screwing around."

Junior grinned. "Race you to the shack?"

"You're on."

They climbed into the cab—Billy driving, Jake riding shotgun, Junior squeezed in the middle—and pulled out of the ranch yard. The radio crackled with morning check-ins from the other consortium families. Wilson Nelson reported clear conditions on the east side. The Renzos confirmed their crew was moving cattle to fresh pasture.

"Normal day," Billy said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.

"Best kind of day," Jake agreed.

They drove south, leaving the main ranch buildings behind, following the dirt road that cut through open pasture and mesquite groves. The south line shack was a forty-minute drive, located near the boundary between Benson land and the Rodriguez property.

Junior had his window down, one arm hanging out, enjoying the cool morning air. He noticed the tracks first.

"Hey, you see that?"

"See what?" Billy glanced over.

"Tire tracks. Fresh ones. Crossing our road up ahead."

Jake leaned forward. "Could be the Rodriguez crew. They've been doing fence work too."

"Maybe." But something in Junior's gut told him otherwise.

They rounded a bend, and Billy hit the brakes.

Two trucks were parked across the road, blocking their path. Four men stood in front of the vehicles, arms crossed, faces hidden behind bandanas and ball caps.

"What the hell?" Jake muttered.

Billy threw the Ford into reverse, but before he could accelerate, another truck roared up behind them, boxing them in. Two more men jumped out.

"Out of the truck! Now!" one of them shouted, raising a shotgun.

Billy's hand moved toward the sat phone in the center console, but a man appeared at his window, gun barrel pressed against the glass.

"Don't even think about it, boy. Out. All three of you."

Junior's heart hammered in his chest. His hand went to his own sat phone in his pocket, fingers fumbling for the emergency button. He managed to press it twice before the door was yanked open and rough hands dragged him out.

"Phones! Give me your phones!"

They were shoved to the ground, hands bound behind their backs with rough rope that bit into their wrists. Junior watched helplessly as one of the kidnappers smashed their sat phones under his boot heel. The emergency signal had gone out—he was sure of it—but would it be enough?

Billy struggled, earning a rifle butt to the ribs. Jake cursed, thrashing until someone kicked his legs out from under him. Junior went still, forcing himself to think, to observe, to remember everything.

"Gag them," the leader ordered. "I don't want to hear a goddamn word out of any of them."

Dirty bandanas were shoved into their mouths and tied tight. Junior gagged on the taste of oil and dust, forcing himself to breathe through his nose.

"Load them up," the leader said. "We're on a clock."

They were thrown into the back of one of the trucks, a tarp pulled over the bed. The engine roared to life, and they were moving, bouncing over rough terrain, heading away from the ranch.

Away from help.

In the darkness, Junior felt Jake shift beside him, heard his muffled grunt through the gag. Billy was on the other side, his breathing harsh and labored from the hit to his ribs.

Junior closed his eyes and focused. The emergency button. He'd pressed it. Twice.

The command center would light up. Colt and the wiz kids would see it. They'd know something was wrong.

They just had to stay alive until help came.

The truck hit a pothole, bouncing them hard against the bed. Junior's shoulder slammed into the wheel well, and he bit down on the gag to keep from crying out.

Stay alive.

He could do that.

He had to.

Chapter 2: First Contact

The truck lurched to a stop, and Junior heard the tailgate slam open. Rough hands grabbed his ankles and dragged him out. He hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from his lungs. Through watering eyes, he caught glimpses of his surroundings: weathered wood siding, rusted metal roofing, overgrown weeds choking a gravel lot. An abandoned feed warehouse, maybe. Remote. Isolated.

Perfect for what these bastards had planned.

Billy and Jake were hauled out next, both struggling despite their bound hands and the gags still choking them. One of the kidnappers—a stocky man with a scar running down his left cheek—punched Jake in the kidney. Jake's muffled grunt was barely audible through the bandana. His knees buckled.

"Move!" Scar-face barked.

They were shoved through a side door into the dim interior of the warehouse. The air was thick with dust and the smell of old grain and motor oil. A single work light hung from a crossbeam, casting harsh shadows across the concrete floor.

Junior's stomach dropped when he saw what waited for them.

Two ropes hung from an overhead beam, about six feet apart. A heavy wooden chair sat between them, bolted to the floor.

"String 'em up," ordered a tall man with a snake tattoo crawling up his neck. He seemed to be in charge. "The big one and the hothead."

Four men moved with practiced efficiency. They cut the ropes binding Billy's and Jake's wrists, only to immediately retie them. Billy's right wrist was lashed to Jake's left wrist, binding the brothers together. Then their free arms were raised and tied to the overhead ropes, stretching them up on their toes, forcing them to support each other's weight or hang painfully from their shoulders.

Within minutes, both men were strung up, already sweating from the strain, gags still firmly in place.

Junior was shoved into the chair. His legs were tied to the chair legs, ankles wrapped tight with coarse rope. His arms were wrenched behind the chair back and bound at the wrists and elbows. Someone added another rope across his chest, pinning him firmly to the seat. He tested the bonds. Solid. For now.

His gag remained tight across his mouth.

Snake Tattoo stepped forward, pulling down his bandana to reveal a weathered face with cold, calculating eyes. Maybe mid-forties. A man who'd done this sort of thing before.

"Name's Vance," he said casually, as if introducing himself at a barbecue. "Don't matter if you know it. You ain't gonna be talking to nobody who can do anything about it." He gestured to his crew. "That's Derek." Scar-face nodded. "Emmett, Luis, and the twins—Carson and Cole. We're gonna be spending some quality time together."

Billy's muffled protest came from behind his gag. His eyes blazed with fury.

Vance smiled and drove his fist into Jake's stomach. The sound was sickening—a meaty thud followed by Jake's choked, muffled gasp. His knees buckled, and Billy staggered sideways as Jake's dead weight pulled on their bound wrists. Billy strained to keep them both upright, the cords in his neck standing out, sweat already pouring down his face.

"Real touching," Vance said. "Now, let me explain how this works. Your families—the Bensons, the Nelsons, all those rich consortium bastards—they're gonna pay us two million dollars. Cash. Unmarked bills. They got forty-eight hours."

Billy thrashed against his ropes, trying to shout through the gag. It came out as an incoherent, muffled roar.

Vance drove another fist into Billy's gut. Billy doubled over as much as the ropes allowed, coughing and wheezing behind the gag. Sweat was already soaking through both brothers' shirts.

Junior watched, his jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached around the fabric in his mouth. He memorized every face. Every voice. Every detail.

"They will pay," Vance continued, "because we're gonna send them a little video. Show them we mean business." He nodded to Luis, who set up a camera on a tripod facing the three captives. "Lights, camera, action."

The camera's red recording light blinked on.

Vance stepped into frame, addressing the camera directly. "Benson family. Nelson family. All you consortium sons of bitches listening. We got three of yours. You want 'em back in one piece, you deliver two million dollars to the location we'll send you. Forty-eight hours. If we see cops, if we see drones, if we see anything we don't like—these boys die. Understand?"

He turned to Derek. "Show them we're serious."

Derek grinned and approached Billy and Jake. He drove his fist into Billy's gut—once, twice, three times. Billy's body jerked with each impact, sweat flying, muffled grunts escaping through the gag. Jake tried to twist away, but Derek caught him next, pounding his stomach until Jake's face went red and he gagged against the bandana, fighting not to vomit.

Their bodies trembled, supporting each other's weight, arms shaking from the strain and the beating.

Vance walked over to Junior. He reached down and yanked the gag from Junior's mouth.

Junior gasped for air, then immediately shouted, "You cowards! You—"

Vance slapped him hard across the face. The crack echoed through the warehouse. Junior's head snapped sideways, his cheek burning, but he turned back immediately, glaring pure hatred at Vance.

"You got something to say, kid?"

Junior stared into the camera. Not pleading. Not crying. His face was a mask of controlled rage and iron determination. Let them see it. Let Pops see it. Let the wiz kids see it. Let everyone know: Junior wasn't broken. He was planning.

Vance laughed and slapped him again, harder. Junior's vision blurred, but he kept his eyes locked on that camera lens.

"Forty-eight hours," Vance said to the camera. "Or the next video shows bodies."

He shoved the gag back into Junior's mouth and tied it tight.

Luis hit the stop button. The red light went dark.

"Get that uploaded and sent," Vance ordered. "Encrypted channel, just like we planned. Make sure it hits all their fancy sat phones."

The kidnappers moved toward the door, their boots echoing on the concrete. Carson—or was it Cole?—stayed behind, leaning against the wall with a rifle across his lap. Guard duty.

Billy and Jake hung in their ropes, chests heaving behind their gags, sweat dripping onto the floor. The strain of supporting each other's weight was already showing in their trembling arms and legs. Their eyes met Junior's—exhausted but defiant.

Junior tested the ropes behind his back again, feeling for any give, any slack. Nothing yet. But he'd find it. He had to.

The guard lit a cigarette, bored, scrolling through his phone with one hand.

Junior closed his eyes and thought about the emergency button. Two presses. Clear signal.

Right now, somewhere out there, Colt was at the command center. The wiz kids were firing up the drones. Pops was loading his guns. Wade was coordinating search patterns.

They were coming.

But Junior couldn't wait for them. Billy and Jake couldn't wait. They couldn't even call out for help, couldn't speak, could barely breathe with those gags choking them.

He opened his eyes and stared at the overhead beam, at the ropes, at the door, at the guard.

Forty-eight hours.

He'd be free in twelve.

Chapter 3: Command Center Activated

Colt was already at the command center when the alarm screamed to life.

He'd been tinkering with the new satellite relay system, running diagnostics on the drone fleet, when every screen in the room flashed red. The emergency protocol—the one they'd built but never thought they'd actually need—erupted across all eighteen monitors.

EMERGENCY SIGNAL DETECTED
CALLER: BILLY BENSON JR.
LOCATION: SOUTH SECTOR - COORDINATES TRANSMITTING
STATUS: ACTIVE DISTRESS

"Holy shit," Colt breathed, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. He activated the consortium-wide alert, then grabbed his sat phone. "Command center to all units. We have an emergency signal from Junior. South sector. I'm initiating search protocols now."

His phone lit up with responses almost immediately.

Billy Renzo: "Got it. Fifteen minutes out."

Ryan Mattern: "On our way. Grabbing Daniel."

The Benson family would be closer—probably already moving toward the command center. But the other wiz kids were scattered across their family ranches. Colt was on his own for now.

He forced himself to focus, to use the training they'd drilled a hundred times. Pull up Junior's GPS coordinates. Check signal strength—weak, then gone. Sat phone destroyed. Launch preliminary drone protocols. Get the thermal imaging systems warming up. Send encrypted alerts across the entire consortium network.

His hands were shaking.

"Come on, come on," he muttered, pulling up maps, flagging search zones, trying to think like Junior would. Where would kidnappers take them? Somewhere remote. Abandoned. Off the main roads.

The minutes crawled by. Five. Ten. Twelve.

Footsteps thundered in the hallway. Tom and Sarah Benson burst through the door, followed by Josh and Rebecca. Ray was right behind them.

"What happened?" Tom demanded.

"Junior's emergency signal." Colt didn't look away from the screens. "0847 hours. Two presses. South sector, then nothing. I've got the coordinates here, but the signal's dead now."

Sarah's hand flew to her mouth. "Billy and Jake were with him."

"I know, ma'am. I'm getting the drones ready. The other guys are on their way."

Josh moved to the monitors, his face pale. "Show me the exact location."

Colt pulled it up. "Here. South access road. About three miles from the Rodriguez property line."

"That's where we sent them," Josh said quietly. "Moving supplies to the south line shack."

The quad engine roared outside, then cut off. Boots pounded across the gravel.

The door burst open. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez piled in, still in their work clothes, breathing hard from the ride.

"What've we got?" Billy Renzo demanded, sliding into the seat next to Colt.

"Junior hit the panic button twice." Colt pulled up the GPS coordinates again. "Here. About fifty-five minutes ago now. Signal went dead after that—sat phones smashed, probably."

"Billy and Jake were with him," Daniel said, pulling up the consortium work assignments on another monitor. "Moving supplies to the south line shack."

Ryan was already launching the first drone. "Getting eyes in the air. Thermal imaging active."

The encrypted sat phones across Kings County continued buzzing. Within minutes, more consortium families started arriving—Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes, Beaumonts, all demanding answers, all wanting to help.

Then Pops walked in, followed by Sheriff Wade Nelson.

The room fell silent.

Pops moved to the center monitor, his face carved from stone, eyes harder than Colt had ever seen them. Wade stood beside him, already in sheriff mode—calm, focused, dangerous.

"Show me," Pops said quietly.

Colt's hands trembled as he pulled up the tracking data. "Junior's emergency signal came through at 0847 hours. Two button presses. Clear distress call. Then nothing. We've got their last known coordinates here." He highlighted the map. "South access road, about three miles from the Rodriguez property line."

"Any drone footage yet?" Wade asked.

"First drone's approaching now," Ryan said. "Should have visual in ninety seconds."

Sarah Benson's voice cracked. "Where are my boys?"

Before anyone could answer, every sat phone in the room buzzed simultaneously.

ENCRYPTED MESSAGE RECEIVED
SOURCE: UNKNOWN
ATTACHMENT: VIDEO FILE

Wade grabbed his phone. "Everyone hold. Don't open it yet." He looked at Pops. "Could be malware. Could be a trap."

Colt was already running security protocols. "Give me ten seconds... okay, it's clean. But it's heavily encrypted. Whoever sent this knows what they're doing."

"Open it," Pops said.

The video filled the main monitor.

What followed was two minutes and seventeen seconds of hell.

Billy and Jake, strung up by their wrists, their arms tied together, sweat pouring down their faces as a man with a snake tattoo explained the ransom demands. Two million dollars. Forty-eight hours. Then the beating started—gut punches that made both brothers' bodies jerk and convulse, their muffled cries barely audible through the gags choking them.

Sarah Benson sobbed. Rebecca turned away, her hand over her mouth.

Then the camera panned to Junior. Tied to a chair, gag ripped from his mouth, face twisted with rage as he shouted defiance before being slapped twice. Hard. His cheek blooming red. But his eyes—his eyes never left the camera. Never broke. Never begged.

The video ended with Vance's threat: "Forty-eight hours. Or the next video shows bodies."

The command center erupted in chaos. Voices shouting over each other. Sarah crying. Tom trying to hold his wife. Josh's face was white with fury.

Then Pops spoke.

"Everybody shut the hell up!"

Silence.

Pops stood in front of the monitor, staring at the frozen image of Junior's defiant face. When he spoke, his voice was low and deadly, every word laced with fury.

"Listen to me, you goddamn bastards. I don't know who the hell you are, but you just made the biggest fucking mistake of your miserable lives. You took my great-grandson. You took my boys. And you think—you think—we're gonna sit here and wait forty-eight hours while you beat them like dogs?"

He turned to face the room, his weathered face twisted with rage.

"Like hell we are. Those sons of bitches want a war? We'll give 'em a goddamn war. Wade, you're running point. I want every inch of Kings County searched. I want those drones in the air until we find them. And when we do..." He looked back at the screen. "When we do, those bastards are gonna wish they'd never heard the name Benson."

Wade stepped forward, already coordinating. "Alright, listen up. We're going to find them, but we're going to do this smart. These kidnappers are organized. They've got a plan. So we need a better one."

He moved to the map. "Colt, Ryan—I want every drone we've got searching a twenty-mile radius from that last known position. Thermal imaging, pattern recognition, everything. They're in a building somewhere—abandoned structure, old barn, warehouse. Find it."

"Yes, sir," they said in unison, fingers already moving across keyboards.

"Tom, Josh, Ray—start calling in every consortium family. I want eyes on every road, every property line, every piece of land within fifty miles. If a truck moves, I want to know about it."

He turned to the Mattern and Rodriguez fathers. "I need you coordinating with your crews. Set up checkpoints on every major route out of the county. Nobody moves without us knowing."

"What about the ransom?" Tom asked. "They want two million—"

"We're not paying shit," Pops snarled. "Not until we know exactly where they are."

Wade nodded. "Agreed. But we'll act like we're cooperating. I'm going undercover—gonna make contact, pretend we're working on gathering the money. Buy us time, maybe get a location."

"Undercover?" Rebecca looked worried. "Wade, if they recognize you—"

"They won't." Wade's jaw was set. "I'll go in as an intermediary. Someone from the consortium. Not the sheriff. Just a rancher trying to save his family."

Pops pointed at him. "You wear a wire. You stay in contact every goddamn second."

"Agreed."

Sarah wiped her eyes, her voice steadier now. "What about Junior? And Billy and Jake—how long can they...?"

She couldn't finish.

Wade's expression softened slightly. "Junior's smart. He got that distress signal out, and you saw his face in that video. He's not broken. He's planning. And Billy and Jake are tough—they'll hold on."

"Damn right they will," Pops said. "Because they know we're coming."

Colt pulled up the drone feed. "Sheriff, we've got the first thermal sweep complete. Negative on the immediate search area, but we've got six potential structures flagged within the extended radius. Old Williams feed depot, abandoned Rodriguez line shack, the old Krenshaw place—"

"Send me the list," Wade said. "We'll check each one systematically. Quiet. No sirens, no obvious search parties. Just recon for now."

"How long?" Josh asked.

"Hours, not days," Wade said firmly. "We'll find them."

Billy Renzo looked up from his monitor. "Second drone launched. Third one's ready to go."

Daniel was typing furiously. "I'm running an analysis on the video—background sounds, any visual clues. Maybe we can narrow down the location."

"Good," Wade said. "Colt, I want you coordinating all drone feeds. Billy, Ryan, Daniel—you three are on tech support. Anything we need, you make it happen."

"Yes, sir."

Pops moved to the monitor showing the frozen image of Junior's face. He stared at it for a long moment, then placed his hand flat against the screen.

"Hold on, boy," he said quietly. "We're coming. Just hold on."

Behind him, the command center hummed with activity. Drones launching. Coordinates being plotted. The consortium mobilizing.

The hunt had begun.

Chapter 4: Captive

Time moved differently in the warehouse.

Junior had no watch, no phone, no way to track the hours except by the shifting light that filtered through the grimy windows near the ceiling. The sun had been directly overhead when they'd made the video. Now it slanted from the west, painting long shadows across the concrete floor.

Four hours? Five? He couldn't be sure.

Billy and Jake still hung from the overhead beam, their bodies trembling with exhaustion. Sweat had soaked through their shirts, darkening the fabric, dripping steadily onto the floor beneath them. Their arms, bound together at the wrists and stretched overhead to the ropes, had gone from shaking to a constant, fine tremor. Their legs could barely support their weight anymore.

Junior watched them, his chest tight with helpless rage. Every few minutes, one of them would sag, and the other would grunt behind his gag, straining to take more of the weight. They were keeping each other alive, but they couldn't last much longer like this.

The guard—Carson, Junior thought, though the twins were hard to tell apart—sat on an overturned crate near the door, rifle propped against his leg. He'd been scrolling through his phone for the past hour, occasionally glancing up to check his prisoners, but mostly bored.

Junior had been watching him. Watching all of them.

Six kidnappers total. Vance, the leader with the snake tattoo. Derek with the scar. Emmett, Luis, and the twins Carson and Cole. They rotated guard duty every few hours. Two men would leave, two would stay. Right now it was just Carson, which meant they were getting comfortable. Confident.

That was good. Confident men made mistakes.

Junior tested the ropes around his wrists again, flexing against them, feeling for any give. Still tight. But the chair itself—that was different. When Carson wasn't looking, Junior had been rocking slightly, putting pressure on the legs, the joints, the bolts that held it to the floor.

The wood was old. The bolts were rusted. There was a crack developing in the left rear leg, just above where it met the seat. Junior had been working it, carefully, incrementally, every time the guard looked away.

If he hit it right—slammed his weight backward hard enough—the leg would snap. The bolts would tear free. He'd go over backward, hit the concrete hard, but the chair would break. Then it was just a matter of getting the ropes off and freeing Billy and Jake before the kidnappers could react.

The door opened, and Vance walked in with Luis behind him. Carson looked up from his phone.

"Anything?" Vance asked.

"Quiet as church mice," Carson said, nodding toward the prisoners.

Vance walked over to Billy and Jake. He studied them for a long moment, then reached up and yanked the gag down from Jake's mouth.

Jake gasped for air, coughing, his voice hoarse. "Go... to hell..."

Vance smiled. "Still got some fight in you. Good. We might need to make another video soon. Show your family we're serious." He looked at Billy. "What about you, big man? You got anything to say?"

He pulled Billy's gag down.

Billy sucked in air, his face red, veins standing out in his neck. "When... my family... finds you..." He couldn't finish, too exhausted.

"If they find us," Vance corrected. He shoved the gags back into place, tying them tight. "Which they won't. We've been planning this for months. Every detail. Every contingency." He turned to look at Junior. "Even the kid's little emergency button. You think we didn't expect that? We're twenty miles from where you got grabbed, in a building that doesn't exist on any current maps. By the time they search this far out, we'll have our money and be gone."

Junior stared at him, memorizing every word, every detail. Twenty miles. Abandoned building. Off the maps. The wiz kids would find it eventually—but Vance was right. It would take time.

Time Billy and Jake didn't have.

Vance crouched down in front of Junior's chair. "You're the smart one, aren't you? The tech wizard. Built all those fancy systems with your little friends." He tapped Junior's forehead. "I can see you thinking. Planning. Figuring out how to be the hero."

Junior didn't move, didn't blink.

"Here's the thing, kid. There's no hero move here. No last-minute escape. No cavalry coming to save the day. In about thirty-six hours, your family's gonna pay us two million dollars, and we're gonna disappear. And if they don't..." He stood, looking back at Billy and Jake. "Well. You saw what happens in the next video."

He walked toward the door, Luis and Carson following. "Cole's on next shift. Nobody goes near them until I say so."

The door slammed shut.

Silence filled the warehouse, broken only by Billy's and Jake's labored breathing behind their gags.

Junior counted to sixty. Then another sixty. Making sure they were alone.

Then he tested the chair again. Rock forward. Rock back. Put pressure on that cracked leg. Feel it give, just slightly.

Billy's eyes found his across the warehouse floor. Even exhausted, even in pain, there was something in his uncle's gaze. Trust. Belief.

Junior nodded slowly. Just once.

I'm getting us out.

Billy closed his eyes and nodded back.

Junior settled into the chair and waited. Watched the shadows lengthen. Listened for the next guard change. Counted the seconds and minutes and hours.

Outside, somewhere far away, he heard it. A faint mechanical hum. There and gone so quickly he almost thought he'd imagined it.

A drone.

They were looking. They were searching.

But Junior couldn't wait.

He closed his eyes and visualized it. The exact motion. The exact angle. How hard to throw his weight backward. Where to hit the concrete to maximize the chair's breaking without knocking himself unconscious.

One chance. Maybe two if he was lucky.

He opened his eyes and stared at the door, at the windows, at Billy and Jake hanging in their ropes.

Soon.

Very soon.

Chapter 5: Convergence

"Got something!" Ryan's voice cut through the command center chatter. "Thermal signatures. Multiple bodies. Twenty-two miles south-southwest."

Colt was at his shoulder in an instant, eyes locked on the drone feed. "How many?"

"Nine heat signatures. Building structure matches—old warehouse, corrugated metal roof, concrete foundation." Ryan's fingers flew across the keyboard, enhancing the image. "Six in the main room, three together... wait." He zoomed in. "Two of them are elevated. Hanging position. Third one's stationary, seated."

"That's them," Billy Renzo breathed. "That's gotta be them."

Daniel pulled up the property records. "Old Krenshaw feed depot. Been abandoned for eight years. Off the main roads, no power, no water. Perfect spot."

Colt grabbed the radio. "All units, we have confirmed location. Repeat, confirmed location. Old Krenshaw depot, coordinates transmitting now."

The command center exploded into motion.

Pops was already grabbing his rifle. "Load up! Now!"

Wade yanked off his sheriff's badge and tossed it on the desk. "I'm going as family. Not law enforcement."

Tom was pulling keys from the pegboard. "Three trucks. Spread out, approach from different angles."

"I'm going with you," Sarah said, but Josh caught her arm.

"Mama, no. We need you here."

"The hell you do—"

"Sarah." Pops' voice was quiet but firm. "Billy and Jake are gonna need medical when we get them out. You and Rebecca stay here, get the clinic ready."

Sarah's jaw worked, but she nodded. "You bring my boys home."

"Yes, ma'am."

Billy Renzo was already packing equipment into a tactical bag. "We're coming too. Ryan, Daniel, grab the portable setup. We'll coordinate from my truck."

"Mobile command center," Colt confirmed, unplugging laptops and tablet arrays. "We can track the drones and coordinate intercept points from the road."

Within four minutes, the convoy was rolling out. Three trucks from the Benson ranch, two more from the Matterns, one from the Rodriguezes. Pops and Wade in the lead vehicle. Billy Renzo's truck in the middle, packed with the wiz kids and their equipment, tablets mounted to the dashboard, satellite uplink active.

"Drone Two, maintain overwatch," Colt transmitted from the passenger seat. "Drone Three, swing wide, cover the north approach."

"Roger that," Ryan confirmed from the back seat, managing the feeds on three tablets simultaneously.

The trucks ate up the miles, dust plumes rising behind them. The radio crackled with terse updates.

"Renzo team, two minutes out from Position Alpha."

"Mattern team in position, southwest quadrant."

"Rodriguez team, we've got eyes on the building."

In Billy Renzo's truck, Daniel suddenly tensed. "Wait. Movement on Drone Two feed. Someone's outside the warehouse. Looking up."

"Shit," Colt muttered, zooming the image. "They spotted the drones."

---

Inside the warehouse, Emmett burst through the door, his face pale. "We got company! Drones! Multiple drones circling!"

Vance's head snapped up. "What?"

"They found us!" Emmett pointed at the ceiling. "I saw them through the window. Three, maybe four drones, thermal imaging rigs. They know we're here!"

"Son of a bitch!" Vance grabbed his rifle. "Derek, Luis—get the trucks started! Carson, Cole—grab everything! We're leaving! Now!"

"What about them?" Carson gestured to the captives.

"Forget them! They'll slow us down!" Vance was already heading for the door. "Move! Move!"

The warehouse erupted into chaos. Boots pounding. Doors slamming. Engines roaring to life outside.

Junior's heart hammered as he watched them go. The guard who'd been watching them—Cole—took one last look at the three captives, then bolted after the others.

The side door slammed shut.

Then... silence.

Junior counted to ten. Twenty. Thirty.

They were gone. The kidnappers had actually left them behind.

This was his chance. Maybe his only chance.

He took a breath, then threw his weight backward with everything he had.

The chair slammed into the concrete. The crack was like a gunshot—the left rear leg snapping clean off, the rusted bolts tearing free from the floor. The impact drove the air from Junior's lungs, stars exploding across his vision, but the chair was broken, the back splintered, the ropes suddenly loose.

Junior wrenched his arms free, ignoring the rope burns, rolling away from the shattered chair. His hands were shaking, adrenaline flooding through him. He scrambled to his feet and ran toward Billy and Jake.

Billy's eyes were wide above the gag, watching Junior sprint toward them. Jake was barely conscious, his head hanging forward.

Junior reached the overhead beam, jumped, grabbed the rope tied to Billy's wrist. His fingers fumbled with the knots—tight, wet with sweat, but he'd watched the kidnappers tie them. He knew how they worked.

"Hold on," Junior gasped, working the knot. "Hold on, I got you."

The rope came free. Billy collapsed, and Junior caught him, both of them crashing to the floor. Billy groaned behind his gag, his legs unable to support his weight after hours strung up.

Junior pulled Billy's gag down. "Uncle Billy, can you stand?"

"Give me... a second..." Billy gasped, trying to get his legs under him.

Junior was already lunging for Jake's rope, pulling, tearing at the knot. It gave. Jake fell, and Junior barely managed to break his fall. Jake hit the concrete hard, unconscious or close to it.

"Jake!" Billy crawled over, yanking his brother's gag free. "Jake, come on, stay with me."

Jake's eyes fluttered. "Billy...?"

"We gotta move," Junior said, looking toward the door. "They could come back. We gotta get out of here."

Billy tried to stand, but his legs buckled. Junior caught him. "Easy. Lean on me."

Together, they got Jake to his feet. The older man was dead weight, barely conscious. Billy took one side, Junior the other, and they half-carried, half-dragged him toward the side door.

Junior kicked it open. Sunlight flooded in, blinding after the dim warehouse. The gravel lot was empty—the trucks gone, dust still hanging in the air where they'd peeled out.

"Which way?" Billy panted.

Junior looked around wildly. Trees to the east. Open pasture to the west. The access road to the north where the kidnappers had fled.

"East," he decided. "Into the trees. We can hide until help—"

The sound of engines cut him off. Multiple vehicles, moving fast, coming from the south.

Junior's breath caught. Was it the kidnappers coming back? Or—

A truck crested the rise, followed by two more. Junior recognized the lead vehicle instantly.

"That's Rodriguez!" he shouted. "That's Daniel's dad!"

He waved his free arm, staggering into the open, supporting Jake with the other. "Here! We're here!"

---

"They're running!" Daniel shouted from Billy Renzo's truck, watching the drone feed. "Two trucks, heading north on the access road!"

"All units, targets are mobile!" Colt transmitted. "Heading north from the depot. Intercept, intercept!"

Pops' voice crackled through the radio. "Wade, you got the north road?"

"On it. Matterns, Rodriguez—set up the roadblock at the junction. Don't let them through."

"Wait!" Ryan interrupted, zooming in on Drone Three's feed. "Movement at the warehouse! Three people, east side exit!"

"That's them!" Colt shouted. "That's Billy, Jake, and Junior!"

"Are they—" Pops' voice was tight.

"They're on their feet," Daniel confirmed. "Two supporting the third. They're out. They're alive."

"Rodriguez team," Wade ordered. "Break off, secure the warehouse. Get our boys."

"Roger that, on our way."

"Everyone else," Pops snarled, "stay on those bastards. We're not letting them get away."

The convoy split. Three trucks peeling off toward the warehouse. The rest continuing north, pursuing the fleeing kidnappers.

---

Junior watched the Rodriguez trucks slide to a stop in the gravel, men jumping out. Daniel's father reached them first.

"Easy, easy, we got you." He took Jake's weight from Junior. Another man helped Billy. "Medic! We need a medic here!"

Junior's legs gave out. He sat down hard on the gravel, his whole body shaking now that the adrenaline was crashing.

"You okay, son?" Mr. Rodriguez asked, kneeling beside him.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm... they left. They just left us and ran."

"Smart choice for them. Gave us two problems instead of one." He squeezed Junior's shoulder. "You did good, kid. Real good."

A medic appeared, checking Billy and Jake. Both brothers were being treated for dehydration, rope burns, severe muscle strain, and the beating they'd taken. But they were alive. They were safe.

"Junior." Billy's voice was hoarse. He reached out, grabbed Junior's hand. "You got us out. You actually got us out."

"I heard the drones," Junior said, his voice cracking. "I knew you were coming. I just had to... had to get us ready..."

Jake managed a weak grin, even as the medic wrapped his wrists. "Told Billy... you'd figure something out..."

---

In Billy Renzo's mobile command center, racing north with the pursuit convoy, the wiz kids coordinated the intercept.

"Mattern team, targets approaching your position, thirty seconds!"

"We're ready," came the response.

"Drones tracking. They've got nowhere to go."

Colt's voice was cold. "Good. End this."

---

Vance saw the roadblock too late.

Two trucks parked across the narrow road, men with rifles standing behind them. He slammed on the brakes, tires screaming. The truck behind him nearly rear-ended them.

"Back up!" he shouted. "Go back!"

But when Derek threw his truck into reverse, he saw more vehicles approaching from behind. Dust plumes rising from the east and west too.

They were surrounded on all sides.

"Out!" Vance grabbed his rifle. "Into the trees! We can—"

"Like hell you will."

The voice came from the tree line. Pops stepped out, rifle leveled. Behind him, Tom, Josh, Ray. And behind them, more men. Matterns, Rodriguezes, Beaumonts, Renzos. The entire consortium, armed and furious.

Wade appeared from the other side, flanked by Wilson and Ryan Nelson.

"Drop the weapons," Wade said quietly, his sheriff's badge back on his chest now. "It's over."

Vance looked around. Counted the guns pointed at him. Counted the number of men surrounding them. Counted his chances.

Zero.

His rifle clattered to the ground.

One by one, the others followed.

Pops stepped forward, and for a moment, Junior's great-grandfather looked like he might shoot Vance right there. His finger was on the trigger, his face carved from stone and rage.

"Pops." Wade's voice was quiet. "Let me do my job now."

Pops stared at Vance for a long, long moment. Then he lowered the rifle. "You're lucky Wade's here. Real lucky."

Wade moved in with handcuffs. "Vance Mitchell, Derek Coors, you're under arrest for kidnapping, assault, extortion..."

The rest of his words were drowned out by the radio crackling to life.

"All units, this is Rodriguez team. We have secured all three hostages. Repeat, Billy, Jake, and Junior are safe. Requesting medical transport to Benson Ranch."

Pops closed his eyes. His shoulders sagged. "Thank God. Thank God."

Tom grabbed the radio. "Rodriguez team, this is Tom Benson. How are they?"

"Banged up, dehydrated, but alive. Junior got them out on his own. Kid's a hero."

In Billy Renzo's truck, the wiz kids erupted in cheers. Colt was grinning so wide his face hurt. "I told you! I told you Junior would figure it out!"

"Get them home," Pops said into the radio. "We'll finish up here and meet you there."

---

An hour later, back at the Benson Ranch, the command center had transformed into a celebration.

Billy and Jake were laid up in the clinic, cleaned up, bandaged, rehydrated, and being fussed over by Sarah and Rebecca. Both brothers would be fine—sore for weeks, but fine.

Junior sat on the porch of the main house, a blanket around his shoulders despite the warm evening, watching as the consortium families gathered. The wiz kids surrounded him, reliving every moment of the drone search and the intercept.

"When you broke that chair," Billy Renzo said, shaking his head. "Dude. That was insane."

"I didn't have a choice," Junior said quietly. "They were going to die if I didn't do something."

"You saved them," Daniel said firmly. "Own it."

Ryan clapped him on the shoulder. "The thermal imaging on you breaking free was epic. We have it recorded."

"Of course you do," Junior said, but he was smiling now.

Pops came out onto the porch, two glasses in hand. He handed one to Junior. Lone Star. Cold.

"Don't tell your grandmother," Pops said.

Junior took it gratefully. They sat in silence for a moment, watching the sun set over the ranch.

"Those men are going away for a long time," Pops said finally. "Wade's got them on kidnapping, assault, extortion, conspiracy. They'll die in prison."

Junior nodded. He didn't feel triumph. Just exhaustion. And relief.

"You did good, boy," Pops said. "Better than good. You kept your head. You waited for the right moment. You saved your uncles." He looked at Junior. "You're a Benson through and through."

Junior's throat tightened. "Thanks, Pops."

"And you're grounded for a month for scaring the hell out of me."

Junior laughed, the sound a little watery. "Yes, sir."

Inside, through the window, they could hear Billy's voice raised in complaint about the IV, and Jake laughing at him. Sarah's scolding. The warmth of family.

The consortium had held. The family was whole.

And Junior had learned something that day: sometimes the cavalry doesn't arrive in time. Sometimes you have to save yourself.

He'd done it.

They all had.

Epilogue: The Gift

Two weeks after the kidnapping, life at the Benson Ranch had almost returned to normal.

Almost.

Billy and Jake still moved carefully, their bodies recovering from the ordeal. The rope burns on their wrists had faded to pink scars, and the bruises from the beatings had turned from purple to yellow-green. But they were alive, they were home, and they made sure everyone knew they owed it to Junior.

Which was why Junior was suspicious when Pops announced a "small BBQ" with the consortium families.

"It's not my birthday," Junior said, watching his mother and Rebecca set up tables on the back lawn.

"Can't a man throw a barbecue without the third degree?" Pops grumbled, flipping burgers on the massive grill.

"Not when you're involved," Junior muttered.

By noon, the ranch was full. The Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes, Beaumonts, and Nelsons had all shown up with side dishes, coolers of beer, and their families. The wiz kids congregated under a tree with their iPads, still reliving the drone footage and arguing about system upgrades. The older men gathered around Pops' grill, drinking and talking.

Billy and Jake kept disappearing into the barn, then coming back out grinning.

"What are you two up to?" Junior asked.

"Nothing," Billy said, far too innocently.

"Absolutely nothing," Jake agreed.

Junior narrowed his eyes. "I don't believe you."

After lunch, when everyone had eaten their fill of brisket, ribs, and Sarah's famous potato salad, Pops stood up and banged a spoon against his beer bottle.

"Alright, listen up!" The crowd quieted. "We're here because two weeks ago, this boy—" he pointed at Junior, "—saved my grandsons' lives. Broke out of a chair bolted to the floor, freed two grown men, and got them out alive. So Billy, Jake, and I got him something."

Junior's face went red as everyone turned to look at him.

Billy and Jake disappeared into the barn, then emerged carrying a large Pelican hard case between them. They set it on the picnic table in front of Junior.

"Open it," Billy said, grinning like a kid on Christmas.

Junior's hands shook slightly as he unlatched the case. When he lifted the lid, his breath caught.

Nestled in custom foam was the most beautiful rifle he'd ever seen. Carbon fiber barrel, sleek lines, a scope that probably cost more than his truck.

"That's a Christensen Arms Ridgeline FFT!" Billy announced, his voice rising with excitement. "Carbon fiber wrapped, stainless steel barrel, sub-MOA accuracy guarantee! Weighs less than six pounds! Chambered in .308 Winchester!"

"Nightforce ATACR scope!" Jake jumped in. "Five to twenty-five power magnification, zero stop, first focal plane reticle!"

"Custom Timney trigger!" Billy continued. "Two-pound pull, crisp as hell!"

"Atlas bipod, quick detach!" Jake added.

"And I paid for the suppressor and the tax stamp," Pops said, stepping forward with a leather case. "So don't you dare shoot it without me, boy."

Junior stared at the rifle, then at his uncles, then at Pops. His throat was tight. "I... this is too much. I can't—"

"The hell you can't," Billy said, his voice suddenly rough. "You saved our lives, Junior. This doesn't even come close."

"Besides," Jake added, "we had it engraved."

Junior lifted the rifle carefully. On the carbon fiber stock, in elegant script, were the words: To Junior - The Bravest Benson - May 15, 2024

"You boys trying to make me cry in front of everyone?" Junior's voice cracked.

"Damn right we are," Billy said, pulling Junior into a hug. Jake joined in, and then Pops wrapped his arms around all three of them.

The consortium families erupted in applause and whistles.

When they finally broke apart, Pops turned to the crowd, his eyes gleaming with mischief.

"Well hell, we can't just look at the damn thing! We gotta shoot it!" He pointed toward the south pasture where he'd already set up targets at multiple distances. "I'm organizing a shooting contest. Hundred, two hundred, and three hundred yards. Twenty dollars entry fee. Winner takes the pot!"

The men perked up immediately.

"I'm in," Wade said, standing.

"Me too," Tom added.

"Oh, this is gonna be good," Ray said, pulling out his wallet.

Billy Renzo nudged Junior. "You're entering, right? With that rifle, you'll destroy them."

"Junior's gonna smoke all you old guys," Daniel called out.

"Old?" Tom protested. "I'll show you old!"

"Kid's got beginner's luck," Ray said. "That's all."

"Beginner's luck?" Billy shot back. "Junior can outshoot half of you with his eyes closed!"

Pops was already collecting money, stuffing bills into his hat. "Fifty dollars says none of the wiz kids can shoot for shit!"

"Hey!" Colt protested, but he was grinning.

"Fifty says I can outshoot Tom," Wade said, pulling out his wallet.

"You're on," Tom said, shaking his hand.

"A hundred says Pops can't hit the three-hundred-yard target," Josh called out.

Pops glared at him. "Boy, I was shooting targets at five hundred yards when you were in diapers. You just lost a hundred bucks."

The women shook their heads, settling into lawn chairs with drinks.

"Every time," Sarah said to Rebecca. "Every single gathering turns into a pissing contest."

"At least nobody's gotten hurt yet," Rebecca replied.

"Give them time," Mary Nelson said, laughing.

---

Twenty minutes later, the south pasture looked like a rifle range. Steel targets at a hundred, two hundred, and three hundred yards. Twenty-three men lined up, rifles in hand, money in the pot.

Pops appointed himself range master, naturally.

"Alright, here's the rules!" he bellowed. "One shot at each distance. Closest to center wins that distance. Best overall score takes the pot. Junior shoots first since it's his rifle!"

Junior stepped up to the firing line, his new rifle feeling perfect in his hands. He settled into position, the bipod steady, the scope crystal clear. The hundred-yard target looked close enough to touch.

He took a breath, let it out slowly, and squeezed the trigger.

The suppressed shot was a muffled crack. The steel target rang.

"Dead center!" Billy Renzo called from the spotting scope. "Holy shit, dead center!"

The crowd erupted in cheers and groans.

"That's my great-grandson!" Pops crowed. "Pay up, suckers!"

"He hasn't done two and three hundred yet," Ray muttered.

Junior moved through the other distances with the same precision. Two hundred yards—just left of center. Three hundred yards—bullseye.

By the time the other shooters finished, the results were clear:

1. Junior - near perfect score

2. Pops - refusing to accept second place

3. Wade - grinning at Tom who came in fourth

4. Billy and Jake tied for fifth

5. The wiz kids... well, Pops was right about them

"Rigged!" Pops declared. "The boy had the best rifle!"

"You helped buy it!" Junior shot back, laughing.

"Details!" Pops waved his hand dismissively, but he was grinning. He pulled the cash from his hat—over four hundred dollars—and handed it to Junior. "Here. For ammo. God knows you'll need it with how much you're gonna shoot that thing."

Junior tried to give it back. "Pops, I can't—"

"Take the damn money, boy. You earned it. Hell, you earned a lot more than that."

Billy clapped Junior on the shoulder. "Plus you get to lord it over all of us that you beat everyone on your first try with a new rifle."

"I'll never hear the end of this, will I?" Tom said, shaking his head.

"Not a chance," Josh agreed.

Jake stepped forward, his voice quieter than usual. "Junior. I mean it. Thank you. For everything. For getting us out. For not giving up."

"For being the toughest sixteen-year-old I've ever met," Billy added.

Junior looked at his uncles—these men who'd always been larger than life to him, who'd taught him to hunt and ride and shoot, who'd become his best friends. And who he'd saved.

"You're family," Junior said simply. "That's what we do."

Pops pulled Junior into a one-armed hug, his voice gruff. "Damn right that's what we do. Now come on, let's go celebrate properly. I got a bottle of good whiskey in the barn with our names on it."

"Pops, I'm sixteen—"

"And you just beat grown men in a shooting contest with a rifle worth more than some of their trucks. You earned a sip." He looked around at the gathered families, at the consortium that had come together to save them. "You all earned it. Hell of a thing, what we did. Hell of a family we got here."

As the sun set over the Benson Ranch, the families gathered around the fire pit. Stories were told, bets were settled, and Junior sat between his uncles with his new rifle propped carefully against the table.

The wiz kids were already planning the next upgrade to the drone system. Pops was arguing with Wade about who really won second place. The women were laughing about something Sarah had said.

It was normal. It was home.

And Junior had learned something these past weeks—something about fear and courage, about family and loyalty, about what it meant to be a Benson.

Sometimes you save yourself.

Sometimes your family saves you.

But most of the time, you save each other.

And that was enough.