Chapter 1: Morning at the Frat House
The sun hadn't yet cleared the horizon when Pops' gravelly voice boomed up the stairs from the kitchen.
"You worthless sons-of-bitches better get your asses out of those racks before I come up there with a bucket of cold water!"
In the frat house—the cramped second-floor bedroom that somehow contained two bunk beds, one mattress wedged between them, and five young men—there was a collective groan.
Jake Benson, age 22, rolled over on the top bunk and muttered, "That old bastard never sleeps."
"That's because he's half whiskey and half spite," Billy said from the bunk below, his voice still thick with sleep. At 21, Billy was Jake's younger brother, but they'd been inseparable since they were toddlers. Might as well have been twins.
From the other bunk, Celab Beaumont's Louisiana drawl cut through the darkness. "Y'all hear that? He called us worthless. That's almost a compliment coming from Pops."
"Shut up, Celab," came Billy Jr.'s voice from the top bunk across the room. At 16, Josh and Rebecca's son had earned his spot in the frat house fair and square, sharing the upper bunk with his Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake on the other side.
"BREAKFAST ASSIGNMENTS IN FIVE MINUTES!" Pops bellowed again. "AND COLT, I KNOW YOU GOT YOUR ASS GLUED TO THAT MATTRESS DOWN THERE!"
Colt Beaumont, wedged on his mattress between the two bunks, sat up and grinned in the dim light. At 17, Celab's cousin was the newest addition to the frat house, having moved in permanently after graduating high school just three months ago. "Yes sir, Pops!"
"Don't you 'yes sir' me, boy. Get moving!"
But there was warmth in the old man's growl—the kind of affection that came wrapped in sandpaper and tobacco smoke. Pops might cuss like a sailor and bark like a drill sergeant, but every boy in that room knew the truth: he loved them like his own blood. All of them.
Jake swung down from his bunk, landing with a thud that shook the floorboards. Somewhere beneath them, the secret beer stash rattled in its hiding place.
Billy dropped down next to him, and within moments all five of them were stumbling around in various states of undress, pulling on jeans and t-shirts, bumping into each other in the cramped space.
"I swear to God," Celab said, hopping on one foot as he tried to get his boot on, "fourteen months in this room and I still can't figure out how we all fit."
"It's called efficiency," Billy Jr. said, climbing down from his bunk. "Or insanity. I forget which."
They thundered down the stairs like a small herd of cattle, their boots echoing through the old ranch house. The smell of coffee and bacon hit them halfway down, and Jake's stomach growled audibly.
Pops was standing in the kitchen, all 76 years of him, lean and tough as jerky, a cigar clamped between his teeth even though it wasn't lit. His Vietnam War tattoos showed on his forearms below his rolled-up sleeves. He held a mug of coffee in one hand and gestured at them with the other.
"Look at this sorry excuse for a work crew," he said, his voice like gravel in a blender, but his eyes were twinkling. "My great-granddaddy started this ranch with his bare hands and a prayer, and this is what it's come to. Five boys who can't get out of bed before dawn."
"It's 5:15, Pops," Billy said, grinning. "The sun's not even up yet."
"The sun's lazy too," Pops shot back. "Coffee's on the counter. Don't burn it."
Sarah Benson appeared from the pantry, shaking her head but smiling. "Dad, you promised me you'd watch your language around the boys."
"These aren't boys, Sarah. They're ranch hands. And ranch hands have heard worse than anything I can dish out." He took a sip of his coffee, his eyes moving over each of the five young men with unmistakable pride. "Besides, they know I love 'em. Even if they are lazy as hell."
"Love you too, Pops," Colt called out, and the old man's weathered face cracked into a grin.
"Damn right you do, boy. Now get some coffee in you."
Tom Benson walked in from the living room side, where his and Sarah's bedroom was located. At 50-something, Tom was still built like the rancher he'd been his whole life—solid, strong, and steady. "Morning, everyone. Josh is getting the assignments ready."
Josh Benson emerged from the extension, already dressed for the day, his shirt tucked in and his boots clean. As the General Manager of the ranch, he ran a tight ship. He carried a clipboard with the day's work schedule. "Morning, everyone. Rebecca's getting ready—she's got an early shift at the hospital."
"Tell her to grab some coffee before she goes," Sarah said. "And Ray?"
Ray Benson appeared behind Josh, looking slightly rumpled but awake, a calculator in one hand and his own coffee mug in the other. At 28, he was the Business Manager, and his mind was always running numbers. "I'm here, I'm here. Just finished reconciling yesterday's feed costs."
"That boy," Pops muttered, but there was affection in it. "Up all night with the books. You're gonna go blind staring at those numbers, Ray."
"Somebody's got to keep this place profitable, Pops," Ray said with a grin.
"Profitable my ass. We're ranchers. We're supposed to be broke and happy."
"Well, I'm working on the happy part," Ray shot back, and the room chuckled.
Josh looked down at his clipboard. "Alright, listen up. I've got assignments for today." He glanced at the five young men gathered around the kitchen. "Billy and Jake, you two are on fence repair in the north pasture. Take the truck and the tool kit. Don't come back until it's done."
"Got it," Billy said.
Ray looked up from his calculator. "Just so you know, we're about $1,200 over budget on fence materials this quarter. So try not to waste anything, yeah?"
"We'll be careful," Jake said.
Josh continued. "Celab and Colt, you're helping me with the cattle rotation. Meet me at the south barn at six sharp."
"Yes sir," Celab and Colt said in unison.
"Junior," Josh looked at his son, "you and your tech wizard buddies are checking the water lines and fixing that sensor array that went down yesterday. I need it operational by this afternoon."
Billy Jr. nodded. "We're on it, Dad."
"Good." Josh set the clipboard down. "Ray, you and I need to go over the consortium purchasing agreement this afternoon. The Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguez families want to do a joint equipment buy."
"Already got the numbers pulled," Ray said. "If we go in together on that new baler, we can save about 18% per family. It's a no-brainer."
"See?" Pops said, gesturing with his coffee mug. "That's what I'm talking about. Smart business. Even if Ray does look like he just rolled out of bed."
"I did just roll out of bed, Pops."
"Well, you should've done it earlier, like these other jackasses."
The five young men from the frat house grabbed plates and started loading up on eggs and bacon that Sarah had prepared. The energy in the room was easy and familiar. This was their routine. This was their family.
Billy nudged Jake with his elbow. "Fence repair. That's at least a four-hour job."
"Could be worse," Jake said. "Could be mucking stalls."
"Could be sitting with a calculator all day," Celab added, glancing at Ray, and they all laughed.
"Hey," Ray said, pointing his pen at them. "My calculator keeps you boys fed and paid. Show some respect."
"Yes sir, Mr. Business Manager," Billy Jr. said with mock seriousness, and even Ray had to grin.
Pops watched them all with his coffee mug in hand, his crusty exterior barely hiding the fierce love he felt for these boys. His grandsons. His great-grandson. The Beaumont boys who were as much family as any blood relative. These were his boys, all of them, and he'd fight hell itself to keep them safe.
"Eat up," he said gruffly. "Daylight's burning."
Billy Jr. caught his great-grandfather's eye and grinned. "Love you, Pops."
"Love you too, boy. All of you jackasses." Pops raised his coffee mug in salute. "Now shut up and eat your bacon before it gets cold."
The frat house crew laughed, and the morning rolled on, full of warmth and brotherhood and the kind of love that didn't need fancy words—just showed up every single day.
Within twenty minutes, they'd all finished eating. Billy and Jake grabbed their hats and headed for the truck. Celab and Colt followed Josh out toward the south barn. Billy Jr. was already texting his buddies—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—to meet him at the command center.
It was going to be a good day.
At least, that's what they all thought.
Chapter 2: The Abduction
Billy and Jake loaded the last of the tools into the bed of the old Ford pickup, the morning sun just beginning to paint the horizon orange and pink. Both wore their standard work clothes—white wifebeater tank tops, jeans, boots, and their Benson Ranch caps pulled low against the glare.
The north pasture was a good twenty-minute drive, and the fence repair would take them most of the morning.
"You got the wire cutters?" Jake asked, slamming the tailgate shut.
"Got 'em," Billy said, patting his tool belt. "And the post driver. We're good to go."
They climbed into the cab, Billy behind the wheel, and headed down the long dirt road that cut through the ranch. The radio played low—some country station out of San Antonio—and for a while, neither of them said much. Just two brothers, doing what they'd done a thousand times before.
The fence line was in rough shape when they got there. Three posts down, wire sagging, the kind of damage that came from cattle pushing against weak spots. They got to work immediately, Billy holding the posts steady while Jake drove them into the hard Texas soil.
They didn't hear the truck approach until it was too late.
It came fast, kicking up dust, and screeched to a halt right behind their Ford. Three men piled out, faces covered with bandanas, moving with the kind of speed that said they'd done this before.
Jake barely had time to drop the post driver before the first man was on him, grabbing him from behind, twisting his arm up behind his back. "Don't fight it, boy!"
Billy spun around, but the second man already had a gun leveled at his chest. "Don't even think about it."
"What the hell—" Jake started, but a third man shoved a wadded cloth into his mouth and wrapped duct tape around his head, sealing it in place. Jake's eyes went wide, his breath coming hard through his nose as panic set in.
Billy tried to shout, tried to warn someone—anyone—but his gag came next, rough hands shoving fabric between his teeth and wrapping tape so tight it bit into his skin.
Rope came out next—thick, rough rope that burned as it was wound around their wrists, cinching tight. Their arms were wrenched behind their backs, elbows pulled together, more rope binding their forearms until their shoulders screamed in protest. The bindings were professional, thorough, exactly like the image Jake had once seen in some survival manual—arms completely immobilized.
One of the men shoved Jake toward the truck bed. "Get in. Now."
Jake stumbled but managed to stay upright. Rough hands grabbed him and threw him into the truck bed. Billy landed next to him a moment later, their shoulders slamming together.
A tarp was thrown over them, blocking out the light, and the truck roared to life.
The ride was hell.
Every bump, every turn sent them rolling into each other or into the hard metal of the truck bed. The Texas heat was already brutal, and under the tarp it was suffocating. Sweat poured down Jake's face, soaking into the gag and drenching his white wifebeater. He could hear Billy's ragged breathing next to him.
Jake tried to think. Tried to figure out who these men were, why they'd been taken. Ransom? Revenge? Some kind of mistake?
But the only thing he could focus on was the growing fear in his chest and the fact that nobody knew where they were.
The truck finally stopped after what felt like an eternity but was probably only twenty minutes. The tarp was ripped off, and sunlight blinded them. Rough hands hauled them out and dumped them on the ground.
"On your feet," one of the men barked.
Jake struggled upright, his balance thrown off by his bound arms. He looked around. They were in the middle of nowhere—dense woods, no road in sight, just a narrow trail cutting through the trees.
"You're gonna walk. Three miles. Don't try to run, don't try anything stupid, or I'll put a bullet in your brother's head. Understand?"
Jake nodded. Billy did the same.
"Good. Move."
The march was a nightmare.
Three miles doesn't sound like much, but with their arms bound behind their backs, gagged, stumbling over roots and rocks, it felt like thirty. The heat was relentless, the humidity thick as soup. Their white wifebeaters, already soaked with sweat from the truck ride, became filthy with dirt and grime as they stumbled and fell. Mosquitoes swarmed them, biting their necks, their faces, their bare arms. Sweat dripped into Jake's eyes, stinging, and he couldn't wipe it away.
Billy stumbled beside him, his face red, his breathing labored. His Benson Ranch cap was askew, barely staying on his head. Jake wanted to say something, wanted to tell him it would be okay, but the gag made that impossible.
One of the men shoved Billy forward when he slowed down. "Keep moving."
By the time the trees finally gave way to a small clearing, both brothers were drenched in sweat, their tank tops clinging to their bodies, dirt smeared across their faces and arms. Their shoulders burned from the strain of their bound arms.
In the center of the clearing sat an old, abandoned cabin. The wood was rotting, the roof sagging, windows broken. It looked like it hadn't been used in decades.
"Inside," the lead man said, shoving Jake toward the door.
The interior was worse than the exterior. Dust and cobwebs everywhere, the floor littered with debris. It smelled like mold and decay. But what caught Jake's attention was the rope—coils of it, laid out deliberately in the center of the room.
The men forced them to sit in the middle of the floor. Then the real work began.
More rope came out. It was wound around their chests, their waists, cinching them together back to back. Their legs were bound at the ankles and knees, tight and professional. Then came the worst part—their ankles were pulled up behind them and tied to the ropes around their necks in a brutal hogtie that left them arched backward, every muscle straining.
Jake could barely breathe. The position pulled on everything—his neck, his back, his legs. Beside him, he could feel Billy's ragged breathing, could feel him straining against the ropes.
"Smile for the camera," one of the men said, and a flash went off. Then another. And another.
Jake's mind raced through the pain. Ransom photos. They were going to send these to his family.
One of the men crouched down in front of Jake, holding a syringe. "This'll keep you quiet for a while."
Jake tried to pull away, but the hogtie made movement impossible. The needle bit into his bare shoulder, and he felt the cold rush of liquid entering his bloodstream. Beside him, Billy jerked as he received the same treatment.
Jake's vision started to blur. He saw one of the men pouring gasoline from a red canister—splashing it over them, soaking their already-drenched clothes, pouring it across the floor, everywhere.
The smell was overwhelming, mixing with the sweat and dirt.
And then the world went black.
Chapter 3: Missing
Josh Benson checked his watch for the third time in ten minutes. 2:47 PM.
Billy and Jake should have been back by noon. One o'clock at the latest if they'd run into trouble with the fence repair. But it was pushing three in the afternoon, and there'd been no word from either of them.
He stood in the south barn, Celab and Colt working nearby to secure the last of the cattle they'd rotated. The work had gone smoothly, finished by noon, and both Beaumont boys had proven themselves once again as reliable hands.
"You seen Billy or Jake?" Josh asked them.
Celab straightened up, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Not since this morning when they headed out. They were doing the north pasture fence, right?"
"Yeah." Josh pulled his radio from his belt and keyed the mic. "Billy, Jake, this is Josh. What's your status? Over."
Static.
He tried again. "Billy, Jake, do you copy? Over."
Still nothing.
"That's not like them," Celab said, his expression darkening.
"Maybe their radios died?" Colt suggested.
"Both of them?" Josh shook his head. "Something's not right. We need to check on them."
Billy Jr. appeared in the barn doorway, his face tight with concern. He'd been listening on his radio in the command center. "Dad, I heard. We're going."
"Junior—"
"We can get there faster on the quad," Billy Jr. said, already moving. "Celab, Colt, let's go!"
The three youngest members of the frat house didn't wait for permission. They sprinted toward the equipment shed where the ATVs were kept. Within thirty seconds, the quad roared to life with Billy Jr. at the controls, Celab behind him, and Colt bringing up the rear on a second quad.
Billy Jr. grabbed his radio as they tore down the dirt road. "Command, this is Junior. We're heading to the north pasture to check on Billy and Jake. ETA twelve minutes. Over."
Tom's voice came back immediately. "Junior, wait for your father—"
"No time, Grandpa. We'll radio what we find. Over and out."
Josh looked at his father and Pops, who had joined them in the barn. "Those boys move fast."
"They're smart," Pops said, though his face was creased with worry. "And they know that pasture like the back of their hands."
The quads screamed across the ranch, kicking up dust, taking shortcuts through gates and over terrain that would slow down a truck. Billy Jr. pushed the machine as hard as it would go, his heart pounding in his chest.
Billy and Jake were his uncles. His friends. His brothers in every way that mattered.
If something had happened to them...
He couldn't finish the thought.
"There!" Celab shouted over the engine noise, pointing ahead.
The Ford pickup came into view, sitting alone at the fence line. No movement. No sign of Billy or Jake.
Billy Jr. brought the quad to a skidding halt and jumped off before it had fully stopped. "Billy! Jake!"
Nothing.
Colt was already checking the truck. "Keys are in the ignition. Their radios are on the seat. Tool belt's on the ground."
Celab walked the perimeter, his eyes scanning the dirt. His face went pale. "Junior. You need to see this."
Billy Jr. ran over. Fresh tire tracks—not from their Ford. A vehicle had come in fast, stopped, then left just as quickly. And in the dirt, unmistakable signs: boot prints everywhere, drag marks, disturbed ground.
A struggle.
Billy Jr.'s blood ran cold. He grabbed his radio, his hand shaking but his voice steady.
"This is Billy Benson Junior. Initiating 911 emergency protocol."
He switched to the emergency frequency and hit the button.
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY BENSON AND JAKE BENSON ABDUCTED FROM NORTH PASTURE. SIGNS OF STRUGGLE. VEHICLE TRACKS HEADING EAST. ALL CONSORTIUM MEMBERS RESPOND IMMEDIATELY."
The response was instantaneous.
Sheriff Wade Nelson: "This is Sheriff Nelson. I'm en route to north pasture. Junior, do not touch anything. That's a crime scene. Over."
Tom Benson: "Junior, are you boys safe? Over."
"We're safe, Grandpa. But Billy and Jake are gone. Someone took them. Over."
Anthony Renzo: "Renzo family mobilizing. Over."
Ralph Mattern: "Mattern family responding. Over."
Antonio Rodriguez: "Rodriguez family standing by. Over."
Robert Beaumont: "Beaumonts are on the way. Over."
Pops' gravelly voice cut through the chatter: "Junior, you did good, boy. Now you three stay put until Wade gets there. You hear me? Over."
"Yes sir, Pops. Over."
Billy Jr. looked at Celab and Colt. Both of them were pale, their faces set with the same grim determination he felt.
"They took our brothers," Colt said quietly.
"Then we're getting them back," Billy Jr. said. He turned back to the crime scene, his mind already working. He'd been hunting since he was eight years old. He knew how to track. He knew how to read signs.
And whoever had taken Billy and Jake had just made the biggest mistake of their lives.
Because the entire consortium was about to come down on them like the wrath of God.
Back at the ranch house, organized chaos erupted.
Sarah and Rebecca moved through the kitchen with practiced efficiency, preparing food and coffee for what they knew would be a long operation. Mary Nelson arrived with the other consortium wives—Julia Renzo, Martha Mattern, Maria Rodriguez, and Caroline Beaumont. The women gathered in the living room, their faces tight with worry but their hands busy, coordinating, preparing, supporting.
Tom, Josh, and Ray were already mapping out search grids on the dining room table.
Pops stood at the window, cigar clenched between his teeth, watching the driveway as more trucks arrived. Every member of the consortium was responding. Ranchers, their sons, their workers—all of them ready to search.
This was family.
Sheriff Wade Nelson's patrol truck screamed up the driveway, lights flashing. Wilson and Ryan Nelson were right behind him in a second patrol vehicle. All three lawmen jumped out, already in motion.
Wade strode into the house. "Tom, Pops—I need everything you know."
"Junior found the scene," Tom said. "North pasture. Signs of abduction. Vehicle tracks heading east."
"I'm going there now," Wade said. "But I'm calling in the state police, county search and rescue, and every deputy I can muster. This is an abduction, and we're treating it as such."
"We've got thirty people ready to search right now," Josh said.
"Good. I'll coordinate with your radio network. Keep everyone on the encrypted frequency." Wade turned to Wilson and Ryan. "You two get to that crime scene. Start processing it. I want photos, measurements, tire impressions—everything."
"Yes sir," they said in unison.
Wade keyed his radio. "Junior, this is Sheriff Nelson. I'm sending my deputies to your location now. I need you to start documenting everything you see with your equipment. Photos, video, anything. Over."
"Already on it, Grandpa. Over."
At the north pasture, Billy Jr. had pulled out his tablet and was taking photos and video of every detail. Celab and Colt were doing the same with their devices, capturing the tire tracks, the drag marks, the scattered tools.
"These tracks are fresh," Celab said, crouching down. "Maybe three, four hours old."
"They had a head start," Billy Jr. said. "But not much of one."
Colt was following the tire tracks with his eyes. "They went into the woods. East side."
Billy Jr. looked at the dense tree line in the distance. Thousands of acres of forest, hills, ravines. Endless places to hide.
But also endless ways to track.
"We're going to find them," Billy Jr. said quietly. "Whatever it takes."
Wilson and Ryan Nelson's patrol trucks roared up, and the two deputies jumped out, already pulling crime scene equipment from their vehicles.
"Good work, boys," Wilson said, clapping Billy Jr. on the shoulder. "Now let us take it from here. You three head back to the command center and get those drones in the air. We need eyes from above."
"Yes sir," Billy Jr. said.
The three of them climbed back on their quads and tore off toward the ranch house, leaving the deputies to process the scene.
The hunt had begun.
Chapter 4: Awakening
Jake came to slowly, his head pounding like someone had used it for batting practice. His mouth was dry, tasting of cotton and chemicals, and every muscle in his body screamed in protest.
It took him a moment to remember where he was. To remember what had happened.
The abduction. The march. The cabin. The rope. The needle.
And then the smell hit him—sharp, chemical, overwhelming.
Gasoline.
His eyes snapped open. The cabin was dark, the only light coming through cracks in the rotting walls where the afternoon sun managed to penetrate. Dust motes floated in the beams, and the air was thick with the stench of fuel.
Jake tried to move and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through his neck, his back, his legs. He was still hogtied—ankles pulled up behind him and tied to the rope around his neck. The position was agonizing, every movement making it worse.
And he was soaked. His white wifebeater, his jeans, his skin—everything reeked of gasoline.
Beside him, he heard a muffled groan. Billy.
Jake turned his head as much as the rope around his neck would allow. Billy was there, just a few feet away, bound the same way. His brother's eyes were open, wide with fear and pain.
They were still gagged, the duct tape wrapped tight around their heads, the fabric stuffed in their mouths making it nearly impossible to do anything but breathe through their noses.
But they were alive. And they were alone.
Jake's mind raced. The kidnappers had drugged them, tied them up, soaked them in gasoline, and left. Why? Were they coming back? Was this some kind of sick game?
Or were they planning to burn them alive?
The thought sent a surge of adrenaline through Jake's system. They had to get out. Now.
He caught Billy's eye and nodded toward the gag. Billy understood immediately. If they were going to escape, they needed to be able to communicate. They needed to get these gags off.
Jake started working his jaw, trying to push the wadded fabric forward with his tongue. It was slow, painful work, made worse by the duct tape wrapped around his head. But little by little, he felt the fabric shift.
Billy was doing the same, his face red with effort, sweat mixing with the gasoline on his skin.
Minutes passed. Maybe ten, maybe twenty—it was impossible to tell. But finally, Jake managed to work enough of the fabric forward that he could catch it with his teeth and pull. The duct tape was still wrapped around his head, but with enough effort, he managed to stretch it, to loosen it just enough.
With one final, desperate push, Jake spat the fabric out and sucked in a breath of air that wasn't filtered through cotton. The duct tape hung loose around his neck.
"Billy," he rasped, his voice hoarse. "You okay?"
Billy was still working on his gag, his movements frantic now that he'd seen Jake succeed. After another minute, he managed to get his own gag out, gasping for air.
"I'm okay," Billy said, though his voice shook. "Jake, what the hell is going on? Why did they—"
"Gasoline," Jake said. "They soaked us in gasoline. And the floor. Look."
Billy's eyes adjusted to the dim light, and he saw what Jake had already noticed. The entire floor was wet, dark with fuel. The smell was everywhere, inescapable.
"They're going to burn us," Billy said quietly.
"Not if we get out of here first." Jake tested the ropes around his neck and ankles. The hogtie was tight, professional. But his arms—his arms were still bound behind his back the same way they'd been during the march. Wrists and forearms tied together.
"We need to break the hogtie," Jake said. "If we can get our legs free, we can move."
"How?" Billy asked. "I can barely breathe in this position, let alone—"
"We rock," Jake said. "We use momentum. If we can get onto our sides, we might be able to reach the rope with our hands. Or at least loosen it enough to slip a foot free."
It was a long shot. But it was the only shot they had.
"On three," Jake said. "One... two... three!"
Both brothers threw their weight to the side, using what little leverage they had. The movement sent fresh waves of pain through Jake's body, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through it.
They rolled onto their sides, and for a moment Jake thought they might actually have a chance. His hands, still bound behind him, could almost reach the rope connecting his ankles to his neck.
"Again!" Jake said. "Rock back and forth!"
They did, building momentum, using their bodies as levers. The rope around Jake's neck pulled tighter with each movement, cutting off his air, but he didn't stop.
And then—finally—his fingers brushed the knot.
It wasn't much, but it was something. He worked at it, his fingers clumsy and numb from being bound for so long. The rope was thick, the knots tight, but desperation gave him strength.
"I've almost got it," Jake gasped. "Just a little more—"
The knot gave way.
The tension around Jake's neck released suddenly, and his legs dropped. He sucked in a lungful of gasoline-scented air and immediately started working on the ropes around his ankles.
"Billy, hold on. I'm getting mine off, then I'll get yours."
Billy nodded, his face pale but determined. "Hurry."
Jake's fingers were shaking, but he managed to loosen the rope around his ankles enough to slip one foot free, then the other. His legs were still tied together at the knees, but he could move now. He could bend. He could reach Billy.
He rolled over to his brother and started working on the rope connecting Billy's ankles to his neck. It took precious minutes—minutes they might not have—but finally, Billy's hogtie came loose too.
Both brothers sat up, their legs still bound at the knees and ankles, their arms still tied behind their backs. But they were no longer helpless.
"We need to get these leg ropes off," Billy said. "And then we run."
Jake nodded. "Our arms are going to have to stay tied. There's no way we can reach those knots. But if we can get our legs free—"
A sound outside the cabin stopped him cold.
Voices. Men's voices.
The kidnappers were coming back.
"Move," Jake hissed. "Now."
Both brothers started frantically working on the ropes around their knees, their fingers flying despite the awkward angle. The voices were getting closer.
Jake got his knee rope loose first and immediately started on his ankles. Billy was right behind him.
"We're not going to make it," Billy whispered.
"Yes we are," Jake said through gritted teeth. "We have to."
The ankle rope came free.
Billy's did too, just seconds later.
Both brothers staggered to their feet, their arms still bound behind them, their bodies soaked in gasoline. They looked at each other, and in that moment, no words were needed.
They were getting out of here.
Or they were dying trying.
"Back door," Jake whispered, nodding toward a half-rotted door at the rear of the cabin.
They moved as quietly as they could, their boots making soft sounds on the gasoline-soaked floor. Jake reached the door first and tried to push it open with his shoulder.
It stuck.
He tried again, putting his full weight into it.
The door gave way with a groan, and sunlight flooded in.
"Go!" Jake said.
And they ran.
Chapter 5: The Rescue
The ransom email hit Sheriff Wade Nelson's inbox at 3:47 PM.
He was standing in the Benson kitchen, his laptop open on the counter, when it pinged. The house was organized chaos—consortium members everywhere, maps spread across the dining room table, radios crackling with updates.
Wade opened the email and his jaw tightened.
Three photos. Billy and Jake, hogtied on the floor of what looked like an abandoned cabin, their white wifebeaters soaked and filthy, their faces showing pain and fear. The gasoline was visible, pooling on the floor around them.
And the message: $500,000 by midnight or they burn.
"Son of a bitch," Wade muttered.
Tom was at his shoulder instantly. "What is it?"
Wade turned the laptop so Tom could see. The older man's face went pale, but his voice stayed steady. "Forward that to everyone who needs it. FBI, state police, whoever."
"Already doing it," Wade said.
Pops appeared from the living room, cigar clenched between his teeth. "They're alive. That's what matters. Now we find them."
At the portable command center—Tom's truck bed, outfitted with a satellite dish and several iPads synced to the drone network—Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were monitoring the feeds. All four wiz kids wore sidearms on their belts, hunting pistols they'd been trained to use since they were old enough to hold them.
Upstairs in the command center on the second floor—the room next to the frat house and Pops' bedroom—Colt was coordinating with the ladies. Sarah, Rebecca, Mary, Julia, Martha, Maria, and Caroline were gathered around the iPads synced to the drone feeds, their faces tight with worry.
"Wait," Daniel Rodriguez said suddenly, staring at his iPad in the truck bed. "I've got something. Drone 3, eastern sector, about four miles out. Two heat signatures. Moving fast through the woods."
Billy Jr. leaned over to look. Two figures, stumbling through dense forest, arms clearly behind their backs.
"That's them," Billy Jr. said, his voice cracking with relief. "That's Billy and Jake."
He grabbed his radio. "All units! We've got visual! Four miles east, moving through heavy woods. They're running but their arms are still tied!"
Wade's voice came back immediately. "All units, converge on those coordinates. Move now!"
Upstairs in the command center, the women gasped as the images appeared on their iPads.
"They're running," Sarah whispered, her hand pressed to her mouth. "Oh God, they're running."
"They got away," Rebecca said, her voice shaking with relief. "They actually got away."
On the screens, the two figures kept moving, stumbling, falling, getting back up. Their arms were still bound behind them, making every step a struggle.
Colt was on the radio, his voice calm and steady. "Portable command, this is main command. I'm tracking all consortium vehicles. You're thirty seconds from intercept. Over."
"Roger that," Billy Jr. replied. "We're moving! Over."
The consortium exploded into action. Tom, Josh, Ray, Pops, Anthony Renzo, Ralph Mattern, Antonio Rodriguez, Robert Beaumont, Celab, Sheriff Wade Nelson, and deputies Wilson and Ryan Nelson grabbed their gear and headed for their trucks. Billy Jr. and his three friends jumped into Josh's truck, iPads and radios in hand.
In the woods, Jake and Billy crashed through the underbrush, their breath coming in ragged gasps. Without their arms for balance, every root, every rock was a potential disaster. Jake had fallen three times already, Billy twice.
The gasoline stench clung to them, attracting flies and making Jake's eyes water.
"Keep moving," Jake panted. "Just keep moving."
Billy stumbled again but caught himself. "Which way?"
"West," Jake said. "Toward the ranch. If we can just—"
The sound of engines made them both freeze.
Trucks. Multiple trucks.
"Run!" Jake said.
They took off again, crashing through brush, their bound arms making it impossible to push branches out of the way. Jake's shoulder slammed into a tree trunk, sending pain shooting down his side.
And then they burst into a small clearing.
And came face to face with a wall of armed men.
Jake skidded to a halt, Billy right beside him. For one terrifying moment, Jake thought the kidnappers had found them.
But then he recognized the faces.
Tom Benson. Josh. Ray. Pops. Anthony Renzo. Ralph Mattern. Antonio Rodriguez. Robert Beaumont. Celab. Sheriff Wade Nelson and his sons Wilson and Ryan.
And Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez—all of them with tears streaming down their faces, all wearing their sidearms.
"Dad!" Jake gasped.
"Oh thank God," Tom breathed, already moving forward. "Thank God."
Pops was right behind him, his weathered face cracking with emotion. "Get those ropes off them. Now!"
Josh and Ray were already working on the ropes binding Jake's arms while Tom and Anthony Renzo tackled Billy's. The knots were tight, professional, soaked with gasoline that made the rope slippery and hard to grip.
"Hold still, son," Tom said, his voice shaking. "We've got you."
Billy Jr. appeared at Jake's side, tears streaming down his face. "Uncle Jake—"
"We're okay, Junior," Jake said through gritted teeth as Josh worked the ropes. "We're okay."
It took several minutes, but finally the ropes came free. Jake's arms dropped to his sides, and he nearly cried out from the pain as blood rushed back into his shoulders. Billy was rubbing his wrists, his face pale.
Billy Jr. pulled both his uncles into a fierce hug, not caring about the gasoline or the dirt or anything else. "I thought—we thought—"
"We know, son," Billy said quietly. "We know."
"The gasoline," Wade said, his lawman's mind already working. "We need to get it off them. If there's any spark—"
"Water," Ralph Mattern said, already pulling bottles from his truck. "Strip them down and wash them off."
Jake and Billy were too exhausted to argue. They kicked off their boots while the men helped them peel off their gasoline-soaked wifebeaters, jeans, and socks until they were standing in nothing but their boxer shorts.
Billy Jr., ever the opportunist, pulled out his phone and started recording. "This is definitely going in the family archives," he said with a grin, his tears still fresh on his face.
"Junior, I swear to God—" Jake started, but he was too relieved to be truly angry.
"You put that on the internet and you're dead," Billy added, but there was no heat in it.
The consortium men poured bottle after bottle of water over them, washing away the gasoline, the sweat, the dirt. Jake shivered despite the Texas heat, his body going into shock.
"That's enough footage, boy," Pops said gruffly to Billy Jr., but there was a twinkle in his eye. "Put that damn thing away."
"Yes sir, Pops," Billy Jr. said, tucking his phone away with a satisfied grin.
"Easy, son," Pops said, wrapping a towel around Jake's shoulders. "You're safe now."
Anthony Renzo came forward with an armful of clothes. "I've got hunting gear in my truck. Should fit you boys."
He handed Jake and Billy each a set—camouflage pants, long-sleeved shirts, boots. The kind of gear the Renzo family used for deer season.
Jake and Billy dressed quickly, their fingers still clumsy from being bound for so long. The clothes were a little big, but they'd do.
Upstairs in the command center, the women were crying, hugging each other, relief flooding through them. Colt had tears streaming down his face as he watched the reunion on the iPad screen, coordinating with the drones to keep coverage on the area.
"Where's the cabin?" Wade asked, turning to Jake and Billy.
"About half a mile back," Jake said, his voice steadier now. "East. Three men, armed. They were coming back when we ran."
"Did you see their faces?" Wilson Nelson asked.
"Bandanas," Billy said. "Never saw them. But they knew what they were doing. Professional."
Wade nodded grimly. "We're going back there. All of us." He looked at Jake and Billy. "You boys up for this?"
Jake met his brother's eyes. Billy nodded.
"Yeah," Jake said. "We're going."
Pops handed them each a rifle from one of the trucks. "Then let's go get those sons of bitches."
Billy Jr. grabbed his radio. "Main command, this is portable command. We've recovered Billy and Jake. They're safe. We're heading to the cabin now. Keep monitoring drone feeds. Over."
"Roger that," Colt's voice came back, thick with emotion. "Be careful. Over."
The consortium fathers, the Nelson lawmen, Celab, the wiz kids, and the Benson brothers formed up and headed east, back toward the cabin.
The hunt was on.
Chapter 6: Fire and Justice
The cabin came into view through the trees, looking even more decrepit in the late afternoon light. Smoke was already visible—not from fire, but from someone inside.
The consortium spread out in a wide arc, Wade Nelson coordinating positions with hand signals. His years as sheriff and his sons' training as deputies showed in every movement. Tom, Josh, Ray, Pops, and the consortium fathers took cover behind trees, rifles ready. Billy Jr. and his friends stayed back with Celab, their sidearms drawn but positioned defensively.
Jake and Billy crouched beside their father and Pops, the borrowed hunting rifles feeling solid in their hands.
"Three men," Wade whispered. "Armed and dangerous. We do this by the book."
He raised his voice, projecting toward the cabin. "THIS IS SHERIFF WADE NELSON OF KINGS COUNTY. THE CABIN IS SURROUNDED. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!"
For a moment, nothing.
Then the front door crashed open and gunfire erupted.
The consortium returned fire immediately, the forest exploding with the sound of rifles. Jake ducked as a bullet splintered the tree above his head. Beside him, Billy fired twice, his shots controlled and deliberate.
"Cease fire!" Wade shouted. "Cease fire!"
The shooting stopped. Smoke hung in the air, acrid and thick.
And then Jake smelled it again. Gasoline. Stronger than before.
"They're going to—" he started.
The explosion cut him off.
A ball of flame erupted from the cabin as the gasoline ignited, blowing out the windows and sending debris flying. The heat wave hit them even from fifty yards away, and Jake threw his arm up to shield his face.
The cabin was an inferno within seconds, flames roaring up through the rotting roof, black smoke billowing into the sky.
"Oh my God," Josh breathed.
From inside the cabin came screaming. Horrible, agonized screaming.
Wade was already moving. "Wilson! Ryan! With me!"
"Dad, no!" Ryan started, but Wade was already running toward the burning building.
"They're human beings!" Wade shouted back. "Move!"
The three Nelson lawmen charged toward the inferno. Pops grabbed a blanket from one of the trucks and threw it to Wade. "Cover yourself!"
Wade caught it, wrapped it around his shoulders, and plunged through the burning doorway. Wilson and Ryan were right behind him, their faces set with determination.
The consortium stood frozen, watching in horror and awe as the three lawmen disappeared into the flames.
Seconds felt like hours.
And then Wade emerged, dragging one of the kidnappers by the arms. The man was screaming, his clothes smoking, his skin blistered and blackened. Wilson came out next with a second man in similar condition. Ryan staggered out last, half-carrying, half-dragging the third kidnapper.
All three lawmen were coughing, their faces streaked with soot, their clothes singed.
"Medical! Now!" Wade shouted, laying the kidnapper on the ground.
Tom was already on the radio. "This is Tom Benson. We need Life Flight immediately. Three critical burn victims. Coordinates following. Over."
The consortium fathers and Billy Jr.'s friends rushed forward with the emergency medical kit from one of the trucks. The training they'd all received for ranch emergencies kicked in—checking airways, covering burns with clean cloth, preventing shock.
But Jake could see it in their faces. These men were in bad shape. Really bad shape.
The kidnappers were barely conscious, moaning in pain, their bodies ravaged by the fire.
Jake stood there, staring down at the men who had abducted him, bound him, threatened to burn him alive. And now they were the ones burning.
He should have felt satisfaction. Revenge. Justice.
But all he felt was sick.
Billy came up beside him, his face pale. "They're dying."
"Yeah," Jake said quietly.
Pops appeared next to them, his weathered face grim. "That's what evil does, boys. It consumes itself."
"Wade saved them," Billy said, his voice full of wonder. "They tried to kill us, and he still saved them."
"That's what lawmen do," Pops said. "That's what good men do. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
The sound of helicopter rotors filled the air. Life Flight was inbound, faster than anyone expected. Someone must have already had them on standby.
Wade walked over to Jake and Billy, his face blackened with soot, his hands trembling slightly from adrenaline. "You boys okay?"
"We're okay, Grandpa," Billy said. "But you—you could have died in there."
Wade looked at the three kidnappers, now being prepped for transport by the Life Flight medics who had landed in the clearing. "They're human beings. Doesn't matter what they did. We don't let people burn to death. Not on my watch."
Wilson and Ryan joined their father, both of them looking shaken but resolute.
"That was the bravest damn thing I've ever seen," Tom said, gripping Wade's shoulder. "All three of you."
"Or the stupidest," Wade said with a slight smile. "I'll let you decide."
The Life Flight crew worked with practiced efficiency, loading the three kidnappers onto stretchers. Their prognosis was grim—third-degree burns over much of their bodies. They might not make it.
As the helicopter lifted off, carrying the kidnappers to the burn unit in San Antonio, the consortium stood in silence.
The cabin continued to burn behind them, flames consuming the place where Jake and Billy had nearly died.
"Let's go home," Tom said finally. "There's nothing more we can do here."
Wade nodded. "Wilson, Ryan—secure the scene as best you can. I'll have the fire department and state police out here within the hour. The rest of you, go home. You've done enough today."
Billy Jr. came up to his uncles, his young face serious. "You guys really okay?"
Jake put his arm around his nephew's shoulders. "We're okay, Junior. Thanks to you and those drones."
"And thanks to Wade," Billy added, looking at the sheriff with newfound respect. "He saved them. Even after what they did to us."
"That's what makes us different from them," Pops said, his gravelly voice carrying weight. "We're better than that. We have to be."
The consortium loaded up into their trucks, exhausted, shaken, but whole. The Benson brothers—Tom, Josh, Ray, Pops, Jake, and Billy—rode together in silence, processing everything that had happened.
As they pulled away from the burning cabin, Billy Jr. looked back through the rear window.
"They might die," he said quietly.
"They might," Josh said. "But their blood won't be on our hands. We gave them a chance. More than they gave your uncles."
The convoy of trucks headed back toward the Benson Ranch, leaving the burning cabin and the horror of the day behind them.
But not forgotten. Never forgotten.
Chapter 7: Homecoming
The sun was setting by the time the convoy of trucks rolled back into the Benson Ranch. The entire consortium had gathered on the patio—tables set up, food laid out, and Pops' portable bar already in full operation.
Sarah and the other women had worked miracles. Platters of barbecue, bowls of potato salad, cornbread, beans—enough food to feed an army. Which was fitting, because that's exactly what had shown up.
Jake and Billy climbed out of the truck, still wearing Anthony Renzo's hunting gear, and were immediately mobbed by the women. Sarah pulled both her sons into a fierce hug, tears streaming down her face. Rebecca was right behind her, followed by Mary, Julia, Martha, Maria, and Caroline.
"Don't you ever scare us like that again," Sarah said, her voice shaking.
"Yes ma'am," Jake and Billy said in unison.
Pops was already at his bar, pouring drinks. "Alright, you degenerates! Get over here and get some whiskey in you. Doctor's orders!"
"You're not a doctor, Pops," Ray called out.
"I'm a Vietnam vet. That's close enough!"
The consortium fathers gathered around, clapping Jake and Billy on the shoulders, shaking hands, making sure they were really okay. The bond between these families had always been strong, but today had proven it was unbreakable.
Billy Jr. and his three friends were huddled around a laptop at one of the patio tables, grinning like idiots.
"What are you boys up to?" Tom asked suspiciously.
"Oh, nothing," Billy Jr. said innocently. "Just putting together a little... presentation."
Celab and Colt appeared from inside, carrying more chairs. "Junior's been working on this for the last hour," Celab said with a grin. "This is gonna be good."
"I don't like the sound of that," Jake muttered.
Pops handed Jake and Billy each a glass of whiskey. "Drink up, boys. You earned it."
They did, the burn of the alcohol grounding them, reminding them they were home and safe.
"Alright everyone!" Billy Jr. called out, standing up on a chair. "If I could have your attention please!"
The entire patio went quiet, all eyes on the sixteen-year-old.
"Today was... intense," Billy Jr. said, his voice cracking slightly. "But Uncle Jake and Uncle Billy are home safe. And I think we all need to lighten the mood a little bit."
"Junior, I swear to God—" Billy started.
"So without further ado," Billy Jr. continued, ignoring his uncle, "I present to you: BILLY JR'S STRIP TEASE SHOW, STARRING JAKE AND BILLY BENSON!"
He hit play on the laptop, and the video appeared on a screen someone had set up on the patio.
The footage started with the moment they'd found Jake and Billy in the woods—arms still bound behind their backs, stumbling into the clearing. The consortium erupted in cheers on the video as Tom and the others rushed forward to untie them.
Then came the good part.
Wade's voice: "We need to get the gasoline off them. Strip them down and wash them off."
The video showed Jake and Billy being helped out of their boots, then their gasoline-soaked wifebeaters being peeled off, then their jeans, until they were standing in nothing but their boxer shorts.
The patio exploded with laughter.
"Oh my God," Julia Renzo gasped, tears streaming down her face from laughing so hard.
"Junior, you little—" Jake started, but he was laughing too hard to finish.
On screen, Billy Jr.'s voice came through: "This is definitely going in the family archives."
Video Jake: "Junior, I swear to God—"
Video Billy: "You put that on the internet and you're dead."
The video showed the consortium men pouring bottles of water over Jake and Billy, washing away the gasoline while they stood there in their boxers, shivering.
Video Pops: "That's enough footage, boy. Put that damn thing away."
Video Billy Jr.: "Yes sir, Pops."
Then came the part where Anthony Renzo handed over the hunting clothes, and Jake and Billy dressed quickly, still looking shell-shocked.
The video ended with Jake and Billy, now fully dressed in camouflage, accepting rifles from Pops and heading back toward the cabin with the rest of the consortium.
The patio was in absolute chaos—everyone laughing, some crying from laughing so hard. Even Jake and Billy were doubled over, tears streaming down their faces.
"I'm going to kill you, Junior," Jake said, but there was no heat in it.
"You looked good in those boxers, Uncle Jake," Anna Nelson called out, and the patio erupted again.
"Okay, that's it. I'm disowning all of you," Billy said, grinning.
Pops walked over to Billy Jr. and clapped him on the shoulder. "That's my great-grandson. You're a troublemaker, boy. I'm proud of you."
"Thanks, Pops," Billy Jr. said, beaming.
"But if you ever pull that crap on me, I'll tan your hide."
"Yes sir."
Anthony Renzo raised his glass. "To Jake and Billy! May they never live this down!"
"To Jake and Billy!" the consortium chorused, raising their glasses.
Jake and Billy accepted the ribbing with good grace, because this—this chaos, this laughter, this family—was exactly what they needed.
Celab leaned over to Billy. "So how does it feel to be a movie star?"
"Shut up, Celab."
"I mean, you've got the physique for it. Very... dramatic."
"I hate you."
"No you don't."
Billy grinned. "No, I don't."
As the night wore on, the laughter continued. Stories were told, drinks were poured, and slowly the trauma of the day began to fade, replaced by the warmth of family and friendship.
Billy Jr. and his friends were already planning their next prank. Celab and Colt were arguing about who had spotted Jake and Billy on the drone feed first. The consortium fathers were discussing how to improve their emergency response protocols. The women were planning a big family dinner for the following weekend.
And Pops sat in his chair, cigar in hand, whiskey within reach, watching over all of them with fierce pride and love.
This was his family. All of them. Blood and chosen, it didn't matter. They were his boys, his girls, his people.
And today, they'd proven that when one of them was in danger, all of them would move heaven and earth to bring them home.
Jake caught Billy's eye across the patio and raised his glass. Billy raised his in return.
They didn't need words. They never had.
They were brothers. They were home. And they were surrounded by the best damn family in all of Texas.
Life was good.
Even if Billy Jr. had footage of them in their underwear that would probably be shown at every family gathering for the next fifty years.
"Junior!" Jake called out. "Delete that video!"
"Can't hear you, Uncle Jake!" Billy Jr. called back, grinning. "The file's already backed up to the cloud!"
"I'm going to kill him," Jake muttered.
Pops leaned over. "That boy's got spirit. Reminds me of you at that age."
"I was never that much of a pain in the ass."
"Boy, you were worse."
Jake grinned. "Yeah. I probably was."
The stars came out over the Benson Ranch, and the laughter continued long into the night.
Family. Brotherhood. Home.
This was what mattered.
This was everything.
