Chapter 1: The Trap
Jake Benson was halfway across the south pasture when he heard the truck.
7:15 AM. The sun was already mean, turning the Texas dirt to powder under his boots. He'd been checking fence line since dawn—solo work he didn't mind. Billy was back at the house helping Pops with the cattle rotation. They'd meet up later, grab breakfast, give each other shit about something. That's how it always went.
The truck came up fast behind him, engine growling. Jake turned, squinting into the glare.
Not a consortium vehicle.
His hand went instinctively to his belt. No radio. He'd left it charging in the frat house.
Stupid.
The truck skidded to a stop twenty feet out, dust blooming around it. Three men climbed out—ballcaps pulled low, bandanas covering their faces. Jake's gut clenched.
"Help you?" he called out, keeping his voice steady.
They didn't answer. They spread out, boots crunching gravel, moving with purpose.
Jake's pulse spiked. He took a step back. "This is private property. You need to—"
The first man rushed him.
Jake swung hard, connected with jaw, felt the crack of impact up his arm. The man stumbled. But the other two were already on him—one tackled him low, the other grabbed his arms. Jake hit the ground hard, air punching out of his lungs.
"Get off me!" He thrashed, bucked, got an elbow into someone's ribs.
A fist slammed into his kidney. Pain exploded white-hot.
"Hold him still!"
Rough hands pinned his wrists behind his back. Jake twisted, tried to wrench free, but there were too many of them. He felt rope bite into his skin—tight, professional knots pulled fast around his wrists.
"You're making a mistake," Jake growled through gritted teeth. "You have any idea who—"
Duct tape slapped across his mouth, cutting him off mid-sentence.
They hauled him upright, shoved him toward the truck. Jake's boots dragged trenches in the dirt as he fought every step. His mind raced—consortium land, someone will see, someone will come—but the pasture stretched empty in every direction.
They threw him into the truck bed. His shoulder hit metal, stars bursting behind his eyes. Before he could recover, they were on him again—rope around his ankles now, yanking his boots back toward his wrists.
Hogtied.
The rope pulled taut, arching his spine, wrenching his shoulders. Jake grunted against the gag, fury and fear colliding in his chest.
One of the men leaned over him, eyes cold above the bandana. "You just sit tight, Benson. We got plans for you."
The truck lurched forward.
Jake's cheek pressed against the ridged metal of the truck bed, his body jerking with every pothole. He couldn't move. Could barely breathe. The sun beat down on his bare arms—he'd been shirtless since dawn, working in the heat.
Billy. The consortium. Someone will notice.
But right now, trussed up like an animal in the back of a stranger's truck, Jake Benson was alone.
And whoever these men were, they knew exactly what they were doing.
The barn was old—wood siding half-rotted, roof sagging in the middle. Middle of nowhere. No houses, no roads nearby that Jake could see when they dragged him out of the truck.
They cut the rope between his wrists and ankles just long enough to haul him inside, then retied him—hogtied again, tighter this time. His shoulders screamed. The barn floor was dirt and hay, dust thick in the shafts of light cutting through gaps in the walls.
One of the men crouched beside him, pulled out a phone, snapped a photo.
Jake glared at him, chest heaving against the restraints.
"Don't worry," the man said, voice flat. "Your brother's gonna join you real soon."
Jake's blood turned to ice.
Billy.
He thrashed against the ropes, tried to scream through the gag. The man just laughed, stood up, and walked away.
The barn door slammed shut.
And Jake Benson—22 years old, hothead, ranch hand, brother—lay hogtied and helpless in the dirt, waiting.
Chapter 2: The Message
Billy Benson was alone in the house when his phone buzzed.
Noon. He'd come back to grab a cold drink and check on some paperwork before heading back out to help Pops with the cattle rotation. The kitchen was quiet—Mom and Dad were out in the west pasture, Josh and Ray were in town handling business, Jr. was at school. Even Caleb was out working fence line somewhere.
Billy pulled a Coke from the fridge, cracked it open, took a long drink.
His phone buzzed on the counter.
Unknown number.
He almost didn't answer—probably some spam call trying to sell him extended truck warranty. But something made him swipe.
"Yeah?"
Silence. Then a voice, flat and mechanical. Distorted.
"Billy Benson?"
Billy straightened. "Who's this?"
"We have your brother."
The Coke can slipped from his hand, hit the counter, spilled across the tile.
"What?" Billy's voice came out tight. "What are you—"
"Jake. We have Jake. And if you want to see him alive, you'll listen very carefully."
Billy's heart hammered against his ribs. His eyes swept the empty kitchen. "Where is he? What did you—"
"Shut up and listen."
Billy's jaw clenched. He forced himself to breathe.
"You come alone. Tell nobody. Not your family, not the sheriff, not the consortium. You come alone, or Jake dies. Understand?"
"Let me talk to him," Billy demanded. "Let me hear his voice."
A pause. Then muffled sounds—movement, a grunt.
"Billy?" Jake's voice, rough and strained. "Don't—"
The sound cut off abruptly.
Billy's hand tightened around the phone. "Jake! JAKE!"
"He's alive. For now." The distorted voice returned. "You want him to stay that way, you follow instructions. There's a barn two hours south of your ranch. Old cattle road off Highway 83, mile marker 47. Be there by 2 PM. Alone. No phone calls. No radios. No backup. You come alone, or we kill him."
"How do I know you won't kill him anyway?" Billy's voice shook with barely controlled rage.
"You don't. But if you don't show, he's dead for sure. Your choice, Benson."
The line went dead.
Billy stared at his phone. His hands were shaking.
Jake.
His twin. His best friend. His brother.
Hogtied somewhere by strangers who knew their names, knew the consortium, knew exactly how to isolate them.
Billy's mind raced. He should call Dad. Call Sheriff Wade. Hit the emergency button and bring the whole consortium down on these bastards.
But the voice had been clear: Tell nobody, or Jake dies.
What if they were watching? What if they had someone inside the consortium? What if the second Billy made a call, they put a bullet in Jake's head?
Billy couldn't risk it.
But he also couldn't just disappear without leaving something behind.
Think. Think.
His eyes went to the ceiling. Upstairs. The frat house.
Jr.
Billy bolted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. He burst into the frat house—the room was a mess, bunk beds unmade, clothes on the floor, the faint smell of hidden beer. Home.
He grabbed a pen and paper from the desk. His hand hovered over the page.
What do I say?
He wrote fast, messy.
Jr—
They took Jake. Said if I don't come alone, they'll kill him. I'm going. Barn off Highway 83, mile marker 47, two hours south.
Check my truck's GPS. Don't let them know you're coming.
If something happens to us, tell Mom and Dad I love them.
—Billy
He folded the note, walked over to Jr's bunk, and slid it under the pillow. Jr always checked under his pillow—old habit from when they used to hide candy from Mom.
Billy stood there for a moment, looking around the room. The bunk beds. The floorboards with the hidden beers. The place where he and Jake had lived side by side for twenty-two years.
I'm coming, Jake. Hold on.
Billy checked his pockets. Phone—still there. He made sure the GPS was on. Radio—no, they'd taken Jake's, they'd take his too. He grabbed it from the charger and left it on the desk where someone would see it.
He walked downstairs, out to his truck, climbed in, and started the engine.
His phone buzzed again. A text. Unknown number.
A photo.
Billy's breath caught.
Jake. Shirtless, face down in the dirt. Hands wrenched behind his back, ankles pulled up tight. Hogtied. Duct tape across his mouth. Eyes wide, furious, terrified.
Billy's vision blurred red.
I'm going to kill them.
He put the truck in drive and headed south.
The two-hour drive felt like an eternity.
Billy's knuckles were white on the steering wheel. His mind kept circling back to that photo—Jake, bound and helpless. His brother. His twin.
What if this is a trap?
Of course it was a trap. But what choice did he have?
What if they kill us both?
Then at least they'd go down together.
Billy passed mile marker 47 and slowed. There—an old cattle road, half-overgrown, barely visible from the highway. He turned onto it, the truck bouncing over ruts and rocks.
The barn appeared ahead, sagging and weathered. No other vehicles in sight.
Billy parked, killed the engine. His hand went to his phone in his pocket.
Jr. Find the note. Check the GPS.
He climbed out of the truck.
The barn door creaked open. Two men stepped out, faces covered, rifles in hand.
"Billy Benson?"
Billy's jaw tightened. "Where's my brother?"
"Inside. Hands up. Walk slow."
Billy raised his hands and walked toward the barn.
One of the men patted him down, found his phone, yanked it out of his pocket. "Nice try." He tossed it into the dirt.
"Radio?"
"Don't have one."
The man shoved him forward. "Inside."
Billy stepped through the doorway.
And there, on the barn floor, was Jake.
Hogtied. Gagged. Shirtless. Rope burns on his wrists and ankles. Eyes meeting Billy's—relief, fear, rage.
"Jake—"
A hand grabbed Billy's arm, wrenched it behind his back. Pain shot through his shoulder.
"Your turn, Benson."
Billy tried to twist free, but another man grabbed his other arm. They forced him to his knees beside Jake. Rough hands yanked his wrists behind his back.
Rope bit into his skin—tight, professional, fast.
Billy gritted his teeth. "You got us both. Now what?"
"Now?" One of the men chuckled. "Now we make some money."
They pulled his ankles back, tied them to his wrists. The rope pulled taut, arching his back, wrenching his shoulders.
Hogtied.
Duct tape slapped across his mouth.
Billy grunted, tried to breathe through his nose. His eyes found Jake's—two feet away, bound and helpless.
I'm sorry, Jake. I'm so sorry.
One of the men pulled out a phone, snapped a photo of both of them.
"Smile, boys. You're about to make us rich."
Chapter 3: Escalation
3:00 PM.
Billy Junior, Caleb, and Colt were walking back from the horse barn, boots caked with muck, shirts sticking to their backs with sweat. They'd spent the last two hours cleaning stalls—hard, dirty work, but it was part of the rotation.
Sarah Benson met them at the back door, arms crossed.
"Don't even think about tracking that into my house," she said. "Boots off. And while you're at it, I want that frat house cleaned today. Laundry gathered, sheets changed, floor swept. I mean it."
Jr groaned. "Mom, we just spent two hours—"
"I don't want to hear it. That room is a disaster and it smells like a brewery. Get it done."
Caleb grinned, nudging Jr. "She's got that look."
"She always has that look," Jr muttered.
They kicked off their boots at the door, headed upstairs to the frat house. The room was its usual mess—bunk beds unmade, clothes scattered, the faint smell of the beers hidden under the floorboards.
"Where are Billy and Jake anyway?" Colt asked, grabbing dirty clothes off the floor.
"Probably still out working," Jr said. "Billy said something about checking on stuff this morning."
They fell into an easy rhythm—Caleb gathering clothes into a hamper, Colt stripping sheets off Jake's bunk, Jr moving to his own bed.
He pulled off his pillowcase, reached for the pillow.
His hand hit something underneath.
Paper.
Jr frowned, pulled it out. Unfolded it.
His blood went cold.
"What the fuck..."
Caleb looked up. "What?"
Jr was already running—note clutched in his fist, boots pounding down the hallway to the room next door. The command center.
Caleb and Colt exchanged looks and bolted after him.
Jr hit the door, slammed it open. The command center—formerly just a spare bedroom—was now packed with equipment. Multiple monitors, satellite phones, drone controls, the encrypted radio system he and Billy had built together.
Jr's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the GPS tracking system.
"What's going on?" Caleb demanded, breathless behind him.
"They took Jake," Jr said, voice tight. "Billy went after him. Alone."
"What? Who took—"
"I don't know!" Jr found Billy's truck on the GPS map—stationary, two hours south. Highway 83. Mile marker 47. Exactly where the note said.
His hand hovered over the emergency button.
Billy's note had said don't let them know you're coming. But that was before Billy surrendered himself. That was when there was still a chance of stealth.
Now both his uncles were gone. And Jr had the entire consortium at his fingertips.
He slammed his hand down on the button.
The mechanical voice activated instantly, broadcasting across every radio, every satellite phone, every device in the network.
"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior."
Two hours south, in the barn, Billy lay hogtied on the dirt floor beside Jake.
One of the kidnappers had already gone through Billy's pockets, found his radio, tossed it onto a workbench near the door next to Jake's.
The three men stood near the entrance, voices low and relaxed. They thought they had this under control. Two Benson brothers, hogtied and helpless. A ransom photo already sent. Two million dollars on the way.
Then—
"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior."
The mechanical voice cut through the barn like a gunshot.
Billy's heart leapt.
Jr. found the note.
The three kidnappers spun toward the radios, faces going pale even behind the bandanas.
"What the hell—"
"They know!"
"How did they—"
The frequency exploded with voices—urgent, overlapping, the entire consortium network lighting up at once.
"This is Tom Benson. Billy Junior, what's your emergency?"
"Dad, I found a note under my pillow. They took Jake and Billy—both of them—"
"Sheriff Wade Nelson here, all units respond, we have a double kidnapping—"
"This is Pops, someone better tell me what the hell is happening—"
"I've got Billy's truck on GPS," Jr's voice came through, steady despite the fear underneath. "Highway 83, mile marker 47, old barn off the cattle road—"
One of the kidnappers lunged forward, grabbed both radios, and smashed them against the barn wall. Plastic cracked, circuits sparked, voices cut off.
But the damage was done.
"We gotta move. Now."
"The photo—did you send the ransom demand?"
"Yeah, just sent it. Two million, both brothers in the picture."
"Doesn't matter now. They're mobilizing. We need to relocate."
The leader pulled out his phone, made a call. His voice was tight, controlled panic underneath.
"We got a problem. They activated some kind of emergency system, whole network's online... Yeah, both of them... I know, I know. We're moving to Location B... Fifteen minutes."
He hung up, turned to the others. "Load them up. Leave the truck with the GPS. We're switching vehicles."
They moved fast.
Two men grabbed Jake first—cut the rope between his wrists and ankles, kept a knee pressed into his back. Jake thrashed, tried to twist free, but hogtied and weakened, he couldn't get leverage. They hauled him upright, half-carried, half-dragged him toward a different truck parked behind the barn.
Billy watched, helpless, as they threw Jake into the bed.
Then they came for him.
The same brutal efficiency—quick cut, knee in the spine, rough hands yanking him up. His legs were numb from the restraints. They dragged him outside into the blinding sun.
Billy caught a glimpse of his own truck sitting there—GPS still tracking, beacon still active for the consortium to find.
That's right. Come find us. Jr knows where we are.
But they were already moving.
They threw Billy into the truck bed beside Jake. His shoulder slammed into metal, stars exploding behind his eyes. Before he could recover, they were retying both brothers—pulling their ankles back up to their wrists, cinching the hogties even tighter than before.
One of the kidnappers leaned over them. "You boys just complicated everything. But we got a backup location. And this time, nobody's finding you."
The engine roared.
The truck lurched forward, leaving Billy's truck—and its GPS signal—behind.
The drive was brutal.
Every bump sent shockwaves through Billy's and Jake's bound bodies. They slid across the truck bed with each turn, unable to brace themselves. The sun beat down mercilessly.
Billy lost track of time. Twenty minutes. Maybe an hour.
Finally, the truck slowed, turned, stopped.
Doors slammed. Footsteps.
"Get them inside. Quick."
They dragged Billy out first, then Jake. Another barn—more isolated, surrounded by nothing but scrub brush and empty land.
No roads. No houses. No GPS signal leading the consortium here.
This barn was bigger. Older. Support beams ran across the ceiling, thick ropes already hanging from them.
Prepared.
This was always the backup plan.
"String them up."
They cut the hogtie ropes completely, but before Billy could react, rough hands grabbed his arms, wrenched them behind his back, retied his wrists even tighter. Same with his ankles—bound together, then a long rope threaded between his boots.
They threw the rope over a ceiling beam and started pulling.
Billy's feet left the ground.
The world tilted—disorienting, terrifying—as they pulled harder. The rope lifted him by his bound boots, flipping him upside down. Blood rushed to his head instantly.
But they weren't done.
With Billy hanging inverted, they pulled his bound wrists upward toward the beam—not all the way, but enough to wrench his arms backward, arch his body, multiply the pressure on his shoulders.
Still hogtied. But now suspended.
Gravity became torture.
Beside him, they did the same to Jake. His brother fought every second—twisting, cursing through the gag—but it didn't matter. Within moments, Jake was hanging upside down too, hogtied and strung up by ropes between his boots.
The kidnappers stepped back, breathing hard.
"That'll hold them."
Billy's vision started to blur—blood pooling in his head, pressure building behind his eyes. His shoulders felt like they were tearing from their sockets. Every breath was agony.
He turned his head—difficult, painful—and found Jake's eyes.
Terrified. Furious. But still fighting.
We're getting out of this, Billy tried to tell him with his eyes. We have to.
One of the kidnappers walked over, stood between them, looking up at their suspended bodies.
"You boys just cost us a clean payday. Now we do this the hard way." He raised his phone. "Let's see how much Daddy's willing to pay for this."
He snapped a picture—both Benson brothers, shirtless, hogtied, hanging upside down in a barn in the middle of nowhere.
The kidnappers walked out, slamming the door.
Billy and Jake were left alone.
Hanging.
Helpless.
The clock ticking on how long their bodies could last.
Chapter 4: The Hunt Begins
Tom Benson was in the west pasture checking water lines when his phone rang.
Unknown number.
His gut told him to answer.
"Tom Benson."
"Mr. Benson." The voice was distorted, mechanical. "We have your sons."
Tom's blood turned to ice. "What?"
"Jake and Billy. We have them both. If you want to see them alive, you'll listen very carefully."
Tom's hand tightened around the phone. His eyes swept the empty pasture—Sarah was fifty yards away by the fence. He started walking toward her, his boots moving faster with each step.
"Two million dollars," the voice continued. "Cash. We'll send instructions for the drop. You have twenty-four hours."
"Let me talk to them," Tom demanded. "I want proof they're alive."
"Check your messages."
The line went dead.
Tom pulled the phone away from his ear, opened his messages. A photo loaded.
His breath stopped.
Billy and Jake. Both shirtless. Hogtied. Gagged. Lying on a dirt floor, wrists wrenched behind their backs, ankles pulled up tight. His youngest boys, bound like animals.
"Tom?" Sarah had seen him running. "What's wrong?"
Before he could answer, his satellite phone crackled to life on his belt.
"911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior."
Tom and Sarah locked eyes. Then they were both running for the truck.
The consortium network exploded with activity.
Every radio, every satellite phone, every encrypted device across six families lit up simultaneously. The mechanical alert had gone out to everyone—Tom and Sarah, Pops, Josh and Ray, Sheriff Wade Nelson and his deputies, the Beaumonts, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes.
By the time Tom and Sarah reached the ranch house, vehicles were already converging.
Tom burst through the door, Sarah right behind him. They found Jr in the command center, Caleb and Colt flanking him, all three staring at monitors showing GPS coordinates and radio frequencies.
"Jr, what happened?" Tom's voice was tight, controlled.
Jr turned, his face pale but focused. "I found a note under my pillow. Billy left it. He said they took Jake, told him to come alone or they'd kill him. Billy went to meet them—barn off Highway 83, mile marker 47. I've got his truck's GPS location right here."
Tom's jaw clenched. He pulled out his phone, showed Jr the photo.
Jr's face went white. "Oh God..."
"They just called," Tom said. "Ransom demand. Two million dollars, twenty-four hours."
Footsteps pounded up the stairs. Sheriff Wade Nelson burst into the command center, still in uniform, gun belt on. His deputies Wilson and Ryan were right behind him.
"Tom, what've we got?"
"Double kidnapping. Billy and Jake. They're demanding two million."
Wade's face hardened. "When?"
"Jake was taken this morning—probably around seven. Billy got a call at noon, went alone to try to save him. That was two hours ago."
"So they've had Jake for eight hours, Billy for two." Wade turned to Jr. "You got a location?"
Jr pointed to the screen. "Billy's truck is here. Highway 83, mile marker 47, old cattle road leading to a barn."
"How current is that GPS?"
"Real-time. The signal's still active."
Wade pulled out his radio. "All units, we've got coordinates. I want every available man mobilized. Renzo, Mattern, Rodriguez—you copy?"
Three voices came back affirmative.
Pops appeared in the doorway, brandy in one hand, cigar in the other, face like thunder. "Someone better tell me what the hell is going on."
"They took the boys," Tom said quietly. "Both of them."
Pops went very still. Then he walked to the window, looked out at the ranch—the land his great-grandfather had started, the legacy he'd built, the family he'd raised.
When he turned back, his voice was cold steel. "Then we go get them."
The convoy left thirty minutes later.
Six trucks, fully loaded. Tom and Sarah in the lead vehicle with Sheriff Wade. Josh and Ray in the second with Robert Beaumont. Pops insisted on coming despite Tom's protests—he rode with Wilson and Ryan Nelson. The Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes brought up the rear, armed and ready.
Jr stayed behind in the command center with Caleb, Colt, and his three best friends—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez. Seven teenagers with $50,000 worth of surveillance equipment, drones, and encrypted communications.
"We'll track from here," Jr told his grandfather. "Drones are ready to deploy when you get close. Thermal imaging, night vision—we've got you covered."
Tom gripped his nephew's shoulder. "Good man. Keep the line open."
They drove fast—two hours south, convoy tight, radios crackling with updates and coordination.
Tom's hands were white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Beside him, Sarah sat rigid, phone clutched in her hand with that photo still on the screen. Her babies. Her youngest boys.
"We'll get them back," Wade said from the back seat. "They're smart kids. Tough. They'll hold on."
Tom nodded, but didn't trust himself to speak.
Mile marker 47 appeared ahead. Tom slowed, spotted the cattle road—half-overgrown, barely visible. He turned, the convoy following.
The barn appeared through the scrub brush. Weathered. Sagging. And Billy's truck parked right there in front.
Empty.
Tom hit the brakes. The consortium vehicles spread out, men pouring out with rifles, handguns, organized chaos.
"Secure the perimeter," Wade ordered. "Tom, stay back until we clear it."
Tom ignored him, already moving toward the barn. Wade didn't stop him.
They hit the door together—Wade first, gun drawn, Tom right behind him.
The barn was empty.
Dirt floor scuffed with boot prints. A workbench near the door. And there—broken radios, smashed plastic and circuits scattered on the ground.
"They heard the alert," Wade said quietly. "They knew we were coming."
Tom's eyes swept the floor. Rope fragments. A piece of duct tape. Drag marks leading to the back door.
His sons had been here.
And now they were gone.
Sarah appeared in the doorway, took one look at Tom's face, and understood. She walked to him, put her hand on his arm.
"We'll find them," she said. Voice steady, even though her eyes were red.
Pops came in behind her, surveyed the scene. "They moved them. Means they're still valuable. Means there's still time."
Wade was already on the radio. "Jr, you copy?"
"Copy, Sheriff."
"The barn's empty. They abandoned Billy's truck here but took the boys somewhere else. I need drone coverage—thermal imaging, search patterns radiating out from this location. They can't have gotten far."
"On it. Launching drones now."
Tom walked outside, stood by Billy's truck. The driver's door was open. Billy's phone was in the dirt nearby—tossed aside by the kidnappers.
His boys were out there somewhere. Hurt. Scared. Waiting for rescue.
And Tom Benson had never felt more helpless in his life.
Behind him, the consortium was already organizing—search grids, communication protocols, coordination with Jr's command center.
They had technology. They had manpower. They had the best tracker in three counties and a sheriff who wouldn't quit.
But they didn't have a trail.
And somewhere in the Texas scrubland, two brothers were running out of time.
Chapter 5: Hanging On
The first thing Billy became aware of was the pressure.
Not pain—not yet. Just pressure. Blood pooling in his head, building behind his eyes, pounding in his temples with each heartbeat.
Then the pain hit.
His shoulders. God, his shoulders. Wrenched backward, arms twisted at angles they weren't meant to hold. The rope around his wrists bit deep, cutting circulation. His spine arched unnaturally, every muscle straining against gravity and restraint.
He couldn't move. Could barely breathe past the gag and the position.
Billy forced his eyes open. The barn swam in his vision—ceiling where the floor should be, support beams above him. No, below him. He was upside down.
Strung up. They strung us up.
He turned his head—agonizing, the movement sending fresh waves of pain through his neck and shoulders—and found Jake.
His brother hung three feet away, suspended by ropes between his boots just like Billy. Jake's eyes were open, wide and furious above the duct tape gag. His bare chest heaved with labored breathing, sweat and dirt mixing on his skin. Rope burns already showing red on his wrists and ankles.
Their eyes met.
Jake jerked his head toward the door—where'd they go?
Billy shook his head slightly—don't know.
Jake's eyes narrowed, then he started struggling—twisting against the ropes, trying to wrench his hands free. After thirty seconds of thrashing, he went still, chest heaving.
Billy grunted through the gag, tried to get his brother's attention. Jake looked over.
Billy gestured with his eyes toward Jake's shoulder, then his own face. The gag. Work it off.
Jake frowned, then understood. He started working his jaw, rubbing his face against his bare shoulder. The duct tape shifted slightly.
Billy did the same—using the sweat slicking his skin to work against the adhesive. Every movement sent fresh agony through his neck, but he kept at it.
It took forever.
Jake got his tape free first—ripping sound, then a gasp as he sucked in air.
"Finally," he rasped. "Thought I was gonna suffocate."
Billy worked harder, felt his own tape give. He spat it out, coughed, breathed.
"How long we been up here?" Jake asked, voice rough.
"Hours. Don't know how many."
"My head feels like it's gonna explode."
"Same."
Jake tested the ropes around his wrists, grimaced. "These bastards know what they're doing. Knots are solid."
"Professional."
"Great. We got kidnapped by professionals." Jake tried to twist his hands. "Can't get any leverage like this."
Billy's mind was already working, analyzing the situation. "How far apart are we?"
"Three, maybe four feet."
"If we swing—"
"—we might reach each other." Jake's eyes lit up. "Work the knots."
"Exactly. Can you build momentum?"
Jake tested it, rocking his body slightly. The rope creaked. "Yeah. Gonna hurt like hell though."
"Everything already hurts like hell."
"Fair point." Jake grinned—that reckless expression Billy knew meant his brother was about to do something stupid and brave. "On three?"
"Wait." Billy looked around the barn—taking inventory. "What happens if we get the ropes off? They took our phones, the radios—"
"We find a way to signal Jr. Or we wait for them by the door with whatever we can use as weapons." Jake nodded toward some wooden boards leaning against the far wall. "I'm not getting hogtied again without a fight."
"Agreed. Alright. Let's do this."
They started rocking, building momentum. Small movements at first—Billy pushed with his core, felt the rope swing. Jake did the same.
Each swing sent waves of pain through their bodies—shoulders wrenching, blood rushing, vision blurring. But they kept going.
Swing. Pull back. Swing wider.
"Come on," Jake grunted. "Little more—"
Their fingers touched for a split second, then they swung apart.
"Again!" Billy called.
They built momentum, timed it better. This time when they swung together, Billy managed to grab Jake's forearm.
"Got you!"
Jake twisted, got his fingers around Billy's wrist. They hung there, suspended upside down, gripping each other's arms.
"Your knots," Billy said. "Can you reach?"
Jake stretched, fingers fumbling. "Almost—wait—" His face contorted with effort. "Got the edge. It's tight though."
"Work it. We've got time."
"Do we?" Jake pulled at the knot. "What if they come back?"
"Then we're ready. Keep going."
Jake's fingers worked the rope, picking at the knot with determination. "This would be easier if I could see what I'm doing."
"You've tied enough knots in your life. Do it backwards."
"Oh sure, no problem, just hanging upside down with my head about to pop—there!" Jake's eyes widened. "Got it loosening."
Billy felt the rope around Jake's wrists shift slightly. "Keep going. Almost there."
"Your turn next, then we figure out how to get down without breaking our necks."
"One problem at a time, brother."
Jake pulled harder at the knot. "When we get out of this, I'm killing these guys."
"Get in line."
"We'll take turns."
Despite everything—the pain, the danger, the blood rushing to their heads—Billy almost smiled. This was them. This was how they'd always been.
And they were getting out of this. Together.
Chapter 6: The Search
Back at the ranch, the command center hummed with activity.
Jr sat at the main console, fingers flying across three keyboards simultaneously. To his left, Billy Renzo monitored drone feeds on two screens. To his right, Ryan Mattern tracked radio frequencies and satellite phone signals. Daniel Rodriguez worked the thermal imaging controls while Caleb and Colt coordinated the physical search grid on a large map spread across the desk.
Seven teenagers. Fifty thousand dollars worth of equipment. And two missing uncles somewhere in the Texas scrubland.
Jr's radio crackled.
"Command Center, this is Tom. You copy?"
Jr grabbed the mic. "Copy, Granddad. Go ahead."
"We've secured the first barn. Found rope fragments, duct tape, evidence they were here. But the trail goes cold at the back door. What've the drones got?"
Jr glanced at Billy Renzo, who shook his head—nothing yet.
"Drones are running search pattern Alpha," Jr reported. "Thermal imaging shows vehicle tracks heading northwest from the barn, but they fade out after about two miles where they hit the main road. Could've gone any direction from there."
Tom's voice came back tight with frustration. "How many drones do we have in the air?"
"Four right now. Two more charging. We're covering a ten-mile radius from the barn, expanding outward."
"Sheriff Wade wants to know if you can pull satellite imagery. See if we can spot their vehicle."
Jr was already typing. "On it. Daniel, pull up the satellite feed from—" he checked his watch "—between 2:30 and 3:30 PM. Highway 83 corridor, twenty-mile stretch south of the barn."
"Got it." Daniel's fingers moved across his keyboard. "Satellite data's loading now."
The radio crackled again. This time Sheriff Wade's voice. "Jr, this is Wade. Can you track cell phone signals in the area? Even burner phones give off pings."
"Already running it, Sheriff," Ryan Mattern called out, not looking up from his screen. "Got about forty cell signals in the search radius. Cross-referencing with known consortium numbers now to eliminate ours."
"Good thinking, son. Keep me posted."
Jr keyed the mic again. "Granddad, what's your position?"
"Still at the first barn with your dad and Ray. Pops is with the Nelson boys checking the perimeter. The Beaumonts are setting up a command post here. Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes are running search patterns on the ground—three trucks, full crews."
"Copy that." Jr pulled up the GPS map showing all consortium vehicles as green dots. "I've got all your positions marked. Uploading the drone footage to everyone's tablets now so you can see what we're seeing."
"Roger. Your grandmother's asking about—" Tom's voice broke slightly. "Any signs of them? Anything at all?"
Jr looked around the command center. Six pairs of eyes met his, all shaking their heads.
"Not yet, Granddad. But we're not stopping until we find them."
"I know you're not, son. Keep at it."
The radio went quiet for a moment. Then Pops' voice came through—gravel and cigar smoke and barely contained rage.
"Jr, this is Pops. Those drones got night vision?"
"Yes sir. Full thermal and night vision on all six."
"Good. Sun's gonna set in about three hours. If we don't find them before then, we keep looking. You understand me? We don't stop."
"Understood, Pops. We won't stop."
Caleb spoke up from the map. "Jr, I'm marking potential secondary locations based on the vehicle tracks. Old barns, abandoned buildings, anything within a forty-mile radius that matches the profile."
"How many?" Jr asked.
"Seventeen so far. Wait, make that nineteen."
Jr keyed the radio again. "Granddad, Caleb's got nineteen potential locations marked. Uploading coordinates to your tablets now. Recommend we split up search teams and start clearing them one by one."
Tom's response was immediate. "Roger. Wade's organizing the teams now. Send us the priority list—closest locations first."
Billy Renzo suddenly leaned forward. "Jr, I got something. Drone Three, sector twelve. Thermal's picking up a structure—barn or warehouse, about fifteen miles northwest of the first location."
Jr rolled his chair over, studied the screen. "Heat signatures?"
"Can't tell yet. Building's got a metal roof, interfering with the imaging. But it matches the profile—isolated, no nearby houses, off any main roads."
Jr grabbed the mic. "Granddad, possible location. Drone Three just spotted a barn, fifteen miles northwest. Coordinates uploading now."
"We see it." Tom's voice had new energy. "That's on Mattern land—supposed to be abandoned. Wade, you copy?"
Sheriff Wade's voice: "Copy. That's the old Holbrook place. Been empty for years. Sending a unit now."
"Negative," Tom said. "We all go. If they're there, I want overwhelming force. Jr, keep the drone on it. Let us know if you see any movement."
"Will do." Jr turned to Billy Renzo. "Keep Drone Three locked on that barn. Zoom in as tight as you can without losing the angle."
Daniel called out from his station. "Satellite imagery is up. Reviewing now—got about thirty vehicles on Highway 83 during our time window. Most are civilian traffic, but there's a white pickup, older model, no plates visible. Shows up heading north at 2:47 PM."
"Time stamp matches," Ryan Mattern added. "That's about when they would've left the first barn after hearing the 911 alert."
Jr keyed the mic. "Granddad, we might have the vehicle. White pickup, older model, heading north on 83 at 2:47 PM. Can't see plates from satellite angle."
"White pickup," Tom repeated. "That narrows it down. Wade, put out a BOLO—"
"Already doing it," Wade interrupted. "Every deputy, every consortium member, every ranch hand within a hundred miles is looking for that truck."
Jr watched the screens, watched the green dots of consortium vehicles converging toward the coordinates, watched Drone Three's feed showing the barn growing larger as it approached.
"Come on," he muttered. "Be there. Please be there."
Colt looked up from the map. "If they're not at this barn?"
"Then we check the next one," Jr said. "And the next one. And the next one after that."
The radio crackled. Tom's voice, distant: "Approaching the barn now. Jr, what's the drone showing?"
Billy Renzo studied his screen. "No movement outside. Can't get thermal through the roof, but—wait. There's a vehicle behind the barn. Looks like it could be the white pickup."
Jr's heart jumped. "Granddad, there's a vehicle behind the barn. Possible match to satellite footage."
"We see it." Tom's voice was tight. "Everyone hold positions. Wade's going in first."
The command center went silent. All seven boys stared at the drone feed, watching tiny figures moving toward the barn.
Jr gripped the mic, waiting.
This had to be it.
It had to be.
Chapter 7: The Escape
Jake's fingers worked the knot with desperate precision.
"Almost—got it—" The rope around his wrist suddenly loosened. "Yes!"
With his hands free, Jake could finally reach up—or down, given he was still upside down—and grab the rope between his boots. His fingers were numb, clumsy, but functional.
"Hurry," Billy grunted, still gripping Jake's arm. "I can't hold much longer."
Jake fumbled with the knot at his ankles. "This one's tighter—they really cranked it—there!"
The rope fell away.
Jake dropped.
He tried to control the fall, twist in mid-air, but his body was too weak, too disoriented from hanging upside down. He hit the dirt floor hard, shoulder first, rolled.
"Jake!" Billy hissed. "You okay?"
"Yeah," Jake wheezed, pushing himself up. His head spun, vision swimming as the blood finally started draining back down from his skull. He stayed on his hands and knees for a moment, breathing hard. "Yeah, I'm good."
He stood on shaky legs, stumbled to Billy. "Your turn."
Jake reached up, started working on Billy's wrist knots. His fingers were stiff, uncooperative, but he'd tied and untied a thousand knots in his life. Ranch work. This was just ranch work in reverse.
"Got it," he said, loosening the rope. Billy's hands came free.
Billy immediately reached for his ankle ropes while Jake steadied him. Within seconds, Billy was falling too—but Jake caught him, broke his fall, and they both went down in a heap on the barn floor.
For a moment they just lay there, two brothers on the dirt, breathing hard, heads pounding, shoulders screaming.
Then Billy pushed himself up. "We gotta move. They could come back any second."
Jake nodded, got to his feet. The world tilted but he stayed upright. "Weapons. We need weapons."
They scanned the barn. There—against the far wall. Wooden boards, two-by-fours from some old construction project. Jake grabbed one, tested the weight. Solid. Heavy enough to do damage.
Billy took another. "We ambush them when they come back."
"Where?"
Billy pointed to the barn door. "One on each side. They come through, we hit them before they know what's happening."
"What if they've got guns?"
"Then we better swing first and swing hard."
They moved into position—Jake on the left side of the door, Billy on the right. Both shirtless, covered in rope burns and dirt, gripping wooden boards like clubs.
Jake's heart hammered. Adrenaline cutting through the pain and exhaustion.
"Billy?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for coming after me."
"Shut up."
Jake grinned. That was about as emotional as his brother got.
They waited.
Twenty minutes later, they heard the truck.
Engine growling, getting closer. Jake's grip tightened on the board. Beside the door, Billy tensed.
The truck stopped. Doors opened. Footsteps.
Three voices, low and relaxed.
"—should've heard from the boss by now—"
"Probably negotiating the drop. Two million, split three ways—"
"Four ways. Boss gets his cut."
"Still, that's—"
The barn door swung open.
The first kidnapper stepped through.
Billy swung.
The board connected with the side of the man's head with a sickening crack. He went down hard, didn't move.
The second kidnapper reacted fast—started to reach for his gun—but Jake was faster. He brought his board down on the man's arm, then across his face. The kidnapper dropped, clutching his broken nose.
The third man was already backing away, going for his weapon—
Billy charged him, drove his shoulder into the man's gut, slammed him against the barn wall. The gun fell. Jake kicked it away, then brought his board across the man's knees. He collapsed.
"Rope!" Billy shouted. "Get the rope!"
Jake grabbed the same ropes that had bound them—still hanging from the ceiling beams, still on the floor. Poetic justice.
They moved fast. First kidnapper still unconscious—Billy rolled him onto his stomach, wrenched his arms behind his back. Jake tied his wrists, tight and professional, then pulled his ankles back and connected them to his wrists.
Hogtied.
Second kidnapper was groaning, blood pouring from his nose. Billy grabbed him, forced him down. Same process—hands behind back, rope around wrists, ankles pulled up, connected.
Hogtied.
Third man tried to fight—thrashing, cursing—but he was outnumbered and outmatched. Jake kneed him in the ribs, Billy yanked his arms back, and within seconds he was face-down in the dirt, wrists and ankles bound together.
Hogtied.
All three kidnappers. Trussed up the same way they'd done to Billy and Jake.
Billy and Jake stood over them, breathing hard, boards still in their hands.
"How's it feel?" Jake growled down at them.
One of them—the leader—glared up at them. "You're dead. You hear me? You're—"
Billy pressed his boot against the man's face, pushed it into the dirt. "Shut up."
Jake was already moving, searching the unconscious kidnapper's pockets. "Looking for—got it!" He pulled out a cell phone. "Battery's still good."
"Call Dad," Billy said.
Jake's hands shook as he unlocked the phone—no password, thank God—and dialed. His fingers remembered the number by heart.
It rang once. Twice.
"Hello?" Tom's voice, wary—unknown number.
"Dad!" Jake's voice cracked. "Dad, it's Jake. We're okay. We got out—"
"Jake? JAKE! Where are you? Are you hurt? Is Billy—"
"Billy's here. We're both okay. We—we don't know where we are. Some barn, middle of nowhere—"
Billy grabbed the phone. "Dad, listen. We're safe. We took down the kidnappers, got them hogtied. But we need pickup. Can Jr trace this phone?"
A pause. Then Tom's voice, thick with emotion but controlled: "Hold the line. Jr, you get that?"
Jr's voice came through, distant but clear: "Got it! Pinging the phone now—got the signal! Uploading coordinates—you're about twenty miles northwest of the first barn, off County Road 19!"
"We're coming!" Tom's voice. "Hold tight, boys. Do not let those bastards go. We're coming right now!"
"Hurry," Billy said. Then, quieter: "We're okay, Dad. Tell Mom we're okay."
"She's right here. She hears you. We're coming. Ten minutes, maybe fifteen. You hear me? We're coming!"
The line stayed open. Billy could hear the convoy mobilizing—engines roaring, voices shouting coordinates, Sarah crying in the background.
Jake slumped against the barn wall, suddenly exhausted. Billy sat down beside him.
"We did it," Jake said.
"Yeah."
"We actually did it."
Billy looked at the three hogtied kidnappers on the floor, then at his brother. "Never doubted it for a second."
Jake snorted. "Liar."
They sat there, two shirtless brothers covered in rope burns and dirt, waiting for their family to arrive.
Back at the command center, Jr was already moving.
"Coordinates locked! They're at the old Patterson barn, County Road 19!" He grabbed his radio. "All units, new location! Uploading now!"
Then he turned to his friends. "Let's go."
"What?" Caleb said.
"Let's go! They need us—they might need medical, they might need backup—come on!"
All seven boys bolted for the door.
They piled into Jr's truck—Jr driving, Billy Renzo in the passenger seat with a tablet controlling the drones, the other five crammed in the back with equipment and supplies.
Jr started the engine, peeled out of the driveway.
"Keep the drones on them!" he shouted. "I want eyes on that barn until the convoy gets there!"
"On it!" Billy Renzo's fingers flew across the tablet screen. On the display, the drone feed showed the barn, two figures sitting outside—Billy and Jake—and three figures bound on the ground inside.
"They really did it," Ryan Mattern breathed. "They hogtied the kidnappers."
"That's my uncles," Jr said, grinning fiercely as he pushed the accelerator down. "That's my family."
Behind them, the command center was still broadcasting—coordinating the convoy, tracking positions, maintaining communications.
But the wiz kids were heading to their uncles.
And they were bringing the drones with them.
Chapter 8: Justice Delivered
Jr took the turn onto County Road 14 at sixty miles an hour, the truck fishtailing slightly on the gravel.
"This is a shortcut?" Colt yelled from the back.
"Ranch roads!" Jr shouted back. "I've been riding these since I was eight. Cuts ten miles off the main route!"
Billy Renzo gripped the tablet, eyes on the drone feed. "Convoy's still on Highway 83. We're gonna beat them there."
"That's the plan!" Jr yanked the wheel, took another turn. The truck bounced over ruts, engine roaring.
Daniel Rodriguez leaned forward. "Jr, your granddad's gonna kill you for driving like this."
"He'll get over it when we arrive with drone coverage and medical supplies." Jr grinned. "Hold on!"
They flew over a cattle crossing, went airborne for a second, landed hard. Everyone in the truck bounced.
"I see the barn!" Caleb called out, pointing ahead.
There—weathered wood, metal roof, sitting alone in the scrubland. And outside, two shirtless figures sitting against the wall.
Billy and Jake.
Jr slammed on the brakes, skidding to a stop in a cloud of dust. All seven boys piled out.
"Uncle Billy! Uncle Jake!" Jr ran toward them.
Billy and Jake looked up—exhausted, battered, but alive. Both tried to stand, wincing.
"Jr?" Billy said. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"Making sure you're okay!" Jr skidded to a stop, took in the rope burns on their wrists and ankles, the bruises, the dirt and sweat. "Jesus. You look like hell."
"Feel like it too," Jake said. But he was grinning. "How'd you get here so fast?"
"Shortcuts. Ranch roads." Jr turned to the others. "Ryan, Daniel—medical kit. Check them over. Caleb, Colt—secure the perimeter. Billy, keep the drones up, I want coverage when the convoy arrives."
The boys moved like a unit—practiced, efficient. Ryan Mattern pulled out a first aid kit, started checking Billy's rope burns. Daniel did the same for Jake.
"Wiz kids to the rescue," Jake said, shaking his head. "Never thought I'd see the day."
"You left breadcrumbs," Jr said. "We just followed them."
Billy gripped his nephew's shoulder. "You did good, Jr. Real good."
Behind them, the sound of engines—multiple vehicles approaching fast.
The consortium had arrived.
Six trucks roared up to the barn and came to a halt. Doors flew open.
Tom Benson jumped out, then stopped dead when he saw Jr's truck already parked there, all seven teenagers surrounding Billy and Jake with medical supplies and equipment.
"What the—how did you—" Tom looked from the wiz kids to his sons and back. "You beat us here?"
"Ranch roads, Granddad!" Jr called out. "Shortcuts!"
Sheriff Wade emerged from his vehicle, shaking his head in disbelief. "Those boys took every back road and cattle path between here and the ranch."
Pops climbed out of his truck, surveyed the scene—seven teenagers, organized and efficient, already providing aid and security. A huge grin split his weathered face.
"That's my boys!" he shouted, raising his flask. "That's my great-grandsons! Knew I taught you something!"
The other consortium members were climbing out now, all looking impressed and slightly bewildered.
Robert Beaumont laughed. "We took the highway doing eighty, and these kids still beat us."
"Technology and local knowledge," Billy Renzo said, not looking up from the tablet showing drone feeds. "We had the advantage."
But Tom wasn't focused on how they got there. He was already running toward Billy and Jake, Sarah right behind him.
"Billy! Jake!"
Tom reached them first, grabbed both boys into a fierce hug despite their protests about rope burns. Sarah was right there, hands on their faces, checking them over, tears streaming.
"You're okay," she kept saying. "You're okay, you're okay—"
"We're okay, Mom," Billy said. "We're fine."
"Fine?" Sarah's voice cracked. "You were kidnapped, hogtied, strung up like—"
"And we got out," Jake interrupted gently. "We're here. We're safe."
Josh and Ray appeared, both checking over their younger brothers. Pops came up behind them, cigar clenched in his teeth, brandy flask in hand, eyes suspiciously wet.
Sheriff Wade Nelson approached with his deputies, Wilson and Ryan. He looked at Billy and Jake, then at the barn.
"Where are they?" Wade asked.
Billy jerked his thumb toward the barn. "Inside. All three. Gift-wrapped for you, Sheriff."
Wade walked into the barn, deputies behind him. A moment later, his voice carried out:
"Well I'll be damned."
He emerged, shaking his head, fighting a grin. "Boys, you want to come see this?"
The consortium members gathered at the barn entrance. There on the floor—three men, hogtied with professional knots, gagged with their own bandanas, looking significantly less threatening than they had a few hours ago.
Wade walked over to them, crouched down. "Gentlemen, you have the right to remain silent..." He paused, looked back at his deputies. "Wilson, you got the cuffs?"
Wilson held them up.
Wade shook his head. "Actually, I don't think we need them. These boys are pretty well tied up already!"
Laughter erupted from the consortium members—release of tension, relief, the pure satisfaction of seeing justice served.
"No need to cuff them, Sheriff!" Ray called out. "They're already plenty secured!"
More laughter rippled through the group.
"Sheriff," one of the kidnappers tried to speak through the gag. "Mmmph—"
"What's that?" Wade leaned closer. "Can't hear you. Something about your civil rights? Well, here's the thing—you kidnapped two members of the Benson family, assaulted them, held them for ransom, and generally made a nuisance of yourselves. So right now, I'm not feeling particularly sympathetic to your comfort."
He stood up, nodded to his deputies. "Load them in the truck. Leave the ropes. I want photos documented exactly as the Benson boys left them."
"Yes sir," Wilson said, grinning.
Then Pops stepped forward.
The old man walked right up to the hogtied kidnappers, brandy flask in one hand, cigar in the other. His face was thunderous.
"You sons of bitches," he growled. "You miserable, pathetic, cowardly pieces of shit. You think you can come onto consortium land, take my great-grandsons, tie them up like animals, and get away with it?"
The wiz kids had gathered behind him, eyes wide. Jr had heard Pops curse before—plenty of times—but this was different. This was focused rage.
"You worthless bastards. You goddamn lowlife scum-sucking motherfuckers. I fought in Vietnam, killed better men than you before breakfast, and you think you can threaten my family?"
Pops took a long drink from his flask, blew cigar smoke in the nearest kidnapper's face.
"I hope you rot in prison. I hope every day you're there, you remember that you got your asses handed to you by two twenty-year-old ranch hands. I hope it eats at you. I hope it destroys you."
He leaned down closer, voice dropping to something even more dangerous.
"And if you ever—EVER—come near my family again, there won't be enough of you left for the sheriff to arrest. You understand me, you worthless cock-sucking sons of whores?"
Behind him, the wiz kids stood frozen. Ryan Mattern whispered to Jr: "Did he just say—"
"I don't even know what half those words mean," Jr whispered back.
"I'm learning so much," Colt murmured.
Billy Renzo had his phone out. "I'm writing these down for later."
Pops straightened up, took another drink, turned back to his family. His face softened immediately when he looked at Billy and Jake.
"You boys did good," he said gruffly. "Real good. Your great-great-grandfather would be proud."
He walked over, pulled both of them into a rough hug, then released them and headed back to his truck, muttering curses under his breath the whole way.
Sheriff Wade cleared his throat. "Well. Think that covers everything. Deputies, get these fine gentlemen secured in the truck. The Bensons can head home."
Tom put his arms around Billy's and Jake's shoulders—careful of the rope burns. "Let's go home."
Sarah appeared with shirts from someone's truck—Billy and Jake had been shirtless this entire time. They pulled them on gratefully.
The convoy formed up again—six trucks, plus Jr's with the wiz kids, plus Sheriff Wade's vehicle with three hogtied kidnappers in the back.
As they pulled away from the barn, Jr kept the drones up, providing aerial coverage of the convoy all the way back.
In the lead truck, Tom drove with Sarah beside him. Billy and Jake sat in the back, exhausted but safe.
"You scared us," Tom said quietly.
"We scared ourselves," Billy admitted.
"But you didn't break," Sarah said, turning to look at them. "You didn't give up. You fought back."
"That's what you taught us," Jake said.
Tom's hands tightened on the steering wheel. "When I saw that photo... when I thought we might lose you both..."
"You didn't," Billy said firmly. "We're here. We're okay."
"Because you left breadcrumbs," Sarah said. "Because Jr found your note. Because this family works together."
Jake looked out the window at the convoy—consortium members, friends, family, all heading home together.
"Yeah," he said softly. "That's exactly why."
The convoy rolled on, dust rising behind them, drones overhead, heading back to the Benson Ranch.
Heading home.
Chapter 9: Home
The Benson Ranch had never felt so good.
By the time the convoy rolled in, it was nearly sunset. The entire consortium gathered in the main house—too many people for the dining room, so they spread out between the kitchen, the living room, and the back porch.
Sarah and the other women had put together a quick dinner—nothing fancy, just massive pots of chili, cornbread, and everything else they could throw together on short notice. Nobody cared. They were together. They were safe.
Billy and Jake had showered, changed, gotten their rope burns bandaged properly. They sat at the kitchen table, bowls of chili in front of them, surrounded by family.
Pops appeared with a bottle of Jack Daniels and a tray of glasses.
"Alright, listen up!" His voice cut through the chatter. "We're drinking tonight. All of us."
Sarah started to protest. "Dad, the boys are—"
"Old enough," Pops said firmly. "They survived a kidnapping, escaped on their own, and hogtied three grown men. They're drinking."
He poured generous shots into glasses, passed them around to the consortium men—Tom, Josh, Ray, Sheriff Wade, the Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes. Then he poured smaller shots for Billy and Jake.
"And the wiz kids," Pops added, pouring even smaller amounts for Jr and his six friends. "They earned it too."
Sarah opened her mouth, closed it, nodded. Mary Nelson and Caroline Beaumont exchanged looks but didn't object.
Pops raised his glass.
"To Billy and Jake," he said, voice rough with emotion. "Who proved today that Benson blood runs strong. Who didn't break, didn't quit, and came home standing."
"To Billy and Jake!" the room chorused.
Everyone drank. The Jack burned going down, but it was a good burn.
Pops poured another round.
"And to Jr and the wiz kids," he continued. "Who built a network that saved lives today. Who tracked, coordinated, and got there first with shortcuts I didn't even know existed."
Jr grinned, raised his glass.
"To the wiz kids!"
More drinking. More laughter.
Tom stood up, glass in hand. "To family. To the consortium. To everyone who dropped everything and came running today."
"To family!"
The room was getting louder now, the tension of the day finally releasing. Stories were being shared—the moment Jr found the note, the convoy organizing, Wade's face when he saw the hogtied kidnappers.
Pops kept pouring.
"Another round!" he called out. "We're celebrating!"
Sheriff Wade laughed. "Pops, you're gonna get us all drunk."
"That's the idea, Sheriff!"
Billy Renzo had been quiet, sitting with his tablet, grinning to himself. Now he stood up.
"Wait, wait," he said. "I got something. A toast."
Everyone turned to look at him.
"Here's to Pops," Billy Renzo said, raising his glass. "For teaching us vocabulary we never knew existed."
Pops squinted at him. "What're you talking about, boy?"
Billy Renzo tapped his tablet. "Well, sir, I was taking notes earlier. For educational purposes."
Jr's eyes went wide. "Oh no. Billy, you didn't—"
"I did." Billy Renzo grinned wickedly. He turned the tablet toward the room and hit play.
Pops' voice boomed out of the speaker:
"You sons of bitches. You miserable, pathetic, cowardly pieces of shit. You think you can come onto consortium land, take my great-grandsons, tie them up like animals, and get away with it?"
The room erupted in laughter.
"You worthless bastards. You goddamn lowlife scum-sucking motherfuckers. I fought in Vietnam, killed better men than you before breakfast, and you think you can threaten my family?"
Men were doubled over. Jr was crying with laughter. Even the women were losing it—Sarah had her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking.
"I hope you rot in prison. I hope every day you're there, you remember that you got your asses handed to you by two twenty-year-old ranch hands. I hope it eats at you. I hope it destroys you."
Pops was grinning now, not even pretending to be upset.
"And if you ever—EVER—come near my family again, there won't be enough of you left for the sheriff to arrest. You understand me, you worthless cock-sucking sons of whores?"
The recording ended. The room exploded.
"POPS!"
"That was BEAUTIFUL!"
"I've never heard half those words in the same sentence!"
Sheriff Wade was wiping tears from his eyes. "Pops, that was the most creative cursing I've heard in twenty years of law enforcement."
Robert Beaumont raised his glass. "Pure poetry!"
Sarah was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. "Dad, where did you even learn to talk like that?"
Pops took a long drink of Jack, grinned around his cigar.
"Learned 'em in 'Nam," he said proudly. He grabbed the bottle, started pouring more drinks. "Had a sergeant—meanest son of a bitch you ever met—could curse for five minutes straight without repeating himself. I took notes."
More roaring laughter.
"Apparently Billy Renzo takes notes too!" Ray called out.
"Learned from the best!" Billy Renzo shot back.
Pops walked over to Billy Renzo, clapped him on the shoulder. "You keep that recording, boy. That's quality education right there."
"Yes sir!"
Jr raised his glass. "To Pops! Teacher, grandfather, and the Shakespeare of profanity!"
"TO POPS!"
The room drank again. Pops kept pouring—glasses for everyone, the bottle getting lighter, the room getting louder and happier.
Jake leaned over to Billy. "This might be the best night of my life."
"Better than being hogtied and strung up?"
"Marginally."
They clinked glasses.
Across the room, Tom caught Sarah's eye. She walked over, slipped her hand into his.
"Our boys," she said softly.
"Our boys," Tom agreed. "All of them."
Because tonight, it wasn't just Billy and Jake. It was Jr and the wiz kids. It was Josh and Ray. It was the consortium families—Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes. It was Pops with his Jack Daniels and his Vietnam vocabulary.
It was family.
The night wore on. The Jack kept flowing. Stories got louder and more embellished. The wiz kids acted out their high-speed drive on the ranch roads. Billy and Jake demonstrated—carefully—how they'd ambushed the kidnappers.
Pops sat in his chair, cigar smoke wreathing his head, glass of Jack in his hand, watching his family with fierce pride.
This. This was what he'd built. This was what his great-grandfather had started a hundred years ago on this land.
Not just a ranch. Not just a business.
A family. A legacy. Something worth fighting for.
And today, they'd proven it.
Sarah appeared beside him, put her hand on his shoulder.
"You okay, Dad?"
Pops nodded, not trusting his voice for a moment. Then he cleared his throat.
"Yeah. I'm good." He raised his glass toward the room—toward his grandsons, his great-grandsons, the families who'd become part of their own. "Real good."
She squeezed his shoulder, understanding.
Somewhere across the room, Billy Renzo hit play on the recording again:
"You worthless bastards. You goddamn lowlife scum-sucking motherfuckers—"
Fresh roars of laughter.
Pops grinned, poured himself another drink.
Yeah. This was home.
This was family.
And no one—no one—was going to take that away.
THE END
