Chapter 1: The Cabin
The cabin door swung open with a crash that echoed off the bare wooden walls.
Billy Benson stumbled forward, shoved hard from behind. His younger brother Jake came next, nearly tripping over the threshold. Both men had their arms wrenched behind their backs in a position that made Billy's shoulders scream—their elbows cinched tight together with rope, forcing their shoulder blades to grind against each other. It was a torture position, pure and simple. Every breath sent fresh waves of fire down Billy's arms.
Sweat already soaked through Billy's shirt. The Texas heat inside the cabin was stifling, airless, and the pain radiating from his shoulders made his whole body break out in a cold sweat that mixed with the heat. He could feel it running down his face, stinging his eyes.
"Move," one of the kidnappers barked, shoving Jake again.
Billy's eyes adjusted to the dim interior. The cabin was sparse—rough wooden floors, a few chairs, a table cluttered with beer cans and whiskey bottles. And there, on the floor near the far wall, was Celab Beaumont.
Their buddy was already down. Already broken into position.
Celab lay on his stomach in a brutal hogtie, his wrists bound behind his back and connected by a taut rope to his ankles, pulling his feet up toward his hands. His back was arched, his face pressed against the dirty floorboards. His shirt was drenched—dark with sweat that pooled beneath him on the wood. Even from across the room, Billy could see the way Celab's muscles trembled from the strain, see the shine of perspiration on every exposed inch of skin.
A strip of silver duct tape covered Celab's mouth. His eyes were squeezed shut, his breathing coming in harsh snorts through his nose.
"Celab!" Jake tried to shout, but it came out muffled.
Billy's stomach dropped. He'd forgotten—they'd already gagged them outside. The cloth stuffed in his mouth pressed against his tongue, making him want to gag. The duct tape sealed his lips shut. He could only breathe through his nose, and with the panic rising in his chest, that wasn't enough air. Not nearly enough.
A fist slammed into Jake's kidney. Jake's muffled grunt of pain was barely audible through his gag.
"Shut up," the kidnapper growled. "You'll be right there with him in a minute."
Billy's mind raced. They'd been ambushed on the back section of the Beaumont property, checking fence lines like they did every week. Three men with guns. A truck they didn't recognize. It happened so fast—too fast. They'd stuffed the rags in their mouths before Billy could even think to fight back, wrapped the tape around their heads while their arms were being twisted behind them. Now they were here, wherever here was, and Celab looked like he'd been tied up for a while already.
"On the floor. Both of you."
Rough hands forced Billy down to his knees. The position sent fresh agony through his shoulders. Sweat poured down his temples, dripped from his nose onto the floorboards. He clenched his jaw around the cloth gag, refusing to let the muffled sounds of pain escape. Beside him, Jake hit the floor hard, his breath coming in ragged bursts through his nose.
The kidnappers worked fast. More rope appeared. Billy felt his ankles being lashed together, then a longer rope threaded through the bindings at his wrists. He knew what was coming.
They pulled.
His feet were yanked backward, up toward his bound arms, forcing his back into a deep arch. The hogtie. Billy's abs clenched as he tried to resist the position, but it was useless. The rope was unforgiving. Within seconds, he was immobilized—wrists to ankles, his body bent like a bow. The strain on his shoulders doubled, tripled. Fresh sweat broke out across his back, his chest, everywhere.
Jake grunted behind his gag as they did the same to him. Then more rope. Billy felt it loop around his neck—not tight enough to choke, but enough to feel it. The other end went to his ankles. Same with Jake. They were being linked together, side by side, necks to ankles in a configuration that made any movement dangerous.
"There we go," one of the kidnappers said with satisfaction. "Three little piggies all trussed up."
Billy turned his head as much as he could. Jake was inches away, his face already flushed red, slick with sweat. His eyes were wide above the silver tape, filled with rage and fear. Beyond him, Celab was still trembling, his entire body glistening with perspiration, his sweat-soaked shirt clinging to his heaving back.
Billy tried to speak—tried to threaten them—but all that came out was a muffled noise against the gag. The cloth in his mouth absorbed what little moisture he had left.
A boot caught him in the ribs. Not hard enough to break anything, but hard enough to make his point.
"Save your energy, Benson. You're gonna need it." The kidnapper crouched down, getting close to Billy's face. His breath reeked of whiskey and cigarettes. "Your daddy and all his rich rancher friends are about to get a little message. Three million dollars, or we torch this place with you boys inside."
Billy's blood ran cold. Fresh sweat beaded on his forehead despite the chill of terror.
The kidnapper stood up, pulling out his phone. "Let's make sure they're watching."
He tapped the screen a few times, then angled the phone toward them, panning slowly across all three bound men. Billy could see the red recording light. The camera lingered on each of them—on the tape gags, the brutal hogties, the ropes around their necks, the sweat pouring off their straining bodies.
Live feed.
"Look at 'em sweat," one of the other kidnappers said with a laugh. "Not so tough now."
The first kidnapper set up a second phone on the table, angling it for a different view. Two cameras. Two angles. Maximum psychological impact.
Billy's heart hammered against the floorboards. His shoulders were already burning. His back was cramping. Sweat ran into his eyes, blurring his vision. And now, somewhere out there, his father was watching. His mother. Pops. Josh. Ray.
Billy Junior.
God, what would this do to Jr.?
"Comfortable?" The kidnapper kicked at Jake's feet, making him jerk against the ropes. Jake's muffled cry was choked off as the movement tightened the rope around his neck. His face went from red to purple for a moment before he forced himself to go still.
Billy made a desperate sound behind his gag—half plea, half threat.
"That's right. You're not going anywhere." The kidnapper walked to the corner and hefted a red gasoline can, sloshing the liquid inside. He set it down deliberately in Billy's line of sight. Then another one. And another.
Three cans total.
"Forty-eight hours," the man said. "Then we find out how fast you boys burn."
The cabin door slammed shut. A deadbolt slid into place.
And then there was nothing but silence—except for the sound of three men breathing harsh and desperate through their noses, the creak of rope against stressed limbs, and the steady drip of sweat hitting the floorboards.
Billy closed his eyes. The cloth in his mouth was already soaked with saliva. His tongue pushed uselessly against it. The tape held firm. Sweat poured down his face, his neck, soaking into the collar of his shirt. His entire body was slick with it.
The cramps would come soon. He knew that. The real agony was just beginning.
Hold on, he thought. The consortium will come. They'll figure this out.
Above them, two phone cameras continued recording, the red lights blinking steadily, capturing every moment of their suffering for the families who loved them.
They have to.
Chapter 2: The Feed
The satellite phones went off simultaneously across Kings County.
Eighteen high-tech encrypted devices—purchased just three months ago for exactly this kind of emergency—all pinged at once with an incoming live stream. The sound was synchronized chaos: a digital alarm that cut through the lazy afternoon quiet of six ranch houses spread across half the county.
At the Benson ranch, Tom Benson was in the barn checking inventory when his sat phone buzzed against his hip. He pulled it out, saw the notification, and tapped the screen.
The image loaded.
Three young men. Bound. Gagged. Hogtied on a cabin floor.
Billy. Jake. Celab.
Tom's knees nearly buckled. "No. No, no, no—"
His thumb stabbed at the emergency button—the red 911 that Billy Jr. and Billy Renzo had programmed into every device. The signal went out instantly across the encrypted frequency: 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. TOM BENSON.
The phone fell from his hand as he ran toward the house, shouting for Sarah.
In the main house, Pops sat in his recliner with a brandy and a cigar, watching the afternoon news. His sat phone was on the side table. When it pinged, he picked it up with a grunt, expecting some mundane consortium business.
The live feed filled the screen.
The brandy glass slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor.
Pops stared at the image—at Billy and Jake, his grandsons, the boys he'd taught to ride and shoot and cuss, bound like animals on that filthy floor. At Celab, the Beaumont kid who'd become like family, sweating and trembling in a hogtie that made Pops's Vietnam-trained eye recognize immediately as a torture position.
"Jesus Christ," he whispered. Then louder: "Jesus Christ!"
His hands shook. Seventy-six years old, and his hands were shaking like he was back in the jungle. Rage and desperation and bone-deep fear flooded through him all at once.
Sarah came running. "Pops? What—"
He turned the phone toward her. She screamed.
At the Nelson ranch, Sheriff Wade Nelson was in his patrol car in the driveway, finishing paperwork, when his sat phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen and felt his blood turn to ice.
"Mary!" he shouted toward the house. "MARY! Get the boys! Now!"
Wilson and Ryan—his deputy sons—came sprinting from the barn. Wade held up the phone so they could see.
"Son of a bitch," Ryan breathed.
Wilson was already on his radio, calling in to dispatch. "This is Deputy Nelson. We have a 207A in progress—kidnapping, multiple victims. Scramble everyone. I need—"
"Belay that," Wade snapped. He pointed at the live feed. "Look at this setup. Two camera angles. Encrypted stream. If we bring in outside agencies, these bastards will know. This stays in the family."
"Dad—"
"I said it stays in the family." Wade's jaw was set. "Get your gear. We're going to the Benson ranch. Now."
In the "frat house" bedroom on the second floor of the Benson ranch, Billy Junior was lying on his bunk, scrolling through his iPad, when his sat phone exploded with notifications.
First, the live feed.
Then, his grandfather's 911 emergency signal.
Then, the encrypted frequency lit up like fireworks—voices overlapping, panicked, shouting:
"Did you see—"
"Oh my God, Billy and Jake—"
"Celab! That's Celab! Someone get Robert and Caroline—"
"Who are these bastards?!"
"TOM HIT 911! Everyone to the command center!"
Jr. sat up slowly, his face draining of color. His hands were numb. He stared at the screen—at his uncles, at Celab—and his vision narrowed to a tunnel.
"Jr.?"
He turned. Colt—Celab's seventeen-year-old cousin from Louisiana—stood in the doorway, his own sat phone clutched in a white-knuckled grip. His face was streaked with tears.
"That's Celab," Colt whispered. "That's my cousin. They—they—"
Jr. forced himself to stand. His legs felt like water. "We're gonna get him. We're gonna get all of them."
"How? How do we—"
Jr.'s sat phone buzzed again. This time it was the group frequency—Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez all calling in at once.
"Jr., you there?"
"We saw the feed, man. We're coming to you."
"My dad's already mobilizing. Where do you need us?"
Jr. swallowed hard, trying to force his brain to work through the shock. "Command center. Second floor, between my room and Pops's bedroom. Bring your iPads and your gear. We need to pull the surveillance footage and start triangulating that feed."
"On our way."
Jr. looked at Colt. The younger boy was trembling, his eyes wide with terror and helplessness.
"Colt, listen to me." Jr. gripped his shoulder. "We built this system for exactly this reason. We've got cameras, drones, encrypted comms, and the smartest tech team in the county. We're gonna find them."
Colt nodded, but the tears kept coming.
Jr.'s phone buzzed again—this time a call from his father, Josh. He answered.
"Jr., are you okay? Are you safe?"
"I'm fine, Dad. I'm at the house. Colt's with me."
"Stay there. Don't go anywhere. The whole consortium is converging on the ranch. We're setting up in ten minutes."
"Dad, I need to get to the command center. We have surveillance footage—"
"I know. I'm coming to you. Just—" Josh's voice cracked. "Just stay safe, son. Please."
"I will."
Jr. hung up and looked at the live feed one more time. His Uncle Billy's face was red and slick with sweat, his eyes squeezed shut above the duct tape gag. Uncle Jake was right beside him, chest heaving as he struggled to breathe through his nose. And Celab—Celab looked like he'd been in that position for a while, his whole body trembling with exhaustion.
Jr. felt something cold and hard settle in his chest. Fear, yes. But also determination.
"Let's go," he said to Colt. "Command center. Now."
They crossed the hallway to the room between the frat house and Pops's bedroom—the command center they'd spent months building and outfitting. Monitors, servers, drone controls, satellite uplinks. Seventy-five thousand dollars of the best equipment money could buy.
It was time to put it all to use.
Outside, the sound of trucks and ATVs roared up the driveway—the consortium, mobilizing.
Chapter 3: The Wiz Kids Take Over
The command center hummed to life as Billy Junior hit the power strips. Six monitors flickered on in sequence, bathing the room in blue-white light. Server racks blinked with green LEDs. The satellite uplink dish on the roof automatically oriented itself, locking onto the encrypted network.
Jr. dropped into the main chair, his fingers already flying across the keyboard. Colt hovered behind him, pale and shaking, eyes locked on one of the monitors still displaying the live feed.
"Don't look at that," Jr. said quietly. "Look here." He pulled up the surveillance system interface. "We're gonna find him."
The door burst open. Billy Renzo came in first, his iPad already synced to the network. Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez were right behind him, each carrying their gear bags—iPads, backup batteries, portable tracking equipment, and their Glocks in shoulder holsters under their jackets.
All four sixteen-year-olds were licensed to carry. Their fathers had made sure of that. Kings County was big, remote, and sometimes dangerous. The boys were expert marksmen—trained by Pops himself—and they took their responsibility seriously.
"What do we got?" Billy Renzo asked, dropping his bag and pulling up a chair.
"Nothing yet." Jr.'s jaw was tight. "I'm pulling up the property surveillance now. If they grabbed them from the Beaumont section, our cameras should've caught something."
Ryan Mattern was already connecting his iPad to the drone control system. "How many birds do we have charged?"
"All ten," Colt said, his voice shaky but determined. "I checked them this morning."
"Good. We'll need them."
Daniel Rodriguez pulled up the sat phone tracking interface on his iPad. "The feed is coming through the encrypted network, but it's bouncing through multiple VPNs. I'm running a trace now, but it's gonna take time."
Jr. nodded, his eyes never leaving the screen. "Start with the surveillance footage. We need to know when they were taken and what direction they went."
The four boys worked in synchronization—a team that had spent countless hours in this room, gaming, planning, building, preparing for exactly this scenario. They'd joked about it, mostly. Called it their "zombie apocalypse headquarters" or their "spy base." But they'd always known, deep down, that Kings County could be dangerous. Cartels moved through the area. Thieves targeted remote ranches. Violence was rare, but it was real.
They just never thought it would be Billy, Jake, and Celab.
Jr.'s screen flashed. "Got it. Camera twelve, Beaumont property, northwest fence line. Two seventeen PM."
All four boys leaned in.
The footage was grainy but clear enough. Billy, Jake, and Celab on horseback, checking fence posts like they did every week. Then a truck—a dark blue Ford F-250 with a damaged rear bumper—pulled up on the access road. Three men got out.
Guns drawn.
The boys watched in silence as the ambush unfolded. Billy and Jake raising their hands. Celab trying to run, getting tackled. The kidnappers moving fast, efficient, practiced. Rags shoved into mouths. Duct tape wrapped around heads. Arms wrenched behind backs and tied with brutal efficiency.
Within four minutes, all three were loaded into the truck bed, and the vehicle was speeding away.
"Jesus," Ryan Mattern breathed.
Jr. rewound and zoomed in on the license plate. "Got a partial. Texas plates, starts with DXR. That narrows it down."
"I'm running it now," Daniel said, his fingers flying across his iPad. "Cross-referencing with stolen vehicle reports and known associates of—"
"Wait." Billy Renzo pointed at the screen. "Freeze that. Look at the driver."
Jr. froze the frame. The driver's face was partially visible through the windshield—a man in his forties with a scar running down his left cheek.
"I know that guy," Billy Renzo said slowly. "I've seen him before. At the feed store in town, maybe? Or—"
"Focus," Jr. said, his voice tight. "We need the location. Daniel, how's that trace coming?"
"Still bouncing. They're using at least six VPN layers. But I'm narrowing the origin point. It's somewhere within a fifty-mile radius."
"That's still too big." Jr. pulled up a satellite map overlay. "We need to narrow it down to a grid we can search with the drones."
Downstairs, the sound of boots and voices echoed through the house. The consortium was arriving—Tom, Josh, Ray, Pops, Sheriff Wade, Wilson, Ryan Nelson, Robert and Caroline Beaumont, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. The whole network mobilizing.
Jr. heard his father's voice calling up the stairs. "Jr.! You boys find anything?"
"Working on it, Dad!" Jr. shouted back. Then, quieter, to his team: "We've got maybe ten minutes before they come up here and take over. Let's get them something they can use."
Ryan Mattern launched the first drone from the roof. The live feed appeared on monitor three—an aerial view of the Beaumont property, already scanning for heat signatures and vehicle tracks.
"Thermal's online," Ryan said. "Scanning northwest."
Billy Renzo pulled up property records. "There are six abandoned structures within thirty miles of the ambush site. Old barns, storage facilities, a couple of hunting cabins. Any of them could work."
"Cross-reference with the VPN trace," Jr. said.
Daniel's screen flashed. "Got a tighter radius. Twenty miles, centered on the old Harrison property. That's been abandoned for three years."
Jr.'s pulse quickened. "That's it. That has to be it. Ryan, redirect the drones to that sector. Billy, pull up every structure on that property."
The boys worked faster now, their fear transforming into focus. This was what they'd trained for. This was why they'd spent seventy-five grand on equipment, why they'd built this command center, why they carried Glocks and practiced at the range every weekend.
The door opened. Josh Benson stepped in, followed by Sheriff Wade, Tom, and Pops. All four men looked haggard, desperate, barely holding it together.
"What do you have?" Josh asked, his voice hoarse.
Jr. turned in his chair. "We've got the ambush on camera. Dark blue Ford F-250, damaged rear bumper, partial plate starting with DXR. We're tracing the live feed through multiple VPNs, and we've narrowed the location to the old Harrison property, twenty miles northwest."
Wade's eyes widened. "The Harrison place? That's got at least four buildings on it."
"Five," Billy Renzo corrected, pulling up a satellite image. "Main house, two barns, a storage shed, and an old bunkhouse."
"We've got drones en route now," Ryan Mattern added. "Thermal imaging will tell us which building has heat signatures."
Pops stepped forward, his face gray but his eyes sharp. "How long?"
"Fifteen minutes for the drones to reach the site," Jr. said. "Maybe another ten to scan all five buildings."
"That's too long," Tom said, his voice breaking. "Those boys—"
"We're moving as fast as we can, Grandpa." Jr.'s voice was steady, but his hands shook on the keyboard. "This is the fastest way to find them without tipping off the kidnappers."
Sheriff Wade put a hand on Tom's shoulder. "The boys are right. We go in blind, we risk getting Billy, Jake, and Celab killed. We need intel first."
Josh looked at his son—really looked at him—and saw a young man he barely recognized. Sixteen years old, but commanding the room like a seasoned operator. "You're doing good, Jr. Keep going."
Jr. nodded and turned back to the monitors. "Daniel, keep tracing that feed. Ryan, push the drones faster. Billy, I need layouts of those buildings—entry points, exits, sightlines."
"On it."
Pops moved closer, cigar clenched between his teeth despite Sarah's earlier orders to put it out. He studied the screens, his Vietnam training kicking in. "If it's the bunkhouse, they'll have limited exits. Tactical advantage goes to whoever controls the door."
"Noted," Jr. said.
The room fell into focused silence, broken only by the clicking of keyboards and the hum of equipment. On one monitor, the live feed continued—Billy, Jake, and Celab still hogtied, still sweating, still suffering.
But now, the cavalry was coming.
And they had a location.
Chapter 4: Hours of Agony
Time crawled.
Billy Benson had no idea how long they'd been tied like this. An hour? Two? His internal clock had shattered somewhere between the first wave of shoulder cramps and the moment sweat started pooling beneath his chest on the filthy floorboards.
Breathe. Just breathe through your nose. Don't panic.
But his body screamed at him to panic. Every muscle in his back was locked in a spasm from the arch. His shoulders felt like they were being pulled out of their sockets. The rope connecting his neck to his ankles made every shift dangerous—too much movement and he'd choke himself.
And the gag. God, the gag. The cloth was soaked now, expanding in his mouth, making him want to retch. The duct tape held it in place like a vice.
I'm gonna kill them.
The thought came clear and cold through the haze of pain. Billy's eyes opened, focusing on the boots of one of the kidnappers across the room. The man was sitting at the table, drinking beer, laughing at something on his phone.
When I get out of this—and I will get out of this—I'm gonna make you pay for every second.
Billy had never been a violent man. Sure, he could handle himself in a fight, and he'd put down plenty of steers and hogs without flinching. But this was different. This was personal. These bastards had ambushed them, humiliated them, tied them up like animals, and were broadcasting their suffering to his family.
To his mother.
Fresh rage burned through him, hot enough to momentarily override the pain.
Jake Benson's world had narrowed to three things: the rope, the pain, and the fury.
The rope around his elbows was the worst. Whoever tied it knew what they were doing—cinched so tight his hands were going numb. His shoulders screamed with every breath. The hogtie kept his back arched at an angle that made his abs cramp, and the cramps were spreading to his legs now.
Don't you dare break. Don't you dare give them the satisfaction.
Jake had always been the hothead of the family. Billy was the steady one, the reasonable one. Jake was the one who threw punches first and asked questions later. And right now, every ounce of that rage was focused like a laser on the three men who'd done this to them.
He could see Billy next to him, eyes open, jaw clenched around the gag. Could see the sweat pouring down his brother's face. Could see the tremor in his muscles.
We're getting out of this. And when we do...
Jake's mind was already working through it. He knew guns. He knew how to track. He knew every inch of Kings County. These idiots thought they could just ransom them off and disappear?
Wrong.
When the consortium came—and they would come—Jake was going to make sure these men never saw the inside of a courtroom. Wade could arrest them if he wanted, but not before Jake got a few good swings in. Maybe more than a few.
The kidnapper closest to them kicked at Jake's feet as he walked by. "Still awake? Good. Your families are watching. Smile for the camera, tough guy."
Jake made a muffled sound behind his gag—half growl, half curse. His eyes promised murder.
The kidnapper just laughed and walked away.
Laugh now. Won't be laughing when I'm done with you.
Celab Beaumont was in a different place entirely.
He'd been in this position the longest—at least an hour before Billy and Jake were brought in. The initial panic had faded. The pain had become a constant, almost background noise. Now he was somewhere beyond that, in a zone where his mind had separated from his body.
Endure. Just endure.
Celab had grown up in Louisiana, worked the oil rigs before moving to Texas. He'd done hard labor in hundred-degree heat, pulled double shifts, dealt with injuries that would've sent softer men to the hospital. This was different, but the principle was the same.
You don't break. Ever.
His cousins back in Baton Rouge would never let him hear the end of it if he broke. Colt was probably losing his mind right now, watching the feed. The kid looked up to him. What kind of example would Celab be if he gave up?
Not gonna happen.
The sweat was the worst part, honestly. It stung his eyes, soaked his shirt, made the rope slippery against his skin. But it also meant his body was still working, still fighting. As long as he was sweating, he was alive.
And as long as he was alive, he was planning.
Celab's eyes tracked the kidnappers' movements. Three of them. Two with pistols in their waistbands, one with a rifle leaning against the wall. They were drinking, getting sloppy. The bottles on the table were piling up.
Stupid. You're getting stupid.
When the consortium came—and Celab had zero doubt they were coming—these idiots were going to be too drunk to react properly. Wade and his boys would roll them up easy. But Celab wanted more than that. He wanted to look these men in the eyes when they realized they'd made the biggest mistake of their lives.
Messed with the wrong family, boys.
The Beaumonts didn't mess around. Neither did the Bensons. And the Nelsons? Sheriff Wade was probably organizing a tactical strike right now. These kidnappers thought they had leverage. What they actually had was a death wish.
Celab's jaw clenched around his gag. His shoulders burned. His back cramped. Sweat dripped from his nose onto the floorboards.
But he didn't break.
Not today. Not ever.
The three men lay side by side, bound and gagged and suffering, but inside their minds the same fire burned.
They would endure.
They would survive.
And when this was over, there would be a reckoning.
The kidnappers had no idea what they'd unleashed.
Chapter 5: The Convoy
The Benson ranch house had become a war room.
Every light blazed. Trucks and ATVs lined the driveway three deep. Men poured through the doors—ranchers, hands, consortium members—all armed, all grim-faced, all ready to move. The encrypted frequency crackled with coordinated chatter as families across Kings County locked down their properties and mobilized their people.
But in the kitchen, a different kind of strength was gathering.
Sarah Benson stood at the counter, her hands white-knuckled on the edge of the sink, staring at nothing. Her boys. Her youngest boys. Billy and Jake. Tied up, suffering, broadcast on a screen for the whole world to see.
"Sarah." Caroline Beaumont's voice was steady, but her eyes were troubled. She crossed the kitchen and put a hand on Sarah's shoulder. "They're gonna bring them home. All three of them."
"I know." Sarah's voice cracked. "I know they will. But in the meantime—"
"In the meantime, we hold it together." Mary Nelson came through the door carrying a pot of coffee, her sheriff's-wife composure firmly in place. "The men need us focused. Rebecca's setting up a triage station in the dining room."
Caroline nodded, her jaw tight. Celab was her nephew—her and Robert's nephew—but the boy had been living with them for over a year, sleeping in the frat house with Billy and Jake. He was family. And seeing him bound and suffering on that feed had shaken her to the core.
Rebecca Benson—Josh's wife, Billy Junior's mother, and a practical nurse at Kings County Hospital—had already transformed the dining room into a makeshift field hospital. IV bags, trauma supplies, bandages, antibiotics. She worked with mechanical efficiency, her training overriding the terror that her son was upstairs in that command center, preparing to go into a firefight.
Her phone was pressed to her ear as she arranged supplies.
"Yes, Dr. Peterson, rope burns and probable circulation damage. They've been in a hogtie position for—I don't know, at least two hours by now... Yes, sir... Shoulder dislocation is possible, maybe both shoulders given the position... I've got everything from the hospital but if you could bring—"
She paused, listening, and despite everything, a small smile flickered across her face.
"Yes, I know Pops is going with them. No, I don't think anyone could stop him... He's seventy-six and stubborn as a mule, you know that... Alright, twenty minutes. Thank you."
She hung up and looked at the other women. "Dr. Peterson's on his way. He's bringing his full field kit."
"Thank God," Sarah breathed. "Those boys are going to need him."
Mary smiled slightly. "How much has he had to drink today?"
"He said two beers and a bourbon, but it's barely four o'clock so I'm guessing he's relatively sober." Rebecca's voice held a note of dark humor. "He also told me to tell Pops that if that 'crazy old bastard gets himself shot,' he's not playing cards with him anymore."
Despite everything, Sarah let out a choked laugh. Dr. Peterson and Pops had been war buddies in Vietnam, drinking buddies ever since, and card-playing rivals for forty years. He'd delivered all four of Sarah's boys—Billy, Jake, Ray, and Josh—cursing and smoking through each delivery like it was just another Tuesday. He'd set more broken Benson bones than anyone could count, stitched up more ranch injuries than he cared to remember, and never once charged them full price.
"Rebecca, what else do you need?" Sarah asked, forcing herself to focus.
"Ice. Lots of it. And clean towels. If their circulation's been cut off—"
"I'll get it," Sarah said, already moving.
Caroline helped Rebecca arrange the medical supplies. "Josh said they'd feed us updates through the radio network. We'll know what's happening in real-time."
"I don't know if that makes it better or worse," Mary said quietly.
"Better," Rebecca said firmly. "Always better to know."
The women worked in synchronized silence, channeling their fear into preparation.
Upstairs in the command center, the tactical planning had reached its conclusion.
Sheriff Wade Nelson stood at the main monitor, studying the thermal imaging from the drones. Beside him, Robert Beaumont—Celab and Colt's uncle and a Marine Corps sharpshooter with two tours in Afghanistan—analyzed the building layouts with the practiced eye of a combat veteran.
"Bunkhouse, northwest corner," Robert confirmed. "Three heat signatures bound on the floor, two more mobile near the entrance."
"Five total," Wade said. "Could be three kidnappers plus our boys, or it could be all five are hostiles and our boys are in a back room."
"Either way, we go in heavy." Pops stood from his chair, cigar clenched between his teeth. "Six-truck convoy. Overwhelming force. These bastards won't know what hit them."
Wade nodded. "Agreed. Here's the formation: I'm lead truck with Wilson and Ryan. Robert, you're truck two with your rifle team. Pops, you're with Robert—spotter and backup sharpshooter."
"Roger that," Robert said.
"Tom, you're truck three," Wade continued. "You'll have Josh, Ray, and the wiz kids. Josh and Ray will coordinate communications—keep the encrypted frequency open to the ladies back at the ranch, and relay all drone feeds and tactical updates."
Tom's jaw tightened. "The boys are coming?"
"They're coming," Wade said. "We need their tech in the field. Portable tracking center, drone controls, real-time thermal imaging. Without them, we're half-blind."
Jr. spoke up from his workstation. "We're ready, Sheriff. Portable gear is packed, iPads synced, drones are in autonomous follow mode. We can feed everything to you and back to the ranch simultaneously."
Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez stood behind him, all four boys wearing their shoulder holsters, Glocks loaded and ready.
Josh looked at his son—sixteen years old, armed, about to ride into a potential firefight—and his heart clenched. But he also saw the determination in Jr.'s eyes, the competence in the way he and his friends had coordinated the entire tech operation.
"You four stay with Tom, Josh, and Ray," Josh said. "You do not engage unless absolutely necessary. Your job is tech support and communications. Understood?"
"Understood," Jr. said.
Wade continued. "Trucks four through six: Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes. You're our assault teams. We set up a perimeter, Robert and Pops take high ground with the rifles, and we move in on my signal."
"Rules of engagement?" Wilson asked.
"Priority one: get our boys out alive. Priority two: neutralize the threat. Lethal force is authorized if they're armed and dangerous, but I want prisoners if possible. I want to know who's behind this."
The room murmured agreement.
"Comms check," Wade ordered.
Jr. pulled up the radio interface. "Encrypted frequency live. All trucks have sat phones synced. Drone feed is streaming to all iPads. Ladies at the ranch house have full audio access."
Wade tapped his sat phone. "Command to base, radio check."
Rebecca's voice came through crystal clear. "Base receiving, Sheriff. We're ready."
"Good. We move in five. Everyone load up."
The room exploded into motion. Men grabbed rifles, checked magazines, strapped on tactical vests. The consortium had drilled for this scenario—maybe not exactly this, but close enough. They moved like a unit, coordinated and focused.
Tom clapped a hand on Jr.'s shoulder. "You ready, son?"
"Ready, Grandpa."
"Good boy. Let's go get your uncles."
They filed down the stairs, out into the driveway where six trucks idled in formation. Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez climbed into Tom's truck with Josh and Ray. The bed was loaded with their portable tracking center, backup batteries, and drone controllers.
Pops and Robert moved to the second truck, both carrying long rifles. Robert had his M40 sniper rifle from his Marine days. Pops had his old Remington 700 from Vietnam—a weapon he could still shoot with frightening accuracy despite his age.
Wade stood by the lead truck, surveying his convoy. Twenty-seven armed men. Four teenage tech geniuses. Two military-trained sharpshooters. And enough firepower to start a small war.
"Mount up!" Wade called.
Engines roared. Headlights blazed to life in the fading afternoon sun.
Wade climbed into the lead truck and grabbed the radio. "All units, this is Command. We're rolling. Stay tight, stay alert, and let's bring our boys home."
The convoy pulled out, six trucks in tight formation, disappearing down the long driveway toward the Harrison property twenty miles northwest.
In the ranch house, the women gathered around the radio, listening to the encrypted frequency, waiting for word.
And in the bunkhouse on the Harrison property, three bound and gagged men endured, unaware that the entire weight of the Kings County consortium was bearing down on their captors.
The reckoning was coming.
Chapter 6: Drunk and Sloppy
The kidnappers were celebrating.
"Look at 'em," the one called Mitch said, taking another swig of whiskey straight from the bottle. "Three tough ranchers, all trussed up like Christmas turkeys. Not so tough now, are ya?"
He kicked at Billy's feet. Billy jerked against the ropes, the movement tightening the rope around his neck. His muffled grunt of pain only made Mitch laugh harder.
"Easy, Mitch," the second kidnapper—a wiry man named Del—said from the table. "We need 'em alive to collect."
"I know, I know." Mitch swayed slightly, already half-drunk. "But that don't mean we can't have a little fun. Right, boys?"
He crouched down near Jake, getting close to his face. "Your daddy's probably crying right now. Watching his precious sons sweating and squirming on this dirty floor. You think he's gonna pay? Three million's a lot of money."
Jake's eyes burned with fury above the duct tape gag. If looks could kill, Mitch would've been dead ten times over.
"Oh, he's mad." Mitch stood up, laughing. "Look at that. He's real mad." He turned to Del. "How long they been like this?"
Del checked his phone. "The Louisiana boy's been down about three hours. These two, maybe two and a half."
"Bet their shoulders are screaming by now." Mitch took another drink. "That elbow tie is a bitch. Had a buddy who got tied like that once in Juarez. Said he couldn't feel his hands for a week after."
"You talk too much when you drink," Del muttered.
"And you don't drink enough." Mitch tossed him a beer. "Relax. We got 'em. The feed's streaming. The money's coming. This is the easy part."
Celab's eyes tracked them both, calculating. Three hours. His shoulders had gone from burning agony to a dull, grinding numbness. The hogtie kept his back arched at an impossible angle, and cramps rippled through his legs every few minutes. But he was still conscious. Still thinking.
You're getting sloppy. Keep drinking. Keep talking.
Billy turned his head slightly, meeting Celab's eyes. A silent communication passed between them. Hold on. They're coming.
The cabin door opened.
A third man stepped in—older, maybe fifty, with a hard face and cold eyes that immediately set him apart from the two drunk kidnappers. He wore a pressed shirt and clean jeans, and he carried himself with the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
"Boss!" Mitch straightened up, trying to look sober and failing. "Didn't expect you yet."
"Clearly." The man—the boss—surveyed the scene with obvious disgust. "You two are drunk."
"Just celebrating—"
"Shut up." The boss walked to the table and pulled out his phone, checking the live feed. "How long have they been broadcasting?"
"Two and a half hours," Del said, more sober than Mitch. "Phones are charged, signal's strong. No interruptions."
The boss nodded, then tapped his phone. "Yeah, it's me... They're secure. Feed's live... I know, I know. Forty-eight hours, then we make the call... Three million, split three ways like we agreed... Alright. I'll check in tonight."
He hung up and looked at the three bound men on the floor. His eyes lingered on each of them—Billy, Jake, Celab—assessing them like livestock.
"Bensons and a Beaumont," he said quietly. "Rich ranchers who think they own this county. Well, gentlemen, you're about to learn a valuable lesson about humility."
He crouched down near Billy, close enough that Billy could smell his cologne—expensive, out of place in this dusty cabin.
"Your families are watching you suffer right now. Every second of it. And they're going to keep watching for the next forty-eight hours while they scramble to get the money together. Then, if they're smart, they'll pay. And if they're not..." He gestured toward the gasoline cans in the corner. "Well, I'm sure you can imagine."
Billy made a muffled sound behind his gag—rage and defiance mixed together.
The boss smiled. "Oh, you're angry. Good. Anger means you're still fighting. That's what we want. Broken men don't make good television."
He stood and turned to Mitch and Del. "Keep the feed running. Don't touch them unless they try something stupid. And for God's sake, sober up. We've got two days to keep this operation tight."
"Yes, sir," Del said.
Mitch just nodded, taking another drink as soon as the boss turned away.
The boss made another call, pacing near the window. "It's me again... Yeah, Dallas confirmed the account setup. Wire transfer, untraceable... Forty-eight hours, then we move... I don't care what the consortium does. By the time they figure out where we are, we'll be gone."
He glanced at the three men on the floor, then at his watch. "I'm heading back to town. Need to keep up appearances. You two stay here and babysit. And Mitch? If you screw this up because you're drunk, I'll tie you up next to them and leave you when we collect. Understood?"
"Understood," Mitch said, his bravado fading under the boss's cold stare.
The boss left, the door slamming shut behind him.
For a moment, the cabin was silent except for the ragged breathing of three bound men and the hum of two phones still recording.
Then Mitch laughed. "Boss thinks he's so tough. Dallas this, wire transfer that. Like we don't know what we're doing."
"He pays us, so shut up and do your job," Del said.
"My job is to make sure these three don't go anywhere." Mitch gestured at the captives with his bottle. "And look at 'em. They ain't going nowhere."
He walked over to Celab and nudged him with his boot. "You still awake, Louisiana? Bet you're regretting moving to Texas now, huh?"
Celab's eyes snapped open, blazing with fury.
"Oh, he's still got some fight." Mitch crouched down. "Let me tell you something, boy. That hogtie you're in? I tied it myself. And I tied it good. Rope's not coming loose, no matter how much you squirm. So you just lay there and think about how you got yourself into this mess."
He stood up, swaying, and took another drink.
Del was already opening his third beer, his eyes glazing over.
On the floor, Billy, Jake, and Celab endured. Sweat soaked through their clothes, pooling on the floorboards beneath them. Their shoulders screamed. Their backs cramped. The gags made every breath a struggle.
But inside their minds, the same thought burned bright:
When the consortium comes, you're dead men.
Outside, twenty miles away, a convoy of six trucks was closing in.
And in the back of the third truck, four sixteen-year-olds with Glocks checked their weapons and reviewed the thermal imaging one more time.
The reckoning was almost here.
Chapter 7: The Assault
The convoy rolled to a stop half a mile from the Harrison property, engines cutting out in synchronized silence. Six trucks, hidden behind an old tree line on the access road, their headlights dark against the gathering dusk.
Sheriff Wade Nelson stepped out of the lead truck, his hand already on his sidearm. Behind him, twenty-seven men emerged—ranchers, deputies, consortium members—all armed, all ready.
In Tom's truck, Jr. had his iPad open, the drone feed showing a live thermal overlay of the bunkhouse. "Two heat signatures still mobile inside. Three on the floor, bound position. No change."
"Good," Wade said, moving to the back of the truck where Josh and Ray had set up the portable command center. Monitors glowed in the truck bed, showing multiple camera angles from the drones circling overhead.
Billy Renzo pulled up the building schematic on his iPad. "Single entry point, front door. Two windows on the east side, both small. Back wall is solid—no exit."
"They're trapped," Robert Beaumont said, checking his M40 rifle. Pops stood beside him, his own Remington 700 already loaded.
"Where do you want us?" Robert asked Wade.
Wade pointed to a rise about two hundred yards northeast of the bunkhouse. "There. You'll have clear sightlines to the front door and both windows. Anyone comes out shooting, you take them down."
"Roger that." Robert and Pops moved off into the darkness, their footsteps silent despite Pops's age.
Wade turned to the rest of the men. "Wilson, Ryan, you're with me. We approach from the front. Renzos, Matterns, you flank east. Rodriguezes, west side. Tom, Josh, Ray—you stay here with the boys. Keep the comms open and feed us everything the drones see."
"Understood," Josh said.
Jr. and his three friends stood by the truck bed, Glocks holstered, iPads in hand. They knew the plan: stay back, run the tech, don't engage.
But Jr. could feel the weight of his weapon against his ribs. Just in case.
Wade checked his watch. "We move in two minutes. Comms check."
Jr. tapped his iPad. "All units, radio check."
One by one, the teams called in. Then Robert's voice, calm and steady: "Overwatch in position. I have eyes on target."
"Copy that," Wade said. "On my mark—"
"Wait." Jr.'s voice cut through the frequency, urgent. "We've got movement. Vehicle approaching the bunkhouse from the south. Single occupant."
All eyes turned to the monitor in the truck bed. A car—looked like a sedan—was pulling up to the bunkhouse, headlights cutting through the darkness.
"Who the hell is that?" Tom muttered.
The car stopped. A man got out—the boss, the same one who'd been in the cabin earlier. He was on his phone, gesturing angrily.
Jr. zoomed in with the drone's camera. "He's on a call. Looks agitated."
"Can we hear him?" Wade asked.
Daniel Rodriguez shook his head. "Audio's not that good from this distance."
They watched as the boss looked up—directly at one of the drones. His body language changed immediately. He shouted something toward the bunkhouse, then ran inside.
"Shit," Wade hissed. "He made the drones. Move! Move now!"
The consortium exploded into action. Wade, Wilson, and Ryan sprinted toward the bunkhouse, weapons drawn. The flanking teams spread out in coordinated patterns.
Inside the bunkhouse, chaos erupted. Through the drone's thermal imaging, they could see all five heat signatures moving—Mitch and Del scrambling, the boss shouting orders.
Then gunfire.
Muzzle flashes lit up the bunkhouse windows. Bullets whined through the air.
"Contact! We have contact!" Wilson shouted into the radio.
Robert's rifle cracked from the rise. Once. Twice. "One target down, front window."
More gunfire. The consortium returned fire, controlled bursts, professional.
In the portable command center, Jr. and his friends watched the chaos unfold on their screens, their hearts hammering. Josh and Ray coordinated on the radios, feeding information to Wade and the teams.
"Two hostiles still active," Jr. reported. "Third one down. Billy, Jake, and Celab still on the floor, not moving—wait, they're trying to move toward the back wall, away from the gunfire."
Tom gripped his rifle, every instinct screaming at him to run toward that bunkhouse. His boys were in there.
Then Jr. saw it on the drone feed. "Back door! There's a back door opening—I didn't see it on the schematic, must be hidden—someone's coming out!"
A figure burst from the rear of the bunkhouse, running hard through the darkness. The boss. He'd found a hidden exit.
And he was running directly toward their position.
"He's coming this way!" Billy Renzo shouted.
Josh turned, saw the figure sprinting through the darkness about fifty yards out, closing fast. The man had a pistol in his hand.
"Get down!" Josh yelled, pulling Ray behind the truck.
But Jr. didn't get down.
He saw the boss running, saw the gun, saw the man's trajectory—he was going to run right past them, maybe shoot at them as he fled.
Time slowed.
Jr.'s hand went to his Glock. Drew it. Raised it. Aimed.
Breathe. Sight picture. Squeeze, don't pull.
Pops's voice in his head from a thousand hours at the range.
The boss was thirty yards out. Twenty-five. Twenty.
Jr. fired.
The shot cracked through the night. The boss went down hard, screaming, clutching his left leg. His pistol skittered away across the dirt.
"HOLD FIRE!" Wade's voice boomed over the radio. "Hostile down! Repeat, hostile down!"
Jr. stood frozen, his Glock still raised, smoke curling from the barrel. His hands were steady. His breathing was steady.
He'd shot a man.
Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were beside him instantly, their own weapons drawn, covering the downed boss.
Josh emerged from behind the truck, staring at his son. "Jr.—"
"He had a gun," Jr. said, his voice surprisingly calm. "He was coming right at us."
Tom ran forward, kicked the boss's pistol further away, and zip-tied the screaming man's hands behind his back. "Leg wound. Clean through the calf. He'll live."
From the bunkhouse, Wade's voice came over the radio. "All clear! Building is secure! We've got our boys!"
Jr. lowered his weapon, his hands finally starting to shake.
He'd shot a man.
And his uncles were safe.
Chapter 8: Coming Home
Wade burst through the bunkhouse door, weapon raised, Wilson and Ryan right behind him.
"CLEAR!" Wilson shouted, sweeping the room.
"CLEAR!" Ryan echoed.
Two kidnappers were on the floor—Mitch and Del, both wounded but alive, zip-tied and disarmed. The third—the boss—was outside with a bullet in his leg, courtesy of Billy Junior.
And there, on the filthy floor in the back corner, were Billy, Jake, and Celab.
Still hogtied. Still gagged. Still bound so tightly their faces were purple with strain.
"Jesus Christ," Wade breathed.
Tom Benson pushed past him, dropped to his knees beside his sons. "Billy! Jake! I'm here, boys. We got you."
His hands shook as he pulled out his knife and started cutting ropes. Josh was right behind him, working on Celab's bindings. Ray cut the rope connecting Billy's neck to his ankles.
"Easy, easy," Wade said. "Don't move them too fast. They've been in that position for hours."
The moment the hogtie ropes released, all three men's bodies went rigid with cramps. Billy's back arched involuntarily. Jake let out a muffled scream behind his gag. Celab's legs spasmed.
"Get the gags off first," Josh said, carefully peeling the duct tape from Billy's mouth. Tom did the same for Jake while Ray worked on Celab.
They pulled out the cloth gags—soaked with saliva, disgusting.
Billy gasped for air, his first full breath in hours. "Dad—"
"Don't talk. Just breathe." Tom's voice cracked. "We got you, son. We got you."
Jake was crying—not from fear, but from pain and relief mixed together. His shoulders felt like they were on fire as circulation returned.
Celab just breathed, deep and steady, his eyes closed. "Colt?" he managed to rasp.
"He's safe," Josh said. "At the ranch with the ladies. He's fine."
Robert Beaumont appeared in the doorway, rifle still in hand. He saw Celab and his face went gray. "Jesus, kid."
"I'm okay," Celab croaked. "I'm okay."
Tom was working on the elbow tie—the brutal rope that had cinched Billy's elbows together for over three hours. The moment it released, Billy screamed. His shoulders collapsed forward, his arms useless, his hands numb.
"That's normal," Wade said, his Vietnam first-aid training kicking in. "Circulation's coming back. It's gonna hurt like hell for a while."
Jake's elbow tie came off next. He cursed—loud, creative, and entirely understandable. Ray got Celab's off, and the Louisiana man just gritted his teeth and endured.
"Can you stand?" Tom asked Billy.
"I—I don't know." Billy's legs were cramping so badly he couldn't feel his feet.
"We'll carry you." Tom looked up at Wilson and Ryan Nelson. "Help me get them to the trucks."
It took six men to get all three to their feet—Billy, Jake, and Celab leaning heavily on shoulders, their legs barely working, their arms hanging useless at their sides.
They made it to the doorway, then stopped.
Outside, the two wounded kidnappers—Mitch and Del—were zip-tied and sitting against the bunkhouse wall, guarded by two armed consortium members. The boss was twenty feet away, still cursing about his leg wound, hands cuffed behind his back.
Billy saw them and something snapped.
"Hold up," he said, his voice suddenly stronger.
Tom looked at him. "Son—"
"No." Billy pulled away from his father's support, nearly fell, caught himself against the doorframe. "I got something to say."
He limped forward, each step agony, until he was standing over Mitch and Del. Jake came up beside him, leaning on Ray but standing on his own. Celab moved to Billy's other side, Robert steadying him.
For a long moment, the three freed men just stared down at their captors.
Then Billy spoke, his voice hoarse but loud. "You think you're tough? Tying up unarmed men, gagging us, torturing us for three goddamn hours?"
"You're nothing," Jake spat. "You're cowards. You're trash."
Mitch tried to look away. Billy kicked dirt at him. "Look at me! I want you to look at me and remember this."
Billy Renzo appeared from behind the trucks, his phone out, recording. The red light blinked steadily.
"When you're sitting in your cell," Billy continued, his voice rising, "I want you to remember that we didn't break. You had us tied up like animals, you threatened to burn us alive, and we didn't break."
"And when we got free," Jake added, stepping closer, "we came for you. The whole damn county came for you."
Celab's voice was quiet but deadly. "You messed with the wrong families, boys."
Then Pops pushed through the crowd.
The old man walked right up to the kidnappers, cigar clenched between his teeth, his face twisted with rage. He'd fought in Vietnam, seen things these punks couldn't imagine, and right now every ounce of that barely-contained violence was focused on the men who'd hurt his grandsons.
"You worthless, cock-sucking, son-of-a-bitch pieces of dog shit," Pops snarled, jabbing his finger at them. "You kidnapped my boys. MY BOYS!"
The kidnappers flinched.
"You goddamn, piss-drinking, yellow-bellied cowards tied them up like hogs," Pops continued, his voice getting louder, his Vietnam-era vocabulary in full force. "You gagged them. You tortured them. You made their mothers—their MOTHERS—watch on a goddamn video feed while they suffered, you miserable bastards!"
He took a step closer, cigar smoke wreathing his face. "You sorry sacks of shit! You gutless, lily-livered, chicken-shit excuse for men! In 'Nam, we'd have strung you up by your balls and left you for the Viet Cong!"
"Pops—" Wade started, but there was no stopping him now.
"You think you're tough?" Pops was on a roll now, sixty years of military cursing flowing like poetry. "You ain't tough! You're fucking pathetic! You're lower than whale shit at the bottom of the ocean! You're so goddamn worthless, even the devil wouldn't take you!"
The wiz kids were grinning despite themselves. They'd heard Pops curse before, but never like this. Never with this kind of righteous fury.
"If it were up to me," Pops continued, his voice dropping to a deadly growl, "I'd take you bastards out behind the barn, put a bullet in each of your worthless skulls, and feed you to the hogs. Save the taxpayers the cost of feeding you for the next twenty years, you miserable sons of bitches!"
"Pops—" Wade tried again.
"But the sheriff here says we gotta do this legal-like." Pops straightened up, took a long pull on his cigar. "So instead, you cock-sucking bastards get to rot in prison. And every single goddamn day for the rest of your miserable, shit-stain lives, you're gonna remember that you got your asses kicked by a bunch of ranchers, two old war vets, and a sixteen-year-old kid who shot your boss in the leg."
The boss cursed from his position twenty feet away. Pops turned and walked over to him, his boots crunching on the gravel.
"And you," Pops said, staring down at the man. "You silver-spoon, candy-ass, think-you're-so-smart piece of shit. Dallas connections, wire transfers, encrypted feeds. You thought you were clever, didn't you? Well, you dumb bastard, you didn't count on one thing."
"What's that?" the boss spat through gritted teeth.
"You didn't count on family, you son of a bitch." Pops's smile was cold as ice. "We protect our own. And now your sorry ass is going down for kidnapping, extortion, and armed assault. Hope that three million was worth it, you pathetic fuck, because you ain't seeing daylight for thirty years."
The consortium men were trying not to laugh. This was Pops at his finest—profane, furious, and absolutely magnificent.
Billy Renzo kept recording, capturing every glorious second.
Jake stepped forward, his voice shaking with emotion. "I hope you think about us every day. I hope you see our faces in your sleep. Because we're never gonna forget what you did."
"Never," Billy agreed.
Celab just stared at them, his silence more threatening than any words.
The consortium men stood in a circle around the scene, weapons still ready, faces hard. This was their land. Their families. Their brothers.
And the kidnappers had just learned what happened when you crossed the Kings County consortium.
"Get these bastards out of my sight," Wade said finally. "Load 'em up. They're going straight to county lockup."
Wilson and Ryan hauled Mitch and Del to their feet and shoved them toward one of the trucks. Another team grabbed the boss, who screamed as they moved his wounded leg.
Billy, Jake, and Celab watched them go, standing together despite their pain, despite their exhaustion.
"Feel better?" Tom asked quietly.
"Yeah," Billy said. "Yeah, I do."
"Good. Now let's get you home."
Billy Renzo lowered his phone, the video saved.
The convoy rolled back into the Benson ranch an hour later, headlights blazing up the driveway.
Sarah Benson was on the porch before the trucks even stopped. "Billy! Jake!"
Dr. Peterson was right behind her, his field kit already open. "Get them inside! Dining room! Now!"
Billy, Jake, and Celab were helped into the house, Rebecca already directing traffic. "Billy on the table, Jake on the couch, Celab in the chair—no, wait, lay them all flat. They need to be flat."
Dr. Peterson moved from one to the next with practiced efficiency, his hands steady despite the bourbon he'd had earlier. "Rope burns, circulation damage, severe muscle strain... Rebecca, start IVs on all three. They're dehydrated."
"On it."
Sarah hovered over Billy, her hands trembling as she stroked his sweat-soaked hair. "Baby, can you hear me?"
"Mom," Billy croaked. "I'm okay."
"You're not okay," she said, tears streaming. "But you will be."
Caroline Beaumont was with Celab, and Mary Nelson with Jake. The women worked alongside Rebecca and Dr. Peterson, cutting away sweat-soaked shirts, washing dirt and blood, wrapping rope burns.
"Shoulders?" Dr. Peterson asked Billy, probing gently.
"Killing me," Billy gasped.
"Not dislocated. That's good. But you're gonna be sore for a week." He looked at Tom. "They all need rest, ice, and anti-inflammatories. And probably some whiskey."
Tom managed a weak smile. "Whiskey I can do."
Dr. Peterson moved to Jake, then Celab, repeating the examination. "You boys are damn lucky. Another few hours in that position and we'd be looking at permanent nerve damage."
"We knew you were coming," Jake said, his voice hoarse. "Knew the consortium wouldn't leave us."
"Damn right we wouldn't," Pops said from the doorway.
The old man stood there, still holding his Remington 700, cigar clenched between his teeth. His eyes were wet.
"Pops," Billy said.
"Don't you 'Pops' me." The old man's voice was rough. "You scared ten years off my life, boy."
"Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. Be glad you're alive." Pops looked at Dr. Peterson. "They gonna make it, Doc?"
"They'll make it. Tough as nails, these three." Dr. Peterson looked at Rebecca. "Keep them on IV fluids for the next two hours. Monitor for compartment syndrome. If their hands or feet start going numb again, call me immediately."
"I will."
Dr. Peterson closed his kit and looked at Pops. "Now, about that Jack Daniel's you promised me..."
Pops grinned—the first real smile since the sat phones had gone off hours ago. "In the study. The good stuff."
In the kitchen, Sarah and the consortium women had been working for the past hour.
"More brisket!" Caroline called, pulling another tray from the oven.
"Potatoes are ready," Mary said, mashing them with butter and cream.
"I've got three pans of cornbread," another woman added.
The dining room table—where Billy, Jake, and Celab had been examined and treated—was now cleared and set with plates, silverware, and enough food to feed an army. Which was good, because they basically had an army in the house.
Brisket. Mashed potatoes. Green beans. Cornbread. Mac and cheese. Coleslaw. Biscuits. Gravy. And six pies cooling on the counter—apple, pecan, and cherry.
"Boys need to eat," Sarah said firmly. "They haven't had a proper meal all day."
Rebecca poked her head in from the dining room. "They're asking when dinner is."
"Five minutes," Sarah said. "Go get everyone."
The call went out through the house. The men emerged from Pops's study, most of them pleasantly buzzed from the Jack Daniel's. The four wiz kids came down from the command center, finally powering down their equipment. Billy, Jake, and Celab were helped to the table, still weak but improving by the hour.
Colt stayed glued to Celab's side, refusing to let his cousin out of arm's reach.
The consortium families crowded into the dining room and spilled out into the kitchen and living room. Plates were loaded with food. Conversations rose and fell. Children who'd been sleeping upstairs came down, rubbing their eyes, sensing that something important had happened.
Billy took his first bite of brisket and nearly cried. "Mom, this is—"
"Eat," Sarah said, her hand on his shoulder. "Just eat, baby."
Jake was already on his second helping of mashed potatoes, shoveling food in like he hadn't eaten in days. Which, technically, he hadn't.
Celab ate slower, savoring each bite, his Louisiana manners still intact despite everything. "Miss Sarah, this is the best meal I've ever had."
"You're welcome here anytime, honey," Sarah said, kissing the top of his head. "Anytime."
In Pops's study, bottles of Jack Daniel's appeared on the table.
Not just one bottle. Three.
The men of the consortium crowded in—Wade, Wilson, Ryan Nelson, Robert, Tom, Josh, Ray, the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. Even the four sixteen-year-olds were allowed in, though they hung back near the door, uncertain if they belonged.
Pops looked at them and jerked his head. "Get in here, boys. You earned it."
Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez stepped into the study.
Pops poured. Generous shots for the men. Smaller ones—but real ones—for the four teenagers.
"To Billy, Jake, and Celab," Pops said, raising his glass. "Toughest sons of bitches in Kings County."
"Hear, hear!" the room echoed.
They drank.
Pops poured another round.
"To the consortium," Wade said.
Chapter 9: The Wiz Kid Production
The dining room was still packed with families when Billy Renzo stood up, tapping his glass with a fork.
"Attention! Attention everyone!" he called out.
The room gradually quieted. All eyes turned to the sixteen-year-old.
"We've got something to show you," Billy Renzo said, grinning. He looked at Colt, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez, who were all grinning just as wide. "The wiz kids have been working on a little... production."
Jr. looked up from his plate, confused. "What production?"
"You'll see," Billy Renzo said, pulling out his iPad. "Someone get that big monitor from the command center. We need everyone to see this."
Five minutes later, the entire consortium was gathered between the dining room and living room, arranged so everyone could see the 55-inch monitor that had been hauled downstairs. Billy, Jake, and Celab were propped up with pillows on the couch. The women stood in the back. The men crowded around with their whiskey glasses.
Jr. stood off to the side, still confused about what was happening.
Billy Renzo connected his iPad to the monitor. The screen lit up with a title card:
A WIZ KID PRODUCTION
KINGS COUNTY JUSTICE
"Oh boy," Wade muttered, but he was smiling.
The video started.
PART ONE: THE DIATRIBE
The footage was crystal clear—Billy Renzo's phone recording from earlier that evening. There, in perfect high definition, were Billy, Jake, and Celab standing over the captured kidnappers.
And then Pops stepped into frame.
"You worthless, cock-sucking, son-of-a-bitch pieces of dog shit," Pops's voice boomed from the speakers. "You kidnapped my boys. MY BOYS!"
The room erupted.
Men were cheering. Hooting. Hollering. Tom was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. Wade was shaking his head but grinning.
The women—Sarah, Caroline, Mary, Rebecca—were blushing furiously, hands over their mouths, but they were laughing too.
"You goddamn, piss-drinking, yellow-bellied cowards tied them up like hogs!"
Dr. Peterson roared with laughter, slapping his knee. "That's my boy! That's my war buddy right there!"
"You sorry sacks of shit! You gutless, lily-livered, chicken-shit excuse for men!"
The consortium men were on their feet now, cheering every curse word. The kids were wide-eyed. Billy and Jake were laughing despite their pain.
"You're lower than whale shit at the bottom of the ocean!"
"YEAH!" someone shouted.
"If it were up to me, I'd take you bastards out behind the barn, put a bullet in each of your worthless skulls, and feed you to the hogs!"
The room was pandemonium now. Everyone was cheering, clapping, whistling.
Pops himself sat in his chair with a cigar, looking extremely satisfied with himself.
The video continued through the entire rant, ending with Pops's final line: "You didn't count on family, you son of a bitch."
Wild applause. The men raised their glasses. "TO POPS!"
"TO POPS!" the room echoed.
But Billy Renzo held up his hand. "Wait. We're not done. That was Part One."
The room settled down, curious.
"Part Two," Billy Renzo said, his grin widening, "is something special."
The title card changed:
PART TWO: THE HERO
Jr.'s stomach dropped. "Oh no—"
The footage switched to drone view—aerial thermal imaging from directly above the portable command center at the Harrison property.
The timestamp showed it was during the firefight. You could see the heat signatures at the bunkhouse, the muzzle flashes, the chaos.
Then the footage zoomed in on the portable command center. You could see Josh and Ray behind the truck. Tom with his rifle.
And there—four smaller heat signatures. The wiz kids.
The drone's perspective shifted. Now it showed the boss bursting from the hidden back door of the bunkhouse, running hard through the darkness, pistol in hand.
The audio kicked in—the drone had picked up the shouts:
"He's coming this way!"
"Get down!"
And then, clear as day, you could see one of the heat signatures step forward instead of taking cover.
Jr.
The camera angle was perfect. The drone had captured everything.
Jr. drawing his Glock. Raising it. Aiming.
The shot.
The boss going down, clutching his leg.
The room exploded.
"YEAH!"
"THAT'S OUR BOY!"
"BILLY JUNIOR!"
The men were on their feet, roaring. The women were cheering. Even Billy, Jake, and Celab were trying to stand up to applaud.
The video played it again in slow motion—Jr. drawing, aiming, firing. Clean. Precise. Professional.
"Sixteen years old!" someone shouted.
"Shot him in the LEG!" another voice added. "Not center mass—controlled fire!"
Pops was beaming, his eyes wet with pride.
The video ended with another title card:
BILLY JUNIOR BENSON
AGE 16
HERO OF KINGS COUNTY
The room erupted again. Before Jr. could react, Billy Renzo, Colt, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez grabbed him.
"Wait—what are you—"
They hoisted him up onto their shoulders.
"BILLY JUNIOR! BILLY JUNIOR! BILLY JUNIOR!" the chant started.
The four wiz kids carried Jr. around the dining room, through the kitchen, back into the living room. Everyone was cheering, clapping, whistling. Children were jumping up and down. The consortium men raised their glasses.
"HERO! HERO! HERO!"
Jr.'s face was bright red, but he was grinning despite himself.
They carried him past Billy, Jake, and Celab, who were applauding from the couch.
"That's my nephew!" Jake shouted.
"Damn proud of you, Jr.!" Billy added.
They carried him past the women, who were wiping tears and smiling.
"That's my boy," Rebecca said quietly to Sarah.
"That's our boy," Sarah corrected, squeezing her hand.
And then they carried him to Pops.
The old man stood up from his chair, cigar clenched between his teeth, glass of Jack Daniel's in hand. His eyes were shining with pride—the kind of pride that only a great-grandfather could feel for a great-grandson who'd just proven himself a man.
The wiz kids set Jr. down in front of Pops.
For a moment, the room went quiet.
Pops looked at Jr.—really looked at him. Sixteen years old. Trained. Disciplined. Brave. He'd seen the threat, assessed it, and acted. No hesitation. No panic. Just training and courage.
"You did good, boy," Pops said, his voice rough. "Real good."
"Thank you, Pops."
Pops pulled Jr. into a hug—the kind of bear hug that said everything words couldn't.
The room erupted again. The men cheered. Dr. Peterson raised his glass. Wade nodded with approval.
Pops released Jr. and turned to the room, raising his own glass.
"To Billy Junior!" Pops said, his voice carrying over the noise. "The youngest hero in Kings County—and the best damn shot I ever trained!"
"TO BILLY JUNIOR!"
They drank.
And then Pops poured another round, because there was still whiskey left, still stories to tell, and still a whole night ahead to celebrate.
The wiz kids crowded around Jr., slapping his back, grinning like fools.
"You're a legend, man," Billy Renzo said.
"Absolute legend," Ryan Mattern agreed.
"We got it all on video," Daniel Rodriguez added. "The whole consortium's gonna see this."
Colt just grinned at Jr., still gripping his cousin Celab's hand. "You saved them," he said quietly. "You saved all of them."
Jr. looked around the room—at his family, at the consortium families who'd become his family, at Billy, Jake, and Celab alive and safe, at Pops beaming with pride.
"We all did," Jr. said. "That's what family does."
And in that moment, in the Benson ranch house filled with food and whiskey and laughter and love, the Kings County consortium knew one thing for certain:
You didn't mess with family.
Not ever.
THE END
