Chapter 1: Morning Routine
The bugle blast shattered the pre-dawn silence at exactly 5:15 AM.
"RISE AND SHINE, YOU LAZY BASTARDS!" Pops's voice boomed from the hallway, followed by three more ear-splitting notes.
In the frat house, five bodies groaned in unison.
"Jesus Christ," Jake muttered from the top bunk, his face buried in his pillow. "One of these days I'm gonna throw that fucking bugle in the creek."
"Get in line," Billy grumbled from below him, pulling his pillow over his head.
Across the room, Caleb sat up on his bunk and rubbed his eyes. "Does he have to play it like we're storming the beaches?"
"Every. Goddamn. Morning." Jr was already swinging his legs off the bottom bunk opposite Jake and Billy, his muscular frame silhouetted in the dim light filtering through the window.
On the mattress wedged between the two bunk beds, Colton—Louisiana, as everyone called him thanks to Pops and his thick Baton Rouge drawl—stretched and yawned. "Y'all complain about this every single day, and every single day, nothing changes."
"Shut up, Louisiana," Jake and Billy said in perfect unison, which made Caleb snort with laughter.
Another bugle blast.
"MOVE YOUR ASSES! BREAKFAST IN TWENTY MINUTES! ANY MAN NOT AT THAT TABLE DOESN'T EAT!"
"He's in a mood," Jr observed, reaching under his bunk for his jeans.
Billy finally sat up, his white undershirt twisted around his torso, dark hair sticking up in every direction. "When isn't he in a mood?"
Jake swung down from the top bunk in one fluid motion, landing with a thud that made the floorboards creak. He stretched, his mesh tank top riding up to show his abs. "I'm taking the first shower."
"Like hell you are." Billy was on his feet instantly, the two brothers racing for the door.
"Ten bucks on Billy," Louisiana drawled.
"You're on," Caleb replied. "Jake fights dirty."
Jr was already pulling on his boots, grinning. "They're gonna wake up the whole house."
"Pretty sure Pops already did that," Louisiana said, standing and pulling on his own jeans.
Twenty minutes later, all five boys filed into the kitchen, hair still damp, to find the long table already crowded with Bensons and breakfast. The smell of bacon, eggs, biscuits, and strong coffee filled the warm room.
Tom Benson sat at one end of the table, reading something on his tablet. Sarah was at the stove with Rebecca, Josh's wife, both women moving in the practiced choreography of making breakfast for a small army. Josh and Ray were already seated, coffee mugs in hand. Pops held court at the other end of the table, a thick cigar jutting from his weathered face despite the early hour, a mug of coffee spiked with brandy in front of him.
"About goddamn time," Pops growled as the boys slid into their seats. "Thought I'd have to drag you out by your ears."
"Good morning to you too, Pops," Billy said, reaching for the bacon platter.
"Don't you 'good morning' me, boy. I was up at 0430 checking the fence line while you were drooling on your pillow."
"You were up at 4:30 because you're old and can't sleep," Jake shot back with a grin.
"Jake!" Sarah warned from the stove, but there was no real heat in it. This was morning routine.
"Old?" Pops's eyes glittered. "I'm old? Boy, I could still whip your ass with one hand tied behind my back."
"Pops, language," Sarah tried again, but she was fighting a losing battle.
Jr leaned over to Louisiana and Caleb. "Five bucks says he drops the F-bomb before we finish eating."
"That's not even a bet," Caleb whispered back. "That's a guarantee."
Tom finally looked up from his tablet. "Boys, if you're done antagonizing your grandfather, Josh has the work assignments."
Josh, thirty-two and all business as the ranch's general manager, pulled out a small notebook. "Ray, you're with Dad running the books this morning and meeting with the feed supplier at ten. Jr, you and the tech crew are finishing the drone maintenance."
"Yes sir," Jr said, already mentally cataloging what they needed to do.
"Caleb, you're on the south pasture moving the herd. Take one of the hands with you."
Caleb nodded. "Got it."
"Louisiana, you're helping Ray with inventory in the equipment barn."
"Yes sir," Louisiana drawled.
Josh's eyes moved to Billy and Jake. "You two—I need you out at the north corner. Old fence line needs repair where it borders the Crenshaw property. Probably a full day's work, maybe more."
Billy and Jake exchanged a look.
"North corner?" Jake said. "That fence line's been trouble all year."
"Language," Sarah said automatically, sliding a platter of biscuits onto the table.
"I need it done before the weekend," Josh said. "Take the tools, take your lunches, and take your radios. That's remote territory out there."
"No shit," Jake muttered.
"Jacob Benson!" This time Sarah actually turned around, pointing a spatula at him.
"Sorry, Ma."
Pops chuckled around his cigar. "Boys, quit your bitching. When I was your age, I was humping fifty pounds of gear through the fucking jungle in hundred-degree heat with Charlie shooting at my ass. You're fixing a fence."
"Pops!" Now it was Sarah, Rebecca, and even Tom in unison.
"What? It's true!"
Jr, Caleb, and Louisiana were doing their best not to crack up.
"Pops is on fire this morning," Jr whispered.
Billy grabbed two biscuits and started loading his plate. "Fine. North corner. We'll get it done."
"That's the spirit," Tom said. "You boys are good workers. Just keep your radios on. That's isolated country out there."
"Always do," Billy assured him.
Jake was already planning. "Twenty-minute drive, work straight through, we might finish by four or five."
"Take water," Sarah said, her mother's instinct kicking in. "It's supposed to be hot today. And I'll pack you extra food."
"Thanks, Ma," Billy said.
Pops raised his coffee mug. "Here's to an honest day's work. Now shut up and eat so these boys can get on the road."
"Pops, please," Sarah sighed, but there was affection in her exasperation.
The table settled into the comfortable rhythm of family breakfast—passing plates, pouring coffee, the occasional argument over the last piece of bacon, and Pops's running commentary punctuated with creative profanity that had the younger boys grinning and the women shaking their heads.
By 6:00 AM, Billy and Jake had loaded the truck with tools, fence posts, wire, their lunches packed by Sarah, two large thermoses of water, and their radios clipped to their belts. The sun was just starting to paint the eastern sky with streaks of orange and pink.
"You two be careful out there," Tom called from the porch.
"Yes sir," they answered together.
Billy climbed behind the wheel, Jake rode shotgun. The engine roared to life, and they headed down the long driveway toward the main road, country music playing low on the radio.
Neither of them noticed the dark sedan parked on the county road a half-mile away, or the men inside watching through binoculars as the Benson ranch came to life.
By the time they reached the north corner twenty minutes later, the sun was fully up and the day was already getting warm. The fence line stretched along a desolate stretch of scrubland, miles from the nearest neighbor, with nothing but empty country in every direction.
"Well," Jake said, climbing out of the truck and surveying the damage, "this is gonna take all damn day."
"Quit complaining and grab the post digger," Billy said, pulling on his work gloves.
They got to work, the sound of their tools and their banter the only noise for miles.
They never heard the vehicles approaching until it was too late.
Chapter 2: The Abduction
Billy was three fence posts deep into the repair work when Jake straightened up, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Hand me the wire cutters," Jake said, examining a section of damaged fencing.
Billy reached for the toolbox in the truck bed. That's when he heard it—the sound of tires on gravel, coming fast.
"You expecting someone?" Jake asked, turning toward the sound.
A dark sedan appeared over the rise, kicking up dust as it barreled toward them.
"The hell?" Billy said, his hand instinctively moving toward his radio.
The vehicle screeched to a stop twenty feet away. Doors flew open.
Three men emerged, all wearing black tactical gear and balaclavas. All three had Glocks drawn.
"DON'T FUCKING MOVE!" the largest one shouted.
Billy's hand froze on his radio.
"Hands up! Now! Both of you!"
Jake's jaw clenched, his hands slowly rising. "You boys picked the wrong ranch to fuck with."
"Shut your mouth!" Another kidnapper moved forward, his gun trained on Jake. "Radio. Belt. Slowly. Two fingers. Drop it on the ground."
Billy and Jake complied, their radios hitting the dirt.
"Kick them away."
They did.
The largest kidnapper—clearly the leader—gestured with his Glock toward their truck. "You're driving," he said to Billy. "Your brother rides shotgun. You try anything, he dies. He tries anything, you die. Understood?"
"Fuck you," Jake spat.
The kidnapper moved like lightning, slamming the butt of his gun into Jake's stomach. Jake doubled over, gasping.
"Jake!" Billy lunged forward.
Three guns swung toward him.
"Try it," the leader said coldly. "Give me a reason."
Billy froze, his fists clenched, every muscle in his body coiled with rage.
Jake straightened up slowly, one hand on his gut, his eyes blazing with fury. "You're dead men. You know that, right?"
"Get in the fucking truck. Now."
Two minutes later, Billy was behind the wheel of his own truck, his hands gripping it so tight his knuckles were white. Jake sat rigid in the passenger seat, staring straight ahead.
Behind them, two kidnappers sat in the back seat. Billy could feel the cold press of a Glock barrel against the back of his head. In the rearview mirror, he could see the other gun pointed at Jake.
"Drive," the one behind Billy said. "Take the county road north. Don't speed. Don't slow down. Act natural."
"Where are we going?" Billy asked, his voice tight.
"Shut up and drive."
Behind them, the sedan followed at a distance, the third kidnapper at the wheel.
The truck rolled forward onto the empty county road.
For ninety minutes, they drove in silence. The only sounds were the hum of the engine, the crunch of tires on asphalt, and the occasional barked direction from the kidnappers.
"Left here."
"Straight through."
"Right at the fork."
Billy's mind raced. They were heading northeast, deeper into the empty stretches of Kings County, away from civilization. He tried to memorize the route—county road 47, then 19, then unmarked dirt roads cutting through scrubland.
Beside him, Jake's breathing was controlled but shallow. His eyes flicked to Billy's once. A silent message passed between them.
Stay alive. Wait for an opening.
"Eyes forward," the kidnapper behind Jake snapped, and the moment was gone.
The abandoned meat processing plant rose out of the wasteland like a rotting tooth—a sprawling complex of corrugated metal buildings, broken windows, and a parking lot cracked and overgrown with weeds. A rusted sign hung at an angle: CRENSHAW PROCESSING - CLOSED.
"Pull around back," the kidnapper ordered.
Billy guided the truck around the side of the main building. The loading dock was empty except for old pallets and trash. A single metal door hung open.
The sedan pulled up beside them.
"Stop here. Turn off the engine."
Billy did.
"Keys. Hand them back."
Billy pulled the keys from the ignition and passed them over his shoulder.
"Out. Slow. Hands where we can see them."
The doors opened. Billy and Jake climbed out, the Texas sun beating down on them. Billy's white undershirt was soaked with sweat. Jake's mesh tank top clung to his muscular frame.
The third kidnapper got out of the sedan.
From inside the building, a fourth man emerged—stockier than the others, wearing the same black tactical gear. He was carrying a coil of rope and a length of rebar.
"Inside," the leader said, gesturing with his Glock toward the open door. "Move."
Billy and Jake walked toward the building, flanked by the kidnappers. The air inside was thick and stale, reeking of rust, mildew, and old blood. The main floor was a vast space of concrete and metal—chains hanging from the ceiling, old meat hooks, drainage grates in the floor.
"Stop."
They stopped.
The fourth kidnapper stepped forward, the ropes in his hands.
"Put your fucking arms behind your backs," the leader barked. "You're going to be tied up."
Billy's jaw tightened. His muscles tensed.
Jake turned his head slightly, a dangerous smirk on his face. "Go ahead, you motherfuckers. Tie us up."
"Jake—" Billy started.
"Shut up!" The leader stepped forward and slammed his fist into Jake's jaw.
Jake's head snapped to the side, but he didn't go down. He turned back, blood on his lip, grinning. "That all you got?"
"JAKE!" Billy shouted.
Two kidnappers grabbed Billy, wrenching his arms behind his back. He felt the rough bite of rope around his wrists, pulled tight, cutting into his skin.
"Don't fucking move," one hissed in his ear.
Across from him, they were doing the same to Jake, who was still smirking even as they forced his arms back.
The fourth kidnapper stepped forward with the rebar—a thick, rust-stained piece of metal about three feet long. He shoved it horizontally between Billy's upper arms and his back, threading it through the crook of his elbows.
"What the hell—" Billy gasped as they lashed his biceps to the rebar with more rope, wrapping it tight, then tighter. His arms were pinned, his muscles bulging against the restraints, the ropes cutting deep into his skin.
They forced his wrists up higher, bending his arms at an agonizing angle, and tied his wrists to the back of his neck. His shoulders screamed in protest.
"Jesus—" Billy grunted.
They did the same to Jake. Billy watched helplessly as his brother's face twisted in pain, his biceps straining against the ropes, the rebar digging into his back.
"On the ground. Bellies."
They forced Billy and Jake down onto the cold concrete floor. Billy's face pressed against the filthy ground, tasting dust and rust.
The kidnappers moved to their legs. Billy felt rough hands grab his boots, yanking them together, binding his ankles tight with rope. Then they bent his legs back, pulling his boots toward his head.
The final rope connected his ankles to the rope around his neck.
The hogtie pulled everything tight. If he struggled, if he moved, the rope around his neck tightened. His breathing became shallow, controlled.
Beside him, Jake was in the same position—hogtied, immobilized, his face pressed to the concrete, his eyes burning with fury.
"Gag them."
A filthy bandanna was shoved into Billy's mouth, and then duct tape was slapped over it, wrapped around his head. He could barely breathe through his nose.
The same was done to Jake.
Billy lay on his belly, his body screaming in pain, sweat pouring off him, his white undershirt soaked through. Every breath was a struggle. Any movement made the rope around his neck tighten.
Beside him, Jake was in the same hell—hogtied, gagged, furious.
Their eyes met.
The leader pulled out a phone and started taking pictures. Different angles. Close-ups of their faces, twisted in rage and pain. Wide shots of both of them lying helpless on the concrete floor.
"Perfect," he said, reviewing the photos. "Let's see how much these Benson boys are worth."
He looked down at them, his eyes cold above the balaclava.
"Welcome to your new home, boys. Get comfortable. You're gonna be here a while."
The four kidnappers walked out, their footsteps echoing across the concrete.
The metal door slammed shut.
And Billy and Jake were alone in the darkness.
Chapter 3: Discovery
Louisiana and Jr were working in the equipment barn when Jr glanced at his watch.
"12:30," he said. "Billy and Jake should be checking in."
Louisiana looked up from the inventory sheet. "They're probably too busy arguing about who's doing more work."
Jr grinned and pulled out his radio. "Worth a shot." He keyed the mic. "Billy, Jake, you copy?"
Static.
"Billy, Jake, this is Jr. Radio check."
More static.
Jr frowned. "That's weird."
"Try again," Louisiana said, setting down his clipboard.
Jr tried three more times. Nothing.
"They always answer," Jr said, his voice tight. "Always."
Louisiana's easy drawl was gone. "Maybe their radios died?"
"Both of them? At the same time?" Jr was already moving toward the barn door. "Something's wrong."
"What do you want to do?"
"We go check on them. North corner. Now."
Twenty minutes later, Jr brought the ranch truck to a stop at the north fence line.
The scene hit them immediately.
Two radios lying in the dirt. Tools scattered. Fence posts abandoned mid-job. No Billy. No Jake. No truck.
"Shit," Louisiana breathed.
Jr was out of the truck before it fully stopped, running to the radios. He picked one up—Billy's. Then Jake's. Both still on, batteries good.
"They wouldn't just leave these," Jr said, his voice shaking. "They wouldn't—"
He stopped. Tire tracks. Multiple vehicles. Fresh.
Louisiana was scanning the ground. "Jr. Look."
Scuff marks in the dirt. Signs of a struggle.
Jr's face went white. Then red with fury. He pulled out his radio and hit the emergency button three times in rapid succession.
"911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. 911 EMERGENCY. BILLY JR BENSON."
The mechanical voice echoed across the consortium's encrypted frequency.
Within seconds, voices started crackling over the radio.
"Jr, this is your dad. What's wrong?"
"Jr, Pops here. Report!"
"This is Sheriff Nelson. Jr, talk to me."
Jr's voice was steady but tight. "Billy and Jake are gone. Radios on the ground. Signs of struggle. Multiple vehicle tracks. I think—I think they've been taken."
Silence for three seconds that felt like an eternity.
Then Pops's voice, hard as steel: "Everyone converge on the ranch. NOW. Jr, you and Louisiana get back here. Touch nothing else. Move!"
"Yes sir."
Jr looked at Louisiana. "Call the wiz kids. Tell them to get to the command center. We need to track the truck."
Louisiana was already pulling out his phone. "On it."
Jr took one last look at the abandoned work site, his jaw clenched, fists tight.
"We're coming for you," he whispered. "Hold on."
By the time Jr and Louisiana roared back into the ranch, the consortium was converging.
Trucks and SUVs poured in from every direction. Tom and Josh were on the porch. Ray was running from the office. Pops emerged from the house, his face carved from granite, a rifle already in his hands.
Sheriff Wade Nelson's cruiser came screaming up the drive, lights flashing. Behind him, his sons Wilson and Ryan in their deputy vehicles.
Robert Beaumont's truck skidded to a stop, Robert himself jumping out with the look of a man who'd been to war and was ready to go back.
The Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes—all converging.
Sarah and Rebecca stood on the porch, their faces pale but composed. Ranch hands gathered, armed and ready.
Jr and Louisiana sprinted for the house.
"Command center!" Jr shouted. "Now!"
They took the stairs two at a time, bursting into the room next to the frat house. The high-tech nerve center the wiz kids had built lit up as Jr started powering on systems.
His phone was already ringing. Billy Renzo.
"Jr, we heard. We're coming."
"Bring your gear. All of it. And get Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez. Command center. Five minutes."
"On our way."
Louisiana was at another console, fingers flying. "GPS on the truck. I'm pulling it up now."
The screen flickered to life. A map of Kings County. A blinking red dot.
"Got it," Louisiana said. "Truck's stationary. Coordinates coming up now."
Jr leaned in, his heart pounding. "Where?"
Louisiana's face went dark. "Old Crenshaw processing plant. Northeast sector. Abandoned for ten years."
"How far?"
"Ninety minutes."
Jr grabbed his radio. "All consortium members, this is Jr. We have a GPS lock on Billy and Jake's truck. Coordinates transmitting now. Repeat, we have their location."
Downstairs, the command center radio crackled to life in the kitchen where everyone had gathered.
Tom looked at Pops, then at Sheriff Wade.
Pops's voice was cold. "We're getting our boys back."
Wade held up a hand. "And we will. But we need intelligence first. We go in blind, Billy and Jake could get killed in the crossfire." He looked up at the ceiling, toward the command center. "We need those drones up. Layout of the building. Number of hostiles. Where they're holding the boys."
Robert Beaumont, his Afghanistan combat experience showing, nodded. "Wade's right. This is a hostage situation. We do it smart or we don't do it at all."
Pops's jaw worked, but he nodded. "Fine. But we move fast."
Tom turned toward the stairs. "Josh, get up there. Coordinate with the boys. I want those drones in the air in ten minutes."
"Yes sir."
Sarah stepped forward, her voice breaking. "Bring my boys home."
Tom put his hand on her shoulder. "We will."
Upstairs, Jr heard the sound of tires screeching into the driveway. He looked out the window and saw Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez sprinting toward the house, backpacks full of equipment.
The wiz kids were here.
Jr pulled open a drawer and took out his Glock 19. He checked the magazine, chambered a round, and holstered it.
Louisiana did the same.
"You think they'll let us come?" Louisiana asked.
Jr's eyes were hard. "Try and stop us."
The door burst open and the three other boys stormed in, already setting up equipment.
"Drones?" Billy Renzo asked.
"Prep all six," Jr said. "Thermal and night vision. We need eyes on that building before anyone goes in."
"On it."
"Ryan, pull up satellite images of the plant. I want every entrance, every exit, every window."
"Got it."
"Daniel, check the encrypted phones. Make sure everyone's on the network."
"Already doing it."
Jr looked at the map, the blinking red dot.
His brothers were there. Somewhere in that abandoned hell.
And he was going to help bring them home.
Chapter 4: Captivity
The concrete was cold against Billy's cheek. Every muscle in his body screamed.
The hogtie was brutal. His arms pinned behind him with the rebar cutting into his back, biceps bulging against the ropes, wrists tied to his neck. His legs bent back, boots pulled toward his head, ankles connected to the rope around his throat.
If he moved—even slightly—the rope tightened around his neck.
He forced himself to breathe slowly through his nose. Shallow breaths. Controlled.
The gag was suffocating. The filthy bandanna filled his mouth, the duct tape sealed it shut. Sweat poured down his face, soaking his white undershirt.
Beside him, Jake was in the same hell.
Billy turned his head just enough to see his brother. Jake's face was pressed to the concrete, his mesh tank top drenched with sweat. His eyes were open, blazing with fury even through the pain.
Their eyes locked.
Billy tried to communicate something—anything—with his eyes. Hold on. Stay strong. We're getting out of this.
Jake's eyes answered back. I know. We fight.
But the pain was overwhelming. Billy's shoulders felt like they were being pulled from their sockets. The ropes cut deep into his biceps, his wrists, his ankles. Every position was agony.
He tried to shift his weight slightly to relieve the pressure on his left shoulder.
The rope around his neck tightened instantly. He froze, gasping through his nose, his vision swimming.
Don't move. Don't move. Breathe.
Slowly, carefully, he shifted back to his original position. The pressure eased slightly.
Beside him, Jake had made the same mistake. Billy watched as his brother's face went red, his body rigid, fighting the instinct to struggle.
Then Jake went still again, breathing hard through his nose.
The silence in the abandoned plant was oppressive. No sounds except their labored breathing and the occasional drip of water somewhere in the darkness.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours.
Outside, in the loading dock area, the four kidnappers gathered around the leader's phone.
"Send them now," the leader said, scrolling through the photos. He selected the best ones—Billy and Jake hogtied on the concrete, faces twisted in pain and rage, muscles straining against the ropes, the rebar visible across their backs.
He attached six photos to a text message.
Then he typed:
We have your boys. $5 million. Unmarked bills. You have 24 hours. Instructions to follow. Tell the cops and they die. Try to find us and they die. You'll get one more proof of life at 6 PM. After that, the price goes up.
He added one more photo—a close-up of Billy's face, sweat-soaked, gagged, eyes burning with fury.
"What's Tom Benson's number?" he asked.
The second kidnapper read it off from a piece of paper.
The leader entered the number and hit send.
The message flew through the digital void.
"Done," he said. "Now we wait."
"What if they don't pay?" the third kidnapper asked nervously.
The leader's eyes were cold. "Then we make them pay. One way or another."
Back at the Benson ranch, the command center was a hive of activity. Jr and the wiz kids had two drones already in the air, heading toward the Crenshaw plant. The satellite images were up on the main screen.
Downstairs, the men were gearing up. Rifles, handguns, tactical vests. Pops was checking his Vietnam-era M1911, his face grim. Robert Beaumont was coordinating with Sheriff Wade on approach vectors.
Tom's phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and went pale.
"Tom?" Sarah said, her hand on his arm. "What is it?"
Tom opened the message. The photos loaded.
His sons. Bound. Hogtied. Gagged. On a filthy concrete floor.
"Oh my God," Sarah whispered, looking over his shoulder. Her hand flew to her mouth.
Tom's jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. He read the message. Five million. Twenty-four hours.
"WADE!" he roared.
Sheriff Wade came running, followed by Pops, Josh, Ray, and Robert.
Tom held out the phone.
Wade looked at the screen. His face darkened. "Son of a bitch."
Pops grabbed the phone. His eyes scanned the photos, then the message. His weathered face went from granite to volcanic fury.
"Five million?" he growled. "These bastards have no idea who they're fucking with."
"Pops, language—" Sarah started, then stopped. This wasn't the time.
Josh looked at the photos, his fists clenched. "Are they—are they okay?"
"They're alive," Wade said grimly. "That's what matters right now."
Robert Beaumont studied the photos with a tactical eye. "Concrete floor. Metal building. Consistent with the Crenshaw plant. This confirms the location."
Tom's voice was ice. "We're not paying them a goddamn dime. We're getting our boys back."
Wade nodded. "Agreed. But we play along for now. Buy time for the drones to get us intel."
"What about the threat?" Ray asked. "They said no cops."
Wade's smile was cold. "I'm not a cop right now. I'm family. And we're going to war."
Pops chambered a round in his 1911. "Damn right we are."
Tom looked at the photos one more time. His boys. His sons. Tied up like animals.
He looked up at the ceiling, toward the command center where Jr was working.
"Get me that intel," he said quietly. "We move the second we have it."
Upstairs, Jr's radio crackled. "Jr, it's your dad. You need to see something. Come down here."
Jr looked at Louisiana. "Keep prepping. I'll be right back."
He took the stairs two at a time.
When he saw the photos on his father's phone, his face went white.
Then red.
Then cold.
"How long until the drones are in position?" Tom asked.
"Twenty minutes," Jr said, his voice deadly calm. "Maybe less."
"Make it less."
"Yes sir."
Jr turned and ran back upstairs.
Louisiana looked up. "What's wrong?"
Jr pulled out his phone and showed him the photos Tom had forwarded.
Louisiana's easy drawl evaporated. "Those motherfuckers."
"Twenty minutes," Jr said. "We get them the intel in twenty minutes. And then we bring our brothers home."
The four wiz kids worked in grim silence, their fingers flying over keyboards, their young faces set with determination that would have made their grandfathers proud.
Outside, the sun was high in the Texas sky.
Inside the Crenshaw plant, Billy and Jake lay bound and suffering, unaware that an army was coming for them.
The kidnappers had just made the biggest mistake of their lives.
They'd taken a Benson.
Chapter 5: Planning the Rescue
The command center hummed with focused intensity. Jr and the wiz kids had all six drones deployed now, circling the Crenshaw processing plant from different altitudes and angles.
"Thermal imaging coming online," Billy Renzo said, his fingers dancing across the keyboard. "I've got two heat signatures on the loading dock. Looks like they're smoking or something. Just standing around."
"That's two hostiles accounted for," Jr said, marking it on the tactical map displayed on the main screen. "Where are the other two?"
Ryan Mattern adjusted another feed. "Got movement inside the main building. One heat signature... no, wait. Two. They're stationary. Different room from Billy and Jake."
"Can you confirm Billy and Jake's position?" Louisiana asked, leaning over Daniel Rodriguez's shoulder.
Daniel fine-tuned the thermal settings. "Yeah. Two heat signatures, prone position, not moving much. Northeast corner of the main floor. They're—" He stopped, his jaw tightening. "They're right where we thought."
Jr stared at the screen. His brothers. Right there. Just orange and red shapes on a thermal display, but he knew it was them.
"Package it all," Jr said. "Satellite overlay, thermal imaging, drone footage, entry points, hostile positions. Load it onto all the iPads. Every man gets the full tactical picture."
"On it," Ryan said, already transferring files.
Jr grabbed his radio. "Dad, this is Jr. We've got full drone coverage and intel packaged. Tactical brief ready. Mobilizing now."
"Copy that. We're gearing up."
Jr looked at the other three boys. "Grab your gear. We're going."
Louisiana looked up. "Your dad said—"
"I don't care what he said," Jr cut him off, his voice hard. "Those are my brothers. I'm going. You coming or not?"
Billy Renzo was already pulling on his tactical vest. "Try and stop us."
Jr pulled open the weapons locker. Four Glock 19s. Spare magazines. Tactical lights. He handed them out.
"Let's move."
Downstairs, the scene was organized chaos. The men were gearing up—rifles, handguns, tactical vests, combat boots. Sarah, Rebecca, Mary Nelson, Caroline Beaumont, and the wives of the other consortium men were gathered on the porch, their faces set with determination and worry.
Sarah crossed to Tom as he checked his rifle. "You bring all my boys home. You hear me?"
Tom looked up and saw Jr and the four other teenagers coming down the stairs, fully geared up, weapons holstered, carrying iPads.
"Jr—" Tom started.
"We're going," Jr said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "We'll maintain drone coverage from the field. Real-time intel. You need us."
Tom looked at his son—sixteen years old, armed, determined. He looked at Pops.
Pops shrugged. "Boy's got Benson blood. Try telling him no."
Tom's jaw worked. Then he nodded once. "Stay behind the line. You provide intel only. You do not engage unless I give the order. Understood?"
"Yes sir," all four boys said.
Jr started handing out iPads to the men. "Full tactical package. Satellite overlay, thermal imaging, hostile positions updated in real-time. Billy and Jake are here—" He pointed to the screen. "Northeast corner. Four hostiles. Two on the loading dock, two inside."
Tom studied the iPad, then passed it to Wade, who nodded approvingly.
"Good work, son," Wade said.
Jr distributed the rest of the iPads. Pops, Robert Beaumont, Josh, Ray, Wilson, Ryan Nelson, and the heads of the other consortium families all had the tactical picture now.
Robert Beaumont traced routes on his screen. "North approach gives us the best angle. We take out the loading dock hostiles first—snipers, suppressed if we have them. Then breach from the north."
"I've got a suppressed rifle," Wade said. "So does Robert."
Pops grunted. "I don't need suppressed. I don't miss."
Tom looked at the assembled force. Twenty men, armed to the teeth. Four determined teenagers. An entire community mobilized.
"Convoy formation," Tom ordered. "Wade, Robert, Pops—you're shooters. Set up on the ridge line north of the plant. Josh, Ray, you disable their vehicle on approach. The rest of us breach from the north once the loading dock is clear. Jr and the tech team maintain drone coverage and comms from the rear position."
"Yes sir," came the chorus of responses.
Sarah stepped forward and put her hand on Tom's chest. "Bring them home."
Rebecca was crying softly, her hand in Mary Nelson's. Caroline Beaumont stood with them, her face pale but strong.
Tom kissed Sarah's forehead. "I promise."
Jr hugged his mother briefly. "We'll be careful."
Caleb appeared from the barn, rifle in hand. "I'm coming too."
Tom nodded. "You're with Josh and Ray on the vehicle."
The men moved to their trucks. Engines roared to life. Pops climbed into the passenger seat of Tom's truck, his M1911 on his lap, a lever-action rifle across his knees.
"Let's go get our boys," Pops growled.
The convoy rolled out—eight trucks in formation, dust billowing behind them. In the command truck, Jr had three iPads running, showing different drone feeds.
"All units, this is Command," Jr said into his radio headset. "Drones tracking. Hostiles in position unchanged. ETA ninety minutes. Stand by for updates."
Sarah stood on the porch with the other women, watching the convoy disappear down the long driveway.
"They'll bring them home," Rebecca said quietly, more prayer than statement.
"They will," Sarah said, her voice iron. "They're Bensons."
Inside the Crenshaw plant, Billy and Jake had no idea an army was coming for them.
Billy's shoulders screamed. The hogtie hadn't loosened—if anything, it felt tighter. Every breath was controlled, shallow. The rope around his neck was a constant threat.
Beside him, Jake's eyes were still open, still blazing with fury despite the pain and exhaustion.
Their eyes met again.
Hold on, Billy thought. Just hold on.
Outside, they heard voices. The kidnappers talking, laughing.
Waiting for their ransom.
They had no idea what was coming for them.
Ninety minutes away, an army rolled across Kings County, Texas.
And hell was coming with it.
Chapter 6: Escalation
The convoy had been on the road for forty-five minutes when the leader's phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen. No response from Tom Benson. No plea. No negotiation. Nothing.
"They haven't answered," he said, his voice tight.
The second kidnapper looked up from where he was sitting on an old crate. "Maybe they're getting the money together?"
"Or maybe they're not taking us seriously," the third one said nervously.
The leader's eyes narrowed. "Then we make them take us seriously."
He stood and walked into the main building. The other three followed.
Billy heard footsteps. Multiple sets. Coming closer.
His heart rate spiked. Beside him, Jake's body went rigid.
The four kidnappers entered the room, their boots echoing on the concrete.
"Time for your close-up, boys," the leader said.
Two of them grabbed Billy, yanking him slightly to adjust the camera angle. The movement pulled the rope tighter around his neck. Billy gasped through his nose, his vision swimming.
"Easy!" one of them snapped. "We need them alive."
They did the same to Jake, repositioning him.
The leader pulled out his phone and started recording video. He walked slowly around them, narrating.
"Tom Benson. You've had an hour. No response. Maybe you think this is a joke. Maybe you think you can find us. Let me show you what happens when you don't take us seriously."
He nodded to the fourth kidnapper, who pulled out two plastic bags.
Billy's eyes went wide.
"No—" Jake tried to shout through his gag, but it came out as a muffled grunt.
The fourth kidnapper moved behind Billy. Before he could react, the plastic bag was pulled over his head, sealed tight around his neck with duct tape.
Billy's world became plastic and panic.
He couldn't breathe. The bag clung to his face as he tried to suck air through his nose. Nothing. The gag blocked his mouth. The bag sealed everything.
His lungs burned.
Beside him, they'd done the same to Jake. Billy could see his brother through the distorted plastic—thrashing, struggling, which only made the hogtie ropes tighter around his neck.
Don't struggle. Don't move. You'll choke yourself.
But his body didn't care about logic. Every instinct screamed to fight, to break free, to breathe.
The plastic sucked against his face with each desperate attempt to inhale.
Thirty seconds. Forty-five.
His vision started to gray at the edges.
Jake's struggles were weakening. Billy could see his brother's eyes—terrified, furious, desperate.
The leader kept filming. "You've got eighteen hours left, Tom. And the price just went up. Ten million now. Next time, we don't take the bags off."
One minute. Billy's lungs were on fire. His heart hammered. His vision tunneled.
This is it. This is how I die.
"Enough," the leader said.
Two kidnappers moved forward and ripped the bags off.
Air. Sweet, blessed air flooded into Billy's nose. He gasped, coughed, his whole body shaking.
Beside him, Jake was doing the same—great heaving breaths through his nose, his face red, sweat and tears mixing on his cheeks.
The leader reviewed the video, nodded, and attached it to a message.
Ten million now. You have 18 hours. Next time we don't stop. Pay up or bury your boys.
He hit send.
"Let's go," he said to the others. "Let them think about that for a while."
The four kidnappers walked out, leaving Billy and Jake gasping on the concrete floor.
Billy's whole body trembled. His throat was raw. His lungs ached. But he was alive.
He turned his head to look at Jake.
Jake's eyes met his. No longer just furious. Now there was something else there too.
Fear.
Twenty miles away, in the lead truck of the convoy, Tom's phone buzzed.
He looked at the screen and his blood ran cold.
"Stop the convoy," he said quietly.
"What?" Pops asked.
"STOP THE CONVOY!" Tom roared into his radio.
Eight trucks came to a halt on the empty county road.
Tom opened the video message. Hit play.
The image filled his screen. His sons. Plastic bags over their heads. Struggling. Suffocating.
"Jesus Christ," Pops breathed, looking over his shoulder.
Tom watched in horror as his boys fought for air, their bodies convulsing, the ropes tightening as they struggled.
Then the bags came off.
The message. Ten million. Eighteen hours.
Tom's hands shook with rage.
Wade pulled up beside them on his radio. "Tom, what's wrong?"
Tom forwarded the video to everyone in the convoy.
Thirty seconds later, the radios exploded with fury.
"Those sons of bitches!"
"I'm gonna kill them!"
"Pops's voice cut through it all, cold as ice. "How far out are we?"
Tom checked the GPS. "Forty-five minutes."
"Then we stop talking and start driving," Pops said. "Those boys don't have time for us to sit here with our thumbs up our asses."
"Convoy, this is Tom," he said into the radio, his voice deadly calm. "We just received another video. They're torturing our boys. We move fast. We hit hard. And we don't leave anyone alive. Acknowledge."
A chorus of "Copy that" came back.
In the command truck behind them, Jr had received the video too. His face was white, his hands clenched into fists.
"How far out?" Louisiana asked quietly.
"Forty-five minutes," Jr said, his voice shaking. "We're forty-five minutes away."
Billy Renzo was already redirecting drones. "I'm getting closer coverage. If they try that again—"
"We'll see it in real-time," Daniel finished.
Jr keyed his radio. "Dad, we have close drone coverage now. Thermal, visual, everything. If they go near Billy and Jake again, you'll know immediately."
"Copy that, son. Good work."
The convoy started moving again, faster now.
In the backseat, Caleb checked his rifle for the third time. His face was set, his jaw tight.
This wasn't about fence lines anymore.
This was war.
Inside the Crenshaw plant, Billy lay on the concrete, his body still trembling from the suffocation.
The fear was new. He'd been angry before. Defiant. Ready to fight.
But now he knew—these men would kill them. Maybe not today, maybe not intentionally, but they would go too far. Push too hard.
And he and Jake would die on this filthy floor.
He looked at his brother again.
Jake's eyes had changed too. The cocky smirk was gone. The hothead bravado had been suffocated out of him along with the air.
Now there was only grim determination.
Stay alive. Just stay alive.
Because somewhere out there, their family was coming.
They just had to survive long enough to be rescued.
Chapter 7: The Assault
The convoy came to a stop two miles from the Crenshaw plant, hidden behind a ridge line that ran parallel to the abandoned facility.
Tom killed the engine and climbed out. The other trucks did the same, doors opening quietly despite the urgency thrumming through every man's veins.
"Weapons check," Tom ordered quietly. "Final brief in two minutes."
The men gathered in a loose circle. Pops, Wade, and Robert Beaumont stood together, checking their rifles. Josh and Ray had bolt cutters and tools for disabling the sedan. Caleb stood with them, his young face hard with determination.
Jr and the wiz kids were spread throughout the convoy—Jr in Tom's truck, Billy Renzo with Wade, Ryan Mattern with Josh, and Daniel Rodriguez with Robert. Each had an iPad showing real-time drone feeds of the plant.
"Hostile positions unchanged," Jr reported from his iPad, his voice steady. "Two still on the loading dock. Two still inside, southeast corner. Billy and Jake, northeast corner, no movement."
Tom looked at the tactical display on his iPad, then at his assembled force. Twenty-four men and boys, all armed, all ready.
"Here's how this works," Tom said, his voice low and controlled. "Wade, Robert, and Pops—you three set up on that ridge." He pointed to a rocky outcrop about three hundred yards north of the plant. "You've got clear line of sight to the loading dock. Take out those two hostiles on my mark. Silenced if you can, but I don't care if they hear it—we'll be breaching immediately after."
The three sharpshooters nodded.
"Josh, Ray, Caleb—you circle around east. Disable that sedan. Tires, engine, whatever it takes. Make sure those bastards can't run."
"Yes sir," Josh said.
"The rest of us breach from the north wall through that collapsed section. Fast and quiet until the shooting starts. Once Wade takes those shots, we go loud. We clear the building, we neutralize the remaining hostiles, and we get our boys out. Questions?"
Wilson Nelson raised a hand. "Rules of engagement?"
Tom's eyes were cold. "Anyone with a weapon is a hostile. We don't take prisoners."
Wade nodded his approval. Pops's grin was predatory.
"Jr, you and the tech team stay with the rear vehicles. Maintain drone coverage and comms. You do not move forward unless I call for you. Clear?"
Jr's jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Yes sir. We've got eyes on everything."
"Good." Tom looked around the circle one more time. "These men took our family. They tortured our boys. We end this now. Move out."
The group split into their assigned teams. Wade, Robert, and Pops grabbed their rifles and headed toward the ridge, moving low and fast despite Pops's seventy-six years. Billy Renzo stayed with Wade's truck, monitoring the drones.
Josh, Ray, and Caleb circled wide to the east, staying below the sight lines. Ryan Mattern went with them, iPad in hand.
Tom led the main assault team—Wilson, Ryan Nelson, and the heads of the Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez families—toward the north approach. Jr stayed in Tom's truck with Daniel Rodriguez, both monitoring multiple drone feeds.
Jr watched through the iPad and binoculars, his heart pounding.
"All teams, this is Jr," he said into his radio. "Sniper team approaching position. Vehicle team moving into position. Assault team two hundred yards out and closing."
On the ridge, Pops, Wade, and Robert settled into their shooting positions. Wade and Robert had suppressors on their rifles. Pops had his old lever-action, no suppressor.
"I've got the one on the left," Wade said, looking through his scope.
"I've got the right," Robert confirmed.
"I'll take whoever's still standing after you two shoot," Pops said with a grin.
Wade's radio crackled. "Sniper team, this is Tom. We're in position. Vehicle team is in position. On your signal."
Wade pressed his eye to the scope. The kidnapper on the left was smoking a cigarette, relaxed, completely unaware. Through the thermal imaging on Billy Renzo's iPad, they'd confirmed these were two of the four.
"Range is two-eighty yards," Robert said quietly. "Light wind, left to right."
"I've got it," Wade confirmed.
He keyed his radio. "All teams, stand by. Taking the shot in three... two... one..."
Two suppressed cracks split the air almost simultaneously.
Through his scope, Wade saw his target's head snap back, the man dropping like a puppet with cut strings.
Beside him, Robert's target crumpled to the loading dock.
"Both down," Wade confirmed. "Go! Go! Go!"
Tom was already moving before Wade finished speaking. The assault team sprinted across the open ground toward the collapsed north wall, weapons up, boots pounding dirt.
Inside the plant, the two remaining kidnappers heard something—a sound, a change in the air.
"What was that?" one of them said, standing.
The leader grabbed his Glock. "Check it out."
But it was too late.
Tom and Wilson burst through the north wall opening, rifles raised. Behind them, Ryan Nelson and the others flooded in.
"ARMED INTRUDERS! DROP YOUR WEAPONS!"
The two kidnappers spun, raising their Glocks.
The plant erupted in gunfire.
Tom fired three shots center mass. The leader went down hard.
Wilson took the fourth kidnapper with two shots to the chest.
The shooting stopped as suddenly as it started. Four seconds. Maybe five.
Smoke hung in the air. The sharp smell of cordite. Two bodies on the concrete.
"CLEAR!" Tom shouted.
"CLEAR!" Wilson echoed from the other side.
Tom was already running toward the northeast corner. "BILLY! JAKE!"
He rounded a rusted piece of equipment and stopped.
His sons. Hogtied on the filthy concrete floor. Gagged. Bound with ropes and rebar. Covered in sweat and dirt.
But alive.
"Oh my God," Tom breathed. "I NEED BOLT CUTTERS! NOW!"
Wilson was beside him in seconds, pulling out a knife. "I've got them, Tom. I've got them."
Billy's eyes locked onto his father's. Relief, pain, and exhaustion all mixed together.
Tom dropped to his knees beside his sons. "You're okay. You're okay. We've got you."
Wilson started cutting the ropes—first the hogtie connecting their ankles to their necks. The pressure released immediately.
Billy gasped through his nose, finally able to move without choking.
Jake did the same, his whole body shuddering with relief.
"Easy, easy," Wilson said, working on the ropes around their ankles. "Almost there."
Tom moved to Billy's gag, carefully peeling back the duct tape, then pulling out the filthy bandanna.
Billy coughed, gasping for air. "Dad—"
"Shh. Don't talk. Just breathe."
Wade appeared and started working on Jake's gag. When it came off, Jake immediately started coughing, his voice hoarse. "Took you long enough."
Despite everything, Tom laughed—a sound halfway between relief and a sob. "That's my boy."
Wilson and Robert worked on cutting the ropes around their biceps, carefully removing the rebar from their backs. Billy groaned as his arms were finally freed, the circulation returning in painful pins and needles.
"Jesus," Robert muttered, looking at the rope burns and bruises. "What they did to you..."
"We're okay," Billy said, his voice rough. "We're okay now."
Jake sat up slowly, wincing. His wrists were raw and bleeding where the ropes had cut in. His shoulders screamed in protest.
But he was free.
Tom pulled both his sons into a fierce hug, not caring about the dirt or the sweat or anything else.
"We got you," he said quietly. "We got you."
Over the radio, Jr's voice cracked with emotion. "Dad? Did you—are they—?"
Tom keyed his radio. "We have them, son. They're alive. We're coming home."
Back at the trucks, Jr closed his eyes and let out a breath he'd been holding for hours.
"They're okay," he said to Daniel Rodriguez beside him. "They're okay."
Louisiana, Billy Renzo, and Ryan Mattern, monitoring from the other vehicles, all sagged with relief.
Twenty minutes later, Billy and Jake were helped into the back of Tom's truck, wrapped in blankets despite the heat. They'd need proper medical attention, but for now, water and the relief of freedom was enough.
"Doc Peterson's waiting at the house," Tom said. "Rebecca's got everything set up."
"I'm fine," Billy protested weakly.
"You're going to let the doctor check you anyway," Tom said firmly.
Jake managed a weak grin. "We weren't exactly having a great time back there."
Pops appeared at the tailgate, his weathered face showing more emotion than usual. "You boys did good. Stayed alive. That's all that matters."
"Thanks, Pops," Billy said.
"Don't thank me yet. Wait till your mother sees you." Pops's eyes glittered. "She's gonna hug you, then she's gonna kill you for worrying her."
Despite everything, both brothers laughed.
The convoy formed up again, this time heading home. Wade stayed behind with his deputies to process the scene and call in the state police. Four dead kidnappers. A hostage rescue. It would be a long night of paperwork, but Wade didn't care.
The Benson boys were going home.
As the convoy rolled down the long driveway to the ranch, Billy and Jake could see the porch lights blazing. Sarah, Rebecca, Mary, Caroline, and all the consortium wives were waiting. Dr. Peterson's truck was parked near the house.
The trucks came to a stop.
Sarah ran down the steps before anyone could move. Tom helped Billy and Jake out of the truck, and Sarah grabbed both of them in a crushing hug.
"My boys," she sobbed. "My boys."
"We're okay, Ma," Billy said, his voice thick. "We're okay."
She pulled back, her hands on their faces, checking them over like they were little kids again. The rope burns, the bruises, the exhaustion—she saw it all.
"Inside," she said firmly. "Both of you. Dr. Peterson is waiting."
"Ma, we're fine—" Jake started.
"Inside. Now." Her tone left no room for argument.
Tom grinned. "Told you she'd kill you."
Jr came running from his truck and threw his arms around both his brothers. "Don't you ever do that again."
"Wasn't exactly our choice," Billy said, but he hugged Jr back.
Caleb, Louisiana, and the wiz kids all crowded around, relief and joy on their young faces.
Dr. Peterson met them at the door—a graying man in his seventies with the same weathered look as Pops, wearing jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt despite the late hour. He had a cigar clenched in his teeth and a flask of whiskey visible in his back pocket.
"Well, shit," he said, looking at Billy and Jake. "You boys look like you went ten rounds with the devil himself."
"Doc," Billy said with a weak smile.
"Kitchen table. Now. Let's see what those bastards did to you." He looked at Pops, who'd just climbed out of the truck. "You kill 'em all?"
"Every last one," Pops said with satisfaction.
"Good. Saves me the trouble." Doc Peterson turned back to the boys. "Come on, move your asses. Sarah's got me set up in there like a goddamn field hospital."
Rebecca had set up a makeshift examination area—clean towels, bandages, antiseptic, everything organized with professional efficiency.
For the next hour, Dr. Peterson worked on them. His hands were surprisingly gentle despite his gruff manner, treating rope burns, bandaging wrists and biceps, checking for nerve damage, setting up IV fluids for dehydration.
"Fucking animals," he muttered as he worked. "Tying boys up like this. What kind of sick sons of bitches..."
"Doc, language," Sarah tried.
"Sarah, I was stitching up bullet wounds in Da Nang with this old bastard—" he jerked his thumb at Pops, "—before these boys were born. I'll talk how I damn well please."
Pops, standing in the corner with his own cigar and whiskey, grinned. "Tell 'em about the time we had to patch up that lieutenant with nothing but a bottle of bourbon and a sewing kit."
"Not now, you old fart. I'm working."
But there was deep affection in the insults. These two had seen hell together and come out the other side.
Dr. Peterson finally stepped back, surveying his work. "You boys are damn lucky. A few more hours in those restraints and we'd be looking at permanent nerve damage. As it is, you'll be sore as hell for a week, but you'll heal."
"Thanks, Doc," Billy said.
"Don't thank me. Thank your family for getting to you in time." He looked at Tom. "You did good, Tom. Real good."
He packed up his gear, then paused and pulled out his flask. He took a long pull, then handed it to Pops, who did the same.
"To the boys," Pops said.
"To the boys," Doc Peterson echoed.
Sarah had been cooking the entire time—a massive late dinner despite the hour. By the time Dr. Peterson finished, the table was laden with food.
It was past midnight by the time everyone had eaten, and Billy and Jake had showered and changed into clean clothes. The rope burns on their wrists and biceps were bandaged, and they moved stiffly, but they were alive.
The frat house was packed. Jr, Caleb, Louisiana, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez had all claimed spaces on the floor with sleeping bags. No one was leaving tonight.
Billy and Jake climbed into their bunk beds—Billy on the bottom, Jake on top, just like always.
"Hey Billy?" Jake said quietly from above.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for not dying today."
Billy smiled in the darkness. "You too, brother."
In the doorway, Tom and Sarah stood watching their boys, all safe, all home.
"They're going to be okay," Tom said quietly.
Sarah leaned into him. "They're Bensons. Of course they are."
And in the frat house, surrounded by family and brothers-in-arms, Billy and Jake finally let themselves sleep.
They were home.
