Tuesday, October 14, 2025

The Selfie

 


Chapter 1: The Selfie

Billy Benson stood in front of the mirror in what everyone called "the frat house"—the bedroom he shared with his brother Jake, Celeb Beaumont, and his nephew Billy Jr. Four guys, two bunk beds, and enough testosterone to fuel a small rodeo.

It was just past dawn, and the room still smelled like sleep and the pizza they'd demolished last night. Jake was snoring in the top bunk, one arm dangling over the side. Celeb was face-down in his pillow, dead to the world. Jr. had already slipped out—probably down in the kitchen charming his grandma Sarah into making him a second breakfast.

Billy pulled on his white t-shirt, then his jeans. He adjusted his white cowboy hat and fastened his big silver belt buckle—the one from the Kings County rodeo. He checked himself in the mirror. His arms looked good—twenty years of ranch work had built them thick and powerful.

He grabbed his iPhone, held it at arm's length, and snapped the photo. The angle showed off his arms, the hat, the buckle. He looked at it and grinned.

Perfect.

He typed out a message to Edna:

Still on for tonight? Dinner at Romano's, 7pm. Don't stand me up, darlin'. 😉

He hit send, then forwarded the same photo to the group chat: The Frat House.

His phone buzzed almost immediately.

Billy Jr.: Uncle Billy out here THIRSTING 💀💀💀

Celeb: Bro it's 6am and you're already flexing lmaooo

From the top bunk, Jake's voice came out groggy and annoyed. "The hell are you doing?"

"Taking a picture for Edna."

"Jesus Christ." Jake rolled over. "Some of us are trying to sleep."

"Some of us have work to do." Billy grabbed his gloves off the dresser. "North fence won't fix itself."

"North fence can wait till a decent hour."

"Sun's up, day's burning. You coming or you gonna lay there like a lazy—"

A boot flew across the room and hit Billy in the shoulder.

Billy laughed and tossed it back. "That's what I thought."

His phone buzzed again. Edna:

You better not be late, cowboy. I'm wearing that dress you like. ❤️

Billy felt his grin widen. Tonight was going to be good. Romano's had the best steaks in three counties, and afterward they'd catch a movie—maybe that new action thing she'd been talking about.

"You're disgustingly happy this early," Jake muttered.

"Jealous?"

"Of you and Edna? Please."

Billy grabbed his work gloves and his thermos of coffee from the desk. "I'll be back by four. Gotta shower and get ready."

"Don't break the fence trying to show off for your girlfriend," Jake called after him.

"Don't break your face falling out of bed."

Billy could still hear Jake laughing as he headed down the hallway. He passed the kitchen where Jr. was indeed working on a second plate of eggs while Sarah shook her head with a smile. He grabbed a biscuit off the counter, kissed his mom on the cheek, and headed out the back door.

Pops was already outside on the porch, coffee in one hand, cigar in the other, watching the sunrise paint the sky pink and orange over Benson land.

"North fence?" Pops asked without looking at him.

"Yes, sir."

"Take the toolkit from the barn. And for Christ's sake, don't forget the wire stretcher this time."

"That was Jake."

"Sure it was." Pops took a long drag from his cigar. "Be careful out there. It's remote."

"Always am."

Billy climbed into his truck, tossed his gloves on the passenger seat, and started the engine. The ranch was just waking up—Ray was already in the office going over the books, Josh was out in the stables with the hands. The consortium had grown their operation so much in the past eight months that there was always something that needed fixing, mending, checking.

But Billy didn't mind. This land was in his blood. He'd grown up on this ranch, worked every inch of it alongside his brothers and Pops. And now with the consortium—six ranches working together as one: the Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes—they covered over half of Kings County. They were building something bigger than any one family could manage alone. Something that would last.

He drove north, the truck bouncing over the dirt road that cut through their property. It took nearly twenty minutes to reach the northernmost fence line where it divided Benson land from open range. It was quiet out here—just the wind through the dry grass, the occasional cry of a hawk overhead, and the endless blue Texas sky.

Billy parked the truck, grabbed his toolkit and the post-hole digger, and got to work.

The selfie sat in his phone, time-stamped 6:23 AM.

It would be the last picture anyone took of Billy Benson smiling.

Chapter 2: North Fence

The sun climbed higher as Billy worked his way down the fence line. He'd already replaced two rotted posts and was digging out the third when he heard the sound of an engine.

He looked up, shading his eyes against the glare. A beat-up pickup truck was bouncing across the open range on the other side of the fence—coming from the direction of the highway. Billy straightened, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his glove.

The truck slowed as it approached, then stopped about twenty yards away. Two men climbed out—both wearing dirty jeans, work boots, and stained baseball caps. One was tall and lanky with a scraggly beard. The other was shorter, stockier, with a red face that looked sunburned and mean.

Billy raised a hand in greeting. "Help you fellas?"

The tall one walked closer to the fence, hands in his pockets. "Just passing through. Saw you working out here all by yourself."

"Yeah, well, fence work's a one-man job mostly." Billy kept his tone friendly but didn't move from his post. Something felt off. They weren't dressed like ranchers—more like drifters. And there was no reason to be driving across open range unless you were lost or up to no good.

"Long way from anywhere," the stocky one said, scanning the empty landscape. "Nearest house gotta be what, five miles?"

"About that." Billy's hand drifted toward his back pocket where he kept his phone. "You boys lost?"

"Nah." The tall one smiled, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Just looking for work. Thought maybe you could use some help."

"Appreciate it, but I'm good."

The two men exchanged a glance. Then the stocky one moved closer to the fence. "You work for the Benson Ranch?"

Billy hesitated. "Yeah. Why?"

"Just curious." The man's smile widened. "Rich folks, the Bensons. Heard they got that whole consortium thing going now. Six ranches, right? That's a lot of land. A lot of money."

Billy's instincts kicked in. His hand closed around his phone. "Look, I got work to do—"

"We do too," the tall one said.

And then they both moved at once.

The tall one vaulted the fence with surprising speed while the stocky one pulled a pistol from his waistband. Billy lunged for his truck, but the tall man tackled him from behind, slamming him into the dirt. The phone flew from his hand and landed in the dust three feet away.

"Don't make this hard, kid," the stocky one said, pointing the gun at Billy's head. "We just want to talk."

Billy bucked and twisted, trying to throw the tall man off, but a fist cracked into his ribs and drove the air from his lungs. Another punch hit his jaw, and stars exploded across his vision.

"Hold him still," the stocky one barked.

Rough hands grabbed Billy's wrists and yanked them behind his back. He felt rope bite into his skin as they bound him tight. He tried to kick, tried to yell, but a boot to his stomach doubled him over and someone shoved a rag into his mouth.

"Got his phone," the tall one said, scooping it up from the dirt. "Nice one too. Expensive."

"Check his wallet."

They rolled Billy onto his back. He glared up at them, breathing hard through his nose, tasting blood and dirt. The stocky one pulled Billy's wallet from his pocket and flipped it open.

His eyes went wide.

"Holy shit."

"What?"

"His ID. His name's Billy Benson." The man looked down at Billy with something between surprise and greed. "We just grabbed ourselves a fucking Benson."

The tall one let out a low whistle. "You serious?"

"Says right here. William Benson. Kings County address." The stocky one grinned. "We hit the jackpot, Darrell. This ain't just some ranch hand. This is family."

Darrell—the tall one—looked nervous now. "Maybe we should just take the truck and go—"

"Are you crazy? You know how much money these people have? The Bensons? The whole consortium?" The stocky one crouched down next to Billy, his breath rank with stale beer. "They'll pay a fortune to get this kid back in one piece."

Billy tried to speak through the gag, but it came out as muffled noise.

"Shut up." The man stood. "Get him in the truck. We'll take him to the old Hendricks place. Nobody's been out there in years."

"What about his truck?"

"Leave it. Let 'em wonder what happened. Makes 'em more desperate."

They hauled Billy to his feet and dragged him toward their pickup. He fought every step, twisting and kicking, but with his hands bound and his mouth gagged, he was helpless. They threw him into the truck bed like a sack of feed and covered him with a tarp that reeked of oil and mildew.

The engine started. The truck lurched forward.

And the last thing Billy saw before the tarp blocked out the sun was his own truck sitting abandoned by the fence line, his toolkit still lying in the dirt where he'd dropped it.

Romano's at 7pm.

Edna in that dress.

The frat house, Jake's stupid jokes, Jr. stealing biscuits from the kitchen.

All of it slipping away as the truck bounced across the range, carrying him toward something dark and terrifying that he couldn't yet see.

Chapter 3: The 911 Button

The truck bounced and jostled over rough terrain for what felt like hours but was probably only twenty minutes. Billy lay in the truck bed under the stinking tarp, his wrists screaming from the rope, his ribs throbbing where they'd kicked him. The gag made it hard to breathe, and every bump sent a fresh wave of pain through his body.

Finally, the truck slowed and came to a stop. Billy heard doors slam, then rough hands yanked the tarp off him. The sudden brightness made him squint.

"Get him out," the stocky one said, waving the pistol.

They dragged Billy out of the truck bed and dumped him on the ground. He looked around, trying to orient himself. They were at an old, abandoned homestead—a sagging single-story house with boarded windows and a collapsed porch. The yard was overgrown with weeds, and a rusted-out tractor sat listing to one side near what used to be a barn.

The Hendricks place. Billy knew it vaguely—it had been empty for at least a decade, ever since old man Hendricks died and his kids moved to Houston. It was miles from anywhere, deep in the empty range between properties.

Nobody would find him here.

"Inside," the stocky one—Lyle—said.

They hauled Billy to his feet and shoved him toward the house. The front door hung crooked on its hinges. Inside, the place smelled like rot and animal droppings. The floor was covered in dust and debris. A single wooden chair sat in the middle of what used to be the living room.

"Sit," Darrell said, pushing Billy toward the chair.

Billy had no choice. They forced him down. Darrell pulled the gag from his mouth, and Billy gasped for air.

"Please," Billy said, his voice hoarse. "You don't have to—"

"Shut up." Lyle started going through Billy's pockets. He pulled out Billy's iPhone first. "What's your passcode?"

Billy clenched his jaw and said nothing.

Lyle nodded to Darrell, who punched Billy hard in the stomach. Billy doubled over, retching.

"Passcode," Lyle repeated.

Billy gasped out six numbers. Lyle unlocked the phone and grinned, scrolling through contacts. Then his hand went back to Billy's belt and pulled off the satellite radio—a small, ruggedized device with a stubby antenna and a red button on top.

"What the hell is this?" Lyle turned it over in his hands. "Some kind of fancy walkie-talkie?"

"High-tech," Darrell said. "Look at that antenna."

"What's this red button do?" Lyle's thumb hovered over it.

"Don't—" Billy started.

Lyle pressed it.

The radio chirped, and then a mechanical voice blared from the speaker:

"911 BILLYR. 911 BILLYR. 911 BILLYR."

Then the channel opened with a loud click, and the small green light on the side began to pulse.

"What the fuck—" Lyle said, staring at the device.

"Turn it off!" Darrell said.

Lyle jabbed at buttons, but nothing happened. The green light kept pulsing. "I don't know how—what does this thing do?"

Billy's heart pounded. They can hear. Everyone can hear.

"Give it here," Darrell said, grabbing for it.

Suddenly, a voice crackled from the radio speaker—urgent, panicked:

"Billy? Billy, can you hear me? What's happening?"

It was Jake.

Both men froze, staring at the radio in horror.

"Billy!" Another voice—deeper, commanding. Pops. "Billy, son, talk to me!"

"Oh my God—" A woman's voice. Sarah. "Tom, something's wrong—"

"Everyone shut up!" That was Sheriff Wade Nelson, taking command. "Billy, if you can hear us, say something. Anything."

Lyle and Darrell looked at each other, then at Billy.

Billy smiled through his split lip. "They can hear you," he said. "They can hear everything."

"You little shit—" Lyle raised his hand to hit Billy, then stopped, looking at the radio. His face went pale.

"I heard that," Wade's voice came through, cold as ice. "Whoever you are, you just made the biggest mistake of your life."

"Billy!" Jake again, his voice breaking. "Billy, where are you?!"

"Jesus Christ," Darrell whispered. "How many people are listening?"

"We're tracking the signal," a younger voice said—tech-savvy, focused. Billy Jr. "Hold on, Uncle Billy. We're coming."

Lyle's face went from pale to purple with rage. He grabbed Billy by the front of his white t-shirt. "Where are we? What is this thing? How do we turn it off?!"

Billy said nothing.

Lyle backhanded him across the face. Billy's head snapped to the side, and he tasted blood.

"NO!" Jake's voice roared through the speaker. "You son of a bitch, I'm gonna—"

"Jake, stand down!" Pops barked. "Everyone, record everything. Every word."

"They heard that," Billy said, smiling. "They heard you hit me."

Lyle hit him again. Then again. Billy grunted with each blow, and through the haze of pain, he could hear the voices erupting from the radio—Jake screaming, Sarah crying, Pops barking orders, Wade trying to maintain control.

"We gotta go!" Darrell said. "Right now! They said they're tracking it!"

"How?" Lyle looked at the radio in his hand like it was a snake. "How can they track it?"

"GPS satellite lock," Jr.'s voice came through, calm and clinical. "Triangulating now. Looks like... northern range, near the old Hendricks property."

"Oh fuck," Darrell said. "Fuck fuck fuck—they know where we are!"

Lyle threw the radio on the ground and stomped on it. Once. The voices cut to static. Twice. The green light flickered. Three times. The casing cracked and everything went silent.

For a moment, neither man moved, both of them breathing hard.

"How long?" Darrell finally said. "How long were they listening?"

"I don't know. Three minutes? Four?"

"They know where we are. They're coming. Right now."

"Okay. Okay." Lyle paced, thinking fast. "We move him. Right now. Seventeen miles south—that hunting cabin I told you about. By the time they get here, we'll be gone."

"What about him?" Darrell gestured at Billy.

"We take him. Tie him up good so he can't run."

"He's already tied—"

"No, I mean really tie him. Make sure he can't move at all." Lyle looked around the room and spotted more rope in the corner. "Get that."

Billy's stomach dropped. They weren't untying him. They were going to make this worse.

They worked fast, wrapping rope around Billy's bare biceps, lashing each arm to the sides of the chair. The rope bit deep into his skin, cutting into the muscle. More rope went around his torso, binding him to the chair back. They bound his ankles together, then yanked them backward, pulling his legs under the seat. Billy felt his spine arch painfully as they hogtied his bound ankles to his wrists behind the chair.

Finally, they looped rope around his neck and tied it to the top rung of the chair.

Billy couldn't move. He could barely breathe. If he struggled, the neck rope would choke him.

"There," Lyle said. "Now pick up the chair. We're taking him like this."

"You serious?"

"You want to untie him and give him a chance to run? We carry him, chair and all. Throw him in the truck bed."

They grabbed the chair—one on each side—and lifted. Billy felt the ropes pull tighter as his weight shifted. They carried him outside and heaved him into the truck bed. The chair tipped and Billy's head cracked against the metal. Stars exploded across his vision.

They threw the tarp over him, plunging him into darkness.

The truck engine roared to life.

And as they bounced across the range, heading seventeen miles south to a place nobody knew about, Billy held onto one thought:

They heard. They know where I was. They're coming.

He just had to survive long enough for them to find him.

Chapter 5: The Cabin

Billy came to when the truck hit a pothole and his head cracked against the metal bed again. Stars exploded across his vision. He tried to move, but the ropes held him immobile, the chair pressing into his back, his arms screaming where the ropes cut into his bare biceps.

The tarp had shifted enough that he could see a sliver of sky through a gap. Blue. Endless. The sun told him they'd been driving for maybe twenty minutes. Maybe more. He'd lost track of time.

Every bump sent fresh waves of agony through his body. The hogtie pulled his spine into a painful arch. The rope around his neck made it hard to breathe—if he struggled too much, it would choke him.

But he was alive.

And they had heard. Jake, Pops, Jr., the whole consortium. They had heard everything before the radio died.

They're coming.

He just had to survive until they got here.

The truck slowed, then stopped. Doors opened. Footsteps.

The tarp was yanked off, and Billy squinted against the sudden brightness. Lyle and Darrell stood at the tailgate, both of them looking nervous and angry.

"Help me get him out," Lyle said.

They grabbed the chair—one on each side—and lifted. Billy felt every rope pull tighter as his weight shifted. They carried him like cargo, grunting with the effort, and set him down hard on packed dirt.

Billy looked around, trying to take in everything. They were at an old hunting cabin—barely more than a shack, really. Weathered wood, a sagging roof, no windows that he could see. Behind it was dense brush and a dry creek bed. In front, nothing but open range stretching to the horizon.

Isolated. Remote. Exactly the kind of place nobody would find by accident.

"Inside," Lyle said.

They picked up the chair again and carried Billy through the cabin's door. It was one room, maybe twelve by twelve feet. A cot in one corner, a table and two chairs, a kerosene lantern hanging from a nail. The floor was dirt and old wooden planks. It smelled like dust and dead animals.

They set Billy down in the center of the room.

Lyle stood in front of him, breathing hard. "You listen to me, kid. That little stunt with the radio? That was stupid. Real stupid."

Billy said nothing.

"But it doesn't matter," Lyle continued. "Because they don't know where we are. They knew the Hendricks place, sure, but we're long gone from there. This cabin? My uncle built it forty years ago. It's not on any map. It's not registered anywhere. Nobody knows about it except family."

"They'll find me," Billy said, his voice hoarse.

"Not before we get our money." Lyle pulled out a burner phone. "We're gonna send your people some pictures. Proof of life. And then we're gonna ask for two million dollars."

Billy almost laughed. "Two million? You're crazy."

"You're worth it. The Bensons? The consortium? You people own half of Kings County. Two million is pocket change."

"They'll never pay it."

Lyle's face darkened. "Then we'll make sure they understand how serious we are." He turned to Darrell. "Get some rope. The thin stuff."

Darrell's eyes widened. "You sure about this?"

"They need to know we mean business. That we'll hurt him if they don't pay."

Billy's stomach dropped. "Don't—"

"Shut up." Lyle walked over to a box in the corner and pulled out two lengths of thin rope. He came back and stood over Billy, looking at his bare arms where they were already lashed to the chair.

"Nice big muscles you got there, cowboy. Let's see how tough you really are."

He wrapped the thin rope around Billy's right bicep, just above where the thick rope already bit into his skin. He looped it twice, then started twisting it, using a piece of wood like a lever.

A tourniquet.

"No—" Billy started.

Lyle twisted. The thin rope bit into Billy's bicep, cutting off circulation. Billy felt the pressure build, felt his muscle compress under the rope.

"Darrell, get the other arm."

Darrell hesitated, then moved to Billy's left side. He wrapped another tourniquet around Billy's left bicep and started twisting.

The pain was immediate and intense. Both tourniquets cut deep into muscle, the pressure unbearable. Billy gritted his teeth, refusing to give them the satisfaction.

"Tighter," Lyle said. "Make it hurt."

They twisted the tourniquets harder. Billy felt his vision start to blur. The ropes cut so deep he could feel them against bone. Blood began to seep from where the tourniquets broke skin.

He couldn't help it. He screamed.

"There we go," Lyle said with satisfaction. He pulled out the burner phone. "Darrell, get your phone. Video this."

Darrell pulled out his phone and started recording.

Lyle twisted the tourniquet on Billy's right arm one more turn. Billy's scream ripped through the cabin, raw and desperate.

"That's good," Lyle said. "Make sure you got his face. Show them what happens when they don't cooperate."

He twisted again. Billy's world went white with pain. He could feel blood running down both arms now, dripping onto his white t-shirt, staining it red.

"Please—" Billy gasped. "Stop—"

"Not until they see what we can do." Lyle looked directly at the camera. "You got twenty-four hours to get two million dollars. We'll send you drop instructions. If you don't pay, or if you bring cops, we start cutting pieces off. You understand?"

He twisted the tourniquet again, and Billy's scream echoed off the cabin walls.

"Stop the video," Lyle said.

Darrell lowered his phone, his face pale. "Jesus, Lyle. You're gonna kill him."

"Not yet. Not until we know if they're paying." But Lyle loosened the tourniquets slightly—not all the way, just enough that Billy wouldn't pass out from the pain.

Billy slumped in the chair, gasping for air, his arms on fire. Blood soaked into the ropes, made them slick. His white t-shirt was streaked with red.

"Send the video," Lyle said. "And the pictures. Send it all to the Sheriff's number. Make sure they know we're serious."

Darrell worked on his phone for a moment, then nodded. "Sent."

"Good." Lyle looked down at Billy. "You better hope your family loves you, kid. Because right now, you're worth two million alive. But if they don't pay?" He smiled coldly. "Well, we'll make another video. A worse one."

Billy could barely hear him through the roaring in his ears. The pain from the tourniquets was overwhelming, radiating from his biceps through his entire body. He could feel his hands going numb from lack of circulation.

"Come on," Lyle said to Darrell. "Let's go outside and keep watch. Give 'em time to get the message and panic."

They walked out, leaving the door open a crack. Billy could hear their voices outside, arguing about the money, about timing.

Billy tested the ropes again, but the pain from the tourniquets made it almost impossible to think. His arms were useless, screaming with agony. Blood dripped steadily onto the dirt floor.

But through the haze of pain, one thought kept him conscious:

They heard the first time. They're searching. Jr.'s got drones. They'll see the video. They'll find me.

He just had to stay alive long enough.

Outside, the sun climbed toward noon. The temperature in the cabin rose. Sweat mixed with blood on Billy's arms.

And seventeen miles north, a burner phone message with video attachment hit Sheriff Wade Nelson's phone.

The consortium was about to see exactly what Billy was enduring.

And God help Lyle and Darrell when they did.

Chapter 6: The Video

Wade's phone buzzed as his truck bounced across the dirt road toward the Hendricks place. He glanced at it—unknown number, video attachment.

"Billy, check that," he said to Billy Renzo in the passenger seat.

Billy Renzo grabbed the sheriff's phone and opened the message. His face went pale.

"Sheriff, it's—it's from them. There's a video and pictures."

"Don't play it yet," Wade said. "Forward it to the whole radio net first. Everyone needs to see this at the same time."

Billy Renzo's fingers flew across the phone. "Forwarding now to all the iPads and the command post."

In the lead truck of Pops' convoy, Jr.'s iPad pinged. He looked down and his stomach dropped.

"Pops, we got something. Video from an unknown number. Looks like... looks like it's from the kidnappers."

"Put it on speaker," Pops said grimly. "Everyone needs to hear this."

Jr. keyed the radio. "All units, stand by. We have incoming video from the suspects. Command post, are you seeing this?"

Sarah's voice came through, tight with fear. "We see it. Should we play it?"

"Everyone play it at the same time," Wade said over the radio. "On three. One... two... three."

Jr. hit play.

The video showed Billy tied to the chair, his face already bloody and swollen. Then Lyle's voice, cold and threatening: "You got twenty-four hours to get two million dollars. We'll send you drop instructions. If you don't pay, or if you bring cops, we start cutting pieces off. You understand?"

Then came the sound of Billy screaming.

In the lead truck, Jake lunged for the iPad. "BILLY!"

Tom grabbed him, held him back. "Jake, don't—"

But Jake was already listening to his brother's screams, watching as the camera showed the tourniquets cutting into Billy's bare biceps, blood running down his arms, soaking into his white t-shirt.

Another scream. And another.

In the convoy, every truck went silent except for the sound of Billy's agony coming through their speakers.

At command post, Edna collapsed. Sarah caught her, both of them crying, while the video played on the big screen. Anna buried her face in Mary's shoulder. Rebecca stood frozen, her nurse's eyes cataloging every injury visible on the screen.

"His arms," Rebecca whispered. "They're cutting off circulation. If those stay on too long—"

The video ended.

For five seconds, nobody spoke. Then Jake's voice exploded over the radio.

"I'M GONNA KILL THEM! I'M GONNA FUCKING KILL THEM!"

"Jake, stand down!" Pops barked.

"You saw what they did to him! You heard him!"

"I know!" Pops' voice cracked. "But we find him first. Then we make them pay."

In Wade's truck, Billy Renzo was already working. "Sheriff, the video came from a burner phone, but when they sent it, it pinged a cell tower. I can triangulate the location."

"How accurate?" Wade asked.

"Within a mile, maybe less. Give me two minutes."

Billy Renzo pulled out his laptop, connected it to his phone, and started typing rapidly. "I've got the tower. It's... southwest of our current position. Seventeen miles, give or take."

Jr.'s voice came over the radio. "Billy R., send me those coordinates. I'll overlay them on the drone map."

"Sending now."

In Pops' truck, Jr.'s iPad lit up with the new data point. He pulled up the map and dropped a pin where the cell tower triangulation put the signal.

"Pops, look at this." Jr. showed him the screen. "We had the Hendricks place here. The cell tower ping puts them here—seventeen miles southwest, just like they said on the first broadcast. That narrows our search area significantly."

"How much area we talking?" Tom asked.

"Maybe three square miles. Still a lot of ground, but way better than before."

Jr. keyed the radio again. "All units, we have a second fixed point from the video transmission. Drones are repositioning to the new search grid now. Daniel, Ryan—get drones three, four, five, and six to these coordinates."

"Copy," Daniel's voice came back. "Repositioning now."

"How long until we have eyes on the area?" Wade asked.

"Drones are fast," Jr. said. "Maybe eight minutes to get there and start a sweep pattern."

At command post, Sarah forced herself to stay calm. "Jr., what about those tourniquets? How long can he survive like that?"

Rebecca leaned toward the microphone. "If they stay tight, he could lose his arms. But in the video, it looked like they loosened them slightly at the end. He's in terrible pain, but he's alive. We've got time."

"How much time?" Jake demanded.

"Hours, not days," Rebecca said honestly. "We need to find him soon."

Pops' voice came over the radio, steady and commanding despite the rage underneath. "Here's what we do. Wade, you finish processing Hendricks—look for tire tracks, direction of travel, anything that confirms our southwest theory. The rest of us reposition to the new search grid. We've got four drones heading there now. When they spot something—a cabin, a vehicle, anything—we converge fast."

"What about the ransom?" Ray asked. "They want two million. Do we play along?"

"We stall," Wade said. "I'll respond to the number, tell them we're getting the money together. Buy us time to find him."

"Do it," Pops said. "But we're not paying a dime. We're getting Billy back our way."

In the convoy trucks, men checked their weapons with renewed fury. The video had changed everything. This wasn't just a kidnapping anymore. This was personal. This was torture.

Celeb's voice came over the radio, barely controlled. "When we find these guys, Pops—"

"When we find them, they're mine," Jake interrupted. "Nobody touches them but me."

"Jake—" Tom started.

"Dad, you saw what they did. You heard him screaming. They're mine."

Pops said nothing for a moment. Then: "We'll see who gets to them first. Right now, everyone focus on the search. Jr., what's the drone status?"

Jr. checked his feeds. "Drones one and two are still sweeping the northern range. Three and four are en route to the new grid—ETA six minutes. Five and six right behind them."

"Good. Keep me updated every two minutes."

"Sheriff Nelson to unknown number," Wade's voice came over the radio. He was responding to the kidnappers. "We received your message. We're working on getting the money together. Need more time. Don't hurt him again."

Everyone waited. No response.

"They might not answer right away," Billy Renzo said. "They're probably watching the road, staying alert."

"Or they're hurting him more," Jake muttered darkly.

At command post, Edna finally found her voice. "He's so strong," she whispered, staring at the paused video on the screen—Billy's face, twisted in pain, but his eyes still defiant. "Look at him. He's not giving up."

"Neither are we," Sarah said firmly. "Jr., can you make that video bigger? Rebecca, look at the background. Can you see anything that might tell us what kind of structure he's in?"

Rebecca stepped closer to the screen. "It's rough wood, old. Dirt floor. Single room. Could be a hunting cabin, like they said. No windows visible in the frame."

"That matches the property records I'm searching," Ryan Mattern's voice came over the radio from his truck. "I've found three old hunting cabins registered in that southwest grid area. Pulling up the coordinates now."

"Send them to me," Jr. said. "I'll mark them on the drone map as priority targets."

The convoy trucks adjusted course, turning southwest. The Hendricks place would have to wait. Everyone was converging on the new search grid now.

In Pops' truck, Jr. watched his screens intently. Six drone feeds. GPS positions of all the trucks. The cell tower triangulation point. Three marked cabin locations.

"We're gonna find you, Uncle Billy," he whispered. "Just hold on a little longer."

Outside, the Texas sun beat down mercilessly. The temperature was climbing toward ninety-five degrees.

And in a cabin somewhere in that three-square-mile grid, Billy Benson sat bound to a chair, blood dripping from his arms, fighting to stay conscious, holding onto one thought:

They're coming. I just have to survive until they get here.

The net was closing.

Chapter 7: Breaking Point

Billy lost track of time. The pain from the tourniquets consumed everything—his vision, his thoughts, his ability to think beyond the fire burning in his arms. Blood had soaked through his white t-shirt, dripping steadily onto the dirt floor beneath the chair.

But he was still conscious. Still breathing. Still fighting.

Through the haze, he could hear Lyle and Darrell outside, their voices carrying through the open door.

"...should've heard back by now..."

"...give 'em time, they're probably scrambling..."

Suddenly, a new sound cut through the air. A distant whirring. Getting closer.

Lyle and Darrell went silent.

"What is that?" Darrell said.

Through the open door, Billy could see it—a small black shape in the sky, maybe a quarter mile away, flying in a grid pattern. Searching.

The drones. They found me.

"Oh shit," Lyle said. "SHIT! That's a drone!"

"We gotta go!" Darrell was already running for the truck. "Right now!"

Lyle burst through the cabin door, looked at Billy one last time, then turned and ran. "Leave him! Move!"

Billy heard their truck doors slam, the engine roar to life. Tires spun in the dirt as they took off, heading south away from the cabin.

For a moment, Billy just sat there, alone in the cabin, blood dripping from his arms, still bound to the chair.

Then he went to work.

The chair was old, already cracked from his earlier efforts. He threw his weight backward, hard. The left rear leg splintered completely. He rocked forward, then slammed back again. The right leg cracked.

One more time. He arched his back and threw himself sideways with everything he had.

The chair exploded into pieces.

Billy crashed to the floor, ropes falling away as the structure disintegrated. His wrists were still bound behind him, his ankles still tied together, but he was free of the chair.

He rolled onto his back, brought his knees to his chest, and threaded his bound wrists under his legs in one smooth motion—a move Pops had taught him years ago. His hands were in front now.

Billy attacked the knots with his teeth and numb fingers. The rope was slick with his own blood, which actually helped. The knots loosened. His wrists came free.

He untied his ankles, gasping with relief as his legs straightened for the first time in hours.

Billy looked at his arms. The tourniquets had cut deep—his biceps were torn, bleeding, the muscle damaged. He needed to stop the bleeding.

He grabbed his white t-shirt and ripped it off, tearing it into strips with shaking hands. He wrapped the makeshift bandages around each bicep, tying them tight. The fabric soaked through with blood immediately, but it would hold.

Billy staggered to his feet. His legs almost gave out, but he caught himself against the wall.

Move. Keep moving.

He stumbled through the cabin door into the bright Texas sun. He could see the dust trail from Lyle and Darrell's truck heading south. And overhead, the beautiful sight of a drone, circling, watching.

Billy waved his arms—the movement sending fresh pain through his injured biceps—and started running north, toward where he hoped the convoy would be coming from.


In Pops' Truck

Jr. stared at his iPad screen, his heart hammering. "I got him! Pops, I got him!"

"Where?" Pops and Jake shouted at the same time.

"Drone four just spotted the cabin. And there's Billy—he's outside, he's waving, he's running!" Jr.'s fingers flew across the screen. "Sending GPS coordinates to all units now."

"BILLY!" Jake's voice exploded over the radio. "Where is he? How far?"

"Two miles southwest of our position," Jr. said, pulling up the map. "He's on foot, moving north. The kidnappers' truck is heading south—looks like they abandoned him and ran when they saw the drones."

"Billy Renzo," Jr. said into the radio. "You seeing this?"

"Got it," Billy Renzo's voice came back from Wade's truck. "Tracking the kidnappers' vehicle now. Sending coordinates to Sheriff Nelson."

"Wade, this is Pops," Pops' voice came through, hard and cold. "You take those bastards. We're going for Billy."

"Copy that," Wade said. "We're in pursuit."


In Wade's Truck

Wade hit the lights and sirens. The rooftop bar flashed red and blue, the siren wailing across the empty range.

Billy Renzo sat in the back seat, laptop balanced on his knees, iPad in his hand, watching the drone feed. "Sheriff, I've got them on drone five. They're heading south-southwest, approximately forty-five miles per hour. Sending live feed to your iPad now."

Wilson drove, pushing the truck hard across the rough terrain. Ryan rode shotgun, checking his weapon.

On the dashboard iPad, the aerial view showed a beat-up pickup truck bouncing across open range, two figures visible in the cab.

"Got 'em," Wade said, his jaw tight. "How far?"

"Three miles ahead. You're closing—half a mile gap now."

The chase stretched across the range. Wade's truck ate up the distance, sirens screaming.

"They're slowing down," Billy Renzo said. "Wait—they're stopping. Why are they—oh no. They're bailing out. They've got guns!"

The truck ahead skidded to a stop. Lyle and Darrell jumped out, both carrying weapons.

"Wilson, evasive!" Wade shouted.

Gunfire erupted. Bullets punched through the windshield.

Wilson slammed the brakes and yanked the wheel, putting the truck sideways between them and the shooters. "Everybody down!"

Billy Renzo dropped to the floor, still clutching his laptop. Glass rained down on him as the back window shattered. He kept his eyes on the screen. "Streaming live feed to all units. Command post has visual."

Wade and his sons bailed out, using the truck as cover. They returned fire, the crack of gunshots deafening.

"Billy, you good?" Wade shouted.

"I'm good!" Billy Renzo called from the floor. "Drone's recording everything!"


At Command Post

The big screen showed the shootout in real-time—the aerial view from the drone, muzzle flashes visible, figures moving behind vehicles.

Sarah had her hand over her mouth. Mary stood beside her, arm around Edna. Anna gripped Rebecca's hand.

"They're going to be okay," Rebecca said, though her voice was tight. "Wade knows what he's doing."

On screen, one of the kidnappers went down. Then the other tried to run.

A single shot. He dropped.

Silence.

Wade's voice came through the radio, calm and professional. "Suspects down. Both DOA. Scene is secure."

Sarah closed her eyes. "Thank God."


Back at Pops' Truck

Pops pushed the accelerator to the floor. The truck flew across the range, Jake gripping the dashboard, Jr. monitoring the drone feed showing Billy.

"He's still running," Jr. said. "God, he's actually running. Look at him—he broke free, Pops. He got himself out."

Tom's voice was thick with emotion. "That's my boy."

"How far?" Jake demanded.

"One mile. Less. We'll be on him in ninety seconds."

Jake could see him now—a figure in the distance, stumbling but moving, white bandages wrapped around both arms, shirtless, still wearing his white cowboy hat.

"BILLY!" Jake was out of the truck before it fully stopped, running across the range.

Billy saw him coming and nearly collapsed with relief. "Jake—"

Jake caught him, holding him up. "I got you. I got you, little brother."

The rest of the convoy screeched to a halt. Tom and Pops jumped out, running toward them. Celeb, Ray, Josh, Robert—all of them converging.

"Oh thank God," Tom said, his hands shaking as he touched Billy's face, checking him over. "Thank God."

Pops looked at Billy's arms—the blood-soaked bandages, the torn muscle visible beneath. His face went hard. "Who did this?"

"Two guys. Lyle and Darrell. They ran when the drones showed up."

"Wade's got 'em," Pops said. "They're done."

Jr. ran up with his iPad. "Uncle Billy! You're okay! You're—" He saw the arms and went pale. "We need Rebecca. Command post, we have Billy. He's alive. He needs medical NOW."

Sarah's voice came through, breaking with sobs. "Thank God. Oh thank God. Bring him home. We're ready."

"Suspects are down," Wade's voice cut in. "Scene secure. Both subjects deceased."

Billy, slumped against Jake, said quietly: "Good."

Tom put his hand on Billy's shoulder. "Let's get you home, son."

They helped Billy into the truck. Jake climbed in beside him, keeping an arm around his brother. Celeb handed up a bottle of water. Ray draped a jacket over Billy's bare shoulders.

Jr. keyed the radio. "All units, we have Billy. We're heading home."

A chorus of voices responded—relief, joy, rage satisfied.

Pops started the engine and began the drive back to the ranch, the convoy following behind.

Billy closed his eyes, finally letting himself feel the exhaustion, the pain, the relief.

"Edna—I was supposed to—Romano's—"

"She knows," Jake said. "She's waiting for you. Everyone's waiting."

Billy managed a small smile. "I'm gonna need a rain check on that date."

"Brother, after what you just went through, she'll wait as long as you need."

The convoy rolled across the Texas range, heading home, six families united, one of their own safe and coming home.

It was over.

Chapter 8: Homecoming

Kings County Hospital - 2:00 PM

The entire consortium descended on Kings County Hospital like an invasion force.

The emergency room staff had never seen anything like it—eight pickup trucks pulling into the parking lot at once, disgorging more than twenty people, all demanding to see Billy Benson.

Billy sat on an examination table in trauma bay three, still shirtless with his makeshift t-shirt bandages around his arms. Rebecca stood beside him, already conferring with Dr. Martinez before he'd even finished his initial assessment.

Pops, Tom, Jake, and half the consortium crowded the doorway.

"Everyone out except immediate family," Dr. Martinez said firmly. "I can't work with an audience."

"We ARE family," Robert Beaumont said from the back.

"All six ranches," Manuel Rodriguez added.

Dr. Martinez looked at the mob of people and sighed. "Fine. But you stand back and let me work."

He carefully cut away Billy's makeshift bandages, revealing the damage underneath. The tourniquets had carved deep gouges into both biceps. The muscle was torn, bruised, still seeping blood despite Billy's field dressing.

Sarah gasped. Mary put an arm around her. Edna stood frozen, her hand over her mouth.

"X-rays first," Dr. Martinez said. "I need to rule out bone damage or fractures."

They wheeled Billy down the hall, half the consortium following like a protective honor guard. The X-ray tech looked bewildered but didn't argue.

Twenty minutes later, they were back in the trauma bay. Dr. Martinez clipped the X-rays to the light board and pointed with his pen.

"Good news—no bone damage whatsoever. The tourniquets cut deep into the muscle tissue and you've got some nerve trauma, but structurally, everything's intact. With rest and physical therapy, you should make a full recovery."

"How long?" Billy asked.

"Six weeks minimum before heavy ranch work. But you'll regain full function." He looked at Billy. "Excellent work with those field bandages, by the way. Tearing up your shirt and wrapping your own arms while in shock—that probably saved you from serious complications. Kept the bleeding controlled."

Billy shrugged with one shoulder. "Pops taught us field medicine. Figured it was better than bleeding out."

"Smart thinking," Dr. Martinez said. "Very smart."

Rebecca nodded her approval, relief washing over her face.

Dr. Martinez went to work cleaning and stitching the deeper wounds. Billy gritted his teeth but didn't make a sound. Jake stood on one side, gripping his brother's shoulder. Edna held his hand on the other side.

When the stitching was done, Dr. Martinez wrapped both arms in proper medical bandages—clean, white, professional. A nurse started an IV for fluids and antibiotics.

"You're a very lucky young man," Dr. Martinez said. "A few more hours with those tourniquets and we'd be looking at permanent nerve damage. Possibly amputation."

The room went dead silent.

"But he's okay now?" Sarah asked, her voice shaking.

"He's okay. Sore, exhausted, dehydrated, but stable. He needs rest, monitoring, and no strenuous activity for at least six weeks." Dr. Martinez looked at Billy. "I'm prescribing antibiotics and pain medication. Keep the wounds clean, change dressings twice daily, watch for any signs of infection. I want to see you back here in three days for follow-up."

"Can he go home?" Pops asked.

"Yes. But he takes it easy. No heroics."

"Hear that?" Jake said to Billy. "No heroics."

"Yeah, yeah," Billy muttered.

They dressed Billy in a clean t-shirt someone had brought from the truck—soft blue cotton, worn and comfortable, easy over the bandages. The IV came out, prescriptions were filled at the hospital pharmacy, discharge papers signed.

As they walked through the ER waiting room toward the exit, the staff—nurses, doctors, even the receptionist—started applauding. Word had spread through the small hospital: the rancher who'd been kidnapped, tortured, escaped on his own, and survived.

Billy raised one bandaged arm awkwardly, embarrassed but touched.

Outside in the parking lot, the late afternoon sun was warm and bright. The convoy reassembled—eight trucks, everyone accounted for.

Pops climbed into his truck and keyed the radio. "Sarah, we're heading back. ETA thirty minutes. Billy's patched up and cleared to come home."

Sarah's voice came back immediately. "Thank God. We'll be ready."

Then Mary's voice: "Edna, honey, go tell the butcher we need steaks. Lots of them. The good ones."

"I'm on it!" Edna's voice, excited and relieved.

"Caroline, Anna, start setting up the backyard. Tables, chairs, lights—the works. This is a celebration."

"Already started!" Caroline Beaumont responded.

The convoy rolled out, heading back to the Benson ranch.


The Benson Ranch - 3:00 PM

At the ranch, the women had mobilized.

Sarah, Mary, Caroline, Rebecca, and the mothers from the Renzo, Mattern, and Rodriguez families had transformed the backyard into a celebration space in under two hours.

Long tables were set up under the big oak tree, covered in checkered tablecloths. String lights were being strung between trees. The massive grill was fired up, already heating for the feast to come.

Edna returned from town with the butcher's best cuts—ribeyes, sirloins, enough to feed an army. Anna helped her unload them while Mary started prepping sides: grilled corn, baked potatoes, fresh salads, homemade bread.

"Is he really okay?" Anna asked quietly as they worked.

"Doctor says yes," Edna said, her voice thick with emotion. "No permanent damage. He's going to be fine."

"You should have seen the video they sent," Anna whispered. "The tourniquets, the blood, him screaming—"

"I did see it," Edna said. "We all did. At command post. I thought—" Her voice broke. "I thought I'd lost him."

Mary pulled her into a hug. "But you didn't. He's coming home. And tonight, you two are having that date he promised you this morning."

Edna laughed through her tears. "In the backyard with twenty people watching?"

"Best kind of date," Mary said with a smile. "Trust me."

By the time the convoy pulled up at 3:30, the backyard was ready. Tables set, lights glowing even in the daylight, the grill radiating heat. The smell of charcoal and mesquite filled the air.

Sarah stood on the porch, watching the trucks roll in. When Billy climbed out—slowly, carefully, but on his own two feet—she ran to him.

"Billy!" She pulled him into a careful hug, mindful of his bandaged arms. "Oh, my boy. My boy."

"I'm okay, Mom," Billy said, his voice hoarse. "I'm home."

Tom was there next, his hands shaking as he gripped Billy's shoulders, looked him over, pulled him close. "Thank God. Thank God."

Edna appeared at Billy's side, taking his hand gently. "You scared me," she said softly.

"I scared myself." He squeezed her hand. "But I'm here now. And I believe I owe you a date."

"You do."

"How about right now? Dinner under the stars?"

She smiled through her tears. "Perfect."

The consortium families poured out of the trucks, filling the yard with noise and laughter and relief. Kids ran around. Dogs barked. Men clapped Billy on the back, careful of his arms.

Jr. ran up with Anna right behind him. "Uncle Billy! You were amazing! The way you broke that chair and escaped—we saw it all on the drones!"

"Thanks to you and your tech, Jr.," Billy said. "You saved my life."

"We all did," Jr. said, grinning. "That's what family does."

Pops appeared with a glass of brandy and handed it to Billy. "Welcome home, kid."

Billy downed it in one gulp. "Thanks, Pops."

"Alright everyone!" Sarah called out. "Steaks are going on the grill! Dinner in thirty minutes!"

The backyard came alive. Tom and Robert Beaumont manned the grill, laying out massive steaks that sizzled and smoked. The women brought out sides—grilled corn still in the husk, enormous baked potatoes wrapped in foil, three different salads, baskets of fresh bread.

Someone brought out a cooler of beer. Pops broke out his good brandy. The kids had lemonade and sweet tea.

As the sun began its slow descent toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink, the tables filled.

Billy and Edna sat at the center of the long table, hand in hand. Jake and Celeb sat across from them, grinning like idiots. Jr. and Anna took seats at the end, trying to act casual and failing. Pops sat at the head, Tom on his right, Sarah on his left. The rest of the consortium filled in—all six families, together.

The steaks came off the grill—perfectly charred, still sizzling. Plates were loaded. Glasses were filled.

Billy ate like a starving man, because he was. Two ribeyes, three ears of corn, two baked potatoes, half a loaf of bread.

"Slow down or you'll be sick," Rebecca warned from down the table.

"Can't help it," Billy said between bites. "Best meal of my entire life."

Pops stood, brandy glass in hand, swaying slightly. "To Billy. For being too damn stubborn to die, too smart to stay caught, and too tough for those bastards to break."

"TO BILLY!" the entire table roared.

Glasses clinked. Laughter rang out across the yard. The string lights glowed warmer as the sun set.

Billy looked around at the faces of the six families who'd dropped everything to save him. His throat tightened.

"Thank you," he said, his voice rough with emotion. "All of you. You came for me. You didn't stop. You saved my life. I'll never forget it."

"That's what family does," Jim Renzo said simply. "You show up. No questions asked."

"Always," Manuel Rodriguez added.

As dinner wound down and the stars began to appear, Pops stood again, more steady this time.

"Alright, enough sappy shit," he announced. "Let's get inside and watch a damn movie. Billy picks since he survived a kidnapping today."

Everyone laughed and started clearing plates. The move inside was beautifully chaotic—kids running ahead, adults carrying dishes, dogs weaving between everyone's legs.

The living room was packed beyond capacity. Billy and Edna claimed the center of the big couch. Jake and Celeb flanked them protectively. Jr. and Anna sat on the floor in front, leaning back against the couch. The adults filled every available chair, ottoman, and extra seat dragged in from the dining room. Younger kids sprawled on blankets and pillows on the floor.

"What are we watching?" Jr. asked, iPad ready to pull it up on the TV.

"Something with explosions," Billy said. "I've had enough real-life drama for one day."

Jr. scrolled through Netflix. "How about Extraction? Chris Hemsworth, lots of action, minimal thinking required."

"Perfect," Billy said.

Jr. hit play. The Netflix logo appeared on the big screen, then the opening credits. The lights dimmed. Bowls of popcorn appeared and were passed around. Drinks followed.

Halfway through the movie, in the comfortable darkness of the crowded living room, Edna's hand found Billy's. He looked over at her. She was already looking at him.

"I'm really glad you're okay," she whispered.

"Me too."

She leaned in. Billy met her halfway. Their lips touched—soft, sweet, perfect.

"OH COME ON!" Jr.'s voice exploded from the floor. "I'M RIGHT HERE! THAT'S GROSS!"

The room erupted in laughter and hoots.

"GET IT, BILLY!" Jake shouted.

"About damn time!" Celeb added.

"I DID NOT NEED TO SEE THAT!" Jr. covered his eyes dramatically. "Anna, tell them to stop!"

Anna was giggling too hard to respond.

Jr. looked at her, suddenly shy. Then, before he could lose his nerve, he leaned over and kissed her. Quick, awkward, but real.

The room absolutely exploded.

"JR.!" Sarah gasped, but she was smiling.

"THAT'S MY BOY!" Josh shouted from across the room.

"OH HELL YES!" Jake hollered.

Jr. pulled back from Anna, his face bright red, and turned to glare at the room full of howling, laughing adults.

"Oh, fuck off, all of you!" he shouted.

The laughter doubled. Even Sarah was laughing too hard to scold him properly.

"Language!" she tried weakly.

"That's my great-grandson," Pops said with immense satisfaction, raising his brandy glass. "Chip off the old block."

The movie played on, but nobody was watching anymore. The living room was filled with warmth, laughter, love—the comfortable chaos of six families bound together by more than land or business. Bound by loyalty, by showing up when it mattered, by refusing to give up on their own.

Billy sat with Edna's hand in his, surrounded by everyone who mattered most.

He was home.

He was safe.

He was alive.

And for the first time since that morning—that selfie in the frat house, that drive to the north fence, that moment everything went wrong—he finally, truly let himself relax.

It was over.

The nightmare was over.

And life—beautiful, chaotic, messy, wonderful life—could begin again.

Monday, October 13, 2025

Escaped Convicts

 


Chapter 1: Early Shift

The coffee pot went off at 5 am in the Benson Ranch house, its familiar gurgle breaking the pre-dawn silence. In the room they called the "frat house," the alarm blared at the same time.

"Turn that fuuckin' thing off!!" Jake shouted, hurling a pillow in the general direction of the noise.

"Sorry bro," Billy said, fumbling for his phone on the nightstand between the bunk beds. He killed the alarm and swung his legs over the side of the top bunk.

"Hey Junior, rise and shine," Billy called down to the lower bunk across from him. "We've got the early barn duty today!"

"Shit," Junior groaned, his fifteen-year-old voice still thick with sleep. The kid pulled the blanket over his head.

Celeb stirred in the bunk above Junior but didn't open his eyes. "You two idiots lose another bet?"

"Fuck off," Billy said, but he was grinning as he dropped down from his bunk. He kicked Junior's mattress on the way past. "Come on, get moving."

Both Billy and Junior hit quick showers—five minutes each, ranch protocol—and by 5:30 they were stumbling down the stairs toward the kitchen, hair still damp, pulling on their work jackets. The coffee was ready, black and strong the way Pops made it. They each grabbed a mug just as the old man was shuffling in from his room off the kitchen.

"So you boys drew the early barn shift," Pops said, pouring his own cup. His voice was gravelly from sleep and fifty years of cigars. "Probably revenge from Josh after you lost that shooting bet with him last evening."

Billy winced. "Don't remind me. I had him until that last round."

"Had him my ass," Pops said with a snort. "Your brother's the best shot on this ranch and you know it. What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was thinking I'm getting better," Billy said.

"And I was thinking Billy had it," Junior added, loyal as always to his uncle who was only five years older than him.

Pops shook his head, but he was smiling into his coffee mug. "Well, you thought wrong. Now you get to shovel shit at dawn. That's what thinking gets you."

"Thanks for the support, Pops," Billy said, draining his mug and setting it in the sink.

"Anytime, boy. Now get out there before Josh comes looking for you. And take your radios—I don't want to have to come hunting for you when breakfast is ready."

"Yes sir," they said in unison, then headed for the mudroom to grab their gear.

They pulled on their boots, clipped their radios to their belts, and stuffed their phones in their jacket pockets. Through the kitchen window, the sky was just beginning to lighten at the edges, that deep purple-grey of early morning in Kings County. The air would be cold and clean, and the horses would be waiting.

Billy held the door open for Junior. "Let's get this over with."

"Race you to the barn," Junior said, and took off running before Billy could answer.

"Cheater!" Billy shouted, laughing as he sprinted after him into the pre-dawn darkness.

Chapter 2: Ambush

Junior beat Billy to the barn by three steps, slapping the weathered wood door frame in triumph. "Still got it!"

"You had a head start, you little shit," Billy said, breathing hard but grinning. He pushed open the heavy barn door, and the familiar smell of hay and horse and leather washed over them. The motion-sensor lights flickered on, illuminating the long corridor between the stalls.

The horses stirred at their arrival. Duchess nickered from her stall, and Billy could hear Maverick pawing at the ground further down.

"Alright, let's feed 'em first, then muck out," Billy said, heading toward the feed room at the back of the barn. "You take the north side, I'll take south, we'll meet in the middle."

"Deal," Junior said, already grabbing a lead rope off its hook.

Billy was hauling a fifty-pound bag of feed when he heard it—a sound that didn't belong. A scrape of boot on concrete. Too heavy to be Junior.

He dropped the bag and turned just as two men emerged from the shadows near the tack room.

The first was big, over six feet, with a shaved head and prison-pale skin. Orange fabric showed beneath a stolen jacket. The second was smaller, wiry, with wild eyes and a knife in his hand.

"Don't fuckin' move," the big one said. His voice was flat, dead. Dangerous.

Billy's hand went instinctively toward his radio, but the smaller man was already moving, faster than Billy expected. The knife flashed up toward his throat.

"I said don't move!" The blade pressed cold against Billy's neck. "Where's the other one?"

Billy's mind raced. Junior was still in the barn. Somewhere in the stalls.

"There's no one else," Billy said. "Just me doing the morning—"

"Bullshit. We watched you both run in here." The big one pulled a length of rope from his pocket. "Call him. Now. Or I'll cut your throat and find him myself."

Billy swallowed, feeling the blade move against his skin. There was no playing this. They knew Junior was here.

"Junior!" Billy called out, trying to keep his voice steady. "Come here a sec!"

"What?" Junior's voice echoed from the far end of the barn. Footsteps approached. "You need help with—"

He rounded the corner and froze.

"Hey there, kid," the big convict said. "Nice of you to join us."

Junior's eyes went wide. Billy saw the moment his nephew understood—the orange jumpsuits, the desperation, the danger.

"Run!" Billy shouted.

Junior bolted.

The smaller man lunged, but Billy threw himself forward, grabbing at his arm. They went down hard, crashing into a stack of feed buckets. Billy heard Junior's footsteps pounding toward the barn door, heard him scream—

Then a heavy thud. Junior's cry cut off.

The big convict had caught him.

Billy tried to scramble up, but the wiry man was on him, knee in his spine, wrenching his arms back. Rope bit into his wrists, then his elbows, pulled tight until his shoulders burned.

"Bring the kid," the big one ordered.

They dragged Junior back, kicking and fighting. His lip was split, blood running down his chin. The big convict had him by the back of his jacket like a puppy.

"Tie him up too," the big man said, shoving Junior down next to Billy.

The wiry convict worked fast, binding Junior's wrists behind his back, then his elbows. Junior gasped as the rope cut in.

"You're both coming with us," the big man said. He crouched down, started going through Billy's pockets. Found his phone first. "This goes."

He tossed it aside, kept searching. His hand closed around something in Billy's front jacket pocket. Keys.

He pulled them out, dangling the key ring. "Truck keys. Perfect." He looked at Billy. "Which truck?"

Billy said nothing.

The big man grabbed Junior by the hair, yanked his head back. The knife appeared in his other hand. "I asked which truck."

"The silver F-350," Billy said quickly. "Parked out front."

"That better be right." The man shoved Junior away, then pulled out a roll of duct tape. He tore off a strip and slapped it over Billy's mouth.

He turned to Junior, tape in hand—then stopped. "Wait. Kid, which one's the F-350? I want to hear it from you."

Junior's eyes darted to Billy, then back to the convict. His voice shook. "The silver one. Big truck. Right out front by the barn door."

"It got gas?"

"Yeah. Full tank."

"Good boy." The man ripped off another piece of tape and pressed it hard over Junior's mouth. Then he patted down Billy's belt, found his radio. Ripped it off and threw it across the barn.

He moved to Junior. Patted his jacket pockets, found his phone and wallet. But the oversized t-shirt hung loose past Junior's hips, covering his belt line, and the man was in a hurry.

He didn't check further. Didn't see the radio clipped to Junior's belt behind his back, hidden beneath the fabric.

Billy saw Junior's eyes widen slightly—the kid had realized it too.

"Get 'em in the truck bed," the big convict ordered. "We're wasting time."

They were hauled to their feet and shoved outside into the cold pre-dawn air. The silver F-350 sat right where Junior said it would be, twenty feet from the barn door.

The convicts threw them into the truck bed like cargo. Billy landed hard on his shoulder, Junior crashing down beside him.

"Tarp over 'em," the big convict said. "Don't want anyone seeing our passengers."

Canvas darkness dropped over them. The truck doors opened, slammed shut. The engine roared to life.

And then they were moving, bouncing down the ranch road, away from the barn, away from the house, away from anyone who could help them.

Billy tried to shift position, his bound arms screaming. He felt Junior next to him, felt the hard edge of the radio pressing between them where their backs nearly touched.

They had one chance. One lifeline the convicts didn't know about.

In the darkness under the tarp, Billy felt Junior's bound hand brush against his. A deliberate touch: I've still got it.

Behind them, the Benson Ranch house sat quiet in the breaking dawn, coffee still warm in the pot, Billy's radio and both phones abandoned in the barn, and no one knowing that two of their own had just vanished into the Texas morning.

Chapter 3: Gone

Pops had heard the truck engine fire up around 5:45. He'd been in his room off the kitchen, pulling on his clothes for the day, and the sound had made him pause. The boys had only been at the barn fifteen minutes. Why the hell were they driving somewhere?

He'd gone to the kitchen window, but in the pre-dawn darkness he could only make out taillights heading down the ranch road. Too far away to tell which direction they'd gone after that.

Strange. But then, maybe one of the horses had gotten out. Maybe they were chasing it down.

Still, it nagged at him.

Now, on his second cup of coffee, he noticed the time. 6:15. The boys should've been back by now, or at least radioed in with an explanation.

He picked up his own radio from the kitchen counter. "Billy, Junior, you boys about done out there? Breakfast is in twenty minutes."

Static.

He tried again. "Billy, you copy?"

Nothing.

The nagging feeling turned into something harder. Something cold in his gut.

He heard footsteps on the stairs. Jake appeared first, hair sticking up in every direction, followed by Celeb looking only slightly more awake.

"Morning Pops," Jake said, making a beeline for the coffee pot.

"Your brother and Junior still in the barn?" Pops asked.

Jake shrugged, pouring his coffee. "I guess. They left like an hour ago."

"I heard the F-350 leave about 5:45. Haven't heard from them since. They're not answering their radios."

That got Jake's attention. "They took a truck? Where the hell would they be going?"

"That's what I want to know." Pops set down his mug. "You two go check the barn. Something doesn't feel right."

"Maybe a horse got loose," Celeb suggested, but he was already setting down his coffee mug.

"Maybe," Pops said. "But Billy would've radioed that in. Go check."

Jake and Celeb exchanged a glance, the seriousness of Pops' tone cutting through their morning fog. They headed for the mudroom, pulled on boots and jackets, grabbed their own radios, and headed out into the grey morning light.

The barn was quiet when they got there. Too quiet.

"Billy?" Jake called out, pushing through the door. "Junior?"

The lights were still on. A feed bag sat torn open on the floor, grain spilled everywhere. Feed buckets scattered like someone had knocked them over.

"What the hell?" Celeb moved further into the barn. "Billy!"

Jake spotted something on the ground near the tack room. He bent down, picked it up. Billy's radio, the clip broken like it had been ripped off.

"Celeb," he said, his voice suddenly tight. "Look."

Celeb came over, saw the radio. His face went pale.

They found the phones next. Billy's by the feed room. Junior's near the mudroom entrance. Both just lying there on the concrete.

"This is wrong," Jake said. "This is really fuckin' wrong."

Celeb was already keying his radio. "Pops, you there?"

"Go ahead."

"They're not here. The barn's empty. We found their phones and Billy's radio just lying on the ground. Something happened."

There was a pause. Then Pops' voice came back, hard and controlled. "Get back to the house. Now."

Jake picked up Billy's phone, Junior's phone, the broken radio. His hands were shaking.

They ran back to the house. Pops was waiting at the door, his face grim.

"Show me," Pops said.

Jake held out the phones and radio. "The barn looks like there was a struggle. Feed everywhere, buckets knocked over. No sign of them."

"I knew it," Pops said quietly, his jaw tight. "I knew something was wrong when I heard that truck leave."

"The silver F-350's gone," Celeb confirmed, looking out the window at the parking area.

"Hit the button," Pops said. "Now."

Celeb didn't hesitate. He lifted his radio to his mouth and pressed the emergency button three times in quick succession.

The mechanical voice echoed through every radio in the consortium: "911 Celeb. 911 Celeb. 911 Celeb."

The sound blared from every radio in the Benson house—including the ones on every family member's nightstand.

Upstairs, doors flew open. Footsteps pounded.

Tom Benson came down the stairs two at a time, still pulling on his jeans, bare-chested. Sarah was right behind him in her bathrobe, hair wild. Josh appeared next, wearing only sweatpants, his face already white with panic. Rebecca came running after him in her nightgown, blonde hair tangled, her face stricken. Ray stumbled out last, t-shirt on backwards, fumbling with his radio.

"What's happening?" Tom demanded. "Where's Billy? Where's Junior?"

Rebecca grabbed the stair railing. "Junior? Where's my son?"

"Gone," Pops said flatly. He nodded at Jake and Celeb. "Show them."

Jake held up the phones and broken radio.

Rebecca let out a strangled cry. Josh caught her as her knees buckled, then grabbed Junior's phone from Jake's hand with his other hand, staring at it like it might give him answers.

"No. No, where is he? Where's my baby?" Rebecca's voice was rising toward panic.

"We're going to find him," Josh said, but his own voice was shaking.

"We don't know where they are yet," Pops said. He picked up his radio. "But we're about to find out."

He keyed the radio. "This is Tom Benson Senior at the Benson Ranch. Billy and Junior are missing as of approximately 0530 hours this morning. They left for barn duty and never returned. We found their phones and radio abandoned in the barn. The silver F-350 is missing. Signs of a struggle. We need everyone here now."

The responses came immediately, crackling through the radios.

"Nelson ranch, copy. On our way." That was Sheriff Wade Nelson.

"Beaumont ranch, we're coming." Robert Beaumont's voice.

"Renzo here, we're rolling."

"Mattern family, heading to you now."

"Rodriguez, we'll be there in ten."

Sarah had her hand over her mouth, tears already streaming down her face. Tom pulled her close, but his own face was carved from stone.

Rebecca was sobbing against Josh's chest. "He's fifteen. He's just a baby. He's my baby."

"And Billy's with him," Jake said, his voice shaking. "Billy won't let anything happen to him."

"Billy's twenty," Ray said, then stopped. Nobody needed him to finish that sentence.

"I'll get dressed," Sarah said, but she didn't move. She was staring at the barn through the kitchen window like she could will the boys to walk back through that door.

Rebecca pulled away from Josh, wiping her face with shaking hands. "I need to—I have to do something. Coffee. I'll make more coffee."

The sound of vehicles approaching cut through the tension. The Nelsons arrived first—Sheriff Wade in his official vehicle, lights flashing, followed by his wife Mary and their sons Wilson and Ryan, both deputies, in their own truck. Edna Nelson came with them, Billy's girlfriend, still in pajama pants and an oversized jacket, her face stricken.

The Beaumonts pulled up right behind them, Robert and Caroline both looking grim.

Within fifteen minutes, the Benson Ranch yard was full of trucks and people. The consortium families poured into the kitchen. The Benson family members and Rebecca scattered upstairs briefly to throw on more clothes, then came back down. Rebecca's eyes were red-rimmed but she moved with purpose, pouring coffee, setting out mugs.

Billy Renzo appeared with Daniel Rodriguez and Ryan Mattern—Junior's best friends, all fifteen years old. Billy Renzo was already pulling out his tablet.

"Where's Junior?" he demanded, looking around wildly. "Where's Billy?"

Rebecca's face crumpled again. "Missing. They're missing."

The three fifteen-year-olds looked at each other, then at their tablets and phones. Without a word, they converged at the kitchen table.

Sheriff Wade Nelson stepped forward, his face grim. He was in full uniform—he'd clearly been on duty when the call came. "Tom, Pops, I need you to tell me everything. From the beginning."

As Tom and Pops laid out the timeline—including the sound of the truck leaving at 5:45—Wade's expression grew darker.

"There was a prison break last night," he said finally. "Huntsville. Two inmates escaped. We got the alert around 0400 but they were already hours gone by then. Dangerous men—one serving life for armed robbery and assault, the other doing twenty-five for attempted murder."

The room went dead silent.

Rebecca made a sound like an animal in pain. Caroline moved to her side, putting an arm around her shoulders.

"You think they came here?" Josh's voice was barely controlled. "You think those men took my son?"

"It fits," Wade said. "They'd need transportation. Food. Possibly hostages." He pulled out his radio. "I'm calling in an APB on that F-350. What's the plate number?"

Ray rattled it off from memory, his voice mechanical.

Wade keyed his radio and put out the alert, adding descriptions of Billy and Junior.

In the corner, the three fifteen-year-olds had their heads together over Billy Renzo's tablet, fingers flying across screens.

"What are you boys doing?" Wade asked.

Billy Renzo looked up, his young face set with determination. "Junior always has a trick up his sleeve, Sheriff. Always. We're not waiting around for an APB. We're gonna find him."

"How?" Wade asked, but there was interest in his voice, not dismissal.

"Give us a minute," Daniel said, his eyes never leaving the screen.

The adults exchanged glances. These kids were ranchers, hunters, trackers. And more than that—they were tech geniuses who'd built half the communication network the consortium used.

If anyone could find a digital trail, it would be them.

Pops moved to stand behind the boys. "What do you need?"

"Coffee," Ryan Mattern said absently. "And about five more minutes."

Rebecca and Sarah were already pouring, their hands shaking but steady enough.

Outside, the sun was finally coming up over Kings County, burning off the morning grey. Somewhere out there, Billy and Junior were in the hands of desperate men.

But they weren't alone anymore. The entire consortium was mobilizing.

And in the Benson kitchen, three fifteen-year-old geniuses were about to prove that Junior wasn't the only one with tricks up his sleeve.

Chapter 4: The Cabin

The truck bounced over rough terrain for what felt like hours but was probably only thirty minutes. Under the tarp, Billy and Junior were thrown against each other and the sides of the truck bed with every pothole and turn. Billy tried to keep track of the route—right turn, straight for a while, left, another right—but it was impossible in the darkness with his body being jolted around.

Finally, the truck slowed, then stopped. The engine cut off.

"This'll do," the big convict's voice came through the truck bed wall. "Looks abandoned."

Doors opened and slammed. Footsteps crunched on gravel. Then the tailgate dropped open and the tarp was yanked back. Morning sunlight flooded in, blinding after the darkness. Billy squinted, trying to see where they were.

Trees. Thick woods. And in front of them, a small hunting cabin that had seen better days. The roof sagged on one side, windows were dark, and the porch looked half-rotted.

"Perfect," the wiry convict said. "Nobody's been here in years."

They hauled Billy and Junior out of the truck bed, letting them drop hard onto the ground. Billy's shoulder screamed where he landed. Junior made a muffled sound of pain behind his gag.

"Get 'em inside," the big one ordered. "Then we secure this place and get some sleep. We've been up all fuckin' night."

They were dragged across the gravel, up the creaking porch steps, and through a door that hung crooked on its hinges. The cabin interior was dim and musty. Old furniture covered in dust. A stone fireplace. A kitchen area with a hand pump at the sink. Two doorways leading to what looked like bedrooms.

The convicts dropped them in the middle of the main room, on a threadbare rug over wooden floorboards.

"We need to tie 'em better," the wiry one said. "That rope job in the truck was quick and dirty. Don't want them wiggling free while we're asleep."

"Do it," the big convict said. He was already checking the windows, making sure nobody could see in from outside.

The wiry man went to work. He positioned Billy and Junior back-to-back on the floor, then untied some of the rope only to retie it tighter, more methodically. He bound their wrists together behind them, then their elbows, cinching the rope so tight Billy felt his shoulders burning. Then he wrapped rope around both of them, binding their torsos together so they couldn't separate.

"On your sides," he ordered, pushing them over.

Billy landed hard on his left side, Junior pressed against his back. The wiry convict tied their ankles together, then their thighs, immobilizing their legs completely.

"Try getting out of that," he said with satisfaction.

Billy tested the ropes. They were tight. Professional. This guy had done this before.

The big convict came back from checking the cabin. "Place is empty. Nobody's been here in months, maybe years. We're good."

He went out to the truck and came back with supplies. Billy recognized the emergency kit from the F-350's tool box. The convict dumped it out on the dusty table—first aid supplies, emergency blankets, road flares. And the dehydrated rations that every Benson vehicle kept stocked.

"Jackpot," the wiry one said, grabbing a ration pack. "We got food and water."

They ate quickly, tearing into the ration packs like starving dogs. The big convict worked the hand pump at the sink until rusty water came out, then clearer water. He filled a tin cup and drank.

"How long we staying here?" the wiry one asked.

"Long enough to sleep and figure out our next move," the big one said. "We put enough distance between us and that prison. APB's probably out by now, but they'll be looking for two cons on foot. Not two guys in a nice ranch truck with hostages in case we need bargaining chips."

"What if they track the truck?"

"That's why we got the kids. Insurance." The big convict looked over at Billy and Junior on the floor. "You boys behave yourselves and you might get out of this alive. Give us trouble, and you won't."

Billy met his eyes and didn't look away.

The big man grunted. "Tough guy. We'll see how tough you are after a few hours tied up like that."

The convicts claimed the two bedrooms, arguing briefly about who got which one. Finally they settled it and disappeared through the doorways.

Within minutes, snoring echoed through the cabin.

Billy lay on the cold floor, Junior's back pressed against his, both of them bound so tightly he could barely move. His shoulders ached. His wrists were going numb. The duct tape over his mouth made it hard to breathe through his nose.

He felt Junior trembling. Or maybe that was his own body shaking with adrenaline and fear.

They had to do something. Had to communicate. Had to figure out a plan.

Billy's mind raced back to when he and Jake were kids, maybe eight and nine years old. They used to play games—stupid kid games where they'd tie each other up with jump ropes and see who could escape faster. Pops had caught them once and laughed his ass off, then showed them how to actually tie a proper knot.

But the best part of those games had been the palm-tracing communication Jake had invented. When your mouth was "gagged" with a bandana, you could still spell out words by tracing letters on the other person's palm with your finger.

Billy's hands were tied behind him, pressed against Junior's. He could just barely move his fingers.

He traced slowly, deliberately, on Junior's palm: O-K-?

There was a pause. Then Junior's fingers moved against his hand, shaky but readable: N-O

Billy traced again: M-E T-O-O

Another pause. Then: S-C-A-R-E-D

Billy's heart clenched. Junior was fifteen. Just a kid. And Billy had gotten him into this.

He traced: M-E T-O-O

Then: W-E G-E-T O-U-T

Junior's response came faster this time: H-O-W

That was the question. How the hell were they going to get out of this?

Billy tested the ropes again. They were too tight. Too well tied. Even if they worked at them for hours, he wasn't sure they could get free.

But then he felt it—the hard edge of the radio still clipped to Junior's belt, pressed against his bound wrists.

The radio. Junior still had the radio.

Billy traced urgently: R-A-D-I-O

Junior went very still. Then his fingers moved: Y-E-S

Billy's mind raced. If they could turn it on, hit the emergency button, the consortium would hear it. Wade could track the signal, maybe. The wiz kids could triangulate it.

But the convicts were right in the next rooms. If the radio made any sound—any sound at all—they'd hear it.

Billy traced: M-U-T-E?

Junior traced back: M-A-Y-B-E

Then: T-R-Y?

Billy hesitated. If they tried and failed, if the convicts heard them, it was over. But if they didn't try, they might not get another chance.

He traced: W-A-I-T

Junior's fingers squeezed his in acknowledgment.

The snoring continued from both bedrooms. The convicts were exhausted, sleeping hard.

Billy and Junior lay bound and motionless on the floor of the abandoned cabin, communicating in single letters traced on each other's palms, their only lifeline a hidden radio and each other.

Outside, the sun climbed higher over the Texas woods. And back at the Benson Ranch, three fifteen-year-olds were about to do what they did best: find the impossible.

But first, Billy and Junior had to stay alive long enough to be found.

Billy traced one more message on Junior's palm: L-O-V-E Y-O-U

Junior's response came back immediate and fierce: L-O-V-E Y-O-U T-O-O

Then they waited, and planned, and hoped.

Chapter 5: Signal

Part 1: The Broadcast

Billy traced on Junior's palm: R-E-A-D-Y?

Junior's fingers hesitated, then spelled: Y-E-S

The snoring from both bedrooms continued, deep and rhythmic. The convicts were dead to the world, exhausted from their prison break and hours on the run.

Billy traced: S-L-O-W

Junior's fingers moved in acknowledgment. Then Billy felt Junior shift slightly, trying to angle his body to give his own hands better access to the radio clipped at his belt behind his back.

It took forever. Tiny movements, barely perceptible. Junior's fingers searching blindly for the radio, finding the edge of it, tracing up to the controls.

Billy felt every motion through the ropes binding them together. His own heart hammered so loud he was sure the convicts would hear it.

Junior's hand explored the radio face carefully. The power button was at the top, but if he turned it on first, it might make a startup sound. Or worse, someone might transmit and the speaker would crackle to life.

He needed the volume first.

Junior's fingers found the volume knob on the side. He traced on Billy's palm: V-O-L

Billy understood. Billy traced back: D-O-W-N

Junior began turning the knob. Slowly. Click by click. All the way down. All the way to zero. It took nearly a minute, his fingers cramping, but he kept turning until the knob wouldn't go any further.

He traced: M-U-T-E-D

Billy traced: G-O-O-D

Now the power button. Junior's fingers moved back to the top of the radio, found the button. He pressed it in, felt it click.

The radio powered on in complete silence.

Junior traced: O-N

Billy traced back: G-O-O-D N-O-W 9-1-1

Now came the critical part. The emergency button. Three clicks that would broadcast "911 Billy Jr" across every radio in the consortium—but with the volume muted, they wouldn't hear the convicts even if they were screaming through the radios right now.

Junior's fingers searched for the emergency button. Found it on the side of the radio body, below the volume knob.

Billy listened to the cabin. The snoring continued. One of the convicts mumbled something in his sleep, then settled back into a steady rhythm.

Billy traced: N-O-W

Junior pressed the emergency button. Once.

A pause. He could feel the radio vibrate slightly in his hand as it transmitted.

Twice.

Another pause.

Three times.

Silent to them, but screaming across the airwaves: "911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr."

Junior traced on Billy's palm: D-O-N-E

Billy traced: L-E-A-V-E O-N

The radio would stay on, volume still muted, transmitting location data. If the wiz kids were half as good as Billy thought they were, they'd be able to track the signal.

Junior traced: W-O-R-K-E-D?

Billy traced: H-O-P-E S-O

They lay there, bound and gagged on the cold cabin floor, the radio hidden between them humming silently with power. Somewhere out there, their family was looking for them. And now, finally, they had a beacon to follow.

Junior's fingers found Billy's again and squeezed.

They'd done it. They'd sent the signal. And they'd done it without making a sound.

Now someone just had to hear it.

Part 2: Command Center

The Benson kitchen had transformed into a command center. The three fifteen-year-olds—Billy Renzo, Daniel Rodriguez, and Ryan Mattern—had taken over the dining table, tablets and laptops spread out in front of them, cables snaking across the floor to power strips.

"Got it," Billy Renzo said, his fingers flying across his tablet. "Surveillance footage from the barn camera. Night vision activated at 0520 hours."

Everyone crowded around to watch the small screen. The grainy green-tinted footage showed the barn entrance. At 0523, two figures emerged from the shadows—moving cautiously, checking around them. Prison orange visible even in night vision.

"There," Wade said, pointing. "That's them. They were waiting in the barn when Billy and Junior showed up."

Rebecca made a choked sound. Josh's arm tightened around her.

"How long were they in there?" Tom asked.

"Timestamps show they entered the barn at 0510," Daniel said, scrolling back through the footage. "Fifteen minutes before Billy and Junior arrived."

"Lying in wait," Pops said quietly. His voice was ice.

"Alright," Billy Renzo said, switching screens. "Drones. We've got six of them charged and ready. Ryan, Daniel, and I will each control two. We'll create a search grid radiating out from the ranch."

He pulled up a map on his tablet, showing the ranch and surrounding area divided into sectors. "We start here and work outward. They've got maybe a forty-five minute head start, truck can't go fast on these back roads. They're probably within a twenty-mile radius."

"How do we see what the drones see?" Ray asked.

Ryan Mattern was already handing out iPads. "Each of you gets a display. Six boxes, one for each drone feed. You'll be able to see everything we see."

He distributed tablets to Pops, Tom, Josh, Wade, and several others. Each screen lit up with six empty boxes, waiting for the drone feeds.

"We launch in two minutes," Billy Renzo said.

Across the room, Pops had unlocked the gun cabinet. He was methodically distributing weapons—rifles, shotguns, handguns—and boxes of ammunition.

"Check your weapons," he said, his voice carrying the authority of a man who'd been a soldier long before he was a rancher. "Safeties on until we know what we're dealing with. Nobody fires unless I give the order or someone's life is in immediate danger. Understood?"

"Understood," came the chorus of responses. Even the younger men who'd never been in combat knew better than to argue with Pops when he used that tone.

Jake checked his rifle, jaw set. Celeb did the same. Ray and Josh both took handguns, loading them with practiced efficiency.

Wade was on his phone, pacing near the window. "That's right, two escaped convicts, armed and dangerous, holding two hostages. We need every deputy you've got and I want the Texas Rangers notified... Yes, the APB is already out on the truck... Silver F-350, I'll send you the plate number again..."

Wilson and Ryan Nelson, both deputies, were suiting up in their gear, checking their service weapons.

Edna stood next to Sarah and Rebecca, all three women pale but steady. Caroline was filling thermoses with coffee, preparing supplies for what might be a long search.

"Drones launching now," Billy Renzo announced.

Outside, six drones lifted off from the yard with a collective whir, their cameras activating. The iPads throughout the kitchen lit up with six live feeds—aerial views of the ranch, the surrounding fields, the roads snaking through Kings County.

"Grid pattern alpha," Daniel said. "Starting search."

The room fell into tense silence, everyone watching their screens as the drones spread out, cameras scanning the landscape below.

Wade was still on the phone. "Texas Rangers are en route, ETA thirty minutes. They're bringing—"

Every radio in the room suddenly crackled to life.

"911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr. 911 Billy Jr."

The mechanical voice cut through the command center like a gunshot.

The room exploded.

"That's Junior!" Josh shouted. "That's his radio!"

"He's alive!" Rebecca grabbed Josh's arm. "He's alive and he has his radio!"

Billy Renzo was already typing furiously on his tablet. "I'm tracking the signal now. Give me ten seconds."

"Can we talk to them?" Jake demanded.

"Not if they're hiding it from the convicts," Wade said. "If that radio makes any sound, it could get them killed. But we can track it."

"Got it!" Billy Renzo spun his tablet around. A map showed a pulsing red dot in a wooded area northeast of the ranch. "Signal is coming from here. Approximately twelve miles out. Looks like... old hunting territory. Lots of abandoned cabins in that area."

"I know that area," Pops said. He was already moving toward the door, rifle in hand. "There's three, maybe four old cabins out there. Haven't been used in years."

"Redirect the drones," Wade ordered. "Get eyes on that location now."

"On it," Daniel said. All six drone feeds on the iPads shifted, the cameras banking as the drones changed course, racing toward the signal location.

Tom grabbed his keys. "We move now."

"Wait," Wade said, his voice hard with authority. "We do this smart. Those men are desperate and they have hostages. We go in too fast, too loud, and Billy and Junior are dead. We need a plan."

"The plan is we get our boys back," Josh said, his voice shaking with barely controlled rage.

"And we will," Wade said. "But we do it right."

Pops stepped between them. "Wade's right. We set up a perimeter. Drones give us eyes on the cabin. We confirm the truck is there, confirm the convicts are inside. Then we move in quiet. Surround the place. Cut off any escape routes."

"How long will that take?" Rebecca asked, her voice breaking.

"Thirty minutes to get in position," Wade said. "Maybe less."

"They're alive, Rebecca," Sarah said, grabbing her daughter-in-law's hands. "They're alive and they're smart enough to signal us. We're going to bring them home."

On the iPads, the drone feeds showed thick woods rushing past below. The cameras zoomed, focused, searching.

"Come on," Billy Renzo muttered, eyes glued to his screen. "Come on, Junior. Keep that signal going. We're coming for you."

In the Benson kitchen turned command center, armed men prepared to move out, mothers held their breath, and six drones raced through the Texas sky toward a red dot on a map that represented two boys who refused to give up.

The hunt was on.

Chapter 6: Breakout

The convicts had been asleep for nearly an hour. Billy and Junior lay bound on the cabin floor, listening to the rhythmic snoring, waiting.

Billy traced on Junior's palm: T-R-Y R-O-P-E-S

Junior's fingers moved: H-O-W

Billy had been thinking about it. The convicts had tied them tight, but they'd also tied them back-to-back. Which meant if one of them could create slack, the other might be able to work free.

Billy traced: Y-O-U P-U-L-L I P-U-S-H

Junior understood. If he pulled forward while Billy pushed back, they might be able to create enough space between their bound wrists to start working the knots.

They started slowly. Billy pushed his body weight back against Junior. Junior leaned forward, straining against the ropes. The rope between their wrists stretched slightly.

Billy's fingers found the knot. It was tight, but not impossible. He started picking at it, working the rope with his fingertips.

Minutes crawled by. His fingers cramped. Sweat ran down his face behind the duct tape gag. But slowly, impossibly, he felt the knot begin to loosen.

Junior felt it too. He traced on Billy's palm: W-O-R-K-I-N-G

Billy kept at it. Pick, pull, twist. The rope gave a little more. A little more.

And then—his wrist slipped free.

Billy's hands were still bound together, but they were no longer tied to Junior's. He immediately went to work on the rope around his own wrists, his fingers moving faster now that he had more mobility.

The rope fell away.

His hands were free.

Billy reached up and ripped the duct tape off his mouth, gasping at the sudden pain and the rush of air. Then he turned and started working on Junior's bonds.

The knots at Junior's wrists came loose. Then his elbows. Junior pulled his hands free and yanked off his own gag, sucking in air.

"The legs," Billy whispered, his voice barely audible.

They worked together now, fingers flying over the ropes binding their ankles and thighs. The knots were tight but they had leverage now, had hands that could grip and pull.

The rope around their thighs loosened. Fell away. Then their ankles.

They were free.

Billy and Junior sat up slowly, every muscle screaming from being bound for so long. The snoring from the bedrooms continued, undisturbed.

Billy looked at Junior. The kid's lip was still split and swollen. His wrists were raw from the ropes. But his eyes were fierce.

Junior reached for his radio, still clipped to his belt. He turned the volume up just slightly and keyed the mic.

"This is Junior," he whispered into the radio. "We're free. We're getting out. Are you there?"

The response came immediately, multiple voices erupting—then Wade's voice cutting through: "Everyone quiet! Junior, this is Wade. Stay quiet. Where are you?"

"Still in the cabin," Junior whispered. "They're asleep. We're going for the truck."

"Do it fast. We're converging on your location now. Ten minutes out."

Billy was already moving across the cabin floor, every step agonizingly slow. He spotted the keys on the dusty table where the convicts had dumped the supplies. He grabbed them, along with his phone.

Junior scooped up his phone and wallet.

They moved to the door. Billy tested the handle. It wasn't locked—why would it be? The convicts thought they had two kids tied up tight.

Billy eased the door open. The hinges creaked.

They froze.

The snoring continued.

They slipped outside onto the rotting porch, then down the steps. The silver F-350 sat twenty feet away in the clearing, morning sun glinting off its hood.

They ran.

Billy hit the unlock button. The truck chirped—too loud, way too loud—but they were already climbing in. Billy took the driver's seat, jammed the key in the ignition.

The engine roared to life.

Behind them, in the cabin, someone shouted.

"Go, go, go!" Junior yelled.

Billy slammed the truck into reverse, spun it around, then punched the gas. The F-350 shot forward down the overgrown trail, branches scraping the sides.

Junior had the radio up to his mouth. "We're in the truck! We're driving! They're awake, they know we're gone!"

Back at the ranch command center, Billy Renzo was staring at his tablet screen. "I've got them! Drone 3 has visual on the F-350!"

The iPad screens throughout the kitchen all showed it—box three lighting up with aerial footage of the silver truck bouncing down an overgrown trail.

"They're moving east," Daniel said, fingers flying across his tablet. "Sending GPS coordinates now."

Wade's voice came through the radio. "Junior, which direction are you heading?"

Junior looked around wildly as Billy navigated the rough terrain. "East! We're on some kind of old logging road!"

"We see you on the drones," Billy Renzo's voice came through. "Keep going straight for another half mile, then you'll hit County Road 347. Turn right—that'll bring you toward us."

"Copy that," Junior said.

In the convoy of rescue vehicles racing toward the location, Pops was watching his iPad with Tom and Josh. "There they are," Pops said, pointing at the screen. "They're moving fast."

"Turn coming up in 400 meters," Daniel's voice crackled over the radio, calm and precise. "Then right onto the paved road."

Billy saw the intersection ahead. The logging road met a gravel county road. He slowed just enough to make the turn without rolling the truck.

"Nice driving," Junior said, gripping the door handle.

"We're on County Road 347," Billy called into the radio. "Heading south."

"Perfect," Wade's voice came back. "We're two miles north of you on the same road. Keep coming. We'll meet you."

On every iPad screen in both the convoy and back at the ranch, the drone footage showed the silver truck on the road, and about two miles up, a line of vehicles with flashing lights racing toward them.

"One mile to intercept," Ryan Mattern's voice announced. "Drone 2, can you get eyes on the cabin?"

"Redirecting now," Daniel said.

Drone 2's camera panned back toward the cabin. Two figures stumbled out, looking around frantically. No vehicle. No way to chase.

"Suspects are outside the cabin," Billy Renzo reported. "They're on foot. No pursuit possible."

Billy saw the convoy ahead, lights flashing. He started slowing down.

"I see them!" Junior shouted into the radio.

The vehicles converged, Billy pulling to the side of the road. The convoy screeched to a halt.

Doors flew open. Josh came running, Rebecca right behind him.

"Junior!" Rebecca screamed.

Junior jumped out of the truck and his mother grabbed him, sobbing, checking him over for injuries. Josh wrapped his arms around both of them.

Jake reached Billy, pulled him into a crushing hug. "You crazy bastard. You scared the shit out of us."

"I'm okay," Billy said. "We're okay."

Wade was already coordinating on his radio. "Wilson, Ryan, take units two and three to the cabin location. Suspects are on foot in the immediate area. Drones have visual. Billy, can you guide them in?"

"Yes sir," Billy Renzo's voice came back over the radio. "Drone 2 has them in sight. They're heading northeast from the cabin on foot. Sending coordinates to your units now."

Pops appeared, his weathered face showing more emotion than Billy had seen in years. He gripped Billy's shoulder hard enough to bruise. "You did good, boy. Real good."

"Junior did most of it," Billy said. "Kid's got ice in his veins."

The group stood on the side of County Road 347, waiting. The drones overhead, families gathered around Billy and Junior, everyone listening to the radio chatter as Wade's deputies closed in on the cabin location.

Minutes ticked by. Rebecca still held Junior like she'd never let go. Sarah had her arms around Billy. Edna was there too, holding Billy's hand.

Then Wade's radio crackled. Wilson's voice came through: "Suspects in visual. Ordering them to stop... They're running... In pursuit on foot..."

Everyone held their breath.

"Suspects down! Suspects down! We have them in custody. Both apprehended. No shots fired. Repeat, both suspects in custody."

A cheer exploded from the assembled families. Rebecca burst into fresh tears. Josh pulled both her and Junior into a tighter embrace.

Wade keyed his radio. "Excellent work. Secure the scene and transport the suspects to county lockup. I'll meet you there."

He turned to the group. "It's over. The convicts are in custody. Your boys are safe."

Tom clapped Wade on the shoulder. "Thank you, Wade. Thank you all."

"Thank your boys," Wade said, looking at Billy and Junior. "And those three tech geniuses back at the ranch. That radio signal and those drones? That's what made this possible."

Pops pulled out his own radio. "Billy Renzo, Daniel, Ryan—you boys still there?"

"Yes sir," came the chorus.

"Outstanding work. You just saved two lives today."

"Junior saved himself," Billy Renzo said. "We just helped him get found."

Junior grinned, wiping his bloody lip. "Team effort."

"Alright," Pops said, his voice gruff but warm. "Let's get these boys home. I believe there's breakfast waiting. And it's gonna be one hell of a celebration."

They loaded into the trucks, Billy and Junior riding in the lead vehicle with Pops, Tom, and Sarah. The convoy turned back toward the ranch, the morning sun bright and warm overhead.

In the back seat, Junior leaned against his uncle Billy, exhausted but safe.

"You know what?" Junior said quietly.

"What?"

"I'm never taking early barn duty again."

Billy laughed, the sound breaking through the last of the tension. "Deal."

Behind them, Wade stayed behind to coordinate the arrest and secure the crime scene. But the Benson convoy was heading home, two boys who'd been taken at dawn now returning in triumph by mid-morning.

The nightmare was over.

Now it was time to go home.Chapter 7: Celebration

One week later, the Benson Ranch was packed. Every family in the consortium had shown up for the BBQ—tables set up under the oak trees, smokers going since dawn, coolers full of beer buried in ice. Kids ran wild in the yard while the adults gathered in clusters, talking and laughing.

Billy's split lip had healed. Junior's wrists no longer showed rope burns. The whole ordeal had taken on the quality of a story now, something that had happened but was safely in the past.

Pops stood up on the porch, beer in hand, and whistled loud enough to get everyone's attention.

"Alright, settle down!" he called out. "We got some news."

The crowd quieted. Rebecca pulled Junior close. Jake stood next to Billy, grinning like he knew what was coming.

"As you all know," Pops continued, "there was a reward posted for information leading to the arrest of those two convicts. Ten thousand dollars."

Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

"Well," Pops said, "Billy and Junior here technically provided that information. By escaping and calling it in." He paused for effect. "The state of Texas has agreed. The reward is theirs."

Cheers and applause erupted. Rebecca hugged Junior so hard he yelped.

"Speech!" someone called out. Others took up the chant. "Speech! Speech!"

Billy shook his head, but Josh pushed Junior forward. "Go on, you earned it."

Junior climbed up onto the porch next to Pops, Billy following reluctantly behind him.

"So, uh," Junior started, his voice cracking slightly. "We talked about it. Billy and me. And we decided what to do with the money."

Everyone leaned in.

"We're buying satellite communicators for the consortium," Billy said. "Encrypted ones. So if something like this ever happens again—or anything else—we can call for help from anywhere. No cell service needed."

"The Garmin inReach Messengers," Junior added. "We can get about twenty-five to thirty units with the ten grand. Enough for every family to have multiple devices."

Wade Nelson nodded approvingly. "Smart investment."

"Hold on," Tom said. "What exactly are we talking about here? How's it different from what we already have?"

Billy Renzo stood up from the table where he'd been sitting with Daniel and Ryan. "Want us to explain?"

"Please," Pops said.

The three fifteen-year-olds gathered at the front, Billy Renzo pulling out his tablet.

"Okay, so the Garmin inReach Messenger uses the Iridium satellite constellation—that's sixty-six active satellites in low Earth orbit providing global coverage," Billy Renzo began. "The devices connect via L-band frequencies, specifically 1616-1626.5 MHz for uplink transmissions—"

"And the two-way messaging protocol supports both SMS and email routing through the satellite network's ground stations," Daniel jumped in. "With GPS coordinates embedded in the metadata for precise geolocation—"

"The encryption uses AES-256 bit with a Diffie-Hellman key exchange," Ryan added. "So the communication is completely secure and can't be intercepted by—"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Ray said, holding up his hands. "You lost me at 'L-band frequencies.' What the hell does any of that mean in English?"

The wiz kids looked at each other, then at the confused faces staring back at them.

Junior sighed and stood up. "Okay, let me translate." He walked to the front. "Forget all that technical stuff. Here's what it means:"

He held up his hand and counted on his fingers.

"One: These radios work with outer space satellites. So they work anywhere on Earth. Literally anywhere. Middle of the ocean, top of a mountain, deep in the woods—doesn't matter. No cell towers needed.

"Two: You can send text messages to anyone in the consortium. Call for help. Tell people you're okay. Whatever.

"Three: The satellites track exactly where you are, so if you're in trouble, we know where to find you.

"Four: Nobody can listen in. It's private. Encrypted. Safe.

"Five: If I'd had one of these instead of just our regular radio, you could've texted me back. Told me help was coming. Made a plan. But our regular radios? They're short-range and anyone can hear them."

He looked around the group. "Basically, these things mean that no matter where anyone in the consortium goes—checking fence lines, hunting, working remote pastures, getting kidnapped by escaped convicts—we can always, always reach each other and call for help. No exceptions."

The crowd was silent for a moment.

Then Caroline spoke up. "So it's like a cell phone that works everywhere? Using space satellites?"

"Exactly," Junior said. "But tougher. Longer battery. And built for emergencies."

"Wow," someone said.

"Outer space satellites," another person murmured. "That's incredible."

"And we're getting thirty of them?" Robert Beaumont asked.

"About that, yeah," Billy confirmed. "We'll distribute them across all the families. Everyone gets at least one, key people get two."

"Monthly service fees?" Wade asked, always the practical one.

"We'll split them across the consortium," Billy said. "Works out to maybe fifteen to twenty-five bucks per device per month, depending on the plan. Split between all our families? Nothing."

Pops nodded slowly. "So for ten grand up front and a small monthly cost, we've got a safety net that covers the entire consortium. No matter where anyone is. Connected through outer space."

"That's it," Junior said. "That's the whole idea."

Tom stood up. "I think that's one hell of a good use of that reward money."

"Here, here!" someone called out.

The crowd broke into applause again, with multiple people saying "Wow" and "Outer space satellites" in amazed tones.

"Wait," Josh said, grinning. "So you're telling me my fifteen-year-old son is using his kidnapping reward money to buy space satellite equipment for the entire consortium?"

"Our kidnapping reward money," Billy corrected. "Junior and I both."

Rebecca was crying again, but this time she was smiling through it. "I'm so proud of you," she said to Junior. "Both of you."

"Alright, enough speeches," Pops declared. "Let's eat! And someone get these boys a beer."

"They're underage," Sarah protested, but she was smiling.

"They escaped from armed convicts," Pops said. "I think they've earned a beer."

"Just one," Tom said firmly. "And don't tell anyone I said yes."

Jake grabbed three beers from the cooler and passed them to Billy, Junior, and Celeb. "Here's to being too damn stubborn to stay kidnapped."

They clinked bottles.

The BBQ kicked into full swing. The smokers were opened, releasing clouds of hickory-scented steam. Brisket, ribs, chicken, and sausage piled onto platters. Bowls of potato salad, coleslaw, baked beans, and cornbread covered the tables.

The wiz kids gathered in a corner, already pulling up specs on their tablets, planning the rollout of the new satellite network.

The adults clustered around the food, plates piled high, swapping stories and laughing.

The younger kids played tag in the yard, their shouts and laughter carrying across the ranch.

And in the middle of it all, Billy and Junior sat on the porch steps, beers in hand, watching their family celebrate.

"You know what's funny?" Junior said.

"What?"

"A week ago we were tied up on a cabin floor thinking we might die. Now we're eating brisket and buying satellite radios that talk to outer space."

Billy took a sip of his beer. "That's ranch life, I guess. One minute you're shoveling shit at dawn, the next you're negotiating with armed convicts."

"You think we'll ever have to use those radios? The satellite ones?"

"I hope not," Billy said. "But if we do? At least we'll be ready."

Junior nodded. "Yeah. At least we'll be ready."

They sat in comfortable silence, watching the sun start to sink toward the horizon, painting the Texas sky in shades of orange and pink.

Behind them, Pops emerged from the house with a cigar. He lit it, took a long drag, and looked down at the two of them.

"You boys did good," he said. "Real good. Your great-great-grandfather would be proud. Hell, I'm proud."

"Thanks, Pops," they said in unison.

He patted them both on the shoulder and walked off to join the other adults.

Jake appeared with three more beers. "Don't tell Dad," he said, handing them over.

"You're a bad influence," Billy said, but he took the beer.

"That's what big brothers are for," Jake said, dropping down to sit beside them.

Celeb joined them a moment later, and the four of them—Billy, Jake, Junior, and Celeb—sat on the porch steps as the celebration continued around them.


Later that night, after the last of the guests had driven off and the house had gone quiet, the four of them climbed the stairs to the frat house. Billy pushed open the door and they filed in, collapsing onto their bunks with satisfied groans.

"That brisket was incredible," Celeb said, sprawling on his top bunk.

"I ate so much I might die," Junior added from his lower bunk.

"Worth it," Jake said.

Billy grinned and swung down from his bunk. "You know what would go perfect with all that brisket?"

"Don't even think about it," Jake said, but he was already sitting up. "If Mom catches us—"

"Mom's not gonna catch us," Billy said. He knelt down and worked his fingers under the loose floorboard near his bunk. "She's downstairs doing dishes with Aunt Rebecca."

The board came up with a soft creak, revealing the hidden compartment underneath. Six-packs of beer, carefully stashed, glinted in the dim light.

"Beautiful," Celeb breathed.

Billy pulled out four bottles and passed them around. Junior caught his and twisted off the cap.

"Wait," Jake said, holding up his bottle. "We need a proper toast."

"We already did like five toasts at the BBQ," Junior pointed out.

"Yeah, but those were family toasts," Jake said. "This is a frat house toast. Different rules."

"Alright," Billy said, holding up his bottle. "What are we toasting?"

Jake thought for a moment. "To Junior, for being smart enough to hide his radio under that ugly-ass t-shirt."

"Hey, I like this shirt," Junior protested, but he was grinning.

"To Billy," Celeb added, "for knowing how to pick a knot like a damn escape artist."

"To both of you idiots," Jake continued, "for getting out of that cabin before we had to mount a full assault and probably get shot."

"To outer space satellites," Junior said, raising his bottle higher. "And the wiz kids who know what the hell they're talking about even when nobody understands them."

"And to the frat house," Billy finished. "Where the beer is cold and the floorboards are loose."

"To the frat house!" they chorused, clinking bottles.

They drank, then settled back onto their bunks in comfortable silence.

"You know," Junior said after a moment, "when I was tied up in that cabin, I kept thinking about this room. About you guys. About getting back here."

"That's sappy as hell, Junior," Jake said, but his voice was gentle.

"Yeah, well, it's true," Junior said. "Being tied up really puts things in perspective."

"Speaking of perspective," Celeb said, "are we gonna talk about how Billy drove that truck like he was in a damn action movie?"

"I was terrified the whole time," Billy admitted. "Thought I was gonna roll it three times."

"But you didn't," Junior said. "You got us out."

"We got us out," Billy corrected. "Team effort, remember?"

"Team effort," Junior agreed.

They fell quiet again, drinking their beers, listening to the sounds of the ranch settling in for the night. Somewhere downstairs, they could hear the murmur of voices—their parents, probably, still talking about the day.

"You think they bought enough satellites?" Celeb asked.

"Billy Renzo says we can get twenty-eight devices with what's left after taxes," Junior said. "So yeah, should be enough."

"Outer space satellites," Jake said, shaking his head. "Still can't believe that's a real thing."

"It's been a real thing for like fifty years," Junior said. "Where have you been?"

"Not in tech club with you nerds, that's for sure."

Junior threw a pillow at him. Jake caught it and threw it back.

"Alright, alright," Billy said. "No pillow fights. Last time we broke the lamp and Mom made us pay for a new one out of our ranch wages."

"Worth it," Jake said, but he set the pillow down.

They finished their beers. Billy collected the empty bottles and tucked them back under the floorboard to dispose of later. No evidence.

As they settled into their bunks for the night, Junior spoke up one more time.

"Hey Billy?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks. For, you know. Everything."

"Anytime, kid. That's what family's for."

"We're not letting you two take early barn duty ever again, though," Jake added. "That's officially off the table."

"Agreed," Celeb said. "From now on, you lose a bet, you're doing something safe. Like dishes."

"Deal," Billy and Junior said together.

The room went dark. Outside, the Texas night was clear and full of stars—including, somewhere up there, the satellites that would keep them all connected.

In the frat house, four brothers—three by blood, one by choice—drifted off to sleep.

Safe. Together. Home.