Chapter 1: Morning at the Ranch
The door to the frat house banged open at five-forty-five a.m., and Pops' voice boomed through the second-floor room like a drill sergeant.
"Rise and shine, you lazy sonsabitches! Daylight's burning and there's work to do!"
Billy Benson jolted awake in the bottom bunk, his heart hammering. Above him, Jake groaned and pulled his pillow over his head.
"I said UP!" Pops barked, and Billy heard the distinct thwack of the old man swatting Jake's mattress with his walking stick. "You think Charlie gave me a wake-up call in the jungle? Get your asses moving!"
Across the room, Celab Beaumont was already sitting up, grinning. He'd been through this routine for fourteen months now. On the top bunk opposite, Billy Jr. swung his legs over the side, and on the mattress between the two bunk beds, Louisiana—Celab's cousin from Baton Rouge—barely stirred.
"Louisiana!" Pops prodded the mattress with his boot. "I know you can hear me, boy. Don't make me drag you out by your ankles."
"Aw, Pops," Louisiana drawled without opening his eyes, his thick Cajun accent even slower in the morning. "Sun ain't even all the way up yet."
"Sun don't pay your wages, son. I do. Now MOVE IT!"
Jake finally rolled out of his bunk, landing beside Billy with a thud. "Christ, Pops, you trying to give us heart attacks?"
"I'm trying to make sure you boys don't sleep away the whole goddamn morning like a bunch of—"
"Pops!" Sarah Benson's voice carried up the stairs from the kitchen. "I can hear you cursing all the way down here!"
Pops hollered back toward the open door. "I'm motivating, woman!"
"Motivate WITHOUT the profanity!"
Pops grumbled something under his breath about women and their rules, but Billy caught the twinkle in his eye. The old man loved this.
"Alright, you heard the boss," Pops said, heading for the door. "Breakfast in ten minutes. Anyone not at that table gets the cold eggs." He paused in the doorway and pointed his cigar at them. "And Louisiana, if I have to come back here, I'm bringing a bucket of cold water."
"I'm up, I'm up," Louisiana mumbled, finally dragging himself to a sitting position.
As Pops' boots stomped down the hallway past the command center toward his own bedroom, Billy and Jake started pulling on their jeans and work shirts. Louisiana stretched and yawned, his drawl thick as molasses. "That old man got more piss and vinegar than a whole mess of rattlesnakes."
"That's why we love him," Billy Jr. said, lacing his boots.
Celab laughed. "Y'all should've heard him yesterday. Told me if I didn't fix that gate hinge right, he'd tan my hide like I was twelve years old."
"He probably would too," Jake said.
By the time the five of them made their way downstairs to the kitchen, it was already alive with activity. Sarah Benson had scrambled eggs piled high, bacon sizzling on the griddle, and biscuits coming out of the oven. Tom Benson sat at the table with a cup of coffee and the Kings County newspaper, while Josh sat at the head with his laptop open, reviewing the day's schedule. Ray was beside him with a stack of invoices and financial reports. Rebecca sat next to Josh, her nurse's scrubs already on for her shift later, sipping coffee and chatting with Edna.
And there at his usual spot, presiding over the morning like a crusty old king, was Pops—cigar clamped between his teeth (unlit, per Sarah's ironclad kitchen rules), a brandy snifter beside his coffee cup, looking satisfied with himself.
"Well, look who decided to join us," Pops said as the frat house crew filed in. "Thought I was gonna have to set off dynamite."
"You practically did," Jake muttered, sliding into his seat.
Billy sat down next to Edna Nelson, who'd come over early to help with breakfast. She squeezed his hand under the table and he grinned at her. Across from them, Celab was already loading his plate while Billy Jr. slid in next to his mother. Louisiana moved slow, still waking up, his eyes half-closed.
"Morning, baby," Rebecca said, ruffling Billy Jr.'s hair. He ducked away but smiled.
"Boy, you sleep like you been hit with a tranquilizer dart," Pops observed, watching Louisiana pour coffee.
"Back home we don't get up 'til the rooster crows, Pops," Louisiana drawled.
"Well you ain't in Baton Rouge anymore, son. This is Texas. We work for a living."
"Pops," Sarah warned.
Josh looked up from his laptop and surveyed the table. As General Manager, he ran the daily operations of the ranch, and everyone knew when he was ready to give assignments. "Alright, listen up. We've got fence line to check on the north forty—Billy, Jake, that's you two. Take the mule quad and check every post from the creek to the Beaumont property line. Some of that wire looked saggy last week."
"Got it," Billy said.
"I also need you to coordinate the irrigation system," Josh continued. "Pump three was making noise yesterday. Check it out while you're in that area."
Ray looked up from his paperwork. "And I need receipts from anyone who bought supplies this week. We've got the consortium financial meeting coming up and I need everything reconciled."
"Dad and I are meeting with the Renzos about the equipment share for harvest," Ray added, nodding to Tom.
"Celab, you and Louisiana are with the cattle in the south pasture," Josh said. "And Billy Jr.—" He looked at his son. "You and your crew are on drone duty. Pops wants aerial footage of the whole property for the consortium meeting next week."
"Yes sir." Billy Jr. was already halfway out of his chair, excited. That meant a day with his buddies and their toys.
"Not so fast," Sarah said, pointing her spatula at him. "Eat first. All of you."
Rebecca smiled. "And you better text me when you're done. I want to know you boys are being safe with those drones."
"Mom, we're always safe," Billy Jr. protested.
"Uh-huh. That's why I found one in a tree last month."
The table erupted in laughter, and Billy Jr. turned red.
They settled in, the morning rhythm of the Benson ranch in full swing. Billy caught Jake's eye and they shared a grin. Just another summer day. Fence line duty wasn't glamorous, but it meant hours out on the property, just the two of them, doing what they'd done since they were old enough to ride.
Pops drained his brandy and coffee in one practiced movement. "Billy, Jake—you boys see anything funny out there, you radio in. We've had some reports of strangers poking around consortium land."
"Strangers?" Jake's eyes narrowed. He was always ready for a fight.
"Probably nothing," Josh said. "But Pops is right. Stay sharp and keep your radios on."
"Always do," Billy said.
Sarah piled more eggs on Pops' plate despite his protests. Edna laughed at something Celab said. Billy Jr. was texting under the table, probably coordinating with his crew. Louisiana was finally waking up enough to join the conversation. The kitchen smelled like coffee and bacon and summer morning, windows open to let in the breeze.
Normal. Easy. Home.
Billy finished his breakfast and kissed his mother's cheek on the way out. "See you at lunch."
"Be careful," Sarah said, the way she always did.
Jake was already heading to the equipment barn, and Billy jogged to catch up. The mule quad was gassed up and ready, tools and fence wire loaded in the back.
"North forty?" Jake said, swinging into the driver's seat.
"North forty," Billy confirmed, climbing in beside him.
The engine roared to life, and they headed out across the ranch toward the creek and the distant tree line, the morning sun hot on their backs and the whole day stretching ahead.
Neither of them saw the black pickup truck that pulled onto the dirt road behind them, keeping its distance.
Neither of them noticed when it started closing the gap.
Chapter 2: The Ambush
The mule quad bounced over the rough terrain, kicking up dust as Jake navigated toward the north forty. Billy had one hand braced on the roll bar, the other holding the radio clipped to his belt. The morning sun was climbing higher now, the heat already building even though it wasn't yet nine o'clock.
"Think Pops is serious about those strangers?" Billy asked over the engine noise.
Jake shrugged. "You know Pops. He's always seeing threats. Vietnam never left him, you know? But better safe than sorry."
They'd been checking fence line together since they were old enough to ride horses, back before they'd graduated to quads. Billy knew every inch of this property, every creek bed and tree line. It was home. Safe.
Or it had been.
Jake slowed as they approached the creek, scanning the fence posts. "There," he said, pointing. "See that sag? Third post from the oak tree."
"Yeah, I see it." Billy grabbed the tool bag from the back as Jake killed the engine. The sudden silence was almost startling after the constant rumble of the quad. Just the sound of the creek and the wind in the grass.
They worked in comfortable silence, the way brothers do. Billy cut new wire while Jake worked the posts, their movements synchronized from years of doing this together. Twenty minutes in, they had the fence tight and secure again.
"Two more sections and we can head back for lunch," Jake said, wiping sweat from his forehead.
That's when Billy heard it. The low rumble of an engine, getting closer.
"Someone's coming," he said, straightening up.
Jake turned, squinting toward the dirt road. "Probably Celab checking on us. Or one of the Beaumonts."
But the black pickup that came around the bend wasn't from the consortium. Billy didn't recognize it at all.
"You know them?" Jake asked, his voice tight.
"No."
The truck slowed, then stopped about thirty yards away. Three men got out. Big men. Rough-looking. Not ranchers. The driver wore a black T-shirt and jeans, his arms covered in tattoos. The other two looked like they'd stepped out of a prison yard.
"Morning," the driver called out, walking toward them with a casual swagger that didn't match the tension in his shoulders. "Y'all with the Benson ranch?"
Jake stepped forward, putting himself slightly in front of Billy. "Who's asking?"
"Just making sure we got the right boys." The man's smile didn't reach his eyes.
Billy's hand moved toward his radio, but the tattooed man was faster than he looked. In two quick steps, he closed the distance and grabbed Billy's wrist, twisting it hard. The radio clattered to the ground.
"Hey!" Jake lunged forward, but one of the other men caught him with a fist to the gut that doubled him over.
Billy tried to pull free, but the tattooed man was strong—stronger than anyone had a right to be. He wrenched Billy's arm behind his back and shoved him face-first against the mule quad.
"Don't make this harder than it needs to be," the man growled in Billy's ear.
Jake was fighting like a wildcat, landing a solid punch that split one man's lip, but there were three of them and they were professionals. Within seconds, they had both brothers on the ground, rough hemp rope being wrapped around their wrists behind their backs.
"What the hell do you want?" Jake snarled, still struggling even as they tied him up.
"You'll find out soon enough." The driver pulled out a roll of duct tape. "Now shut up."
Billy felt the tape slap across his mouth, silencing his protests. Beside him, Jake was getting the same treatment, his eyes blazing with fury. The rope bit into Billy's wrists as they pulled it tight, cutting off circulation.
They were hauled to their feet and dragged toward the black pickup. Billy tried to dig his heels in, but a sharp punch to his kidney dropped him to his knees, gasping for air through his nose.
"Move," one of the men ordered, grabbing Billy by the collar and throwing him into the truck bed. Jake landed beside him a second later, and a tarp was thrown over both of them.
Through the canvas, Billy heard the truck doors slam. The engine roared to life.
One of the men keyed his radio. The sound was muffled but clear enough. "Alpha to base. We got the package. Two subjects, just like the client ordered. En route to the location now."
A crackle of static, then a voice responded. "Copy that, Alpha. Any complications?"
"Negative. Clean grab. Left their vehicle at the site like you said."
"Good. ETA?"
"Forty-five minutes."
Three miles away, on a ridge overlooking the south pasture, Billy Jr. sat cross-legged on the tailgate of his truck, his laptop open and connected to the drone controller. Billy Renzo stood beside him, guiding the drone with practiced ease while Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez monitored the thermal imaging feeds on their tablets.
"Got good footage of the irrigation system," Billy Renzo said. "Pops is gonna love this."
"Move it west a bit," Billy Jr. said. "I want to get the full property line in frame."
That's when Daniel looked up from his scanner, frowning. "Hey, you guys hearing this?"
The scanner was something they'd rigged up to monitor all the local frequencies—partly for fun, partly because Billy Jr. was paranoid about security after all the work they'd put into the encrypted system. Most of the time it was just boring chatter from truckers and the occasional sheriff's deputy.
But this was different.
"—package. Two subjects, just like the client ordered. En route to the location now."
Billy Jr.'s head snapped up. "What frequency is that?"
Daniel checked. "Unencrypted. Commercial band. Not ours."
"Alpha to base. We got the package—"
"Shut up, shut up," Billy Jr. hissed, his heart suddenly pounding. He grabbed the scanner and turned up the volume.
"Any complications?"
"Negative. Clean grab. Left their vehicle at the site like you said."
Billy Jr.'s blood ran cold. Vehicle at the site. Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake were out on the mule quad. Alone. On consortium land.
"Good. ETA?"
"Forty-five minutes."
The transmission ended. Static filled the silence.
"That could be anything," Ryan Mattern said, but his voice was uncertain.
"Two subjects," Billy Jr. said slowly, his mind racing. "A grab. Left their vehicle."
Billy Renzo's face had gone pale. "Your uncles."
"We don't know that—" Daniel started.
But Billy Jr. was already moving, grabbing his encrypted satellite phone and hitting the emergency button. Three times, just like they'd programmed it.
"911 Emergency. Billy Junior. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior."
The alert would hit every device in the consortium network simultaneously. Every phone, every radio, every iPad.
"Get the drones to the north forty," Billy Jr. ordered, his voice sharp. "Now. Thermal imaging, full sweep."
"On it," Billy Renzo said, his fingers flying over the controller.
Billy Jr. was already calling the ranch house, his hands shaking. Please let me be wrong. Please let them be fine.
But deep in his gut, he knew.
Something was very, very wrong.
Chapter 3: Captive
The ride seemed endless.
Under the tarp, Billy couldn't see anything, couldn't track where they were going. Every bump and pothole jarred his body, his bound hands trapped beneath him, the rope cutting deeper into his wrists with each jolt. The duct tape over his mouth made every breath a struggle, his nose the only passage for air, and panic kept trying to claw its way up his throat.
Breathe. Just breathe. Stay calm.
Beside him, Jake was a solid presence in the darkness—Billy could feel his brother's shoulder pressed against his own, could hear the angry huffing of breath through Jake's nose. Even tied up and helpless, Jake was fighting mad. Billy could feel the tension radiating off him.
The truck slowed, turned. Gravel crunched under the tires. They were off the highway now, on some back road. Billy tried to count the turns, tried to keep track of direction, but it was useless. North? East? He had no idea.
After what felt like an hour but was probably only twenty minutes, the truck came to a stop. The engine cut off.
"Get 'em out," a voice said. Not one of the three who'd grabbed them. Someone new.
The tarp was yanked off, and sunlight stabbed Billy's eyes. Rough hands grabbed him, hauled him out of the truck bed. His boots hit dirt, his legs nearly buckling after being cramped for so long.
Billy blinked, trying to adjust to the light, trying to see where they were. Trees. Dense woods. An old hunting cabin or shack, weathered and isolated. No other buildings in sight. No road signs. Nothing.
They were in the middle of nowhere.
Jake was dragged out beside him, still fighting even with his hands tied, trying to wrench free. One of the men—the tattooed one from before—backhanded him across the face hard enough to snap his head to the side.
"Quit fighting or it gets worse," the man said coldly.
Jake glared at him with pure murder in his eyes, blood trickling from his split lip.
"Inside," the new voice ordered. Billy turned and saw him—older than the others, maybe fifty, with gray stubble and cold, dead eyes. The boss. "Get them secured. The client wants proof of life by noon."
They were shoved toward the cabin, stumbling over the uneven ground. The door swung open and Billy was pushed inside. The interior was dim, musty—just one room with exposed beams, a concrete floor, and metal rings bolted into the walls at various heights.
This wasn't some random shack.
This was a place built for holding people.
Billy's stomach turned over.
"That one against the wall first," the boss said, pointing at Jake. "The other one sits and watches."
Billy was shoved down into a metal folding chair facing the wall, his hands still bound behind his back. They wrapped thick rope around his torso, pinning his arms to his sides, then more rope around his chest and the chair back. His ankles were lashed to the chair legs. The tape stayed firmly over his mouth.
All he could do was watch.
Two men grabbed Jake and dragged him to the wall. The tattooed one pulled a knife and Billy's heart seized—but instead of using it on Jake, he grabbed the collar of Jake's work shirt and sliced downward, ripping the fabric. They tore the shirt off him, leaving Jake's torso bare, already slick with sweat.
They shoved him back against the wall between two metal rings bolted at shoulder height. Jake fought, twisting, trying to wrench away, but there were too many of them. They cut the rope on his wrists and immediately yanked his arms up and out to the sides, retying them to the rings with fresh hemp rope. His arms were stretched wide, his body exposed and vulnerable.
More rope went around his chest, his waist, his thighs—lashing him to the wall at multiple points until he could barely move. By the time they were done, Jake was pinned, his face red with rage and exertion.
The boss walked over and ripped the duct tape off Jake's mouth.
Jake immediately exploded. "You motherfuckers! You have any idea what you just did? My family's gonna—"
The tattooed man punched him in the gut. Hard. Jake's words cut off with a grunt of pain, his body trying to double over but held upright by the ropes.
"That's better," the boss said calmly. He pulled out a phone, checked the time. "We've got about twenty minutes before the first video. Time to make this look convincing."
"Video?" Jake gasped, still catching his breath.
"For your family," the boss explained. "They need to understand we're serious."
He nodded to his men. "Work him over. Face and body. Make it hurt."
Billy screamed against the tape, thrashing uselessly against the ropes.
The tattooed man stepped up to Jake. "This is gonna be fun."
Jake lifted his head, glaring. "Go ahead, you son of a bitch. You think I'm scared of you?"
The first punch caught Jake across the jaw, snapping his head to the side. Blood sprayed from his mouth.
The second punch hit his ribs. Then another to the face. Then the gut.
"You can—scream all you want," Jake gasped between blows, spitting blood. "My family—is gonna find you—and when they do—"
Another punch to the gut silenced him.
Billy watched in helpless horror as they worked his brother over methodically. Jake's face was swelling, blood running from his nose and split lip. His torso was bruising, red marks blooming across his ribs and abs.
And through it all, Jake kept talking. Cursing. Defiant.
"That all you got?" Jake spat blood at the tattooed man's feet. "My little brother hits harder than you."
The man hit him again, and again, until Jake's head was hanging, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his body sagging in the ropes.
The boss checked his watch. "That's enough. Get the camera."
One of the men set up a video camera on a tripod, positioning it to capture Jake's battered face and body. The boss stood beside him, grabbing a fistful of Jake's hair and yanking his head up.
"Look at the camera," he ordered.
Jake's eyes were half-closed, his face a mess of blood and swelling. But he managed to lift his gaze to the lens.
"Your name."
"Jake...Benson," Jake rasped.
"Good. Now tell your family what's going to happen if they don't pay."
"Go...to hell," Jake spat.
The boss nodded to the tattooed man, who drove a fist into Jake's kidney. Jake's scream echoed off the concrete walls.
"Tell them," the boss repeated.
Jake's head hung for a moment, then slowly lifted. "Mom...Dad...they're gonna..." He coughed, blood flecking his lips. "They want money. A lot of it."
"Ten million dollars," the boss said for the camera. "Delivered in seventy-two hours, or your sons die. We'll be in touch with instructions."
He released Jake's hair and nodded. The camera clicked off.
"Cut him down. Put him in the corner. Now let's do the other one."
Billy's eyes went wide. His muffled protests grew frantic as they cut Jake free from the wall. His brother collapsed, barely able to stand, and they dragged him to the far corner and dumped him on the floor.
Then they came for Billy.
"Your turn, kid," the tattooed man said with a grin.
They cut the ropes holding Billy to the chair and hauled him to his feet. His shirt was ripped off the same way, the fabric tearing. They dragged him to the wall, cut his wrist bindings, and stretched his arms up to the metal rings.
The rope bit into his wrists as they tied him. More rope around his chest, waist, thighs. The tape still sealed his mouth—they weren't going to let him talk. Just scream.
Billy's heart hammered as the tattooed man cracked his knuckles.
"Let's see if you're as tough as your brother."
The first punch came without warning, driving into Billy's stomach. He couldn't double over, couldn't protect himself. All he could do was take it.
The second punch hit his ribs. The third his face.
Pain exploded through Billy's body. He screamed against the tape, the sound muffled and desperate. His eyes found Jake in the corner—his brother was watching, fury and anguish warring on his battered face.
They beat Billy with the same methodical efficiency. Face, ribs, gut. Over and over until Billy's vision blurred, until every breath was agony, until he could taste blood running down the back of his throat from his broken nose.
The camera was repositioned. The boss grabbed Billy's hair, forcing him to look at the lens.
"Second son," the boss said. "Billy Benson. Same deal. Ten million, seventy-two hours. Or they both die."
The camera clicked off.
Billy's head dropped forward, his body screaming in pain, held upright only by the ropes.
"Cut them both down," the boss ordered. "Hogtie them and leave them. We're moving to the second location in six hours."
They cut Billy from the wall and he collapsed, his legs giving out. Rough hands flipped him onto his stomach on the cold concrete. His wrists were wrenched behind his back and tied together with rope. Then his ankles. Then another rope connecting wrists to ankles, pulling everything tight until Billy was arched backward, completely immobilized.
The hogtie position was agony on his beaten body.
Across the room, they did the same to Jake.
The men filed out, the door slamming shut. A lock clicked.
Silence.
Billy lay on the concrete, every muscle screaming, barely able to breathe through his swollen nose with the tape still over his mouth. A few feet away, Jake was in the same position, both of them trussed up like animals.
"Billy," Jake's voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. "You still with me?"
Billy managed a small grunt of acknowledgment.
"We're gonna get out of this," Jake said, his voice gaining strength despite the pain. "You hear me? We're not dying in this shithole."
Billy's fingers found the rope at his wrists. He tested it, pulled at it.
It was tight.
But rope could be worked. Rope could stretch.
They just needed time.
And the will to survive.
Chapter 4: 911 Emergency
The alert hit every device simultaneously.
"911 Emergency. Billy Junior. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior. 911 Emergency. Billy Junior."
In the kitchen, Sarah Benson's phone vibrated on the counter. The special tone—the one they'd programmed specifically for emergencies—cut through the morning chatter like a klaxon.
Josh's phone went off at the same time. Then Rebecca's. Then Ray's. Every encrypted device in the consortium network.
"What the hell—" Josh was already grabbing his phone, his face going pale.
Before anyone could ask, Billy Jr.'s voice crackled over the consortium's encrypted frequency, urgent and shaking.
"Dad, this is Billy Jr. We picked up radio chatter on a scanner. Unencrypted commercial frequency. Someone talking about a 'package'—two subjects, clean grab, left their vehicle at the site. They said forty-five minute ETA. Dad, I think it's Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake."
The kitchen went dead silent.
Josh keyed his radio. "Where are you now?"
"We just got to the north forty with the drones. Their mule quad is here. Empty. Engine's cold. Dad, there's cut pieces of rope on the ground. And duct tape."
Pops was already grabbing his rifle. "We're moving. Now."
Within five minutes, three trucks were racing toward the north forty. By the time they reached the creek, Sheriff Wade Nelson was pulling up with his sons Wilson and Ryan.
Billy Jr. and his crew stood near the abandoned mule quad. The four sixteen-year-olds looked shaken but focused.
"Show me," Josh said, jumping out.
The evidence was clear—scuff marks in the dirt, cut pieces of hemp rope, strips of duct tape, and tire tracks from a heavy vehicle heading east.
Wade knelt, examining the scene. "Professional job. Three, maybe four men. They were tied and gagged." He looked up at Pops. "This was planned."
"Ransom," Pops said flatly.
"Has to be," Wade agreed. "The consortium's not exactly a secret. Someone did their homework."
"Then we need to move fast," Pops said. "Before they—"
"Agreed," Wade cut him off. "Wilson, Ryan—document this scene. Billy Jr., keep those drones up and scanning. Everyone else, we need to set up a command center and—"
Sarah's voice burst over the radio, panicked and shrill. "Josh! Josh, something just came through! An email—oh God—"
Rebecca's voice joined in, nearly sobbing. "It's a video! Josh, it's Jake—they're hurting him!"
Then Edna's scream, raw and terrified. "Billy! Oh God, Billy—"
Every man at the scene froze.
Josh's hand was shaking as he keyed the radio. "Mom, what—"
"They sent videos!" Sarah's voice was breaking. "Two of them! Jake and Billy—they're tied up, they're bleeding—Josh, they beat them!"
Pops' face went white, then red with rage. "I'm gonna kill them. I'm gonna kill every last—"
"We're coming back now," Tom said into his radio, already moving to the truck. "Stay calm. We're coming."
The drive back to the ranch took five minutes but felt like an eternity.
When they burst into the house, Sarah, Rebecca, and Edna were in the living room, Rebecca holding Sarah who was sobbing, Edna standing rigid with tears streaming down her face. Ray had his laptop open, his face ashen.
"Show me," Pops demanded.
Ray turned the laptop. On the screen was a frozen image—Jake, shirtless, lashed to a wall, his face battered and bloody, ropes cutting into his wrists and torso.
Josh hit play.
The video was short. Brutal. Jake tied to the wall, a man's voice demanding his name. Jake's defiant cursing. The sounds of fists hitting flesh. Jake's gasps of pain. Blood. So much blood.
Then the mechanical voice: "Ten million dollars. Seventy-two hours. Or he dies."
The second video was Billy. Same setup, same brutality. But Billy was gagged—they never took the tape off. Just beat him while he screamed through it, helpless. His face swelling, blood running from his nose.
"Ten million. Seventy-two hours. Or they both die."
The video ended.
The living room was silent except for Sarah's quiet sobs.
Pops stood like a statue, his hands clenched so tight his knuckles were white. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "They're gonna pay for this."
"We need to focus," Wade said, his own voice tight with fury. "Ten million in seventy-two hours. Can it be done?"
Ray shook his head. "Not liquid. Between all six families, maybe, but—"
"Then we don't pay," Pops said flatly. "We find them."
"How?" Rebecca demanded, her nurse's instincts taking over despite her fear. "We don't know where they are, we don't know who has them—"
"We find them," Billy Jr. said, stepping forward. His young face was set with determination. "We use the drones, the scanners, the tracking equipment. We find them and we bring them home."
Josh looked around the room—at his family, at Wade and his deputies, at the wiz kids with their equipment. "Alright. Command center. Here. Now. Billy Jr., set up your tech. Wade, coordinate with the other consortium families. Ray, start working on the money angle—stall them if we have to. And Pops—"
"I'm loading every weapon we have," Pops said. "When we find these bastards, I'm going in first."
Wade nodded slowly. "For once, Pop, I'm not gonna argue with you."
The Benson ranch had gone to war.
And somewhere out there, Billy and Jake were hogtied on a concrete floor, fighting to survive.
Chapter 5: Working the Ropes
The concrete floor was cold against Billy's cheek. Every breath was agony—his ribs screamed with every inhale, his face throbbed where they'd beaten him, and his broken nose made each breath feel like fire.
But he was alive.
And where there was life, there was fight.
"Billy," Jake's voice cut through the silence, hoarse but determined. "You still with me?"
"Yeah," Billy rasped, his voice barely above a whisper. "Still here."
"Good. Listen to me. We're getting out of here. You hear me? We're not dying in this shithole."
Billy's fingers found the rope at his wrists, testing it. The hogtie was tight—wrists bound behind his back, ankles tied, and another rope connecting the two, pulling his body into an arch that made every muscle scream. The position was designed to exhaust, to cause pain, to break the will.
But the Benson brothers weren't built to break.
"They used hemp rope," Jake said, his voice gaining strength. "That's good. Hemp stretches when it gets wet. And we're both sweating like pigs."
Billy tested the rope again. Jake was right—it was already slightly damp from their sweat, and there was the tiniest bit of give when he pulled.
"Start working it," Jake instructed. "Twist your wrists. Pull. Don't stop. Rope fibers break down with friction and moisture. It'll take time, but it'll loosen."
Billy started to work, twisting his wrists against the rope, ignoring the burning pain as the fibers cut into his already raw skin. Every movement sent fresh waves of agony through his beaten body, but he kept going.
Across the room, he could hear Jake doing the same—the slight scrape of rope against rope, the controlled breathing, the occasional grunt of pain.
"When I was about twelve," Jake said, his voice conversational despite the situation, "Pop took me and you camping. Remember? Up at Lake Conroe."
"Yeah," Billy said through gritted teeth. "The knot weekend."
"You were maybe eleven. Pop taught us about knots that weekend. How to tie 'em, and more importantly, how to escape 'em." Jake paused, breathing hard. "He said a man who can't get out of his own bonds is a man who's already dead. Said he learned that in 'Nam."
Billy remembered. Pops had been relentless that weekend, making them practice over and over until they could slip out of various knots and ties. At the time, Billy had thought it was just another one of Pops' survival lessons.
Now it might save their lives.
"The hogtie is meant to immobilize," Jake continued, still working his ropes. "But it's got a weakness. The connecting rope between wrists and ankles—if we can get any slack there, we can reduce the tension on the whole system."
Billy tried to straighten his legs, just a fraction of an inch. The rope bit deeper, but he felt the tiniest shift in the tension at his wrists.
"That's it," Jake encouraged. "Push and pull. Make the rope work against itself."
Minutes passed. Then more. Billy lost track of time, focused only on the rope, the friction, the slow, agonizing work of creating slack where there was none.
"My wrists are bleeding," Billy said through clenched teeth.
"Good," Jake said. "Blood's slippery. Use it."
Billy's wrists were on fire now, but the rope was definitely looser. He could feel more movement, could twist his hands further.
"They said six hours before moving to a second location," Jake said. "We don't have much time. If they move us again, we might not get another chance."
"I know," Billy grunted, redoubling his efforts.
"Talk to me about something," Jake said suddenly. "Keep your mind working. Don't let the pain shut you down."
"Like what?" Billy gasped.
"Edna," Jake said. "You planning to marry that girl?"
"Damn right I am," Billy said, and despite everything, he almost smiled. "Soon as we get out of this mess."
Jake laughed, though it turned into a cough. "She's good people. The Nelsons are solid." He was quiet for a moment, still working the ropes. "You know, when we get out of here—and we will get out—first thing I'm doing is finding these bastards and making them pay for every punch they threw."
"Get in line," Billy muttered.
"Second thing," Jake continued, "I'm gonna hug Mom until she can't breathe. Then I'm gonna shake Pop's hand and tell him all those survival lessons were worth it. And then—" His voice hardened. "Then I'm gonna help hunt down whoever hired these assholes. Because this wasn't random, Billy. This was planned. Someone wants to hurt the consortium, hurt our families."
Billy's fingers found a loose section of rope. His heart leaped. He pulled, twisted, and suddenly his left wrist slipped through the loop.
"Jake! I got one hand free!"
"Hell yes! Now get to that connecting rope. Once you break that, the whole thing falls apart."
Billy reached forward—his shoulder screaming in protest—and started working on the rope connecting his wrists to his ankles. With one hand free and able to reach, he could get to the knots.
"You beautiful son of a bitch," Jake breathed. "Get yourself loose, then get over here and help me."
Billy's fingers were clumsy, swollen and bloody, but he worked the knot with determination. The connecting rope loosened, then came free. Suddenly his legs could straighten, and the agonizing arch of his body relaxed.
He rolled onto his side, gasping with relief. "Oh God, that feels good."
"Don't stop now," Jake urged. "Ankles."
Billy immediately started on the rope around his ankles. This one was tighter, but with both hands free and able to see what he was doing in the dim light from the window, he worked it methodically. One loop. Two. Three.
The rope fell away.
Billy's legs were free.
He sat up, his whole body protesting. "I'm loose. I'm coming."
He tried to stand and his legs nearly gave out. The hogtie position had cut off circulation, and his muscles were cramping. He stumbled across the concrete floor to where Jake was still bound, and dropped to his knees beside his brother.
Jake's face was a mess—swollen, bloody, one eye nearly swollen shut. But his good eye was bright with fierce determination.
"Get the wrist rope first," Jake said.
Billy's fingers found the knots and started working. These were tighter than his own had been, but now that he could see and use both hands, it was only a matter of time.
"Faster," Jake urged. "We don't know when they're coming back."
The first knot gave way. Then the second. Billy unwound the rope from Jake's wrists and his brother immediately brought his arms forward with a groan of pain.
"Ankles," Jake said, already reaching for the rope himself.
Together they worked, and within a minute Jake was free. Both brothers sat on the concrete floor, breathing hard, their bodies screaming with pain and exhaustion.
"We did it," Billy said, his voice full of wonder. "We actually did it."
"Phase one," Jake corrected, getting to his feet with a grunt. He swayed, caught himself. "Now we gotta get out of this cabin and figure out where the hell we are."
He moved to the window and looked out. "Woods. Dense forest. No other buildings I can see. We're in the middle of nowhere."
Billy joined him, and together they assessed their prison. One room. One door. One window. The door was solid and locked from outside. But the window—
"It's not barred," Billy said.
"And it's big enough," Jake agreed.
They moved to it together. The window was old, painted shut, but the glass was thin. Jake looked around the room and spotted a metal folding chair—the one Billy had been tied to.
"Stand back," he said, picking it up.
"Wait," Billy said. "We make noise, they'll come running."
"So we'd better move fast once we break it." Jake hefted the chair. "Ready?"
Billy nodded.
Jake swung the chair with all his strength. The glass shattered with a crash that seemed impossibly loud in the silence of the woods.
"Go!" Jake yelled.
Billy climbed through the broken window, feeling glass bite into his hands, not caring. He dropped to the ground outside and Jake came through right behind him.
They were out.
They were free.
And somewhere behind them, they heard the sound of voices shouting and boots running.
The chase was on.
Chapter 6: The Hunt
Billy Jr. had been staring at the thermal imaging screen for three hours straight, his eyes burning, when Billy Renzo suddenly grabbed his arm.
"There! Southwest quadrant, about fifteen miles out. That's a vehicle."
Everyone in the command center—which had taken over the entire living room of the Benson ranch—converged on the screen.
The drone's thermal camera showed a black pickup truck, partially hidden under trees. And thirty yards from it, a structure. Small. Isolated.
"That's a cabin," Daniel Rodriguez said, zooming in. "Middle of nowhere. No roads leading to it on any map."
"Heat signatures?" Josh demanded, leaning over his son's shoulder.
Ryan Mattern was already switching cameras. "Two... no, wait. Multiple inside the structure. And—" He froze. "Movement. Two heat signatures just came through a window. They're running."
The room exploded.
"That's them!" Pops roared. "That's my boys!"
Sheriff Wade was already grabbing his radio. "All units, we have a location. Coordinates are—"
Billy Jr. was rapidly typing. "Sending GPS coordinates to all consortium devices now. Southwest, fifteen miles, dense forest area off Old Mill Road."
Tom was pulling on his jacket. "How long to get there?"
"Twenty minutes by road, then we're on foot," Wade said. "That terrain is rough."
"Then we move now," Josh said. "Billy Jr., keep those drones on them. Don't lose them."
"Wait," Billy Renzo said, his eyes wide. "Look at the cabin. More heat signatures. Coming out. Four... five of them. The kidnappers just realized they're gone."
On screen, the thermal images showed multiple figures emerging from the cabin, fanning out in different directions.
"They're hunting them," Ray said, his voice tight.
Pops was already heading for the door, rifle in hand. "Then let's go hunting ourselves."
Within two minutes, a convoy was formed. Sheriff Wade and his deputies in the lead vehicle, followed by Tom, Josh, Ray, and Pops. Behind them, Celab and Louisiana with Robert Beaumont. And in the rear, a pickup truck carrying Billy Jr. and his three friends with all their equipment—the mobile command center.
"You boys stay in the vehicle when we get there," Wade ordered over the radio.
"Like hell," Billy Jr. muttered, checking his own rifle. Beside him, Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez were doing the same. All four sixteen-year-olds were armed, trained, and ready.
The convoy raced down the highway, sirens off but lights flashing internally between vehicles on the consortium's encrypted frequency.
"Talk to me, Billy Jr.," Josh's voice came over the radio. "What are you seeing?"
Billy Jr. had his laptop balanced on his knees, the drone feed showing on the screen. "Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake are moving northeast through the forest. They're... God, Dad, they're running but they're hurt. Their heat signatures are elevated, movement is erratic."
"And the kidnappers?"
"Spreading out in a search pattern. Three heading northeast, two going northwest. They're trying to cut them off."
In the forest, Billy crashed through underbrush, his bare torso scraped and bleeding from branches. Beside him, Jake was in the same condition, both of them shirtless, shoeless, running on pure adrenaline despite their injuries.
"Which way?" Billy gasped.
"I don't know," Jake panted. "Just away from—"
Behind them, a shout. "Over here! I found their trail!"
"Run!" Jake yelled.
They pushed harder, legs burning, lungs screaming. Billy's broken ribs sent sharp pain through his chest with every breath, and his face throbbed where they'd beaten him. But fear and determination kept him moving.
Then Billy heard it. A different sound. A mechanical whirring.
"Jake, you hear that?"
Jake looked up and froze. "Drone. That's a drone!"
They both looked up through the canopy and saw it—one of the consortium's high-tech drones, hovering about thirty feet above them.
"That's ours!" Billy said, recognition flooding through him. "That's Billy Jr.! They found us!"
The drone moved, shifting position, then began flying slowly in a specific direction. Northeast. It paused, rotated, came back toward them, then moved northeast again.
"It's... it's showing us which way to go," Jake said, wonder in his voice.
In the truck, Billy Renzo had a huge grin on his face. "They see it! They see the drone!"
"Guide them," Billy Jr. ordered. "Act like a sheepdog. Show them the way to the road."
Billy Renzo worked the controller with practiced ease, making the drone move in an obvious pattern. Lead forward, circle back, lead forward again.
"The kidnappers are closing in," Daniel warned. "Two hundred yards and gaining."
"How far are we?" Billy Jr. demanded.
"Five minutes to the access point," his father's voice came over the radio. "Then we go in on foot."
"They don't have five minutes," Billy Jr. said. He keyed the radio. "Dad, the kidnappers are almost on them. Uncle Billy and Uncle Jake are following the drone, but—"
"Keep guiding them toward us," Josh said. "We're moving as fast as we can."
Billy and Jake ran, following the drone through the dense forest. Their feet were bleeding, every step agony on the rocky ground, but they didn't slow down.
"How far you think?" Billy gasped.
"No idea," Jake said. "But that drone knows where it's going. Trust the wiz kids."
Behind them, the voices were getting closer. Billy risked a glance back and saw movement through the trees. Dark shapes. Armed men.
"They're right behind us!" Billy yelled.
"Keep moving!"
The drone continued leading them, weaving between trees, always staying just ahead, always visible. It was deliberate, methodical.
Then Billy heard something else. Engines. Vehicles. And voices—different voices. Familiar voices.
"That's Pop!" Jake said. "I'd recognize that cursing anywhere!"
"Billy! Jake!" Pops' voice boomed through the forest. "Sound off, boys!"
"Here!" Jake yelled. "We're here!"
"Keep coming toward my voice!" Pops shouted. "We're armed! We got you!"
The drone suddenly shot upward and hovered high, its job done.
Billy and Jake burst through a thicket and suddenly there they were—their family. Pops in front with his rifle raised, Tom and Josh flanking him, Sheriff Wade and his deputies spreading out in tactical formation. Behind them, Celab, Louisiana, and the Beaumonts, all armed.
And rolling up behind them, the truck with Billy Jr. and his crew, all four sixteen-year-olds jumping out with their own weapons.
Billy and Jake stumbled forward, nearly collapsing, and strong arms caught them.
"I got you, son," Tom said, holding Billy up. "You're safe now."
Josh had Jake. "We got you, brother. We got you."
"Contact rear!" Wilson Nelson shouted. "Three armed men, fifty yards!"
The kidnappers had caught up.
Sheriff Wade's voice was cold and commanding. "This is Sheriff Wade Nelson! Drop your weapons! You're surrounded!"
For a moment, everything hung in the balance.
Then gunfire erupted from the tree line.
"Take cover!" Wade yelled, returning fire.
The consortium had come to war. And they weren't leaving without their boys.
Chapter 7: The Shootout
Gunfire cracked through the forest, rounds slamming into trees and kicking up dirt. Everyone dove for cover—the consortium members behind vehicles and trees, Billy and Jake pulled down behind a fallen log.
"Stay down!" Wade shouted, returning fire toward the tree line.
But Jake was already looking around wildly. "I need a weapon!"
Billy Jr. didn't hesitate. He grabbed two rifles from the truck bed—his own AR-15 and Billy Renzo's—and sprinted in a crouch to where his uncles were pinned down. "Uncle Jake! Uncle Billy!"
He slid the rifles across the ground to them, then pulled out his phone and started recording. "Got it all on camera, Dad!"
"Good boy!" Josh yelled from behind the truck.
Jake grabbed the rifle, checked the magazine, and grinned despite the blood on his face. "Now we're talking."
Billy did the same, wincing as the movement pulled at his broken ribs. "Let's finish this."
"Contact left!" Wilson Nelson shouted. "Two more coming around the flank!"
The tattooed man—the one who'd beaten them both—stepped out from behind a tree, his rifle raised. "You boys should've stayed tied up!"
Jake's response was immediate. He rose from behind the log, sighted, and fired. Three rounds, center mass. The tattooed man dropped like a stone.
"That's for every punch you threw, you son of a bitch," Jake spat.
Billy spotted movement to the right—another kidnapper trying to circle around. He led the target, squeezed the trigger. The man went down hard.
"Two down!" Ray called out.
Pops was in his element, moving with the fluid grace of a combat veteran despite his 76 years. He took position behind a thick oak, his rifle steady. When the boss—the gray-stubbled man who'd orchestrated everything—appeared in the clearing, Pops didn't hesitate.
One shot. Clean. Professional.
The boss collapsed, his weapon falling from his hands.
"That's for my grandsons," Pops said quietly.
Robert Beaumont was on the far right flank, covering that approach. When the fourth kidnapper broke from cover, trying to retreat back toward the cabin, Robert tracked him smoothly and fired. The man stumbled, fell, didn't get up.
"Clear right!" Robert called.
"Clear left!" Wilson confirmed.
Sheriff Wade stood up slowly, his weapon still raised, scanning the forest. "Anyone else? Any more targets?"
Silence. Just the ringing echo of gunfire fading through the trees.
"Clear!" Ryan Nelson confirmed after checking the bodies. "All four down. No survivors."
For a moment, nobody moved. Then Jake let out a whoop that echoed through the forest. "Hell yes!"
Billy started laughing—it hurt his ribs but he couldn't stop. They were alive. They were free. And the men who'd tortured them were dead.
Pops lowered his rifle and pulled a silver flask from his jacket pocket. He took a long drink, then held it up. "To the Benson boys. Toughest sons of bitches I ever raised."
"Hear, hear!" Tom said, grinning.
Josh crossed to where Billy and Jake stood, both of them battered, bloody, shirtless, and barefoot, but standing tall with rifles in their hands. He pulled both his brothers into a careful hug. "God damn, I'm glad to see you two."
"Good to be seen," Jake said, his voice rough.
Celab and Louisiana rushed over, slapping backs and laughing. "Y'all are crazy!" Louisiana drawled. "Escaping and then shooting it out in the woods!"
"That's how we do it in Texas," Billy said with a grin.
Billy Jr. was still recording, tears streaming down his face. "Uncle Billy, Uncle Jake—that was the most badass thing I've ever seen."
"Language," Rebecca's voice crackled over the radio, but there was laughter in it. "And thank God you're safe. Doc Peterson and I are waiting at the house. You boys get home now."
Sheriff Wade was coordinating with his deputies. "Wilson, Ryan—document this scene. I want everything photographed and logged. This was a clean shoot—self-defense, rescue operation, multiple witnesses. But we do it by the book."
"Understood," Wilson said.
Pops took another swig from his flask, then handed it to Jake. "You earned it, son."
Jake drank, then passed it to Billy. The brandy burned going down, but it was the best thing Billy had tasted in hours.
"Alright, people," Wade said. "Let's get these boys home. They need medical attention."
"And food," Jake added. "I'm starving."
"And a shower," Billy said, looking down at his blood-and-dirt-covered body.
"And maybe some shirts," Celab laughed.
Tom wrapped an arm around Billy's shoulders while Josh did the same to Jake. "Come on, boys. Let's go home."
The convoy formed up again, this time with Billy and Jake in the lead truck with Pops, Tom, and Josh. Billy Jr. and the wiz kids followed, still monitoring the drones, still recording everything.
As they pulled away from the forest, Billy looked back one last time at the cabin where they'd been held. Where they'd been beaten and tortured. Where they'd been hogtied and left for dead.
And where they'd escaped.
"You okay?" Jake asked quietly.
"Yeah," Billy said. "I am now."
Pops handed the flask back. "One more for the road?"
Both brothers drank.
"Pops," Jake said. "Thanks for those knot lessons at Lake Conroe."
Pops' eyes crinkled. "Told you boys you'd need 'em someday."
The trucks roared down the highway toward home, toward family, toward safety. The sun was setting now, painting the Texas sky in shades of orange and red.
It had been one hell of a day.
But the Benson brothers were coming home.
When the convoy pulled up to the ranch house, Sarah and Edna were standing on the porch, and the moment the trucks stopped, both women ran forward.
Billy barely had time to get out before Edna threw herself into his arms, sobbing. "Oh God, Billy. Oh God."
"I'm okay," he whispered into her hair. "I'm okay now."
Sarah had Jake, holding his face in her hands, tears streaming. "My baby. My sweet boy."
"Mom, I'm fine," Jake said, but his voice cracked. "We're fine."
Rebecca came out of the house with Doc Peterson, her nurse's bag already open. "Inside. Both of you. Now. We need to check those injuries."
But first, Pops gathered both his grandsons in his arms—one of the rare moments anyone ever saw the old man show emotion. "Proud of you boys," he said gruffly. "Real proud."
"Learned from the best," Billy said.
"Damn right you did."
The whole consortium family filed into the house—Bensons, Nelsons, Beaumonts, Renzos, Matterns, and Rodriguezes. The kitchen filled with voices, laughter, tears, and relief.
Billy Jr. was uploading his video footage to the command center servers. "Got everything documented, Dad. The whole rescue."
"Good work, son," Josh said, ruffling his hair.
In the living room, Doc Peterson and Rebecca went to work examining Billy and Jake. Broken ribs, contusions, lacerations, possible concussion.
But they were alive.
They were home.
And the nightmare was over.
Chapter 8: Home
Doc Peterson had seen a lot in his forty years of practicing medicine in Kings County, but even he had to admit—the Benson boys were something special.
"Broken ribs, definitely," he said, prodding Billy's side carefully while Billy winced. "Contusions, lacerations, your nose is broken, and you've got a mild concussion. By all rights, you should be in a hospital bed for a week."
"But?" Billy asked.
Doc grinned. "But you're a Benson. You'll be fine in a few days with rest and Rebecca's nursing."
Rebecca was finishing wrapping Jake's ribs, her professional demeanor firmly in place despite the tears she'd shed earlier. "Same diagnosis for you. Broken ribs, facial contusions, possible concussion. You need rest, fluids, and pain management."
"Translation: whiskey and a steak," Jake said.
"Actually, that's not far off," Doc admitted. "Your grandfather's brandy might be the best pain management you'll get tonight."
As if summoned, Pops appeared in the living room doorway—but instead of just his silver flask, he was carrying a wooden case. He set it down on the coffee table with a thump and opened it, revealing three bottles of Jack Daniel's Single Barrel Select.
The room went silent.
"Holy shit, Pop," Tom breathed. "That's the good stuff."
"Damn right it is," Pops said, pulling out one of the bottles. "Been saving these for something special. Figure my grandsons coming home alive after being kidnapped and tortured qualifies."
Doc's eyes went wide. "Pop, that's two hundred dollars a bottle!"
"Two-fifty, actually. And worth every penny." Pops cracked the seal on the first bottle. "Doc, you want some real medicine?"
"Don't mind if I do, you magnificent old bastard." Doc took the bottle and poured himself a generous glass. He took a sip and closed his eyes. "Christ, that's smooth. This is nothing like that rotgut you were drinking in Saigon."
"Told you I've upgraded since 'Nam," Pops shot back, pouring his own glass.
"Remember that snake whiskey you bought off that village elder?"
"Better than that medicinal alcohol you stole from the field hospital."
"I didn't steal it, I borrowed it. And it got us through two firefights and a three-day patrol."
"It also made you hallucinate that you could speak Vietnamese."
"I could speak Vietnamese!"
"You kept asking for a water buffalo to marry your sister."
The room erupted in laughter. Doc's face turned red but he was grinning. "That was one time, you bastard."
"One time too many," Pops said, opening the second bottle of Jack Daniel's.
Within minutes, the expensive whiskey was making the rounds. Tom, Josh, Ray, Sheriff Wade, Robert Beaumont—all the consortium men took their share, savoring the smooth Tennessee whiskey like the treasure it was. Even Celab and Louisiana got a pour.
Then Pops looked at Billy Jr. and his three friends, all four sixteen-year-olds standing together, still riding the adrenaline high of the rescue. "You boys earned it too. Single malt for heroes. Don't tell your mothers."
Billy Renzo took his glass with reverence. "Yes sir, Pops. Thank you."
"You boys did good work today," Pops said, his voice gruff with emotion. "Real good. Saved your uncles' lives with those drones. That deserves the best whiskey I got."
"Just doing our job," Billy Jr. said, but he was beaming.
Doc took another drink and pointed at Pops with his glass. "You know, I told you forty years ago your family was gonna be the death of you. And here you are, still causing trouble at seventy-six."
"Seventy-six and still faster than you, old man."
"You cheated at poker last week."
"I did not cheat. You're just a terrible bluffer. This whiskey isn't going to make you any better at cards, either."
"You had four aces, Pop. In a five-card draw. You absolutely cheated."
"Prove it," Pops said with a wicked grin, refilling both their glasses from the expensive bottle.
Sarah appeared from the kitchen. "Tom, the restaurant just called. They're bringing food. Enough for an army, they said."
"How much?" Pops demanded.
"They quoted fifteen hundred dollars."
Pops grunted and pulled out his wallet, counting out bills. "Highway robbery. That's what it is. Already spent seven hundred and fifty on whiskey today."
"You're feeding forty people, Pop," Tom pointed out. "And getting them drunk on two-hundred-fifty-dollar whiskey."
"Still highway robbery." But Pops was smiling as he grumbled. "But my boys are worth it."
Doc leaned over. "You're getting soft in your old age. Time was you'd have shot a deer and made everyone else cook it. And served them cheap beer."
"I'm being civilized. And celebrating."
"You don't know the meaning of either word."
"Says the man who once performed surgery with a hunting knife and duct tape."
"That man lived, didn't he?"
"He also refused to ever go camping again. Or drink with you."
Twenty minutes later, the local restaurant—Mama Rosa's Italian—arrived with what looked like half their kitchen. Trays of lasagna, mountains of garlic bread, salads, and enough dessert to feed twice their number.
The dining room table couldn't hold everyone, so they spread out—kitchen, living room, porch. The whole consortium gathered, eating and drinking Pops' expensive Jack Daniel's and laughing with the relief of people who'd just won a war.
Doc Peterson was on his third glass of the Single Barrel, getting decidedly tipsy, and had commandeered the chair next to Pops. "You know, Pop, in all my years, I've never seen anything like your family. And I've never tasted whiskey this good at your house before."
"That's 'cause my family's tougher than boot leather and twice as ornery," Pops said, pouring them both another generous pour. "And they deserve the best."
"Gets it from you."
"Damn right they do."
"Remember that time in Da Nang when you punched that MP?"
"He deserved it."
"He outweighed you by fifty pounds!"
"Still deserved it."
Doc was laughing so hard he nearly spilled his expensive whiskey. "You got us both thrown in the stockade for three days!"
"Best poker game of my life. Won two hundred dollars off those guards."
"You cheated then too!"
"It's only cheating if you get caught." Pops raised his glass. "Besides, I'm spending way more than that on whiskey tonight. Call it karma."
Billy and Jake were stretched out on the couch, both shirtless with their ribs wrapped, eating like they hadn't seen food in a week. Each had a glass of Pops' Jack Daniel's beside them. Edna sat next to Billy, her hand never leaving his. Sarah kept bringing them more food, tears still occasionally streaming down her face.
"Mom, I'm gonna explode," Jake protested.
"Eat," Sarah ordered. "You're too thin."
"I got beat up and kidnapped today, not starved."
But he ate anyway, washing it down with sips of the smooth whiskey.
After everyone had finished eating, Billy Jr. stood up, his laptop in hand. "Hey! Everyone! We got something to show you!"
The room quieted down. All eyes turned to the big screen TV.
"We recorded everything," Billy Jr. said, connecting his laptop. "From the moment we found the cabin to the end. You gotta see this."
The video started playing. The thermal drone footage showing the black pickup truck, then the cabin. Then two heat signatures bursting through a window.
"That's us!" Jake shouted, raising his glass of Jack Daniel's. "Look at us go!"
"Barefoot and half-naked through the woods like a couple of wild men," Celab laughed.
The footage showed Billy and Jake running through the forest, the kidnappers emerging from the cabin, spreading out to search.
"Look at those bastards," Pops growled. "Hunting my boys like animals."
Doc was staring at the screen, shaking his head. "Your boys are crazy, Pop. Absolutely crazy."
"They're Bensons."
"That's what I said."
Then came the part where Billy Renzo made the drone guide them.
"There!" Billy Renzo pointed at the screen. "See how I made it move? Like a sheepdog!"
"That was brilliant, son," Robert Beaumont said, raising his glass in salute.
The footage shifted to ground level—Billy Jr.'s phone recording as the convoy arrived, as Billy and Jake burst through the trees, bloody and exhausted but still fighting.
"Look at Jake's face," Wilson Nelson said. "Man, they worked you over good."
"You should see the other guys," Jake shot back. "Oh wait, you can't. They're dead."
The room erupted in laughter.
Then came the shootout footage. The kidnappers opening fire, everyone taking cover, Billy Jr. sliding the rifles to his uncles.
"That's my boy!" Josh said proudly.
The video showed Jake taking down the tattooed man with three clean shots.
"Center mass!" Jake crowed. "Just like Pops taught us!"
Then Billy's shot, dropping the second kidnapper.
"The youngest Benson, ladies and gentlemen," Ray said, raising his glass of expensive whiskey.
Pops' shot came next—one round, perfectly placed, the boss dropping like a puppet with cut strings.
The room went silent for a moment, watching the old Vietnam vet at work.
"Damn, Pop," Louisiana whispered. "You still got it."
"Never lost it, son."
Doc was staring at the screen, swaying slightly in his chair. "One shot. One kill. You crusty old bastard, you still shoot better drunk than most men do sober."
"Wasn't drunk yet. Give me some credit."
"You had been drinking all morning!"
"That was just maintenance. The good stuff didn't come out until now." Pops held up the bottle of Jack Daniel's Single Barrel. "This is celebration drinking."
"There's a difference?"
"Big difference. Maintenance is cheap brandy. Celebration is expensive whiskey."
Then Robert Beaumont's shot, taking down the fourth man as he tried to flee.
"Clear right!" Robert's voice came through the video speakers, and the real Robert raised his glass in acknowledgment.
The footage showed the aftermath—Jake's victory yell, the laughter, Pops with his flask, the family reunion. Billy Jr. had captured it all.
When it ended, the room erupted in cheers and applause.
"Best damn rescue operation I ever saw," Wade said, wiping his eyes. "And I've seen a few."
Doc raised his glass, swaying slightly. "To Pop Benson. Still the meanest, toughest, orneriest son of a bitch I ever served with. And the only one who'd break out seven-hundred-fifty dollars worth of whiskey for a party."
"To Doc Peterson," Pops countered. "Who can't play poker worth a damn but patches people up better than anyone. And who appreciates good whiskey when he tastes it."
"You still owe me fifty bucks from last week."
"I don't owe you shit. You lost fair and square."
"You had four aces!"
"Quit whining about the aces! Have more whiskey!"
Everyone was laughing now. The two old warriors—one with his rifle, one with his medical bag—had been friends for over fifty years, through war and peace, through marriages and children and grandchildren. And through countless bottles of whiskey, though none as good as tonight's.
"The wiz kids saved the day," Josh said, pulling his son into a hug. "All four of you. Without those drones, without that scanner pickup, without the guidance—we might not have found them in time."
"We're a team," Billy Jr. said, sipping his glass of Jack Daniel's carefully. "The whole consortium. That's what makes us strong."
"Damn right," Tom agreed.
Pops stood up—steadier than a man with that much expensive whiskey in him had any right to be—and raised his glass. Everyone else grabbed their drinks—Jack Daniel's, beer, sweet tea, coffee.
"To family," Pops said, his voice carrying through the house. "To the consortium. To tough sons of bitches who don't know when to quit. And to my grandsons Billy and Jake—who escaped a hogtie, outran kidnappers, and came home to fight. I couldn't be prouder if I tried. Worth every penny of this whiskey."
"To Billy and Jake!" everyone chorused.
Billy and Jake stood up from the couch, wincing but grinning, their glasses of Jack Daniel's in hand.
"Thanks, everyone," Billy said. "For coming to get us. For not giving up. For being family."
"We'd do it again tomorrow," Celab said.
"Let's not," Jake laughed. "Once is enough. But I'll drink to it."
Edna kissed Billy's cheek. "Don't you ever scare me like that again, Billy Benson."
"Yes ma'am," Billy said. "I promise."
Sarah was crying again, but they were happy tears now. Tom had his arm around her. Josh and Rebecca stood together, watching their son laugh with his friends. Ray was going over the financials with Sheriff Wade—apparently someone still had to document everything for the official report.
The wiz kids were replaying sections of the video, critiquing their own drone work with the intense focus of perfectionists.
"You could've brought it in five degrees to the left for a better angle," Daniel Rodriguez was saying.
"It was a rescue operation, not a film shoot," Ryan Mattern shot back.
Doc had dozed off in his chair, snoring softly, his glass of expensive Jack Daniel's still in his hand. Pops reached over and took it, refilling both their glasses from the third bottle for when Doc woke up.
"You old fool," Pops said quietly, but with affection. "Can't hold your liquor anymore. Even the good stuff."
Louisiana pulled out his phone. "We gotta document this. Everyone get together!"
They piled in—all forty-some people, consortium families, wiz kids, even Doc Peterson who someone gently woke up. Billy and Jake were in the center, still shirtless and bandaged, flanked by Pops and Tom and Josh. Pops held up one of the bottles of Jack Daniel's Single Barrel prominently. Sarah and Rebecca and Edna squeezed in close. The wiz kids clustered around Billy Jr., all holding up peace signs. Celab and Louisiana made devil horns behind Jake's head.
"Everybody say 'Jack Daniel's!'" Louisiana called out.
"JACK DANIEL'S!" they all shouted.
The photo captured it perfectly—a family, battered but unbroken, together and strong, celebrating with the best whiskey money could buy.
This was what they'd fought for.
This was home.
And as the evening wore on into night, as people slowly drifted toward their trucks and their own homes, as the Benson house finally grew quiet, Billy and Jake sat on the porch with Pops between them. The third bottle of Jack Daniel's sat on the railing, still half full.
"You boys did good today," Pops said quietly, pouring them each another glass. "Real good."
"We learned from the best," Jake said.
"Damn right you did." Pops took a sip. "But don't do it again. Your grandmother would rise from her grave and kill me if anything happened to you two. And I'd have wasted all this expensive whiskey for nothing."
"Deal," Billy said, savoring the smooth Tennessee whiskey.
They sat in comfortable silence, watching the stars come out over the Texas sky, three generations of Benson men who'd faced down death and come out the other side.
Together.
The way family should be.
THE END
