Chapter 1: The Frat House
Billy Benson stood in front of the cracked mirror propped against the wall of the frat house, rolling up the sleeves of his black and white plaid cowboy shirt. He folded them carefully, just below his shoulders, baring his arms from shoulder to wrist—strong, tanned, and earned through years of ranch work. He adjusted his buckle from last year's rodeo, checked his best-fitting jeans, and stomped his boots against the wooden floor to settle them just right.
"Look at pretty boy over here," Jake drawled from his bunk, arms crossed behind his head. "You gonna flex for Edna when she opens the door, or you saving that for after dinner?"
Celeb laughed from across the room, sprawled on the other top bunk. "Man's about to ask that mirror for its number."
"Shut up," Billy muttered, but he was grinning. He turned to check his profile, making sure the sleeves sat just right on his shoulders.
"Oh, he's checking the guns," Junior said, sitting cross-legged on his mattress wedged between the two bunk beds. At sixteen, he was already built like the rest of them—broad-shouldered, lean, and strong. "Uncle Billy's gonna make sure Edna sees the merchandise."
Colton, Celeb's seventeen-year-old cousin from Louisiana, snorted. "Y'all see how high he rolled those sleeves? That ain't about staying cool. That's advertising."
Billy shot him a look. "Like you don't do the same thing when Anna's around."
"That's different," Junior said, his ears going red. "Anna likes when I—" He stopped. "Forget it."
Jake swung his legs off the bunk and dropped to the floor with a thud. He walked over to Billy, standing shoulder to shoulder with him in front of the mirror. They looked nearly identical—same height, same build, same sharp jaw. Jake rolled up his own sleeves in one quick motion, matching Billy's.
"Still think yours are bigger?" Jake said, flexing.
Billy flexed back. Their arms were nearly the same—veins running down their forearms, biceps hard as stone from a lifetime of lifting bales, fixing fences, and wrestling calves.
"Mine are," Billy said.
"In your dreams."
"Arm wrestle. Right now."
"You're gonna wrinkle your fancy shirt, pretty boy."
"I'll take that bet," Celeb said, pulling a crumpled five from his pocket. "I got Billy."
"Jake," Junior said immediately.
"Colton?" Jake asked.
Colton grinned. "I'm staying neutral. I like living here too much."
The door creaked open, and Pops shuffled in, a glass of brandy in one hand and a half-smoked cigar in the other. At seventy-six, he still had the presence of a drill sergeant—grizzled, squinting, and completely unbothered by the chaos of four young men crammed into one room.
"The hell are you boys yelling about now?" Pops said. He looked Billy up and down, taking in the rolled sleeves and the shined buckle. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Look at this one. You taking Edna to the rodeo or proposing?"
"Pops—"
"Boy's got his arms out like he's entering a damn bodybuilding contest," Pops continued, puffing his cigar. "What's next, you gonna oil 'em up?"
The room exploded in laughter.
Billy's face went red. "I'm just—"
"Just making sure everyone at the rodeo knows you got arms," Jake finished for him, slapping Billy on the shoulder. "Don't worry, brother. I'm sure Edna will notice."
"Damn right she will," Pops said, raising his glass. "Hell, the whole county'll notice. Boy looks like he's about to lasso a bull with his bare hands." He squinted at Billy's biceps, then at Jake's. "Which one of you idiots thinks they're bigger this week?"
"Me," Billy and Jake said in unison.
Pops cackled. "Course you do. You been saying that since you were eight years old." He pointed his cigar at them. "You two are dumber than a box of rocks, but I'll be damned if you ain't my rocks."
Junior grinned. "Pops, who do you got? Billy or Jake?"
Pops took a long sip of his brandy, eyeing both of them. "I got fifty bucks says they both cry like little girls halfway through and call it a draw like always."
"Pops!" Billy protested.
"Don't 'Pops' me, boy. I've seen this song and dance a thousand times." He tapped ash from his cigar into an empty beer can. "Now get your ass out of here before Edna starts thinking you stood her up. And for Christ's sake, don't let her daddy see you flexing like that. Wade'll shoot you."
Billy laughed despite himself. He grabbed his black cowboy hat off the bedpost and settled it on his head. "I'm going. I'm going."
"Wait," Jake said, stepping in front of him. He held out his fist.
Billy bumped it.
"Don't let her talk you into line dancing," Jake said.
"I make no promises."
"Embarrassing."
Billy grinned, tipped his hat at the room, and headed for the door.
"Hey, Billy," Pops called after him.
Billy turned.
Pops raised his glass. "You look good, kid. Real good. Now go show her a good time."
Billy's grin widened. "Yes, sir."
He stepped out into the hallway, the sound of laughter and betting still echoing behind him as he headed down the stairs, out the door, and toward the barn for one last chore before he picked up Edna.
His truck was already humming outside, ready to go.
He had no idea he'd never make it to her door.
Chapter 2: The Barn
The night air was cool against Billy's face as he crossed the yard toward the horse barn. His truck sat idling near the house, headlights off, waiting for him. He could already picture Edna's face when he picked her up—the way she'd smile when she saw him dressed up nice, the way her hand would find his across the bench seat on the drive to the rodeo.
He pushed open the barn door, and it creaked on its hinges. The smell of hay and leather and horse sweat hit him immediately—familiar, comforting. He reached for the light switch.
Before his hand found it, something hard cracked against the back of his head.
Billy staggered forward, his vision exploding into white stars. His knees buckled, and he tried to turn, tried to raise his arms to defend himself, but a second blow caught him in the ribs. The air punched out of his lungs.
"Get him down! Get him down!"
Rough hands grabbed him from behind. Billy swung blindly, his fist connecting with something soft—a grunt—but then there were more hands, too many, dragging him to the ground. His hat flew off. His shoulder slammed into the dirt floor.
"Hold his arms! Hold his damn arms!"
Billy thrashed, fury igniting through the pain. He wasn't some steer to be thrown and tied. He twisted hard, trying to wrench free, but a knee drove into his back, pinning him. His face pressed into the dirt.
Rope bit into his wrists.
"No—" Billy snarled, yanking against it, but his wrists were jerked together behind his back. The rope pulled tight, cutting into his skin. He tried to kick, but his ankles were grabbed, yanked together, and more rope wrapped around them.
"Gag him. Gag him before he yells."
A rag was shoved into his mouth, tied tight around his head. Billy tried to spit it out, but it pressed against his tongue, choking him. He couldn't yell. Couldn't call for help.
A blindfold came next, rough fabric tied over his eyes. Everything went black.
Billy bucked against the hands holding him down, every muscle in his body straining against the ropes. But there were too many of them. They flipped him onto his side, and he felt more rope wrapping around his torso, his legs, binding him into a tight ball. His biceps—the arms he'd been so proud of an hour ago—were useless, pinned behind him.
"He's a big one," one of the voices muttered. "Look at him. Bet his family's got money."
"Dressed up nice, too. Yeah, they'll pay."
A boot nudged Billy's ribs. He grunted behind the gag, twisting against the ropes. His chest heaved, trying to pull in air through his nose.
"Load him up. Use his truck."
Hands grabbed him under his arms and knees, lifting him like a sack of feed. Billy thrashed, but the ropes held. He couldn't move. Couldn't fight. His fury burned hotter, hotter than the pain in his head, hotter than the humiliation of being carried like cargo.
They dumped him into the bed of his own truck. The metal was cold against his cheek. The engine was still running—his truck, the one he'd started up to go pick up Edna. The one that was supposed to take them to the rodeo.
The tailgate slammed shut.
Tires crunched over gravel, and the truck lurched forward.
Billy's last thought before the darkness pulled him under was simple, sharp, and absolute.
No one will break me.
When Billy came to, the blindfold was still tight over his eyes. The gag still choked him. But the ropes—the ropes felt different now.
He wasn't lying down anymore.
He was sitting.
His wrists were still tied behind him, but now they were lashed to something solid—wooden slats. His arms were pulled back, bent slightly at the elbows, and rope wrapped around his bare upper arms, biting into the skin just below his shoulders where his sleeves were folded. More rope circled his biceps, frapping them tight to the slats. His folded sleeves—the ones he'd rolled so carefully in front of the mirror—were pressed against his skin, soaked with sweat. From his shoulders to his bent elbows, the ropes dug in, and from there his forearms hung free behind the chair, wrists bound tight at the bottom.
His boots were tied together, and a long rope ran from them under the chair, pulling them back and connecting to his bound wrists in a hogtie. When he tried to move, the whole system tightened. If he pulled his arms, it yanked his boots. If he tried to move his legs forward, it wrenched his wrists down harder. He was locked in place.
Billy's chest rose and fell rapidly, sweat dripping down his temples. He twisted his wrists, testing the ropes. Nothing. He tried to push his legs forward. The rope cut deeper, yanking his wrists down harder.
His arms—the arms he'd flexed in the mirror, the arms Jake had compared to his own, the arms that had lifted bales and wrestled calves and never, ever failed him—were completely useless.
The veins in his forearms bulged, visible even in his restrained position. His biceps ached, straining against the tight bindings. The skin on his upper arms was already starting to discolor, turning purple where the circulation was cut off, the rope biting deep into the muscle.
Billy clenched his fists behind him, fury building in his chest like a wildfire.
He had never been tied up. Never been restrained. Never been made to feel powerless.
And he did not like it.
Footsteps echoed somewhere nearby. Boots on concrete. Voices, low and muffled.
Billy's jaw clenched around the gag. His nostrils flared as he sucked in air.
No one will break me.
Chapter 3: 911 Billy Jr.
Edna Nelson stood on the porch of her family's ranch house, smoothing down the skirt of her yellow sundress for the third time. She checked her watch. Seven-thirty. Billy was late.
"He'll be here, honey," her mother Mary said from the doorway. "You know how Billy is. Probably lost track of time in the barn."
But Edna's stomach twisted. Billy was never late. Not for her. Not for the rodeo.
By eight o'clock, her father—Sheriff Wade Nelson—was standing on the porch with his arms crossed, his jaw set. He pulled his radio from his belt.
"Tom, you copy?"
A crackle, then Tom Benson's voice. "Yeah, Wade. What's up?"
"Billy pick up Edna yet?"
A pause. "What? He left here over an hour ago. Said he had to lock up the barn, then he was headed your way."
Wade's eyes narrowed. "He never showed."
Another pause, longer this time. Then Tom's voice, sharper. "I'll check the barn."
Billy Junior was in the command center next to the frat house, headphones on, monitoring the ranch's security feeds with Billy Renzo and Ryan Mattern. Daniel Rodriguez was cross-legged on the floor, calibrating one of the new drones.
His radio crackled. "Junior. You there?"
Jr. pulled off his headphones. "Yeah, Grandpa. What's up?"
"Billy's truck still here?"
Junior frowned. He crossed to the window and looked down at the driveway. Empty. "No, sir. It's gone."
"Check the barn. Now."
Junior's stomach dropped. He looked at the other three boys. "Come on."
They took off running, boots pounding down the stairs and out the back door. The barn was dark, the door still half-open. Junior flipped on the lights.
Billy's black cowboy hat lay in the dirt near the door.
Junior's heart stopped.
He stepped forward slowly, scanning the ground. Long pieces of cut rope, scattered in the dirt. Scuff marks. Boot prints—multiple sets, not Billy's.
"Oh, God," Ryan breathed behind him.
Billy Renzo crouched down, examining the boot prints. "Three different treads. None of them match ranch boots."
Daniel pointed to the ropes. "These were cut clean. They tied him up here."
Junior's hands were shaking as he pulled the radio from his belt. He hit the red emergency button on the side.
A mechanical voice echoed across every radio in the consortium.
"911. Billy Junior. 911. Billy Junior. 911. Billy Junior."
Junior keyed the mic, his voice tight but clear. "This is Billy Junior. All consortium members, emergency at the Benson horse barn. Uncle Billy has been taken. I repeat—Billy Benson has been taken."
For three seconds, there was only static.
Then Wade's voice cracked through, sharp and controlled. "Junior, this is Wade. What's your location? What's the evidence?"
"Horse barn, Sheriff," Junior said. "Uncle Billy's hat on the ground. Cut ropes. Three sets of boot prints—not ours. His truck's gone. Signs of a struggle."
Billy Renzo leaned in toward Junior's radio. "Sheriff, the rope cuts are clean. They came prepared."
Ryan added, his voice shaking slightly, "There's drag marks leading to where the truck was parked."
A beat of silence.
Then Pops' voice, low and deadly. "Say that again, Junior."
Junior swallowed hard. "Billy's been taken, Pops. They ambushed him."
"Jesus Christ," Tom's voice broke through. "Junior, are you sure? Are you—"
"I'm sure, Dad," Junior said. "He's gone."
Jake's voice exploded over the radio. "Who?! Who the hell took him?!"
"Unknown," Junior said. "But there's three of them. Boot prints lead out to where his truck was."
Daniel spoke up. "We can track the truck. All the ranch vehicles have GPS."
"Do it," Wade's voice commanded. "Now. Junior, don't touch anything else in that barn. I'm on my way."
"Copy that," Junior said. He looked at the other three. "Ryan, Daniel—get back to the command center. Pull up the GPS. Billy, you're with me. We need to photograph this scene."
Wade's voice came through again. "Everyone converge on the Benson ranch. Now."
Pops' voice came through, quieter now but somehow more terrifying. "They took one of my boys." A pause. "They're gonna wish they hadn't."
Tom's voice was steady, but there was steel underneath. "All consortium members, this is Tom Benson. Emergency protocols. We find Billy. Whatever it takes."
The radio erupted with confirmations—voices from the Beaumonts, the Renzos' parents, the Matterns' parents, the Rodriguezes' parents.
Jake's voice cut through last. "I'm gonna kill them. I swear to God, I'm gonna—"
"Jake." Pops' voice. "Get your ass to the house. We do this smart. We do this together."
Junior looked at Billy Renzo, who was already snapping photos with his phone. Ryan and Daniel were sprinting back toward the house.
"Let's move," Junior said, picking up his uncle's hat with careful hands. "They need everything we can give them."
Within ten minutes, the Benson ranch house was chaos.
Tom and Sarah Benson stood in the living room, their faces pale. Pops was in his chair, cigar clenched between his teeth, brandy forgotten on the side table. Jake paced like a caged animal, his fists opening and closing. Ray and Josh stood by the door, already pulling on jackets. Celeb and Colton hovered near the stairs, ready to move.
Wade Nelson burst through the door with Mary, Edna, and Anna. Edna's face was streaked with tears. Anna immediately went to Junior's side.
Junior stood in the center of the room, still holding Billy's hat. Billy Renzo stood beside him with his phone out, showing the photos of the scene.
"Three sets of boot prints," Junior said, his voice steadier now. "Not ours. Cut ropes. Signs of a struggle." He swallowed hard. "They took him."
"Squatters," Wade said grimly. "We've had reports of transients camping out in empty barns across the county. I didn't think—" He cut himself off, his jaw tightening. "Doesn't matter. We find them. Now."
Ryan's voice came from the stairway. "We've got the GPS!"
Everyone turned.
Ryan and Daniel stood at the top of the stairs, Daniel holding a tablet. "Billy's truck. It's twenty miles southeast. Abandoned warehouse district near the county line."
"How long ago did it stop moving?" Wade asked.
Daniel checked. "About forty minutes ago."
The other consortium families started arriving—the Beaumonts, Mr. and Mrs. Renzo, Mr. and Mrs. Mattern, Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez. The women gathered in the kitchen with Sarah, Rebecca, Mary, and the girls, their faces drawn but determined. The men assembled in the living room, checking weapons, pulling on boots.
Pops stood, his face carved from stone. "Someone took one of my boys." His voice was low, dangerous. "We get him back. And those sons of bitches who touched him—" He didn't finish. He didn't need to.
Junior's phone buzzed.
He looked down at the screen. His face went white.
"What?" Jake barked.
Junior turned the phone around.
The photo showed Billy—blindfolded, gagged, tied to a wooden chair. His arms were pulled behind him, roped tight to the slats, his folded sleeves soaked with sweat. His biceps were purple, veins popping out, the ropes cutting deep. His chest was heaving, ropes crisscrossed over his plaid shirt.
Edna let out a choked sob. Mary pulled her close.
Billy Renzo grabbed the phone from Junior, his jaw clenched. "There's metadata on this. I can trace it."
Jake's face twisted with rage. "I'm gonna kill them. I'm gonna—"
"You're gonna get in line," Pops said, his voice like gravel. He pointed his cigar at Junior and the other boys. "You four—get that command center running full speed. Track everything. Drones, satellite phones, the whole nine yards. Find my boy."
Junior nodded, his jaw set. "Yes, sir."
He turned to Billy Renzo, Ryan, and Daniel. "Let's go. We've got work to do."
The four of them bolted up the stairs to the command center.
Jake turned to Wade. "What do you need from us?"
Wade's hand rested on his holstered sidearm. "Saddle up. We're going hunting."
Chapter 4: The Command Center
The command center hummed with electronic life. Six monitors lined the wall, displaying satellite maps, GPS coordinates, and live drone feeds. Junior sat at the main console, his fingers flying across the keyboard. Billy Renzo hunched over a laptop to his left, running trace programs on the photo metadata. Ryan manned the radio equipment, and Daniel prepped the drones on the floor. Louisiana—Colton's nickname since Pops dubbed him that a year and a half ago when he first arrived with his Baton Rouge drawl—stood at the equipment rack, pulling out the eighteen high-tech iPads from their charging station.
"First protocol," Junior said, not looking up from his screen. "Distribute the tablets. Everyone needs to be synced."
"On it," Louisiana said. He grabbed a large backpack and started loading the iPads into it, each one displaying the consortium's encrypted interface. "These are all linked to our network. GPS, drone feeds, thermal imaging, radio—everything we see, they'll see."
"Got it," Daniel said, holding up his own tablet. "Billy's truck stopped moving forty-three minutes ago. Coordinates are locked." He pulled up the satellite view. "Abandoned warehouse district. Three buildings, lots of cover."
Junior leaned in. "Zoom in on that middle building."
The image sharpened. A cluster of rusted corrugated metal structures, surrounded by overgrown lots and scattered debris.
"There," Billy Renzo said, pointing. "That's Billy's truck. Parked behind the east building."
Ryan keyed the radio. "Command to all units. We have a location. Coordinates coming through now."
Wade's voice crackled back immediately. "Copy that. Hold position. We're moving out in five."
Louisiana slung the backpack over his shoulder. "I'll get these distributed and answer any questions. We drilled for this."
"Good," Junior said. "Make sure Pops, Grandpa Wade, and Dad understand the thermal overlay. Go."
Louisiana headed for the door, the backpack heavy with tablets.
Junior pulled up the drone interface. "Daniel, get Falcon-1 and Falcon-2 airborne. I want eyes on that location before they get there."
"On it." Daniel grabbed the controller, his thumbs working the joysticks. On the monitor, the first drone's camera flickered to life, lifting off from the back porch. The second followed.
Billy Renzo's screen beeped. "Metadata traced. Photo was sent from a burner phone—no surprise there—but the signal bounced off a cell tower three miles from the warehouse. They're there. They have to be."
"How long ago was the photo sent?" Junior asked.
"Twenty-two minutes."
Junior's jaw tightened. Twenty-two minutes. Billy had been tied to that chair, blindfolded, gagged, his arms purple from restricted blood flow, and they were just now getting eyes on the location.
"Falcon-1 approaching target," Daniel said.
The monitor shifted to the drone's thermal imaging camera. The warehouse district appeared in shades of green and black. Three heat signatures inside the middle building.
"Three targets," Junior said. "Matches the boot prints."
Ryan adjusted the frequency. "Command to Sheriff Nelson. Three heat signatures in the middle building. Thermal confirms."
"Copy," Wade's voice came back. "We're ten minutes out."
Downstairs, the living room had transformed into a war room.
Wade stood at the head of the group, a county map spread across the coffee table. Tom, Pops, Josh, Ray, Jake, Celeb, and the other consortium fathers circled around him. Robert Beaumont checked his rifle. Mr. Renzo adjusted his vest. Mr. Mattern and Mr. Rodriguez stood shoulder to shoulder, their faces grim.
The door swung open and Louisiana came through, backpack slung over his shoulder. He set it down and started pulling out iPads.
"Tablets synced to command center," Louisiana announced, moving through the room with practiced efficiency. "Everything we see upstairs, you'll see down here. GPS, thermal, drone feeds, encrypted comms."
He handed the first one to Wade. "Sheriff, thermal overlay is here—" he tapped the screen, "—these three signatures are the targets. Red dot is Billy's truck."
Wade nodded, swiping through the interface with familiarity. They'd drilled this system half a dozen times for tornado emergencies. "Good. Clear picture."
Louisiana moved to Tom next. "Tom, your screen's locked to the satellite feed. You can toggle to thermal here if you need it."
"Got it," Tom said, his eyes already scanning the warehouse layout.
Pops took his tablet with a grunt. "This the same setup as the tornado drill?"
"Yes, sir," Louisiana said. "Exact same interface. You remember how to switch views?"
"I ain't senile, boy," Pops muttered, but his gnarled fingers swiped through the screens with surprising dexterity. The thermal feed appeared, showing the three glowing signatures. His jaw tightened. "Those bastards."
Louisiana distributed the rest quickly—Ray, Josh, Jake, Celeb, Robert, and the other consortium fathers. Each one took their tablet and immediately understood the interface. They'd practiced this.
"Comms button is here," Louisiana reminded them, pointing to the icon. "You can talk directly to command center or switch to the general channel. All encrypted."
Mr. Renzo tapped his screen, testing the interface. "Drone altitude?"
"Three hundred feet," Louisiana said. "Thermal and night vision active."
"Good work, Louisiana," Mr. Mattern said.
Jake stared at his screen, his jaw clenched. The thermal signatures glowed green against the black background. One of them was his brother. "How long till we're there?"
"Ten minutes," Wade said, checking his watch. He tapped the map on his own tablet. "Three tangos inside. Warehouse district, here. No civilians in the area. Nearest road access is here." He traced the route. "We go in quiet. Surround the building. Tom, you take the north entrance with Ray and Josh. Robert, you're with me on the south. Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes—cover the exits. Nobody gets out."
"What about Billy?" Jake's voice was tight, controlled fury barely restrained.
"We get him out first," Wade said. "Clean and fast. Then we deal with the men who took him."
Pops stood from his chair, stubbing out his cigar in the ashtray. His face was stone. "I'm going."
"Pops—" Tom started.
"I'm going," Pops repeated, his voice leaving no room for argument. "That's my boy in there."
Tom nodded. "You're with me."
Jake stepped forward. "I'm coming too."
Wade looked at him. "Can you keep your head?"
Jake's fists clenched at his sides. For a moment, he didn't answer. Then he exhaled slowly. "Yeah. I can keep my head."
"Then you're with us."
Louisiana picked up the backpack with the remaining tablets. "Sheriff, once we've got the drones positioned and the network locked, the five of us are coming with the convoy. We'll have mobile command in the field."
Wade nodded. "You boys stay in the trucks until we secure the perimeter. Understood?"
"Yes, sir."
Louisiana turned toward the kitchen. "I need to get tablets to the ladies."
In the kitchen, Sarah Benson stood at the stove, hands shaking as she poured coffee into mugs. Rebecca was beside her, her nurse's training kicking in as she assembled a medical kit on the counter. Mary Nelson held Edna, who was pale and trembling. Anna stood with her arms wrapped around herself, tears streaming silently down her face.
Caroline Beaumont moved between them, quietly efficient, setting out food no one would eat. Mrs. Renzo, Mrs. Mattern, and Mrs. Rodriguez gathered around the table, their voices low, their hands clasped in prayer.
Louisiana appeared in the doorway, pulling three iPads from his backpack. "Sarah, Mary, Rebecca—these are for you. Same system we used in the tornado drills."
Sarah took one with trembling hands, her fingers finding the interface immediately. The screen showed the warehouse location, the drone feeds, the thermal signatures. Her breath caught. "He's one of those?"
"Yes, ma'am," Louisiana said gently. "And we're going to bring him home."
Rebecca took hers, her nurse's eyes immediately scanning the data. "Radio comms?"
"Right here," Louisiana said, tapping the icon. "You can talk to us or the convoy. Encrypted."
Mary Nelson took the third, holding it so Edna could see. Anna leaned in, her hand on her mother's shoulder. They'd all trained on these tablets. Mary's fingers moved across the screen, pulling up the drone feed.
"Any questions?" Louisiana asked.
"No," Sarah said softly. "We know how to use them. Thank you, Louisiana."
"Yes, ma'am." Louisiana nodded and headed back toward the stairs.
"He's strong," Rebecca said, snapping the medical kit shut. "Billy's strong. He'll hold on."
"They have him tied up," Edna whispered, her voice breaking. "Did you see his arms? They were—"
"He's alive," Sarah said firmly, though her voice wavered. "He's alive, and they're going to bring him home."
Mary pulled Edna closer. "Wade will find him. You know he will."
Anna wiped her eyes, her voice small. "Junior and the boys will help. They'll find him."
Rebecca nodded. "Those boys are the smartest kids in the county. If anyone can track him, it's them."
On the tablet screens, the drones circled the warehouse. The thermal signatures glowed green.
Sarah closed her eyes and whispered a prayer.
Back in the command center, Junior's radio crackled.
"Command, this is Sheriff Nelson. Tablets are distributed. We're moving out. Keep those drones on station and give us real-time updates."
"Copy that, Grandpa," Junior said. He looked at the other four boys as Louisiana burst back through the door. "Everybody synced?"
"Affirmative," Louisiana said, slightly out of breath. "No questions. They all know the system."
"Good." Junior stood. "Network's locked. Drones are in position. Let's pack up the mobile units and get down there."
Billy Renzo grabbed two ruggedized laptops. Ryan unplugged the portable satellite uplink. Daniel secured the drone controllers in a padded case. Louisiana slung a backpack full of backup batteries over his shoulder.
"We stay with the convoy," Junior said. "We're their eyes and ears."
Billy Renzo nodded, his jaw set. "Let's go get him back."
Junior stared at the monitor one last time, at the glowing green shapes inside the warehouse.
One of them was Billy.
"Hang on, Uncle Billy," Junior muttered under his breath. "We're coming."
The five boys bolted down the stairs, equipment in hand, and piled into the back of Tom's truck. On the tablet screens throughout the convoy and back in the kitchen, the drone feeds showed the warehouse waiting in the darkness.
The convoy rolled out from the ranch, headlights cutting through the night, heading southeast toward the warehouse district.
The hunt had begun.
Chapter 5: No One Will Break Me
Hours 1-4
Billy's world was darkness and rope.
The blindfold pressed tight against his eyes. The gag filled his mouth, soaked with his own spit. His arms screamed—bent behind him, lashed to the chair, circulation cut off from his biceps down to his wrists. The ropes bit deep into the muscle he'd been so proud of just hours ago.
He could hear them moving around him. Three of them. Boots on concrete. Low voices arguing.
"How much you think we can get for him?"
"Dressed like that? Family's got money. Ten grand, easy."
Billy's jaw clenched behind the gag. Let them look. Let them come.
His wrists twisted against the ropes. Nothing. The hogtie connecting his boots to his bound hands pulled tighter every time he moved. His legs burned. His shoulders burned. His biceps throbbed, purple and swollen.
No one will break me.
The mantra started then, quiet and certain in his mind.
He thought of Jake. Arm wrestling at the kitchen table when they were ten years old. Billy gritting his teeth, pushing harder, harder—Jake's hand slamming down on the table. The look on his brother's face. Respect. Pride.
He thought of Pops. "You boys got heart. Heart's what matters. Body can fail you. Mind can trick you. But heart? Heart don't quit."
I won't quit.
He thought of Edna. Standing on her porch right now, probably. Waiting. Worried. Her yellow sundress catching the porch light.
I'm coming back to you.
The blindfold was ripped off.
Billy blinked against the sudden light—a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling of what looked like an abandoned warehouse. Three men stood in front of him, bandanas over their faces. One held a knife.
Billy's eyes locked on the blade.
"Nice shirt," the man said, stepping forward. He grabbed Billy's collar. "Let's see what's underneath."
The knife flashed. The fabric ripped.
Billy's shirt tore open down the middle, buttons scattering across the concrete. The man yanked the torn halves apart, baring Billy's chest. Sweat glistened on his skin.
"Look at this. Boy's built like a damn bull."
The knife traced a line from Billy's collarbone down to his ribs. Not cutting. Not yet. Just the cold steel against his skin, a promise.
"You feel that? Your family pays, you walk out of here. They don't..." The knife pressed harder, leaving a red line. "Well. You won't be so pretty anymore."
Billy didn't look away. Didn't blink.
No one will break me.
They took the photo.
One of them held up a phone, snapping pictures of Billy tied to the chair—blindfold off, gag still in, arms roped tight behind him, his torn shirt hanging open. His biceps were purple, veins bulging, sweat dripping down his temples.
Billy stared into the camera with pure, unfiltered rage.
"Perfect. Your family's gonna see this and pay up real quick."
After they sent it, they left him alone.
Billy's head dropped forward, his breath coming hard through his nose. His arms were numb now. He couldn't feel his hands anymore.
He tested the ropes again. The chair creaked under his weight. Wooden slats behind him, old and weathered.
Wait. Be smart.
He thought of Junior and the wiz kids. Those boys were smart. Smarter than these three idiots combined. If anyone could find him, it was them.
They're coming. I just have to hold on.
The knife came back.
The man crouched in front of Billy, blade glinting. "Your family's not responding fast enough. Maybe they need more motivation."
The knife touched Billy's chest, just above his heart. This time, it pressed down.
Billy's jaw clenched. The blade bit into his skin, a thin line of blood welling up. The man dragged the knife slowly across Billy's chest, carving a shallow cut. Blood trickled down his ribs.
Billy's nostrils flared. His fists shook behind him. But he didn't make a sound.
No one will break me.
The man leaned in close. "You're tougher than I thought, pretty boy. But everybody breaks eventually."
Billy's eyes met his. Cold. Hard. Unyielding.
The man laughed nervously and stepped back. "We'll see how long that lasts."
Hours 5-8
Billy's world narrowed to pain and fury.
His arms were dead weight now. His chest burned where the knife had cut him. Blood dried on his skin, sticky and cold. The gag choked him. The ropes held him.
But his mind was sharp.
He thought of the rodeo. The last time he'd been thrown from a bull. Slamming into the dirt, ribs bruised, breath knocked out of him. He'd gotten up. Walked out on his own two feet. Grinning.
I've been hurt worse.
He thought of Pops' stories from Vietnam. "You find out what you're made of when everything's taken from you. That's when you learn if you got steel in your spine."
I've got steel.
The chair creaked under him. Billy shifted his weight, testing it again. The wood groaned.
Not yet. Soon.
One of the men walked over, pulling the gag down.
"You got anything to say? Want to beg? Want to tell us where your family keeps their money?"
Billy's mouth was dry. His lips cracked. But when he spoke, his voice was steady.
"You're dead men."
The man blinked. "What?"
"You're dead men," Billy repeated, his eyes locked on him. "You don't know who you took. You don't know who's coming for me. But they are. And when they find you..." He smiled, cold and sharp. "You're gonna wish you'd never set foot in that barn."
The man's laughter died. He shoved the gag back into Billy's mouth, hard.
"Tough guy," he muttered.
But Billy saw it. The flicker of doubt. The nervousness.
They're scared. Good. They should be.
Billy leaned his head back against the chair, closing his eyes.
Hang on. Just a little longer.
They're coming.
No one will break me.
Chapter 6: The Chair
Billy waited until their voices faded. Footsteps echoing toward the far end of the warehouse. A door opening. Closing.
Silence.
His heart pounded in his chest. This was it. His only chance.
He leaned forward, then threw his weight backward as hard as he could.
The chair tipped. For one breathless second, Billy hung suspended in the air. Then gravity took over.
The chair slammed backward onto the concrete with a deafening crash.
Pain exploded through Billy's shoulders, his head, his spine. Stars burst behind his eyes. But through the ringing in his ears, he heard it—the sharp crack of splintering wood.
The chair had broken.
Billy gasped behind the gag, his chest heaving. He could feel it now—the wooden slats behind him had shattered into pieces. The seat had split away from the back. His arms were still tied, still bound to what remained of the chair's back, but his legs—
His legs were free.
The rope connecting his boots to his wrists had gone slack when the chair broke. Billy kicked hard, twisting, and felt the loops around his boots loosen. Another kick. Another. The rope fell away.
His legs were free.
Billy rolled onto his side, then his knees. His arms were still useless behind him, still lashed to the broken slats of the chair back, but he could move. He could stand.
He staggered to his feet, swaying. The broken chair back hung from his bound arms like a grotesque backpack. His chest screamed where the knife had cut him. His biceps throbbed, still purple and swollen. But his legs worked.
And that was enough.
Billy ran.
His boots pounded against the concrete. The warehouse was massive—dim, shadowy, filled with rusted equipment and stacked crates. He didn't know where he was going. Didn't care. Just had to get out. Had to—
"He's loose! He's loose!"
Footsteps behind him. Shouting. Billy's lungs burned as he pushed harder, faster. The gag choked him. The broken chair back bounced against his spine with every step. But he ran.
A shadow stepped out from behind a crate.
Billy tried to dodge, but his balance was off, his arms useless. The man tackled him from the side, driving him into the ground.
Billy hit the concrete hard. The air punched out of his lungs. He bucked, thrashed, trying to roll away, but two more sets of hands grabbed him. They hauled him up, dragging him back toward the center of the warehouse.
"You think you're smart?!" one of them snarled. "You think you can run?!"
They threw him down. Billy's shoulder slammed into the floor. He groaned behind the gag.
"Tie him up. Different this time."
"What about the ransom?"
"Forget the ransom. This is done. We leave him. Let him die."
Billy's blood went cold.
Rough hands grabbed his boots, lashing them together again. But this time, they didn't tie him to a chair. This time, they looped a rope through the bindings on his boots and threw it over an exposed beam overhead.
Then they pulled.
Billy's body jerked upward. His boots lifted off the ground. Higher. Higher. The world flipped upside down as they hoisted him into the air by his feet.
Blood rushed to his head. His arms—still tied behind him, still lashed to the broken slats of the chair back—hung uselessly below him. The ropes around his biceps bit deeper. His torn shirt hung open, exposing his chest and the shallow knife wound, blood smeared across his ribs.
They tied off the rope. Billy swung slightly, suspended six feet off the ground, his body dangling like a side of beef in a slaughterhouse.
"Good luck getting out of that, pretty boy."
One of them walked over and looked up at Billy's inverted face. "Your family didn't pay fast enough. That's on them. Maybe they'll find you before you die. Maybe they won't."
Billy's chest heaved. His vision swam. Upside down, his head pounding, blood pooling in his skull.
He glared down at the man through the haze of pain and fury.
No one will break me.
The men left. A door slammed. An engine started outside. Tires on gravel. Then silence.
Billy hung alone in the darkness, suspended by his feet, his arms bound and useless, his body still lashed to the broken chair back.
His head throbbed. His lungs burned. His arms screamed.
But he was still alive.
Hang on. Just hang on.
They're coming.
No one will break me.
Chapter 7: The Hunt
The convoy had been rolling for fifteen minutes when Junior's tablet lit up with an alert.
He was in the back of Tom's truck with the other four wiz kids, equipment spread around them. Billy Renzo looked up from his laptop. "What is it?"
Junior's face went pale. "Another photo."
He turned the tablet so they could all see.
Billy. Hanging upside down by his feet. His arms still bound behind him to the broken chair back. His torn shirt hanging open. Blood on his chest. His face inverted, eyes closed.
"Jesus," Ryan whispered.
Daniel grabbed his radio. "Command to convoy. Second photo received. Billy's been moved. He's—" His voice cracked. "He's strung up."
The radio exploded with responses.
"What?!" Jake's voice.
"Send it. Now." Wade's voice, sharp and controlled.
Junior forwarded the image to all the tablets. In trucks throughout the convoy, screens lit up with the horrifying image.
In the lead truck, Wade stared at his tablet, his jaw working.
Back at the ranch, in the kitchen, Sarah's tablet lit up with the same image. She gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. Mary grabbed her, holding her up as her knees buckled.
"Oh God," Sarah whispered. "Oh God, my baby."
Rebecca stared at her screen, her nurse's training warring with her mother's heart. "He's alive. Look—his chest is moving. He's breathing."
Edna sobbed into Mary's shoulder. Anna held her, both girls crying.
Caroline Beaumont stood, her voice steady. "They're almost there. Wade and Tom will get him. They will."
Maria Renzo, Linda Mattern, and Sofia Rodriguez gathered around Sarah, their hands on her shoulders, silent support.
On the tablets, they could see the convoy's progress. Eight minutes out.
Rebecca moved to the counter, opening her medical kit, laying out supplies. Bandages, antiseptic, IV fluids, pain medication. Her hands were steady, focused. "Sarah, I need you to boil water. Mary, get me clean towels. As many as you can find."
The women moved into action, channeling their fear into purpose.
"How long ago was this sent?" Wade asked over the radio.
"Twelve minutes," Billy Renzo's voice came back. "Metadata places it at the same location. The warehouse."
"They're panicking," Tom's voice cut in from the truck behind them. "They wouldn't have done this unless the ransom plan fell apart."
"Or Billy tried to escape," Pops said, his voice low and deadly. "Look at that chair back still tied to him. Boy broke the damn chair and tried to run."
Jake's voice was barely controlled. "How long can he—"
"Don't," Pops interrupted. "Don't go there. We're eight minutes out. We get there, we get him down, we bring him home."
Wade keyed his radio. "All units, ETA seven minutes. Junior, what do the drones show?"
Junior's voice came back immediately. "Three heat signatures inside the warehouse ten minutes ago. Now showing... two. Wait—" A pause. "Heat signatures are moving toward the exit. They're leaving."
"Leaving?!" Jake's voice exploded. "They're just gonna leave him there to—"
"Which means we've got a clear entry," Wade said, cutting him off. "Tom, Robert, Renzos, Matterns, Rodriguezes—new plan. We go in fast. No resistance expected. Priority is getting Billy down."
"Copy," multiple voices responded.
In Tom's truck, Junior was typing furiously. "I'm pulling up the interior layout from the satellite thermal. Billy's heat signature is... here." He pointed to the screen. "Center of the main warehouse space. Elevated approximately six feet."
"Six feet up," Billy Renzo muttered. "Hanging."
Louisiana checked the first aid kit they'd brought. "We've got bandages, water, blankets. Should be enough to stabilize him for the ride home."
"Good," Tom's voice came through the radio. He'd been listening. "Junior, you boys stay in the trucks until we secure the scene."
"Yes, sir," Junior said.
Junior stared at the thermal image on his screen. The heat signature that was his Uncle Billy, suspended in the air, alone.
"Hang on," Junior whispered. "We're almost there."
The convoy crested a hill, and the warehouse district came into view. Three rusted metal buildings silhouetted against the night sky. Billy's truck was visible behind the middle building, exactly where the GPS had shown it.
Wade's voice came over the radio. "All units, lights off. We go in silent."
The headlights cut out. The convoy rolled forward in darkness, guided only by the moonlight and the drone feeds on their tablets.
Two hundred yards out, Wade raised his fist. The trucks stopped.
Men poured out silently. Wade, Tom, Pops, Jake, Josh, Ray, Celeb, Robert, and the consortium fathers. They moved like shadows, weapons ready, spreading out to surround the warehouse.
Junior watched from the truck bed, his heart pounding. The drone feed showed the two remaining heat signatures exiting through a back door, running toward an old pickup truck parked in the weeds.
"Two tangos fleeing south exit," Junior reported over the radio. "Billy's signature still inside, stationary."
"Renzos, Matterns—intercept those runners," Wade ordered. "Everyone else, with me. We're going in."
Mr. Renzo and Mr. Mattern peeled off, moving fast toward the south side of the building.
Wade reached the main entrance first. Tom and Pops flanked him on one side, Jake and Josh on the other. Robert Beaumont was right behind them. Wade tested the door. Unlocked.
He pushed it open slowly. The hinges creaked.
Darkness inside. The smell of rust and decay.
Wade clicked on his flashlight. Tom did the same. The beams cut through the darkness, illuminating the massive empty space of the warehouse.
And there, in the center, suspended from a beam—
"Billy!" Jake's voice broke.
Billy hung upside down, motionless. His arms bound behind him to the broken chair back. His boots tied together, rope stretching up to the beam. His torn shirt hung open. Blood on his chest. His face pale, inverted.
Jake started to run forward but Tom grabbed his arm. "Slow. Check for traps."
Wade swept his flashlight across the floor. No tripwires. No movement. "Clear. Move."
They rushed forward.
Tom reached Billy first, his hand going to his son's neck. Feeling for a pulse.
For three agonizing seconds, no one breathed.
Then Tom's voice, choked with relief. "He's alive. Pulse is weak, but he's alive."
Wade keyed his radio immediately. "Command to ranch. We have Billy. He's alive. Repeat—Billy is alive."
Back in the kitchen, the radio crackled with Wade's voice.
"We have Billy. He's alive."
Sarah collapsed into a chair, sobbing. Mary held her, crying too. Edna's knees gave out, and Anna caught her. Caroline, Maria, Linda, and Sofia gathered around, tears streaming, hands clasped in prayer and gratitude.
Rebecca's hands moved faster, organizing her medical supplies. "They'll be here in twenty minutes. I'll be ready."
At the warehouse, Pops' voice broke for the first time. "Get my boy down."
Jake was already climbing onto a crate, reaching for the rope tied to the beam. Josh pulled out a knife.
"Careful," Tom said, positioning himself directly under Billy. "I'll catch him. On three."
Jake steadied himself, one arm wrapped around Billy's legs for support. "Ready."
"Three."
Josh cut the rope.
Billy's body dropped into Tom's arms. Tom staggered under the weight but held firm. Jake jumped down, helping ease Billy to the ground, turning him right-side up as gently as they could.
Tom pulled out his own knife, cutting through the gag first. Billy's head lolled to the side.
"Billy," Tom said, his hand on his son's face. "Billy, can you hear me?"
No response.
Tom cut through the ropes around Billy's boots. Then the ropes binding his wrists. Then carefully, the ropes around his biceps and the broken chair back.
Billy's arms fell free, limp and discolored.
"Severe rope burns," Tom said, examining them. "Jesus. He's been like this for hours."
"Hospital," Wade said. "Now."
"No."
The word was barely a whisper, but everyone heard it.
Billy's eyes fluttered open. Barely focused. But open.
"Billy—" Tom started.
"No hospital," Billy rasped again. His voice was raw, broken, but determined.
"Son, you need—"
"Home." Billy's eyes found Tom's face. Then Jake's. "Take me home."
Jake's hand gripped Billy's shoulder. "You crazy stubborn idiot."
Billy's lips twitched. Almost a smile. "Yeah."
Wade keyed his radio. "Rebecca's waiting at the ranch. She can treat him there. But Billy, if anything changes—"
"Then hospital," Billy whispered. "Deal."
"Let's move," Tom said.
They lifted Billy as carefully as they could. Tom and Jake carried him between them, his arms draped over their shoulders. Billy's legs barely worked, but he tried. Every step back toward the trucks, he tried.
Behind them, shouts echoed from the south side of the warehouse. Mr. Renzo's voice. "We've got them! Both of them!"
Wade keyed his radio. "Secure them in one of the trucks. We'll deal with it after we get Billy home."
As they emerged from the warehouse, the five wiz kids jumped down from the trucks, tablets and equipment forgotten. Junior ran to Billy's side, his face streaked with tears.
"Uncle Billy—"
Billy's eyes opened again, finding Junior. "Hey... kid."
"You're okay. You're gonna be okay."
"Yeah." Billy's voice was fading. "Told you... no one... breaks me."
Then his eyes closed, and his weight sagged completely into Tom's and Jake's arms.
"Let's go!" Tom shouted. "Now!"
They loaded Billy into the back of Tom's truck on a bed of blankets Louisiana had prepared. Josh climbed in beside him, keeping him stable. Louisiana wrapped Billy in another blanket, elevating his feet slightly.
The wiz kids piled into another truck with their equipment.
The convoy turned around, headlights blazing now, racing back toward the Benson ranch.
Billy was coming home.
Chapter 8: Coming Home
The convoy roared into the Benson ranch just after midnight, headlights blazing, trucks skidding to a stop in front of the house.
The front door burst open. Sarah, Mary, Rebecca, Edna, Anna, Caroline, Maria, Linda, and Sofia poured out onto the porch, their faces a mixture of relief and terror.
Tom and Jake carefully lifted Billy from the truck bed. His head hung forward, barely conscious. Louisiana and Josh supported him from the sides as they carried him up the porch steps.
"Inside," Rebecca said, her voice steady and clinical. "Living room. Lay him on the couch."
They moved as one, carrying Billy through the door. Sarah's hand flew to her mouth when she saw him up close—the rope burns on his wrists and biceps, angry and purple. The torn shirt hanging open, dried blood on his chest. His face pale, drawn, exhausted.
They laid him gently on the couch. Rebecca was already there, medical kit open, gloves on.
"Everyone back," she said. "Give me room."
The family crowded around but stepped back enough for Rebecca to work. Sarah knelt beside the couch, her hand on Billy's face. "Baby, you're home. You're home now."
Billy's eyes fluttered open. "Mom."
Sarah's tears came harder. "I'm here. I'm right here."
Rebecca moved with practiced efficiency. She checked his pulse, his breathing, his pupils. "Dehydration. Possible mild concussion. These rope burns are severe—circulation was cut off for hours." She examined his arms, his wrists, his biceps. "Can you feel your hands, Billy?"
Billy tried to move his fingers. Slowly, they flexed. "Yeah. Hurts. But yeah."
"Good. That's good." Rebecca grabbed antiseptic and gauze. "This is going to sting."
She started cleaning the rope burns on his wrists. Billy's jaw clenched, but he didn't make a sound.
Jake stood beside the couch, his fists opening and closing. Pops was in his chair, cigar unlit, brandy untouched, watching every move. Tom stood with his hand on Sarah's shoulder. Josh, Ray, Celeb, and the wiz kids hovered near the doorway.
Wade stood by the window, radio still on his belt, watching the scene with the trained calm of a man who'd seen worse but never stopped caring.
"The knife wound?" Rebecca asked, examining Billy's chest. The shallow cut had stopped bleeding, but it was red and angry.
"Not deep," Billy muttered. "Just... a message."
Rebecca's jaw tightened. She cleaned it carefully, applied antibiotic ointment, covered it with a bandage. Then she moved to the rope burns on his biceps.
"These are the worst," she said quietly. "Billy, you need to understand—nerve damage is possible. We need to monitor this."
"I can feel them," Billy said. "They work."
"For now. But if anything changes—numbness, tingling, weakness—we go to the hospital. No arguments."
Billy met her eyes. "Okay."
Rebecca nodded. She wrapped his biceps in gauze, then his wrists, working methodically. When she finished, she sat back. "I'm starting an IV. You're dehydrated. You need fluids."
"I can drink water."
"IV first. Then water. Then food, if you can keep it down."
Billy didn't argue.
Rebecca set up the IV, threading the needle into his arm with practiced ease. The saline drip started, slow and steady.
"Rest," Rebecca said. "That's an order."
Billy's eyes closed.
An hour later, Billy's eyes opened again. The IV bag was half-empty. His color was better. His breathing steadier.
Sarah was still beside him, holding his hand. Edna sat on the other side of the couch, her hand on his shoulder. Anna stood with Junior near the doorway.
"Water," Billy said, his voice stronger now.
Sarah grabbed a glass immediately. Billy drank slowly, carefully. Then again.
"Food?" Rebecca asked.
"Yeah."
Caroline brought soup—warm, simple, easy. Billy ate slowly, his hands shaking slightly, but he ate.
The family watched in silence, relief washing over them.
When Billy finished, he set the bowl down and looked around the room. Everyone was there. His whole family. The consortium. The wiz kids.
"Thank you," Billy said quietly. "All of you."
"Don't," Tom said, his voice rough. "Don't thank us. We're family."
Billy nodded. Then his eyes found Jake, who stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
"Jake."
Jake pushed off the wall, walking over. "Yeah?"
Billy's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "I still think mine are bigger."
The room went silent.
Then Jake laughed—short, sharp, almost disbelieving. "You're out of your damn mind."
"Prove it," Billy said, sitting up slowly. He grimaced, but he sat up.
"Billy—" Sarah started.
"I'm fine, Mom." Billy looked at Rebecca. "Can I?"
Rebecca stared at him for a long moment. Then she sighed. "If you pass out, I'm putting you in the hospital myself."
"Deal."
Billy stood, swaying slightly. Jake grabbed his arm, steadying him. "You sure about this?"
"Yeah."
They moved to the kitchen table. The whole family followed, drawn by the absurdity and the familiarity of it.
Billy sat down. Jake sat across from him.
Billy rolled up his right sleeve—carefully, wincing as the gauze on his bicep shifted. But he rolled it up, baring his arm.
Jake did the same.
They clasped hands across the table, elbows down.
"You're insane," Jake said.
"Probably," Billy said.
Pops stood, pulling money from his pocket. "Fifty on Jake. Boy just got strung up like a damn piñata. No way he wins."
"I'll take that bet," Tom said. "Fifty on Billy."
"Billy," Sarah said, pulling out a twenty.
"Jake," Junior said, grinning.
"Billy," Celeb said.
"Jake," Louisiana said.
Money piled onto the table. Everyone chose a side.
Wade watched from the doorway, shaking his head but smiling. Mary stood beside him, tears still on her face but laughing softly.
"Ready?" Tom asked.
Billy and Jake locked eyes.
"Three... two... one... go!"
Their arms strained. Billy's jaw clenched. His bicep bulged against the gauze. Jake pushed hard, his face red with effort.
Neither arm moved.
"Come on, Jake!" Junior shouted.
"You got this, Billy!" Ray called.
The room erupted in cheers and jeers, the tension of the last twelve hours exploding into noise and laughter and life.
Billy's arm shook. Jake's arm shook.
And then, slowly, Billy's arm started to move. Inch by inch. Jake pushed back, but Billy didn't stop.
With a final surge, Billy slammed Jake's hand down onto the table.
The room exploded.
"No way!" Junior shouted.
"That's my boy!" Tom yelled, grabbing the money.
Pops cackled, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. Un-be-lievable."
Robert Beaumont whistled low. "I've seen a lot of things, but that might be the most stubborn thing I've ever witnessed."
"Stubborn?" Mr. Renzo said, laughing. "That's not stubborn. That's pure grit."
"That's Benson blood," Mr. Mattern added.
Wade shook his head, grinning. "Boy gets kidnapped, tied up, hung from a beam, and still comes home and wins an arm wrestle. That's something."
"That's everything," Tom said, his voice thick with pride.
Jake sat back, staring at his hand, then at Billy. "How?"
Billy grinned—tired, worn, but unbroken. "Told you. Mine are bigger."
"Bigger?!" Celeb leaned over from where he stood. "Jake, man, you just got beat by a guy who spent the last eight hours hanging upside down. You need to hit the gym, brother."
"Shut up, Celeb," Jake muttered, but he was grinning.
"No, seriously," Celeb continued. "Billy literally had no circulation in his arms for hours. And you lost. That's embarrassing."
"I said shut up."
"Maybe you should arm wrestle Junior next. Work your way back up."
Junior laughed. "I'll take that bet."
"Y'all are the worst," Jake said, but he reached across the table to grip Billy's shoulder. "You crazy son of a bitch."
Billy's grin widened. "Yeah."
Pops pushed himself up from his chair, walking toward the cabinet in the corner. "That deserves a proper drink."
He opened the cabinet and pulled out four bottles. Two bottles of Jack Daniel's Single Barrel Barrel Proof and two bottles of Jack Daniel's Sinatra Select.
The room went dead silent.
"Pops," Tom said slowly. "Those are—"
"Special occasion bottles," Pops finished, setting all four on the table with heavy thuds. "And if this ain't a special occasion, I don't know what the hell is." He looked around at the roomful of men—his sons, his grandsons, the consortium fathers, the wiz kids. "Billy came home. That's worth every damn drop."
"Pops, that's over a thousand dollars worth of whiskey," Josh said.
"I know what it costs, boy." Pops started lining up shot glasses. "And I know what it's worth. Now shut up and drink."
He grabbed the first bottle of Barrel Proof and started pouring. Then the Sinatra Select. Moving down the line, filling glass after glass.
"Everyone drinks," Pops said. "And I mean everyone." He looked at the wiz kids. "That includes you boys. You earned it tonight."
Junior, Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel, and Louisiana exchanged glances, then grinned.
Pops poured shots for Tom, Wade, Josh, Ray, Celeb, Robert, Mr. Renzo, Mr. Mattern, Mr. Rodriguez, and all the consortium fathers. He poured for the wiz kids. And finally, he poured two shots and set them in front of Billy.
"One of each," Pops said. "You drink both."
Billy looked at the two glasses, then at Pops. "Yes, sir."
Pops raised his own glass—Barrel Proof, neat. "To Billy. Who broke a damn chair, ran like hell, got strung up like a side of beef, and still came home and beat his brother at arm wrestling." He grinned. "No one breaks a Benson."
"No one breaks a Benson!" the room roared.
They drank.
The Barrel Proof burned like fire going down. The Sinatra Select was smooth, rich, warm. Billy drained both glasses and set them down, his eyes watering slightly but his grin intact.
"Damn," Billy rasped.
"That's the good stuff, boy," Pops said, already pouring another round.
Mr. Rodriguez raised his glass. "To the wiz kids. Without you boys, we'd still be looking."
"Hear, hear," Wade said.
The consortium fathers drank to that.
Tom raised his glass next. "To family. All of us."
"To family," everyone echoed.
They drank again, the whiskey flowing, the tension of the night dissolving into warmth and brotherhood and gratitude.
An hour later, the house was quieter. The consortium families had gone home. Wade, Mary, Edna, and Anna had left. Sarah, Tom, Rebecca, and Josh had gone to bed, exhausted but relieved.
Billy, Jake, Celeb, Junior, Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel, and Louisiana headed upstairs to the frat house.
Billy climbed the stairs slowly, but he climbed them. Jake stayed close, ready to catch him if he stumbled. But Billy didn't stumble.
They walked down the second-floor hallway, past the command center, past Pops' bedroom—where they could hear the old man's rumbling snores already—and pushed open the door to the frat house.
The same room where the night had started. The cracked mirror still leaned against the wall. The bunk beds, the mattress wedged between them, the clutter of boots and clothes and life.
Billy's black cowboy hat sat on the bedpost. Junior had brought it back from the barn.
Billy picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Then he set it back down.
"Beer?" Celeb asked, already kneeling by the floorboards near his bunk.
"Hell yes," Jake said.
Celeb pried up the loose board, revealing the hidden stash. Bottles clinked as he pulled them out, passing them around. Cold, contraband, perfect.
They settled in—Jake and Billy on the lower bunks, Celeb and Louisiana on the top bunks, Junior and the other three wiz kids on the floor, backs against the wall.
Billy cracked open his beer and took a long drink.
"So," Jake said, leaning back. "You gonna tell Edna you stood her up, or you gonna make me do it?"
Billy snorted. "I'll tell her. Tomorrow. When I can think straight."
"She's gonna kill you," Junior said.
"She's gonna cry first, then kill you," Louisiana added.
"Probably," Billy admitted.
Celeb took a swig of his beer. "Jake, I'm still not over it. You lost to a man who was literally dying a few hours ago."
"I wasn't dying," Billy corrected.
"Close enough," Celeb said. "And Jake still lost."
"Are we gonna do this all night?" Jake asked.
"Yes," Celeb said immediately. "Yes, we are."
"You know what I still can't figure out," Ryan said, looking at Billy. "How the hell did you break that chair?"
Billy grinned. "Threw myself backward as hard as I could. Figured if I was gonna die, I wasn't gonna die tied to a damn chair."
"And then you ran," Daniel said, shaking his head. "With the chair back still tied to you."
"Didn't have a choice."
"That's insane," Billy Renzo said. "You're insane."
"Yeah, well," Billy said, taking another drink. "Runs in the family."
Jake raised his beer. "Damn straight."
They clinked bottles.
"Seriously though," Junior said, his voice quieter now. "Uncle Billy... when we saw that second photo..." He trailed off.
Billy looked at him. "I knew you'd find me, Junior. You and these boys. I knew it."
Junior's throat tightened. "We almost didn't get there in time."
"But you did." Billy's voice was firm. "You did. And that's what matters."
Celeb leaned over from his bunk. "So what now? You gonna take a few days off? Rest up?"
Billy laughed. "You know me better than that."
"Figured," Jake said. "You'll be back on the ranch tomorrow, acting like nothing happened."
"Maybe not tomorrow," Billy said, glancing at his bandaged wrists. "But soon."
"Pops is gonna make you take a week," Louisiana predicted.
"Pops can try."
They laughed, the sound filling the small room, chasing away the shadows of the night.
Down the hall, Pops' snores rumbled on. Below them, the house was quiet. The barn was quiet. The horses were safe. The family was home.
And in the frat house on the second floor, the boys drank their contraband beer, told their stories, and laughed until their sides hurt.
Because they were alive. They were together. And no one—no one—had broken them.
Chapter 8: Coming Home
The convoy roared into the Benson ranch just after midnight, headlights blazing, trucks skidding to a stop in front of the house.
The front door burst open. Sarah, Mary, Rebecca, Edna, Anna, Caroline, Maria, Linda, and Sofia poured out onto the porch, their faces a mixture of relief and terror.
Tom and Jake carefully lifted Billy from the truck bed. His head hung forward, barely conscious. Louisiana and Josh supported him from the sides as they carried him up the porch steps.
"Inside," Rebecca said, her voice steady and clinical. "Living room. Lay him on the couch."
They moved as one, carrying Billy through the door. Sarah's hand flew to her mouth when she saw him up close—the rope burns on his wrists and biceps, angry and purple. The torn shirt hanging open, dried blood on his chest. His face pale, drawn, exhausted.
They laid him gently on the couch. Rebecca was already there, medical kit open, gloves on.
"Everyone back," she said. "Give me room."
The family crowded around but stepped back enough for Rebecca to work. Sarah knelt beside the couch, her hand on Billy's face. "Baby, you're home. You're home now."
Billy's eyes fluttered open. "Mom."
Sarah's tears came harder. "I'm here. I'm right here."
Rebecca moved with practiced efficiency. She checked his pulse, his breathing, his pupils. "Dehydration. Possible mild concussion. These rope burns are severe—circulation was cut off for hours." She examined his arms, his wrists, his biceps. "Can you feel your hands, Billy?"
Billy tried to move his fingers. Slowly, they flexed. "Yeah. Hurts. But yeah."
"Good. That's good." Rebecca grabbed antiseptic and gauze. "This is going to sting."
She started cleaning the rope burns on his wrists. Billy's jaw clenched, but he didn't make a sound.
Jake stood beside the couch, his fists opening and closing. Pops was in his chair, cigar unlit, brandy untouched, watching every move. Tom stood with his hand on Sarah's shoulder. Josh, Ray, Celeb, and the wiz kids hovered near the doorway.
Wade stood by the window, radio still on his belt, watching the scene with the trained calm of a man who'd seen worse but never stopped caring.
"The knife wound?" Rebecca asked, examining Billy's chest. The shallow cut had stopped bleeding, but it was red and angry.
"Not deep," Billy muttered. "Just... a message."
Rebecca's jaw tightened. She cleaned it carefully, applied antibiotic ointment, covered it with a bandage. Then she moved to the rope burns on his biceps.
"These are the worst," she said quietly. "Billy, you need to understand—nerve damage is possible. We need to monitor this."
"I can feel them," Billy said. "They work."
"For now. But if anything changes—numbness, tingling, weakness—we go to the hospital. No arguments."
Billy met her eyes. "Okay."
Rebecca nodded. She wrapped his biceps in gauze, then his wrists, working methodically. When she finished, she sat back. "I'm starting an IV. You're dehydrated. You need fluids."
"I can drink water."
"IV first. Then water. Then food, if you can keep it down."
Billy didn't argue.
Rebecca set up the IV, threading the needle into his arm with practiced ease. The saline drip started, slow and steady.
"Rest," Rebecca said. "That's an order."
Billy's eyes closed.
An hour later, Billy's eyes opened again. The IV bag was half-empty. His color was better. His breathing steadier.
Sarah was still beside him, holding his hand. Edna sat on the other side of the couch, her hand on his shoulder. Anna stood with Junior near the doorway.
"Water," Billy said, his voice stronger now.
Sarah grabbed a glass immediately. Billy drank slowly, carefully. Then again.
"Food?" Rebecca asked.
"Yeah."
Caroline brought soup—warm, simple, easy. Billy ate slowly, his hands shaking slightly, but he ate.
The family watched in silence, relief washing over them.
When Billy finished, he set the bowl down and looked around the room. Everyone was there. His whole family. The consortium. The wiz kids.
"Thank you," Billy said quietly. "All of you."
"Don't," Tom said, his voice rough. "Don't thank us. We're family."
Billy nodded. Then his eyes found Jake, who stood leaning against the wall, arms crossed.
"Jake."
Jake pushed off the wall, walking over. "Yeah?"
Billy's lips twitched into the faintest smile. "I still think mine are bigger."
The room went silent.
Then Jake laughed—short, sharp, almost disbelieving. "You're out of your damn mind."
"Prove it," Billy said, sitting up slowly. He grimaced, but he sat up.
"Billy—" Sarah started.
"I'm fine, Mom." Billy looked at Rebecca. "Can I?"
Rebecca stared at him for a long moment. Then she sighed. "If you pass out, I'm putting you in the hospital myself."
"Deal."
Billy stood, swaying slightly. Jake grabbed his arm, steadying him. "You sure about this?"
"Yeah."
They moved to the kitchen table. The whole family followed, drawn by the absurdity and the familiarity of it.
Billy sat down. Jake sat across from him.
Billy rolled up his right sleeve—carefully, wincing as the gauze on his bicep shifted. But he rolled it up, baring his arm.
Jake did the same.
They clasped hands across the table, elbows down.
"You're insane," Jake said.
"Probably," Billy said.
Pops stood, pulling money from his pocket. "Fifty on Jake. Boy just got strung up like a damn piñata. No way he wins."
"I'll take that bet," Tom said. "Fifty on Billy."
"Billy," Sarah said, pulling out a twenty.
"Jake," Junior said, grinning.
"Billy," Celeb said.
"Jake," Louisiana said.
Money piled onto the table. Everyone chose a side.
Wade watched from the doorway, shaking his head but smiling. Mary stood beside him, tears still on her face but laughing softly.
"Ready?" Tom asked.
Billy and Jake locked eyes.
"Three... two... one... go!"
Their arms strained. Billy's jaw clenched. His bicep bulged against the gauze. Jake pushed hard, his face red with effort.
Neither arm moved.
"Come on, Jake!" Junior shouted.
"You got this, Billy!" Ray called.
The room erupted in cheers and jeers, the tension of the last twelve hours exploding into noise and laughter and life.
Billy's arm shook. Jake's arm shook.
And then, slowly, Billy's arm started to move. Inch by inch. Jake pushed back, but Billy didn't stop.
With a final surge, Billy slammed Jake's hand down onto the table.
The room exploded.
"No way!" Junior shouted.
"That's my boy!" Tom yelled, grabbing the money.
Pops cackled, shaking his head. "Unbelievable. Un-be-lievable."
Robert Beaumont whistled low. "I've seen a lot of things, but that might be the most stubborn thing I've ever witnessed."
"Stubborn?" Mr. Renzo said, laughing. "That's not stubborn. That's pure grit."
"That's Benson blood," Mr. Mattern added.
Wade shook his head, grinning. "Boy gets kidnapped, tied up, hung from a beam, and still comes home and wins an arm wrestle. That's something."
"That's everything," Tom said, his voice thick with pride.
Jake sat back, staring at his hand, then at Billy. "How?"
Billy grinned—tired, worn, but unbroken. "Told you. Mine are bigger."
"Bigger?!" Celeb leaned over from where he stood. "Jake, man, you just got beat by a guy who spent the last eight hours hanging upside down. You need to hit the gym, brother."
"Shut up, Celeb," Jake muttered, but he was grinning.
"No, seriously," Celeb continued. "Billy literally had no circulation in his arms for hours. And you lost. That's embarrassing."
"I said shut up."
"Maybe you should arm wrestle Junior next. Work your way back up."
Junior laughed. "I'll take that bet."
"Y'all are the worst," Jake said, but he reached across the table to grip Billy's shoulder. "You crazy son of a bitch."
Billy's grin widened. "Yeah."
Pops pushed himself up from his chair, walking toward the cabinet in the corner. "That deserves a proper drink."
He opened the cabinet and pulled out four bottles. Two bottles of Jack Daniel's Single Barrel Barrel Proof and two bottles of Jack Daniel's Sinatra Select.
The room went dead silent.
"Pops," Tom said slowly. "Those are—"
"Special occasion bottles," Pops finished, setting all four on the table with heavy thuds. "And if this ain't a special occasion, I don't know what the hell is." He looked around at the roomful of men—his sons, his grandsons, the consortium fathers, the wiz kids. "Billy came home. That's worth every damn drop."
"Pops, that's over a thousand dollars worth of whiskey," Josh said.
"I know what it costs, boy." Pops started lining up shot glasses. "And I know what it's worth. Now shut up and drink."
He grabbed the first bottle of Barrel Proof and started pouring. Then the Sinatra Select. Moving down the line, filling glass after glass.
"Everyone drinks," Pops said. "And I mean everyone." He looked at the wiz kids. "That includes you boys. You earned it tonight."
Junior, Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel, and Louisiana exchanged glances, then grinned.
Pops poured shots for Tom, Wade, Josh, Ray, Celeb, Robert, Mr. Renzo, Mr. Mattern, Mr. Rodriguez, and all the consortium fathers. He poured for the wiz kids. And finally, he poured two shots and set them in front of Billy.
"One of each," Pops said. "You drink both."
Billy looked at the two glasses, then at Pops. "Yes, sir."
Pops raised his own glass—Barrel Proof, neat. "To Billy. Who broke a damn chair, ran like hell, got strung up like a side of beef, and still came home and beat his brother at arm wrestling." He grinned. "No one breaks a Benson."
"No one breaks a Benson!" the room roared.
They drank.
The Barrel Proof burned like fire going down. The Sinatra Select was smooth, rich, warm. Billy drained both glasses and set them down, his eyes watering slightly but his grin intact.
"Damn," Billy rasped.
"That's the good stuff, boy," Pops said, already pouring another round.
Mr. Rodriguez raised his glass. "To the wiz kids. Without you boys, we'd still be looking."
"Hear, hear," Wade said.
The consortium fathers drank to that.
Tom raised his glass next. "To family. All of us."
"To family," everyone echoed.
They drank again, the whiskey flowing, the tension of the night dissolving into warmth and brotherhood and gratitude.
An hour later, the house was quieter. The consortium families had gone home. Wade, Mary, Edna, and Anna had left. Sarah, Tom, Rebecca, and Josh had gone to bed, exhausted but relieved.
Billy, Jake, Celeb, Junior, Billy Renzo, Ryan, Daniel, and Louisiana headed upstairs to the frat house.
Billy climbed the stairs slowly, but he climbed them. Jake stayed close, ready to catch him if he stumbled. But Billy didn't stumble.
They walked down the second-floor hallway, past the command center, past Pops' bedroom—where they could hear the old man's rumbling snores already—and pushed open the door to the frat house.
The same room where the night had started. The cracked mirror still leaned against the wall. The bunk beds, the mattress wedged between them, the clutter of boots and clothes and life.
Billy's black cowboy hat sat on the bedpost. Junior had brought it back from the barn.
Billy picked it up, turning it over in his hands. Then he set it back down.
"Beer?" Celeb asked, already kneeling by the floorboards near his bunk.
"Hell yes," Jake said.
Celeb pried up the loose board, revealing the hidden stash. Bottles clinked as he pulled them out, passing them around. Cold, contraband, perfect.
They settled in—Jake and Billy on the lower bunks, Celeb and Louisiana on the top bunks, Junior and the other three wiz kids on the floor, backs against the wall.
Billy cracked open his beer and took a long drink.
"So," Jake said, leaning back. "You gonna tell Edna you stood her up, or you gonna make me do it?"
Billy snorted. "I'll tell her. Tomorrow. When I can think straight."
"She's gonna kill you," Junior said.
"She's gonna cry first, then kill you," Louisiana added.
"Probably," Billy admitted.
Celeb took a swig of his beer. "Jake, I'm still not over it. You lost to a man who was literally dying a few hours ago."
"I wasn't dying," Billy corrected.
"Close enough," Celeb said. "And Jake still lost."
"Are we gonna do this all night?" Jake asked.
"Yes," Celeb said immediately. "Yes, we are."
"You know what I still can't figure out," Ryan said, looking at Billy. "How the hell did you break that chair?"
Billy grinned. "Threw myself backward as hard as I could. Figured if I was gonna die, I wasn't gonna die tied to a damn chair."
"And then you ran," Daniel said, shaking his head. "With the chair back still tied to you."
"Didn't have a choice."
"That's insane," Billy Renzo said. "You're insane."
"Yeah, well," Billy said, taking another drink. "Runs in the family."
Jake raised his beer. "Damn straight."
They clinked bottles.
"Seriously though," Junior said, his voice quieter now. "Uncle Billy... when we saw that second photo..." He trailed off.
Billy looked at him. "I knew you'd find me, Junior. You and these boys. I knew it."
Junior's throat tightened. "We almost didn't get there in time."
"But you did." Billy's voice was firm. "You did. And that's what matters."
Celeb leaned over from his bunk. "So what now? You gonna take a few days off? Rest up?"
Billy laughed. "You know me better than that."
"Figured," Jake said. "You'll be back on the ranch tomorrow, acting like nothing happened."
"Maybe not tomorrow," Billy said, glancing at his bandaged wrists. "But soon."
"Pops is gonna make you take a week," Louisiana predicted.
"Pops can try."
They laughed, the sound filling the small room, chasing away the shadows of the night.
Down the hall, Pops' snores rumbled on. Below them, the house was quiet. The barn was quiet. The horses were safe. The family was home.
And in the frat house on the second floor, the boys drank their contraband beer, told their stories, and laughed until their sides hurt.
Because they were alive. They were together. And no one—no one—had broken them.
