Chapter 1: The Abduction
The late afternoon sun filtered through the Texas live oaks as Billy Jr. tossed another log onto the growing pile. Behind him, Billy Renzo was already setting up the tent poles while Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez unloaded gear from the mule quad.
"Think we got enough firewood?" Billy Jr. called out, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. His white sleeveless shirt was already dusty from the work.
"For what, a week?" Daniel laughed, dropping his backpack near the fire ring. "We're only out here two nights, man."
"Better too much than too little," Billy Jr. shot back with a grin. "Besides, Renzo's gonna want to stay up all night telling his stupid ghost stories."
"They're not stupid!" Billy Renzo protested, wrestling with a stubborn tent pole. "And you were scared last time, admit it."
Ryan shook his head, grinning. "He's right though. You did jump when that owl—"
The crack of a branch snapping cut him off.
All four boys froze, heads turning toward the sound. The woods had gone suddenly quiet—no birds, no rustling. Just an eerie stillness that made the hair on Billy Jr.'s neck stand up.
"Probably just a deer," Daniel said, but his voice had dropped to barely above a whisper.
Another sound. Closer. Footsteps on dry leaves, deliberate and multiple.
Billy Jr.'s hand instinctively moved toward his belt where he usually kept his hunting knife, but he'd left it in his pack. His sat phone was in his back pocket—he could hit the emergency—
They came from everywhere at once.
Dark figures burst from the tree line—four, five, maybe six men in dark clothes and ski masks. Billy Jr. barely had time to shout before rough hands grabbed him from behind, yanking his arms back with brutal force.
"Help! Help!" he yelled, struggling against the iron grip.
A voice, cold and emotionless, spoke directly into his ear: "Nobody can hear you now!"
Around him, chaos erupted. Ryan went down fighting, landing a solid punch before two men tackled him. Daniel was already on the ground, a knee pressed into his back. Billy Renzo let out a string of curses that would've made Pops proud before a hand clamped over his mouth.
Billy Jr. twisted hard, trying to break free, but another set of hands grabbed his shoulders. His arms were wrenched behind his back—pain shot through his shoulders as rough rope bit into his wrists. They worked fast, professional, wrapping the cord tight and knotting it before he could even process what was happening.
"Get off me!" he snarled, kicking backward. His boot connected with something soft and he heard a grunt of pain.
"Little bastard," someone growled, and then a fist drove into his ribs. The air exploded from his lungs.
More rope. Around Ryan's wrists. Around Daniel's. Around Billy Renzo's. All four boys were being trussed up like cattle, their hands secured behind their backs. Billy Jr. could see his friends struggling, could hear their muffled shouts and curses.
A blindfold came next—rough fabric yanked tight over his eyes, plunging him into darkness. Then someone grabbed his jaw, forcing it open. A filthy rag was stuffed into his mouth, pushing his tongue down, filling his mouth until he gagged. Before he could try to spit it out, duct tape was slapped across his lips and wound around his head. He heard the distinctive ripping sound repeated three more times—his friends being silenced the same brutal way.
"Load 'em up," the cold voice ordered.
Hands grabbed Billy Jr. under his arms and hauled him forward. He stumbled, unable to see or use his hands for balance. His shoulder slammed into something metal—the bed of a truck. They lifted him roughly and threw him in. He landed hard on his side, the impact driving the air from his lungs again.
More bodies landed around him—his friends, he could tell from their grunts and the sounds of their bound hands scraping against the truck bed. They were all there, all four of them, piled together like cargo.
Billy Jr. tried to sit up, but a boot pressed down on his back, shoving him flat.
"Stay down," a different voice commanded.
Then came the tarp—heavy canvas that smelled of oil and dirt. It scraped over them, cutting off what little air circulation they had. Someone was securing it, tying it down at the edges. The temperature immediately started climbing.
The truck engine roared to life.
Billy Jr. lay on his side in the darkness, his wrists already aching from the tight ropes, the rag in his mouth making every breath a struggle. He had to force air through his nose, fighting panic as his body screamed for oxygen. He could feel Ryan pressed against his back, could hear Daniel's labored breathing somewhere near his feet. The white sleeveless shirt he wore offered no protection against the rough metal of the truck bed digging into his bare arms.
The truck lurched forward, and they were moving.
Time became meaningless under the tarp. Minutes? Hours? Billy Jr. couldn't tell. The heat was suffocating—a sweatbox that made every breath a struggle. Sweat poured down his face, soaking into the blindfold. His bare arms were slick with it, the ropes chafing against his wrists with every bump and turn. The rag in his mouth had absorbed his saliva, leaving it dry and scratchy against his tongue. The duct tape pulled at his skin with every movement of his jaw.
The truck drove on and on, the road sometimes smooth, sometimes rough. Each pothole sent them sliding across the metal bed, unable to brace themselves. Billy Jr. felt his friends shift and grunt around him, all of them suffering together in the darkness.
His mind raced despite the heat and discomfort. The sat phone was still in his back pocket—he could feel it pressed against him as he lay there. If he could just get his hands free, reach it, send a signal... But the ropes were tight, professionally tied. His fingers were already starting to tingle from restricted circulation.
Back at the ranch, Colt and Celab were probably just finishing up at the DMV. By the time anyone realized something was wrong, they'd be... where? How far had they driven? An hour? Two? Three?
The truck hit a particularly rough patch, bouncing them all like rag dolls. Billy Jr.'s shoulder slammed into someone's knee—Ryan, maybe—and he heard a muffled grunt of pain through the gag.
They were in serious trouble. All four of them.
And nobody knew where they were.
The truck drove on into the gathering darkness.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the truck slowed. Billy Jr. felt the change in the road surface—from asphalt to gravel, then to dirt. They were turning, the truck bouncing over ruts. Then they stopped.
The engine cut off. Doors slammed.
Footsteps. Multiple sets. Voices, but too muffled to make out words through the tarp and his own labored breathing.
The tarp was ripped back. Cool evening air rushed over Billy Jr.'s sweat-soaked body—a blessed relief for about three seconds before rough hands grabbed him again.
"Get 'em out," someone ordered. A different voice than before. Southern accent, but not local.
Billy Jr. was hauled upright, his legs weak and unsteady beneath him. Someone shoved him forward and he stumbled, unable to see or catch himself. Hands gripped his arms—bare skin slick with sweat—and dragged him along. Gravel crunched under his boots.
He could hear his friends being similarly manhandled. Ryan grunted as he was pulled from the truck. Daniel's boots scraped against metal. Billy Renzo made some kind of muffled protest through his gag that earned him what sounded like a slap.
"Move," the voice commanded, and Billy Jr. was pushed forward again.
They walked maybe fifty feet, the surface changing from gravel to hard-packed dirt. Then a different sound—the metallic screech of a large door being rolled open. A barn. They were being taken into a barn.
The temperature changed immediately—cooler, but musty. The smell of old hay and motor oil. Their footsteps echoed in the enclosed space.
"Well, well," a new voice drawled. "Y'all brought me a nice little collection."
"Four of 'em, just like you wanted," the cold voice from the campsite replied. "Kids put up a fight, but we got 'em handled."
"I can see that." Footsteps approached Billy Jr., circling him slowly. "This the Benson kid?"
"That's him. Josh's boy."
A hand grabbed Billy Jr.'s chin, tilting his head roughly from side to side. "Skinny thing, ain't he? But I bet Daddy'll pay real pretty for him." The hand released him with a shove. "All right, let's get 'em secured. We got a long night ahead."
Billy Jr. was pushed forward again, guided by the painful grip on his upper arms. His shin hit something solid—metal—and he nearly fell.
"Sit," someone commanded, shoving down on his shoulders.
It was a chair. Cold metal pressed against his back and legs as he was forced into it. A high-back chair, the metal rungs hard against his spine through his thin sleeveless shirt.
Then the real work began.
Hands grabbed his bound wrists behind his back and yanked them upward. Billy Jr. tried to resist but someone's knee drove into his spine, forcing him forward. His wrists were positioned behind the chair, then lashed tight to what felt like the third rung up. Rope wrapped around and around, cinching his already-bound hands firmly to the metal bar. He couldn't move them an inch.
"Hold still," someone growled near his ear.
More rope came next. Billy Jr. felt it loop around his neck—once, twice—then pull backward, forcing his head against the top of the high-back chair. They tied it off, leaving his neck secured so he couldn't lean forward or turn his head more than an inch.
Then they went for his arms.
New rope wrapped around his right bicep—directly on his bare skin since the sleeveless shirt offered no protection. They pulled it tight, cinching it to the chair's side railing. Billy Jr. bit down on the rag in his mouth as the rope dug into his flesh. Then they wrapped it again, and again, each loop tighter than the last.
"Frap it good," the southern voice instructed. "Don't want 'em wiggling loose."
The frapping was worse. After the wraps, they wove the rope perpendicular through the loops, pulling everything tighter, eliminating any slack. The rope cut into Billy Jr.'s bicep like a vise, compressing the muscle, restricting blood flow. He could already feel his arm starting to go numb.
They repeated the process on his left arm. Same brutal efficiency. Same cutting pressure on his bare flesh.
His legs were next. Rope around his right thigh, lashed to the front leg of the chair. More rope at his boot, securing his ankle. Then the left leg. By the time they finished, Billy Jr. couldn't move anything except his fingers and toes. Even his breathing was restricted by the rope around his neck.
Around him, he could hear his friends suffering the same treatment. The sound of rope being pulled tight. Muffled grunts of pain. The creak of metal chairs as the boys tested their bonds and found them immovable.
"There," the southern voice said with satisfaction. "That'll hold 'em. Check the knots."
Footsteps moved around the barn. Someone tugged on Billy Jr.'s wrist bindings, testing. Pulled on the bicep ropes. Everything held tight.
"All secure, boss."
"Good. Now let's get those pictures. The families are gonna want proof of life."
Billy Jr. heard the click of a camera phone. A flash of light penetrated even through his blindfold.
Click. Flash. Moving to the next boy.
Click. Flash. And the next.
Click. Flash. The fourth boy.
"Now get a group shot. All four of 'em."
Click. Flash.
"Perfect. These'll do real nice. Get 'em sent out in a few hours—let the families stew a bit first."
Footsteps retreated. The barn door screeched open again.
"Keep an eye on 'em," the southern voice ordered. "I don't want no surprises. We'll make contact tomorrow morning with the ransom demands."
"Yes, sir."
The door rolled shut with a heavy metallic bang.
And then there was silence.
Billy Jr. sat in the darkness, bound to the chair, unable to see or speak or move. The rope around his biceps was already burning, cutting into his bare arms. His wrists ached behind his back. The rag in his mouth made every breath a labor.
But the sat phone was still in his back pocket. He could feel it, pressed between his body and the chair back. If he could just work his hands free from the third rung. If he could just reach it.
That was a big if.
But it was all he had.
Chapter 2: The Prank Gone Wrong
"This is gonna be epic," Jake said, grinning as he loaded a duffel bag into the back of the ranch truck. The sun had set an hour ago, and the Texas sky was dotted with stars.
Billy leaned against the truck bed, scrolling through his phone. "You sure we should mess with 'em? They're just kids."
"Just kids? They're sixteen, same age we were when Pops put a fake rattlesnake in our sleeping bags, remember?" Jake zipped the bag closed. "Besides, Billy Jr. thinks he's so tough. Wait'll he wakes up to chainsaws and zombie masks."
Billy laughed despite himself. "Mom's gonna kill us if she finds out."
"Mom's not gonna find out. We'll be back before anyone knows we left." Jake slapped the truck bed. "Come on, let's go. The longer we wait, the deeper they'll be sleeping."
They climbed into the truck, Jake behind the wheel. The engine rumbled to life, and they headed out toward the camping spot, about twenty minutes into the consortium's north territory.
"You bring the airhorn?" Billy asked.
"Got two. One for each side of the tent." Jake was practically bouncing with anticipation. "And the fake blood for the zombie masks. Daniel's gonna piss himself."
"Renzo's the screamer. I'm going for him first."
They drove through the darkness, headlights cutting across the familiar dirt roads. This was their land—every tree, every turn, every creek bed. They'd been riding these trails since they were kids themselves.
"Think Jr. figured out we hid his favorite rifle yet?" Billy asked.
"Nah, he's too distracted planning his little camping adventure with his nerd squad." Jake turned onto the narrower path that led to the campsite. "Probably spent the whole drive out here talking about drones and encrypted frequencies."
"Hey, that equipment's pretty impressive. Even I don't understand half of what they built."
"Yeah, yeah, the wiz kids are geniuses. Doesn't mean they can't get scared like normal people." Jake slowed the truck. "All right, we're getting close. Time to go dark."
He killed the headlights. The truck rolled forward in the moonlight, just bright enough to make out the path ahead.
"There," Billy whispered, pointing. "I can see the—wait."
Jake had already stopped. Both brothers stared through the windshield.
The campsite should've had a fire going. Should've had the tent set up. Should've had four sleeping bags and four teenage boys telling stupid stories or arguing about which rifle had the best accuracy.
Instead, there was just darkness. And something wrong.
"Where's the fire?" Billy said quietly.
Jake put the truck in park but left the engine running. He grabbed his flashlight from the center console. "Stay here."
"Like hell." Billy grabbed his own light and opened his door.
They approached on foot, boots crunching on leaves and twigs. Jake swept his flashlight across the clearing, and Billy's gut clenched.
The mule quad was on its side, tipped over like a toy. Gear was scattered everywhere—backpacks ripped open, contents spilled across the dirt. The tent poles were still standing, but the fabric was half-collapsed, abandoned mid-setup.
"Billy Jr!" Jake called out, his voice echoing through the woods. "Ryan! Daniel! Renzo!"
Nothing. Just the sound of wind through the trees.
"This isn't funny!" Billy shouted. "If you're trying to turn the prank around on us—"
His flashlight beam caught something on the ground. He moved closer, then crouched down.
Rope. Cut pieces of rope. Fresh cuts, the ends still clean.
"Jake," Billy said, his voice tight.
Jake was already moving, his light sweeping the perimeter. More rope. A water bottle lying in the dirt, cap off, contents spilled. Boot prints—too many boot prints. Men's sizes. Not four teenagers.
"Oh God," Jake breathed. His light found drag marks in the dirt, leading toward where a vehicle had clearly been parked. Deep tire treads. A truck, maybe. "Oh God, Billy."
Billy stood up, his hand already going to his pocket. His sat phone. He pulled it out, fingers suddenly clumsy as he activated the emergency button.
One press. Two. Three.
The screen lit up: 911 EMERGENCY - BILLY BENSON
The signal went out across the encrypted frequency, broadcasting to every consortium member within range. Three times, like an alarm bell that couldn't be ignored.
"What do we do?" Billy asked, his voice cracking. "What the hell do we do?"
Jake was still sweeping his light across the scene, his jaw clenched tight. The joking, playful brother was gone. In his place was someone Billy hadn't seen since the time a bull had nearly gored their cousin—focused, dangerous, barely containing rage.
Billy's phone started buzzing. Incoming calls—the consortium responding to the emergency signal. Pops. Sheriff Wade. Celab. His dad. Everyone.
He answered Pops first. "We're at the north campsite. The boys are gone. Someone took them."
There was a pause, then Pops' voice came through, hard as iron. "Take photos and get your asses back here. Now."
"Copy that."
The line clicked off. Other calls were coming through—the Renzos, the Matterns, the Rodriguezes. All of them responding to the emergency signal, all of them asking the same panicked questions.
"Jake, you head back," Billy said, his voice steadier now despite the fear clawing at his chest. "Get everyone together at the ranch house. I'll document everything here and follow you in."
Jake looked like he wanted to argue, then nodded sharply. "Don't touch anything. Just pictures."
"I know."
"And Billy—" Jake's voice cracked. "Hurry."
Jake ran back to the truck, engine already running. The headlights flared to life, then the truck spun around and tore back down the path toward the ranch.
Billy was alone in the clearing.
He pulled out his phone and started taking pictures. The overturned mule quad. The scattered gear. The cut ropes—he counted five separate pieces. The boot prints in the soft dirt near the tree line. The drag marks. The tire treads where the vehicle had been parked.
His hands were shaking, making some of the photos blurry. He steadied himself and took them again.
These were kids. Sixteen-year-old kids. Billy Jr.—his nephew—who still shared a bunk bed in the frat house. Ryan Mattern, who'd helped him fix the irrigation system last month. Daniel Rodriguez, who made everyone laugh with his terrible jokes. Billy Renzo, who could outshoot half the ranch hands despite his age.
Someone had come here. Someone had waited. Someone had taken them.
Billy finished photographing the scene, his flashlight beam sweeping across every detail. Twenty-three photos total. It would have to be enough.
He climbed back into his truck and headed for the ranch, pushing the speed as fast as he dared on the dark roads.
By now, the consortium families would be converging on the Benson Ranch. The Renzos with their wives and other kids. The Matterns. The Rodriguezes. Sheriff Wade and Mary Nelson with whoever was home. All of them racing toward the main house, fear and confusion driving them forward.
Billy's phone buzzed again. A text from Celab: What happened? Where are they?
He didn't answer. There was nothing to say yet. Just a ransacked campsite and four missing boys and a sick feeling in his gut that this was bigger than any of them were ready for.
The lights of the Benson Ranch appeared in the distance. Every window was lit up. Trucks were already pulling into the drive—the whole consortium gathering like Pops had called them.
Billy parked and grabbed his phone with the photos.
Inside that house, four sets of parents were about to learn their sons had been taken.
And Billy was the one who had to tell them.
Chapter 3: Convergence
Billy pulled up to the Benson Ranch house and his stomach dropped. The driveway was packed with trucks—more vehicles than he'd ever seen here outside of Christmas or a wedding. Every light in the house blazed against the darkness.
He killed the engine and sat for a moment, gripping the steering wheel. Through the windows he could see people moving—lots of people. The entire consortium had responded to the emergency signal.
Jake burst through the front door and jogged over, Celab right behind him.
"Everyone's here," Jake said as Billy climbed out. "Parents, siblings, everyone. Wade's coordinating. Mom's trying to keep the other mothers calm but—" He shook his head. "It's bad in there."
"Did you tell them?" Billy asked.
"Yeah. Showed them the photos you sent. Josh is—" Jake's jaw tightened. "His son, Billy. Jr. is his only kid."
Celab looked like he'd aged five years in the last hour. "What the hell happened out there?"
"I don't know," Billy said. "But it was planned. Professional. They were waiting for them."
They walked toward the house together. Billy could hear voices even before they reached the door—low, urgent conversations punctuated by occasional sharp questions or muffled sobs.
The scene inside was controlled chaos. The large living room was packed with people. Pops stood near the fireplace, his weathered face hard as stone, a glass of brandy in his hand. Sheriff Wade Nelson was at the dining table with a laptop open, already making calls. Tom and Sarah Benson sat on the couch, Sarah's face pale, Tom's hand gripping hers tight.
Josh Benson stood by the window, staring out into the darkness. His wife Rebecca—a practical nurse and Wade's daughter—had her arms wrapped around herself, trying to hold it together.
Robert and Caroline Beaumont stood near the kitchen, Caroline's hand over her mouth, Robert's arm around her shoulders. Their son Celab was one of the frat house boys—the Louisiana transplant who'd become family. Thank God he'd stayed behind with Colt for that driver's license test.
The Renzo family had claimed the far corner—Marcus and Diana Renzo with their two younger sons, both looking scared and confused. Marcus's face was ashen. Across from them, Steve and Jennifer Mattern held each other, Jennifer's eyes already red from crying. Near the hallway, Carlos and Maria Rodriguez stood with their other children, Carlos's jaw clenched tight, Maria's rosary beads moving through her fingers.
Mary Nelson moved through the room like a general, organizing coffee, getting people seated, keeping things from spiraling into panic. But even she looked shaken.
"Billy!" Wade called out when he spotted him. "You got those photos?"
"Yes, sir." Billy pulled out his phone and started toward the table.
That's when every phone in the room buzzed at once.
The sound was like a swarm of angry hornets—dozens of encrypted sat phones and iPads all receiving the same message simultaneously. People pulled out their devices, faces confused.
"What the—" Josh started.
Then someone screamed.
Jennifer Mattern had opened the message first. Her phone slipped from her hands and clattered to the floor, the image still visible on the screen.
A boy. Bound to a metal chair. Blindfolded. Duct tape wound around his head, holding a gag in place. His arms tied tight to the chair, ropes cutting into bare flesh.
Ryan Mattern.
"Oh God," Steve breathed, grabbing his wife as she collapsed against him. "Oh God, that's our boy."
"Mine too," Marcus Renzo said, his voice hollow. He was staring at his own phone screen. "That's my son."
The room erupted. More cries. More phones being opened. Maria Rodriguez made a sound like she'd been punched, clutching her phone to her chest.
Rebecca Benson stood frozen, staring at her screen. "Billy Jr.," she whispered. "That's—Josh, that's our baby."
Josh crossed the room in three strides and looked at the phone. His face went white, then red. "Those sons of bitches," he growled. "Those goddamn—"
"Everyone shut up!" Pops' voice cut through the chaos like a whip crack. "Wade, get those images on the laptop. Now."
Wade was already moving, his sheriff's training kicking in despite the fact that his grandson Billy Jr. was in one of those photos. He pulled the images up on his screen, making them large enough for everyone to see.
Four photos. Four boys. Each one bound, blindfolded, gagged, secured to metal high-back chairs. The ropes were tight—painfully tight—around their biceps, their wrists, their legs. Billy Jr. in his white sleeveless shirt, arms bare and vulnerable. Billy Renzo with his sleeves rolled up. Ryan Mattern and Daniel Rodriguez similarly restrained.
Then the fifth photo appeared. A group shot. All four boys lined up, sitting in their chairs, completely helpless.
"Jesus Christ," Ray Benson muttered.
"They're alive," Sheriff Wade said, his voice steady but strained. "That's proof of life. This is a ransom situation."
"Where?" Josh demanded. "Where the hell are they?"
"We don't know yet," Wade said. "But—"
"Then what good are you?" Josh's voice was rising. "My son is out there, tied up like an animal, and you don't know where?"
"Josh—" Rebecca put a hand on his arm.
He shook it off. "No! Our boy is sixteen years old! He's sitting in some barn or warehouse, scared out of his mind, and we're standing here doing nothing!"
"We're not doing nothing," Pops said quietly. The room fell silent. When Pops spoke in that tone, people listened. "Wade's got every deputy in Kings County on alert. We've got the photos, we've got the campsite evidence. We're gonna find them."
"When?" Diana Renzo asked, her voice breaking. "When are we going to find them?"
Nobody had an answer.
Jake stood near the wall, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white. Billy could see a vein throbbing in his temple. Celab was next to him, looking like he might be sick.
"This is my fault," Jake said suddenly. Everyone turned to look at him. "Billy and I—we were going out there to prank them. To scare them. If we'd gotten there earlier—"
"Stop," Pops said. "That kind of thinking doesn't help anyone."
"But if we'd—"
"I said stop!" Pops took a long drink of his brandy. "Whoever did this had been planning it. They were waiting. If you'd gotten there earlier, we might be looking at six missing boys instead of four."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
"What do we do now?" Carlos Rodriguez finally asked.
Sheriff Wade straightened up. "Now we wait for contact. They sent proof of life, which means they want something. Money, probably. When they make contact—"
"When they make contact, we give them whatever they want," Josh said firmly. "I don't care if it's every cent we have."
"Agreed," Marcus Renzo said immediately.
"Same," Steve Mattern and Carlos Rodriguez chorused.
Robert Beaumont stepped forward. "The consortium stands together. Whatever the ransom is, we all contribute. These boys are family."
"Damn right," Caroline added, her voice fierce despite the tears in her eyes.
"Let's not get ahead of ourselves," Wade said. "We don't negotiate until we know what we're dealing with. In the meantime, we document everything. Billy, I need those campsite photos. Everyone else, forward those images to me. We're building a case."
"To hell with a case," Jake growled. "We should be out there looking for them!"
"Looking where?" Wade's voice was sharp. "It's dark, we don't have a location, and charging off half-cocked is how people get killed. We wait. We plan. And when we know where they are, we move."
Jake looked like he wanted to punch something—or someone. Billy put a hand on his brother's shoulder, feeling the tension vibrating through him.
"They're tough kids," Pops said, addressing the room. "All four of 'em. Jr., Renzo, Mattern, Rodriguez—they're ranch boys. Hunters. Smart as hell. They're not gonna just sit there and take it."
"They're also tied to chairs," Jennifer Mattern said softly.
"I know." Pops' voice gentled slightly. "But they're not alone. They've got each other. And they know we're coming for them."
Rebecca had pulled up the photo of Billy Jr. again, staring at it with a mother's anguish. "He's wearing that white sleeveless shirt. The one I told him makes him look too skinny." Her voice broke. "The ropes—look at the ropes on his arms."
Sarah Benson moved to comfort her daughter-in-law, but there was no comfort to be found. Not while their boys were out there, bound and helpless and waiting.
Celab finally spoke up from his position by the wall. "The command center. Someone needs to be monitoring the equipment. If the boys somehow get access to their sat phones—"
"Good thinking," Wade said. "Who knows how to run it?"
"Colt does," Celab said. "Louisiana. He's the only one besides—" He gestured helplessly at the photos. "Besides them."
"Where is he?"
"My room. The frat house room. He's been up there since we got the emergency signal."
"Get him down here," Wade ordered.
Celab disappeared up the stairs.
Pops poured himself another brandy, his hands steady despite everything. Seventy-six years old, Vietnam veteran, patriarch of a ranching dynasty—and tonight, helpless. Four of his great-grandsons were in danger, and there was nothing he could do but wait.
"When we find who did this," he said quietly, though everyone heard him, "there's gonna be a reckoning."
Nobody disagreed.
A moment later, Celab returned with Colt—Louisiana—the seventeen-year-old cousin who'd moved here from Baton Rouge. The kid looked terrified.
"Colt, you're our eyes and ears now," Sheriff Wade said. "Get that command center active. Monitor all frequencies. If those boys manage to send so much as a beep, I want to know about it immediately."
"Yes, sir." Colt's voice cracked slightly, but he nodded. "I can do that."
"Good kid." Wade turned back to the room. "Everyone else, I need you to stay calm and stay here. When the kidnappers make contact, they'll likely reach out to multiple families. I want everyone in one location so we can coordinate."
"What about the FBI?" Ray asked. "Shouldn't we—"
"Already made the call," Wade said. "They're sending someone, but it'll be morning before they get here. For now, this is our operation."
The room settled into a tense, horrible waiting. People clustered in family groups, holding each other, staring at their phones, praying.
And somewhere out there in the Texas darkness, four sixteen-year-old boys sat bound to metal chairs, waiting for rescue.
Or waiting for a chance to save themselves.
Chapter 4: The Weight of the World
Colt sat in the command center, staring at the array of screens and equipment that Billy Jr. and his friends had built over the past year. Two monitors displayed frequency scanners. A third showed the encrypted satellite network map. Four iPads were synced to different monitoring programs. The radio console blinked with standby indicators.
He'd watched the wiz kids operate this setup a hundred times. Hell, they'd even trained him on the basics when he first moved here from Louisiana. But watching and doing were two very different things.
Especially when four lives depended on getting it right.
"Anything?" Wade's voice came through the doorway. The sheriff stood in the threshold, not quite entering, not quite leaving.
"No, sir," Colt said, his eyes never leaving the screens. "All frequencies are quiet. No signals from any of their sat phones."
Wade nodded, his jaw tight. "Keep watching. If you see anything—anything at all—you holler."
"Yes, sir."
Wade lingered a moment longer, then disappeared back down the hallway toward the living room where the families waited.
Colt exhaled slowly, his hands shaking slightly as he adjusted one of the frequency dials. Seventeen years old. He'd been living here barely two months since graduating high school in Baton Rouge. The newest kid. The outsider who'd somehow been accepted into this tight-knit community.
And now he was their only hope.
The door opened again. This time it was Celab, carrying two bottles of water and a sandwich wrapped in paper towels.
"Thought you might need this," Celab said, setting them on the desk beside the keyboard.
"Thanks." Colt grabbed one of the water bottles and drank half of it in one long pull. He hadn't realized how dry his mouth was.
"You doing okay?" Celab asked quietly.
"Yeah. No. I don't know." Colt gestured at the screens. "What if I miss something? What if there's a signal and I don't see it because I'm looking at the wrong monitor or—"
"Hey." Celab put a hand on his shoulder. "You know this equipment. Jr. made sure of that. He wouldn't have trained you if he didn't trust you."
"That's what scares me," Colt said. "He trusted me. And now he's out there, tied to a chair, and I'm sitting here staring at blank screens."
"You're doing exactly what needs to be done." Celab's voice was firm. "Wade's got his deputies checking every road, every barn, every abandoned building in Kings County. But they're working blind. You're the one who can actually find them."
Colt nodded, trying to believe it. Trying not to think about the photos that had come through. Billy Jr. in that white sleeveless shirt, ropes cutting into his bare arms. Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, Daniel Rodriguez—all of them helpless.
His friends. The guys who'd welcomed him into the frat house, shared their beer stash, taught him how to shoot and ride and work a ranch. The guys who'd made a Louisiana kid feel like he belonged in Texas.
"What's happening downstairs?" Colt asked.
"Controlled chaos." Celab leaned against the wall. "Pops is drinking brandy and planning what he's gonna do to the kidnappers when we find them. Wade's coordinating with his deputies. The mothers are trying to hold it together. And Jake—" He shook his head. "Jake's wound tighter than a spring. I've never seen him like this."
"We were supposed to go with them," Colt said quietly. "To the campsite. But I had that stupid driver's license test and you stayed to take me."
"I know."
"If we'd been there—"
"Then there'd be six boys missing instead of four," Celab said, echoing what Pops had told Jake. "Or maybe you'd be dead. These guys were professionals, Colt. They had a plan."
"But why?" Colt turned in his chair to face his cousin. "Why take them? Just for ransom?"
"Wade thinks so. The photos are proof of life. They want the families to know the boys are alive so they'll pay."
"How much do you think they'll ask for?"
"Doesn't matter. The consortium will pay whatever it takes." Celab's voice was hard. "Every family's already said so. We don't negotiate with our kids' lives."
A soft beep from one of the monitors made Colt spin back around. His heart jumped into his throat.
"What is it?" Celab moved closer.
Colt's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up the frequency analysis. "It's... nothing. Just interference from a commercial radio tower." His shoulders sagged. "False alarm."
"It's okay. You're doing good."
But Colt didn't feel like he was doing good. He felt like he was drowning in responsibility, in fear, in the weight of four families' desperate hope.
The door opened again. This time it was Pops, a glass of brandy in one hand, a cigar in the other. The old man moved slowly into the room, his weathered face carved with hard lines.
"How you holding up, son?" Pops asked, his voice gravelly.
"I'm trying, sir."
"That's all anyone can ask." Pops took a long drink, then gestured at the equipment with his cigar. "This is impressive work. Those boys built something special here."
"Yes, sir. They're geniuses."
"They're also stubborn as hell, just like their old man." Pops meant Josh, Billy Jr.'s father. "Jr. especially. That kid's got more fight in him than boys twice his age. If anyone can find a way out of this mess, it's him."
"You really think so?"
"I know so." Pops moved to the window, staring out at the darkness. "I was their age in Vietnam. Younger, even. Saw boys do impossible things when their backs were against the wall. Survival instinct's a powerful force."
"But they're tied up," Colt said. "The photos—"
"I saw the photos." Pops' voice went cold. "And when we find the bastards who did that, there's gonna be hell to pay. But until then, we trust that those boys are working on their own escape. And we work on finding them."
"Yes, sir."
Pops turned back to him. "You're doing a man's job here, Colt. Don't think we don't see that. When this is over, you're gonna be a hero."
"I don't want to be a hero," Colt said quietly. "I just want them home."
"Then keep watching those screens." Pops headed for the door, then paused. "And Colt? When Jr. gets back, first thing he's gonna do is come up here and check his equipment. You make damn sure you can tell him you did everything right."
The door closed, leaving Colt alone again with the humming computers and blinking lights.
He pulled the sandwich closer and unwrapped it, forcing himself to eat even though his stomach was in knots. Celab was right—he needed to stay sharp. Alert. Ready.
On the main monitor, the frequency scanner continued its endless sweep. Nothing. Just static and commercial signals and the normal chatter of a rural Texas night.
But somewhere out there, four sat phones existed. Four devices that could send a signal, a location, a lifeline.
Colt adjusted the gain on the receiver, widening the search parameters. He activated the thermal tracking interface that could coordinate with the drones if they needed to deploy them. He set up alerts on all four iPads, each one configured to monitor a different band.
Downstairs, he could hear muffled voices. Someone crying. Someone else shouting—Jake, probably. The sounds of a family in crisis.
And Colt sat in the eye of the storm, seventeen years old and terrified, watching screens that refused to give him answers.
"Come on, Jr.," he whispered to the empty room. "Show me something. Anything. Just let me know you're there."
The screens stayed dark.
The frequencies stayed silent.
And Colt kept watching, because that was all he could do.
Because four boys were counting on him.
And he'd be damned if he let them down.
Chapter 5: The Signal
The barn was dark except for a single hanging work light that swung slightly, casting moving shadows across the dirt floor. Billy Jr. had lost track of time—maybe an hour since they'd been tied to the chairs, maybe two. His neck ached from being forced back against the top rung, and the rope around his biceps had gone from painful to a constant burning throb.
He could hear his friends breathing around him in the darkness. Ryan was to his left somewhere—he could tell from the familiar way Ryan sniffled when he was stressed. Daniel and Billy Renzo were on his other side.
None of them could see. None of them could speak. But they were together.
And Billy Jr. had a sat phone in his back pocket.
The kidnappers had been sloppy. They'd tied them up, taken their photos, and left. Never searched them. Never checked their pockets. Probably figured four boys bound, blindfolded, and gagged weren't a threat.
They were wrong.
Billy Jr. took a slow breath through his nose—the only way he could breathe with the rag stuffed in his mouth and duct tape wrapped around his head. His wrists were lashed tight to the third rung of the chair behind his back. The rope around his bare biceps cut into his flesh with every movement, and his arms were starting to go numb.
But he could still feel his fingers. Still had some strength.
He had to try.
Billy Jr. started working his wrists back and forth, testing the rope against the metal rung. The movement pulled against the bicep bindings, made the rope dig deeper into his bare arms. Pain shot through his shoulders. Sweat poured down his face, soaking into the blindfold.
But the rope moved. Just slightly. Just enough.
He kept working. Twisting his wrists. Pulling. Pushing. The white sleeveless shirt he wore was drenched with sweat now, his bare arms slick and raw where the ropes cut in.
His fingers were tingling, going numb from restricted circulation. He was losing feeling fast. Had to hurry. Had to get free before his hands became useless.
Time became meaningless. Could've been ten minutes. Could've been an hour. Billy Jr. worked the rope, ignoring the burning pain, ignoring the numbness creeping up his arms.
And then—finally—his left wrist slipped free of the rung.
The rope was still tight around both wrists, binding them together. But they were no longer lashed to the chair. Billy Jr. nearly sobbed with relief through the gag.
His hands were behind him, still bound together, but mobile. He could move them. He could reach.
The sat phone.
Billy Jr. twisted his body as much as the neck rope and bicep bindings allowed. His numb fingers fumbled at his back pocket. Come on. Come on.
There. His fingertips brushed the edge of the phone.
He worked it slowly out of his pocket, every movement agony as the ropes bit into his bare arms. The phone slipped once and he nearly dropped it, but caught it between his bound wrists.
Now came the hard part.
He couldn't see. His hands were still tied together. His fingers were half-numb. But he knew this phone. He'd programmed it himself. He'd trained on it a hundred times.
Billy Jr. oriented the phone by feel. Power button on the right side. He pressed it. Felt the slight vibration as it powered on.
Wait. Had to wait for it to boot up. Count to ten. Fifteen to be safe.
The emergency button was bottom left. Three presses. That's all it took.
His thumb found it.
Press.
Press.
Press.
911 EMERGENCY - BILLY JR BENSON
The signal shot out across the encrypted frequency.
Back at the Benson Ranch, Colt's head had drooped forward. He jerked awake, blinking at the monitors. How long had he been out? A minute? Five?
Then the console lit up like Christmas.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Three alerts. Three flashing indicators. All from the same source.
"Oh my God," Colt breathed.
He pulled up the frequency analysis. There—a signal. Strong. Clear. Encrypted with the consortium's codes.
911 EMERGENCY - BILLY JR BENSON
"WADE!" Colt screamed, launching out of his chair. "WADE! I GOT HIM! I GOT A SIGNAL!"
The door burst open. Wade came through first, then Jake, then Celab, then what seemed like everyone in the house.
"Where?" Wade demanded.
"Billy Jr.!" Colt's hands flew across the keyboard. "He triggered his emergency button. Three times. I'm getting coordinates—"
"Can you track it?"
"Working on it!" Colt activated the triangulation program. The sat network was designed for exactly this—to pinpoint any consortium member's location within a few hundred yards. "Come on, come on..."
A map appeared on screen. A red dot pulsing.
"There!" Colt pointed. "Forty-two miles northeast. Looks like... an abandoned property off Ranch Road 487."
"I know that area," Wade said, his voice hard. "Old Hutchins place. Been vacant for years."
"He's alive," Josh breathed from behind them. Rebecca was beside him, hands over her mouth, tears streaming. "Our boy's alive and he's fighting."
"Damn right he is," Pops said, appearing in the doorway with his brandy. "That's my great-grandson."
Wade was already on his phone. "Ryan, Wilson—get every deputy geared up. We got a location. And get me a warrant, I don't care who you have to wake up."
"We're coming too," Jake said. His voice left no room for argument.
Wade looked at him, then at Billy, then at Celab. "You three can ride along. But when we get there, you let my deputies handle it. Understood?"
"Understood," they chorused.
"Colt, keep that signal monitored," Wade ordered. "If it moves, if anything changes, you call me immediately."
"Yes, sir."
The room erupted into controlled chaos. Men grabbing rifles. Wade coordinating with his deputies. Mothers clutching each other, hope and fear warring on their faces. Marcus Renzo, Steve Mattern, and Carlos Rodriguez stood together, ready to move.
Pops poured himself another brandy and muttered a string of profanity about what he was going to do to the kidnappers.
And Colt sat at the command center, watching that red dot pulse on the screen.
Billy Jr. had done it. Against all odds, tied to a chair, blindfolded and gagged, he'd gotten his hands free enough to signal.
Now they just had to get there in time.
In the barn, Billy Jr. felt the phone vibrate once—acknowledgment that his signal had been received. Then he carefully powered it down, conserving battery.
His hands were still bound together behind his back. His biceps were still lashed tight to the chair, the ropes cutting into his bare arms. His neck was still tied. His legs were still secured.
But his hands were free of the rung.
And help was coming.
Billy Jr. tucked the phone back into his pocket as best he could, then got back to work. His numb fingers fumbled with the knots at his wrists.
If he could just get his hands completely free, he could untie the rest. Free himself. Free his friends.
Time to finish the job.
Chapter 6: The Break
The driveway of the Benson Ranch looked like a military convoy preparing for deployment. Sheriff Wade's patrol vehicle sat at the front, lights off but engine running. Behind it, two more county patrol trucks carried Deputies Ryan and Wilson Nelson, both armed with rifles. Jake, Billy, and Celab piled into Jake's pickup, their own weapons secured in the gun rack.
Marcus Renzo, Steve Mattern, and Carlos Rodriguez climbed into Marcus's truck, their faces grim and determined. Robert Beaumont joined them, a hunting rifle across his lap.
"I'm coming too," Pops announced, appearing on the porch with his brandy bottle in one hand and a rifle in the other.
"Pops, you don't have to—" Tom started.
"The hell I don't," Pops growled. "Those are my great-grandsons. I'm going."
Nobody argued. Ray and Josh Benson helped Pops into Tom's truck.
"Wait!" Colt came running out of the house, arms loaded with four iPads, a laptop, and his equipment bag. "I'm communications commander. I can feed everything back to the ladies and run GPS navigation."
"Good thinking," Wade said. "Hop in with me. Set up everything."
Colt jumped into Wade's patrol vehicle and immediately started syncing the iPads to the sat network. Within seconds, he had video feeds and audio channels running on all four devices. He plugged his laptop into Wade's vehicle power supply and pulled up detailed GPS mapping software.
"Mrs. Benson, can you hear me?" Colt said into his headset.
Sarah Benson's voice came through, shaky but clear. "We hear you, Colt."
"I'm setting up four iPads for all of you. You'll be able to monitor everything—audio, location tracking, real-time GPS, even video if we get close enough. I'll keep the channel open the whole time. You'll hear everything we hear."
"Thank you," Rebecca Benson said, her voice tight with emotion. "Bring our boys home."
"Yes, ma'am. We will."
"Forty-two miles," Wade said through his window, addressing the convoy. "We drive fast but smart. No sirens until we're on site. When we get there, my deputies go in first. Everyone else stays back unless I call for you. Are we clear?"
A chorus of agreement from every truck.
"Let's bring our boys home," Wade said.
The convoy pulled out, headlights cutting through the Texas darkness. Every man from the consortium was in that line of vehicles—fathers, brothers, cousins, friends. An entire community mobilized to rescue four of their own.
Inside the ranch house, the mothers gathered around the four iPads Colt had left set up on the dining table. Sarah, Rebecca, Mary, Diana, Jennifer, Maria, and Caroline huddled together, watching the tracking dots move across the screen, listening to the open audio channel.
"They're moving fast," Mary observed, her nurse's training keeping her voice steady.
"Good," Diana Renzo said fiercely. "The faster they get there, the faster we get our boys back."
In the lead vehicle, Colt's fingers flew across his laptop keyboard, pulling up detailed satellite maps. "Sheriff, I'm analyzing routes. Current path puts us at forty-two miles, ETA thirty-five minutes."
"Can we do better?" Wade asked, his voice tight.
"Working on it." Colt zoomed in on the map, cross-referencing with county road data. "There's a shortcut—County Road 217 connects to a ranch access road. Cuts off about eight miles. Might save us seven, eight minutes."
"Is it paved?"
"Gravel, sir. But passable for our vehicles."
"Do it," Wade said immediately. "All units, follow my lead. We're taking a shortcut."
Colt keyed his radio. "Jake, you copy that? Turn coming up in two miles."
"Copy," Jake's voice came back. "We're right behind you."
"Mrs. Benson, did you hear that?" Colt said into his headset. "We found a faster route. New ETA is twenty-seven minutes."
Rebecca's voice came through, tight with hope. "Twenty-seven minutes. Okay. We're watching."
Colt continued monitoring, his screen showing the convoy's progress as glowing dots moving across the map. "Signal from Billy Jr.'s phone is still strong and stationary. Same coordinates. No movement."
"That's good, right?" Wade asked.
"Yes, sir. Means they're still at the location. Not being moved."
"How's the sat imagery on that property?" Wade asked.
Colt pulled up a different screen. "Old Hutchins farm. Main barn, one small outbuilding, farmhouse looks abandoned. Barn is approximately thirty by fifty feet. One main entrance, one side door. Property surrounded by open fields—good visibility for approach."
"Exits?"
"One main access road—the one we're taking. Two possible vehicle exits through fields but they'd be rough going. If anyone tries to run, we'll see them."
"Good work, Louisiana," Wade said.
Over the radio, Jake's voice cut in. "How much longer?"
"Twenty-three minutes," Colt replied immediately, checking his countdown timer. "We're making good time on this route."
Pops' gravelly voice came through from Tom's truck. "That Hutchins barn—I know that place. Used to store equipment there back in the seventies. Big open space inside. Metal rafters. Dirt floor."
"Copy that, Pops," Colt said, making notes on his laptop. "I'm building a tactical map for Sheriff Wade."
"You're doing good, son," Pops said.
At the ranch house, the women watched the convoy dots moving steadily across the iPad screens. Caroline Beaumont noticed something first. "They're getting closer together. Why are they bunching up?"
Colt's voice came through the speaker immediately—he'd heard her through the open channel. "Mrs. Beaumont, we're approaching the turn onto the access road. Convoy's tightening formation. All normal."
"Thank you, Colt," Caroline said, relief in her voice.
"Current speed sixty-two miles per hour," Colt narrated, keeping the families informed. "Weather conditions clear. No traffic. Estimated arrival in nineteen minutes."
Jake's voice crackled through. "Nineteen minutes. Jr.'s been tied up for hours, Colt. Hours."
"I know," Colt said quietly. "But we're almost there, Jake. Almost there."
Colt pulled up the thermal imaging interface, checking if their drones could be deployed. "Sheriff, when we get within five miles, I can launch a drone for aerial reconnaissance. See exactly what we're dealing with before we arrive."
"Do it," Wade said. "I want eyes on that barn before we roll up."
"Yes, sir."
The convoy turned onto the narrow access road, vehicles bouncing slightly on the gravel. Colt watched his screen, calculating. "Three miles to drone launch point. Twelve minutes to destination."
"All units," Wade said over the radio. "We're going dark in five minutes. Kill your headlights. Night vision only. Colt will guide us in."
"Copy," came the chorus of responses.
Colt switched his display to night vision mapping mode. "I've got you all on thermal. I can navigate you in blind if needed."
"That fancy equipment Jr. built is earning its keep," Pops commented over the radio.
"Yes, sir," Colt said, a hint of pride in his voice despite the tension. "The wiz kids knew what they were doing."
"Damn right they did," Pops said.
"Ten minutes out," Colt announced. "Preparing drone launch."
The convoy continued through the darkness, every man inside tense and ready, weapons checked, minds focused.
And in the lead vehicle, a seventeen-year-old boy from Louisiana sat surrounded by glowing screens, guiding them home.
In the barn, Billy Jr.'s fingers finally found the knot. His hands were so numb he could barely feel the rope anymore, but he'd been working on it for what felt like hours. Twisting. Pulling. Using his teeth would've been faster, but the gag made that impossible.
Then—finally—he felt it give.
The rope around his wrists loosened. Not much, but enough. Billy Jr. worked his hands back and forth, ignoring the pain as circulation started returning to his fingers. The rope loosened more. More.
And then his hands were free.
Billy Jr. nearly cried with relief. His arms were still lashed to the chair at the biceps, his neck still tied, his legs still secured. But his hands were free.
He reached up and ripped the duct tape from his mouth, pulling the rag out. He gasped, sucking in air through his mouth for the first time in hours. Then he pushed the blindfold up onto his forehead.
Light. Blessed light from the single work lamp. He could see.
Billy Jr. looked down at himself—the white sleeveless shirt soaked with sweat, the ropes cutting deep into his bare biceps, the raw marks where he'd been struggling. His arms were a mess of rope burns and red welts.
But he was free enough to work.
He attacked the rope around his neck first, fingers fumbling with the knots behind the chair. It took precious minutes, but finally it loosened. He pulled it free, gasping as the pressure released.
Then the bicep bindings. These were worse—lashed and frapped tight. Billy Jr. worked the knots, his fingers clumsy and weak. The rope had cut into his bare arms so deep it had left grooves in his flesh.
But knots could be untied. And Billy Jr. knew knots.
Left arm first. The rope finally gave, unwinding from his bicep. Blood rushed back into the limb and Billy Jr. bit back a cry of pain. Then the right arm. Same process. Same burning pain as circulation returned.
Then his legs. Thighs first, then ankles. By the time he finished, his fingers were bleeding and his arms felt like they were on fire.
But he was free.
Billy Jr. stood up from the chair on shaky legs and immediately stumbled. How long had he been sitting? His legs were weak, his balance off. He caught himself on the chair back, breathing hard.
"Ryan," he whispered, moving to the chair on his left. "Ryan, buddy, I'm here."
Ryan's head turned toward the sound, muffled noises coming through his gag.
Billy Jr. made quick work of Ryan's blindfold and gag. Ryan gasped for air, his eyes wide and grateful.
"Jr.," Ryan croaked. "How did you—"
"Later. Stay quiet." Billy Jr. started on Ryan's neck rope, then moved to his wrists.
Within ten minutes, Ryan was free. Together, they moved to Daniel Rodriguez, then Billy Renzo. Each boy came free, rubbing their wrists, stretching their cramped limbs, examining the rope burns on their arms.
"Where are they?" Billy Renzo whispered, his voice hoarse.
"I don't know," Billy Jr. said. "But we need to—"
That's when they heard it. Voices outside the barn. Laughter. The sound of bottles clinking.
Billy Jr. moved quietly to the barn door and peered through a gap in the wood. Three men sat around a small campfire about twenty feet away. They had a cooler full of beer, and from the looks of it, they'd been drinking for a while.
"They're drunk," Billy Jr. whispered to his friends. "Three of them. Outside."
"How many total?" Daniel asked.
Billy Jr. thought back to the campsite, the barn. "I think there were six at the campsite. Three brought us here. So maybe six total? But I only see three out there."
"What's the plan?" Ryan asked.
Billy Jr. scanned the barn. His eyes fell on a stack of old two-by-fours leaning against the wall. "We take them out. Fast and quiet."
"We're ranch boys," Billy Renzo said, a grim smile on his face despite the rope burns on his arms. "We know how to handle ourselves."
Each boy grabbed a two-by-four, testing the weight. They moved to the barn door, Billy Jr. in the lead.
"On three," Billy Jr. whispered. "One... two..."
He yanked the door open.
The kidnappers barely had time to turn before four teenage boys burst out of the barn, two-by-fours swinging.
The first man went down without a sound, Billy Jr.'s board connecting with the back of his head. Ryan took the second one, a solid hit to the temple. Daniel and Billy Renzo double-teamed the third, who tried to stand up and got knocked back down for his trouble.
It was over in seconds.
Three kidnappers lay unconscious on the ground. Four sixteen-year-old boys stood over them, breathing hard, adrenaline pumping.
"Holy crap," Daniel breathed. "We did it."
"Not done yet," Billy Jr. said. He grabbed the rope they'd been tied with—there was plenty of it scattered around the barn. "Let's return the favor."
They dragged the unconscious men back into the barn and got to work. Hands behind backs, lashed tight. Ankles together. Billy Jr. showed them how to do the frapping, pulling the ropes even tighter.
"How's it feel?" Billy Renzo muttered as he tied one of the men's wrists. "Not so fun being on this end, is it?"
Billy Jr. added blindfolds using the kidnappers' own bandanas, then shoved rags in their mouths and wrapped duct tape around their heads—the same brutal gags they'd been forced to endure.
"There," Billy Jr. said, standing back to examine their work. Three kidnappers, bound and gagged, laid out on the barn floor. "That should hold them."
"What about the other three?" Ryan asked. "You said there were six."
"I don't know where—" Billy Jr. started.
Then they heard it. An engine. Headlights appeared in the distance, coming up the dirt road toward the barn.
"Get down," Billy Jr. hissed.
The four boys ducked behind the barn wall, two-by-fours at the ready.
A truck pulled up. Three more men climbed out, talking loudly. They'd been drinking too.
"Perfect," Billy Jr. whispered. "Same plan. Wait for them to get close."
The men walked toward the campfire, calling out to their friends. "Hey! You drink all the—"
That's when they saw the empty chairs by the fire.
"Where the hell—"
Four boys exploded from the barn.
The second ambush went even faster than the first. Three more kidnappers down, three more sets of hands being tied behind backs.
"Six for six," Daniel said with satisfaction as they finished trussing up the last man.
Billy Jr. stood in the middle of the barn, looking at six bound, gagged, blindfolded kidnappers lined up on the floor. Six men who'd thought they could terrorize four teenage boys for ransom money.
They'd thought wrong.
"Now what?" Billy Renzo asked, rubbing his rope-burned biceps.
Billy Jr. pulled out his sat phone and powered it on. "Now we let them know we're okay."
Chapter 7: The Rescue That Wasn't
Billy Jr. powered on his sat phone and hit the speed dial for the consortium frequency. The phone rang once before Sheriff Wade's voice came through, urgent and strained.
"Billy Jr.? What's your status?"
"We're good, Sheriff," Billy Jr. said, unable to keep the grin out of his voice despite his exhaustion. "All four of us. We're okay."
In Wade's patrol vehicle, the sheriff nearly swerved off the road. Colt looked up from his laptop, eyes wide.
"Say again?" Wade demanded.
"We got free. Took out the kidnappers. Six of them. They're all tied up now." Billy Jr. looked at his friends, who were all grinning despite their rope burns and exhaustion. "All four of us are fine."
The radio exploded with overlapping voices.
"What?" Jake's voice came through, disbelieving.
"Did he just say—" That was Marcus Renzo.
"Those boys did WHAT?" Pops' gravelly laugh cut through the chaos.
Colt was already relaying the information back to the ranch. "Mrs. Benson! Mrs. Benson, they're okay! All four boys are safe! They escaped and—"
The sound of crying and shouting came through from the ranch house audio feed as the mothers heard the news.
"Where are you?" Wade asked, his voice still professional despite the obvious relief.
"Still at the barn. Old Hutchins place. But Sheriff?" Billy Jr. looked at the six bound kidnappers laid out on the barn floor. "There's no rush now. These guys aren't going anywhere."
"We're five minutes out," Wade said. "You boys sit tight."
"Yes, sir. Oh, and Sheriff?" Billy Jr.'s grin widened. "The kidnappers left their beer cooler. We're helping ourselves."
There was a pause, then Jake's voice came through with something between a laugh and a sob. "That's my nephew."
"Pops is gonna have a field day with this," Billy muttered over the radio.
And indeed, Pops' voice came through, loud and proud. "That's what I'm talking about! Those are my great-grandsons! Tougher than a two-dollar steak!"
Billy Jr. ended the call and looked at his friends. "They'll be here in five minutes."
"Good," Billy Renzo said, examining his rope-burned biceps. "Because I'm exhausted."
"And thirsty," Ryan added.
"Well," Daniel said, gesturing to the kidnappers' cooler still sitting by the dead campfire. "They won't be needing these anymore."
The four boys walked outside. Billy Jr. opened the cooler—full of ice and beer. He pulled out four bottles, tossed one to each of his friends.
"To escaping," Ryan said, raising his bottle.
"To rope burns and bragging rights," Daniel added.
"To knocking out six grown men with two-by-fours," Billy Renzo grinned.
Billy Jr. raised his own bottle, looking at his three best friends. All of them were soaked in sweat, covered in rope burns, their wrists raw and bleeding in places. But they were alive. They were free.
"To the wiz kids," Billy Jr. said.
They clinked bottles and drank.
Then they sat down by the barn, arms folded across their chests, and waited.
Five minutes later, the darkness exploded with lights and engines.
The convoy roared up to the barn—six trucks, headlights blazing, armed men pouring out ready for a fight.
And then they stopped.
Because sitting outside the barn, drinking beer, arms folded and smirks on their faces, were four sixteen-year-old boys.
"What the hell?" Jake breathed, climbing out of his truck.
Sheriff Wade stepped out more slowly, looking at the scene with a mixture of relief and disbelief. Behind him, the other fathers emerged—Josh Benson, Marcus Renzo, Steve Mattern, Carlos Rodriguez—all of them staring.
Pops climbed down from Tom's truck with Ray's help, took one look at the boys, and started laughing. Deep belly laughs that echoed across the property.
"Well I'll be damned," Pops said, raising his brandy bottle. "Look at these tough sons of bitches!"
Billy Jr. stood up, trying to look nonchalant despite the fact that his legs were still shaky and his arms were a mess. "Hey, Dad. Uncle Jake. Everyone."
Josh Benson crossed the distance in three strides and pulled his son into a crushing hug. Billy Jr. grunted, his sore muscles protesting, but he hugged back just as hard.
"Don't you ever—" Josh's voice cracked. "Don't you ever scare us like that again."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
Rebecca had climbed out of Wade's patrol vehicle—she'd hidden in the back, unable to stay at the ranch. She ran to her son, Wade not even trying to stop her. She grabbed Billy Jr.'s face, examining him, touching the rope burns on his bare arms.
"You're hurt," she said, her nurse's training kicking in even through the tears.
"I'm okay, Mom. Just rope burns. Nothing serious."
Marcus Renzo had Billy Renzo in a similar crushing hug, while Steve Mattern and Carlos Rodriguez were doing the same with their sons.
"How?" Jake demanded, looking at the four boys. "How did you do it?"
Billy Jr. gestured to the barn. "Got my hands free. Freed the others. The kidnappers were drunk and sloppy. We took them out with two-by-fours."
"With two-by-fours," Jake repeated, shaking his head in amazement.
"They're ranch boys," Pops said proudly, taking a swig of brandy. "What did you expect?"
"And they're tied up in there?" Wade asked, his sheriff mode reasserting itself.
"Six of them," Ryan confirmed. "Bound, gagged, blindfolded. Same way they had us."
"Poetic justice," Daniel added with satisfaction.
Wade pulled out his flashlight and headed into the barn, his deputies following. A moment later, his voice carried out. "Jesus Christ. They did a better job tying these bastards up than the kidnappers did on them."
"Jr. knows his knots," Billy said, pride evident in his voice.
Celab had stayed back by the trucks, but now he approached, looking at his roommates with something like awe. "You guys are insane. You know that, right?"
"Insane and free," Billy Renzo grinned.
Inside the barn, Wade was reading rights to the six kidnappers as his deputies started hauling them to their feet. The men were still groggy, still bound, looking considerably less threatening than they had hours earlier.
"You boys want to press charges?" Wade called out.
"Damn right we do," Billy Jr. said.
"Kidnapping, assault, false imprisonment," Wade listed. "These boys are looking at serious time."
One of the kidnappers—the one with the southern accent—was glaring at Billy Jr. through his blindfold as it was removed. "You little—"
"Shut up," Wade said coldly. "You just got taken down by four sixteen-year-olds. I'd keep my mouth shut if I were you."
Pops wandered over to Billy Jr., looked him up and down—the white sleeveless shirt filthy and sweat-stained, the deep rope burns on his bare biceps, the raw wrists, the exhaustion in his eyes—and grinned.
"That's my boy," Pops said. "When we get home, you and me are having brandy. You earned it."
"Pops, he's sixteen," Rebecca protested weakly.
"He just escaped from kidnappers and knocked out six grown men," Pops countered. "The boy gets a drink."
Josh looked like he wanted to argue, then just shook his head. "One drink. And then you're grounded for a month for scaring us like this."
"Worth it," Billy Jr. grinned.
The deputies were loading the kidnappers into the patrol trucks. Wade was taking photos, documenting everything. Colt was still in Wade's vehicle, relaying everything back to the ranch house where the mothers were crying and laughing and probably breaking out their own alcohol.
"All right," Wade said finally. "Let's get these boys home. We can do formal statements tomorrow. Tonight, they need food, medical attention, and rest."
"And bragging rights," Billy Renzo added.
"Yeah," Daniel agreed. "Definitely bragging rights."
The convoy reformed, this time with the rescued boys distributed among the trucks. Billy Jr. rode with his dad and Uncle Jake, Rebecca fussing over his rope burns in the back seat.
As they pulled away from the barn, Jake looked at his nephew in the rearview mirror. "Jr., I gotta ask. When you were tied up, what were you thinking?"
Billy Jr. was quiet for a moment, then said simply, "That nobody was coming fast enough. So we had to save ourselves."
"Smart kid," Pops said from his truck over the radio. "Chip off the old block."
The convoy drove through the Texas darkness, heading home. Behind them, the old Hutchins barn stood empty except for evidence markers and rope scattered on the ground.
And somewhere, four families were about to get their boys back.
Rope-burned, exhausted, traumatized maybe.
But alive. Safe. And with one hell of a story to tell.
Chapter 7: The Rescue That Wasn't
Billy Jr. powered on his sat phone and hit the speed dial for the consortium frequency. The phone rang once before Sheriff Wade's voice came through, urgent and strained.
"Billy Jr.? What's your status?"
"We're good, Sheriff," Billy Jr. said, unable to keep the grin out of his voice despite his exhaustion. "All four of us. We're okay."
In Wade's patrol vehicle, the sheriff nearly swerved off the road. Colt looked up from his laptop, eyes wide.
"Say again?" Wade demanded.
"We got free. Took out the kidnappers. Six of them. They're all tied up now." Billy Jr. looked at his friends, who were all grinning despite their rope burns and exhaustion. "All four of us are fine."
The radio exploded with overlapping voices.
"What?" Jake's voice came through, disbelieving.
"Did he just say—" That was Marcus Renzo.
"Those boys did WHAT?" Pops' gravelly laugh cut through the chaos.
Colt was already relaying the information back to the ranch. "Mrs. Benson! Mrs. Benson, they're okay! All four boys are safe! They escaped and—"
The sound of crying and shouting came through from the ranch house audio feed as the mothers heard the news.
"Where are you?" Wade asked, his voice still professional despite the obvious relief.
"Still at the barn. Old Hutchins place. But Sheriff?" Billy Jr. looked at the six bound kidnappers laid out on the barn floor. "There's no rush now. These guys aren't going anywhere."
"We're five minutes out," Wade said. "You boys sit tight."
"Yes, sir. Oh, and Sheriff?" Billy Jr.'s grin widened. "The kidnappers left their beer cooler. We're helping ourselves."
There was a pause, then Jake's voice came through with something between a laugh and a sob. "That's my nephew."
"Pops is gonna have a field day with this," Billy muttered over the radio.
And indeed, Pops' voice came through, loud and proud. "That's what I'm talking about! Those are my great-grandsons! Tougher than a two-dollar steak!"
Billy Jr. ended the call and looked at his friends. "They'll be here in five minutes."
"Good," Billy Renzo said, examining his rope-burned biceps. "Because I'm exhausted."
"And thirsty," Ryan added.
"Well," Daniel said, gesturing to the kidnappers' cooler still sitting by the dead campfire. "They won't be needing these anymore."
The four boys walked outside. Billy Jr. opened the cooler—full of ice and beer. He pulled out four bottles, tossed one to each of his friends.
"To escaping," Ryan said, raising his bottle.
"To rope burns and bragging rights," Daniel added.
"To knocking out six grown men with two-by-fours," Billy Renzo grinned.
Billy Jr. raised his own bottle, looking at his three best friends. All of them were soaked in sweat, covered in rope burns, their wrists raw and bleeding in places. But they were alive. They were free.
"To the wiz kids," Billy Jr. said.
They clinked bottles and drank.
Then they sat down by the barn, arms folded across their chests, and waited.
Five minutes later, the darkness exploded with lights and engines.
The convoy roared up to the barn—six trucks, headlights blazing, armed men pouring out ready for a fight.
And then they stopped.
Because sitting outside the barn, drinking beer, arms folded and smirks on their faces, were four sixteen-year-old boys.
"What the hell?" Jake breathed, climbing out of his truck.
Sheriff Wade stepped out more slowly, looking at the scene with a mixture of relief and disbelief. Behind him, the other fathers emerged—Josh Benson, Marcus Renzo, Steve Mattern, Carlos Rodriguez—all of them staring.
Pops climbed down from Tom's truck with Ray's help, took one look at the boys, and started laughing. Deep belly laughs that echoed across the property.
"Well I'll be damned," Pops said, raising his brandy bottle. "Look at these tough sons of bitches!"
Billy Jr. stood up, trying to look nonchalant despite the fact that his legs were still shaky and his arms were a mess. "Hey, Dad. Uncle Jake. Everyone."
Josh Benson crossed the distance in three strides and pulled his son into a crushing hug. Billy Jr. grunted, his sore muscles protesting, but he hugged back just as hard.
"Don't you ever—" Josh's voice cracked. "Don't you ever scare us like that again."
"Yes, sir. Sorry, sir."
Rebecca had climbed out of Wade's patrol vehicle—she'd hidden in the back, unable to stay at the ranch. She ran to her son, Wade not even trying to stop her. She grabbed Billy Jr.'s face, examining him, touching the rope burns on his bare arms.
"You're hurt," she said, her nurse's training kicking in even through the tears.
"I'm okay, Mom. Just rope burns. Nothing serious."
Marcus Renzo had Billy Renzo in a similar crushing hug, while Steve Mattern and Carlos Rodriguez were doing the same with their sons.
"How?" Jake demanded, looking at the four boys. "How did you do it?"
Billy Jr. gestured to the barn. "Got my hands free. Freed the others. The kidnappers were drunk and sloppy. We took them out with two-by-fours."
"With two-by-fours," Jake repeated, shaking his head in amazement.
"They're ranch boys," Pops said proudly, taking a swig of brandy. "What did you expect?"
"And they're tied up in there?" Wade asked, his sheriff mode reasserting itself.
"Six of them," Ryan confirmed. "Bound, gagged, blindfolded. Same way they had us."
"Poetic justice," Daniel added with satisfaction.
Wade pulled out his flashlight and headed into the barn, his deputies following. A moment later, his voice carried out. "Jesus Christ. They did a better job tying these bastards up than the kidnappers did on them."
"Jr. knows his knots," Billy said, pride evident in his voice.
Celab had stayed back by the trucks, but now he approached, looking at his roommates with something like awe. "You guys are insane. You know that, right?"
"Insane and free," Billy Renzo grinned.
Inside the barn, Wade was reading rights to the six kidnappers as his deputies started hauling them to their feet. The men were still groggy, still bound, looking considerably less threatening than they had hours earlier.
"You boys want to press charges?" Wade called out.
"Damn right we do," Billy Jr. said.
"Kidnapping, assault, false imprisonment," Wade listed. "These boys are looking at serious time."
One of the kidnappers—the one with the southern accent—was glaring at Billy Jr. through his blindfold as it was removed. "You little—"
"Shut up," Wade said coldly. "You just got taken down by four sixteen-year-olds. I'd keep my mouth shut if I were you."
Pops wandered over to Billy Jr., looked him up and down—the white sleeveless shirt filthy and sweat-stained, the deep rope burns on his bare biceps, the raw wrists, the exhaustion in his eyes—and grinned.
"That's my boy," Pops said. "When we get home, you and me are having brandy. You earned it."
"Pops, he's sixteen," Rebecca protested weakly.
"He just escaped from kidnappers and knocked out six grown men," Pops countered. "The boy gets a drink."
Josh looked like he wanted to argue, then just shook his head. "One drink. And then you're grounded for a month for scaring us like this."
"Worth it," Billy Jr. grinned.
The deputies were loading the kidnappers into the patrol trucks. Wade was taking photos, documenting everything. Colt was still in Wade's vehicle, relaying everything back to the ranch house where the mothers were crying and laughing and probably breaking out their own alcohol.
"All right," Wade said finally. "Let's get these boys home. We can do formal statements tomorrow. Tonight, they need food, medical attention, and rest."
"And bragging rights," Billy Renzo added.
"Yeah," Daniel agreed. "Definitely bragging rights."
The convoy reformed, this time with the rescued boys distributed among the trucks. Billy Jr. rode with his dad and Uncle Jake, Rebecca fussing over his rope burns in the back seat.
As they pulled away from the barn, Jake looked at his nephew in the rearview mirror. "Jr., I gotta ask. When you were tied up, what were you thinking?"
Billy Jr. was quiet for a moment, then said simply, "That nobody was coming fast enough. So we had to save ourselves."
"Smart kid," Pops said from his truck over the radio. "Chip off the old block."
The convoy drove through the Texas darkness, heading home. Behind them, the old Hutchins barn stood empty except for evidence markers and rope scattered on the ground.
And somewhere, four families were about to get their boys back.
Rope-burned, exhausted, traumatized maybe.
But alive. Safe. And with one hell of a story to tell.
Chapter 8: Battle Scars and Bragging Rights
By the time the convoy pulled back into the Benson Ranch, word had spread. Every light in the house was blazing. The mothers were already outside, barely able to contain themselves as the trucks parked.
"Boys first," Wade said over the radio. "Let the families have their moment."
Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez climbed out of their respective trucks and were immediately swarmed by their mothers. Rebecca grabbed Billy Jr. again, Sarah right behind her. Diana Renzo had her son in a death grip while Jennifer Mattern and Maria Rodriguez were doing the same.
"Let me see your arms," Rebecca said, her nurse mode fully activated. She examined the rope burns on Billy Jr.'s bare biceps, wincing. "We need to clean these. Get antibacterial ointment on them."
"Mom, I'm fine—"
"You're not fine. Look at this." She pointed to the deep grooves the rope had left. "These could get infected."
"Later, Mom. Please."
The mothers reluctantly backed off, but only because Sarah Benson was already shouting orders. "Mary, Caroline, Diana—help me get food out. These boys haven't eaten in hours. Tom, Ray—set up tables outside under the lights. Everyone's eating together."
"On it," Tom said.
What followed was possibly the fastest meal preparation in Benson Ranch history. Within twenty minutes, tables were set up in the yard under strings of lights. Cold cuts, bread, potato salad, corn, and anything else that could be assembled quickly appeared. Pitchers of sweet tea and lemonade. And Pops, grinning like a fool, produced not one but three bottles of Jack Daniels.
"For medicinal purposes," Pops announced.
"Pops—" Sarah started.
"Woman, these boys survived a kidnapping. They get a drink."
Nobody argued. Not tonight.
The entire consortium gathered around the tables—all six families, plus the frat house crew. Billy Jr., Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez sat together, still in their filthy clothes, still covered in rope burns, shoveling food into their mouths like they hadn't eaten in days.
Which, technically, they hadn't.
"So let me get this straight," Ray Benson said, leaning forward. "You got your hands free, untied everyone else, and then ambushed six grown men with two-by-fours?"
"Yep," Billy Jr. said around a mouthful of sandwich.
"And tied them up with their own rope?"
"Seemed appropriate," Ryan added.
Pops poured Jack Daniels into five glasses—one for himself, and one each for the four rescued boys. "To the wiz kids," he said, raising his glass. "Toughest sons of bitches in Kings County."
They drank. Billy Jr. coughed as the whiskey burned down his throat, but he grinned anyway.
"How bad are the rope burns?" Jake asked, examining his nephew's arms.
"Not bad," Billy Jr. lied. The truth was they hurt like hell, but he wasn't about to admit it.
"Mine are worse," Billy Renzo said, rolling up his sleeve to show off his biceps.
"No way," Daniel countered. "Look at mine."
"You're both wrong," Ryan said. "I've got the worst."
"Children, please," Billy Jr. said with mock superiority. "I was in a white sleeveless shirt. Rope directly on bare skin the whole time. I win."
The adults watched this exchange with a mixture of amusement and concern.
After everyone had eaten their fill—and the boys had eaten seconds and thirds—the energy started to shift. The adrenaline was wearing off. Exhaustion was setting in.
"All right," Wade said, standing up. "These boys need rest. Medical evaluation tomorrow, formal statements after that. Tonight, they sleep."
"Frat house," Billy Jr. said immediately. He looked at his three friends. "You guys are staying with us tonight."
"Damn right we are," Billy Renzo said.
The parents looked at each other. Normally there'd be protests—the boys going home to their own beds, proper medical attention. But tonight wasn't normal.
"Fine," Josh said. "But your mother's checking those rope burns first thing in the morning."
"Deal."
The group migrated toward the house. Billy Jr., Jake, Billy, Celab, and Colt headed upstairs to the frat house room, followed by Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez.
And Pops, carrying his bottle of Jack Daniels.
"Where do you think you're going?" Sarah called after him.
"To hear war stories," Pops called back. "I'm seventy-six years old. I'll sleep when I'm dead."
The frat house room was exactly as they'd left it—two bunk beds against opposite walls, one mattress on the floor between them. The beer stash was still hidden under the floorboards. The room that normally held five now had nine people crammed into it.
Billy pulled up the floorboards and retrieved the beer. "We're gonna need this."
Pops settled into the desk chair, the only real seat in the room. The boys sprawled across the beds and floor, passing around beers. Billy Jr. sat on his bunk—the bottom bunk he shared with Jake above him—and immediately felt the exhaustion hit.
But he wasn't ready to sleep yet.
"Okay," Jake said, "I need to hear the whole story. From the beginning."
Billy Jr. took a long pull from his beer and started talking. The campsite. The ambush. The truck ride. The barn. The chairs.
"They lashed our wrists to the third rung," Billy Jr. said, demonstrating with his hands. "Then tied our necks to the top. Then our biceps—" He touched the rope burns on his bare arms. "Wrapped and frapped. Tight. Then our legs."
"Jesus," Celab breathed.
"Couldn't move anything," Ryan added. "Couldn't see. Could barely breathe with the gags."
"How'd you get free?" Billy asked.
Billy Jr. explained working his wrists, the numbness, the pain. Getting the sat phone. Sending the signal.
"That's when Louisiana picked it up," Colt said. "Best moment of my life, seeing that signal come through."
"You saved us, man," Billy Jr. said seriously. "You guided them right to us."
"You saved yourselves," Colt corrected. "I just answered the phone."
The story continued. Freeing the others. The drunk kidnappers. The two-by-fours.
"Ryan got his guy in one hit," Billy Jr. said. "Just—" He made a swinging motion. "Down."
"Mine took two," Daniel admitted. "But he was bigger."
"Mine definitely fought back," Billy Renzo said. "Had to double-team him."
"Because you're weak," Ryan teased.
"I'm not weak! You try swinging a two-by-four after being tied up for three hours!"
"I did try. That's how I know you're weak."
Pops laughed, taking a swig of Jack. "You boys did good. Real good. Your families are proud. Hell, I'm proud."
"Thanks, Pops," Billy Jr. said.
"Though I gotta say," Pops continued, "tying them up with their own rope? That's some poetic justice right there."
"Felt good," Billy Jr. admitted.
The conversation shifted to the rope burns. The boys compared marks like battle scars, arguing about whose were worse, who'd struggled more, who'd been braver.
"I barely flinched when they slapped me," Billy Renzo claimed.
"You definitely flinched," Daniel said. "I heard you."
"Did not."
"Did too."
Jake was examining Billy Jr.'s wrists. "These are pretty torn up, Jr."
"I had to work them against the metal rung for like an hour," Billy Jr. said. "Thought I was gonna lose all feeling in my hands."
"But you didn't," Jake said quietly. "You kept going."
"Had to. Nobody else was gonna save us."
The room fell quiet for a moment. The weight of what could have happened—what almost happened—settled over them.
Then Pops raised his bottle. "To ranch boys," he said. "Tough, smart, and too stubborn to die."
"Here, here," everyone chorused.
They drank. They talked. They laughed. The adrenaline finally wore off completely, replaced by bone-deep exhaustion.
Billy Jr. looked around the room. Jake and Billy on their bunks. Celab on his. Colt on the mattress on the floor. And now Billy Renzo, Ryan Mattern, and Daniel Rodriguez squeezed in wherever they could fit. Pops in the chair, still sipping Jack.
"This room's not big enough for nine people," Ryan observed.
"Nope," Billy Jr. agreed.
"Don't care," Billy Renzo said. "Not going anywhere."
"Same," Daniel added.
One by one, they started to crash. Daniel fell asleep first, sprawled half on Colt's mattress. Ryan followed, leaning against the wall. Billy Renzo made it to the top of Celab's bunk before passing out.
Pops stood up slowly, bones creaking. "You boys get some sleep. You earned it."
"You're not staying?" Billy Jr. asked.
"I'm seventy-six, kid. I need my own bed." Pops paused at the door. "But you four—Jr., Renzo, Mattern, Rodriguez—you did something special tonight. Don't forget that."
"Yes, sir."
Pops left, closing the door behind him.
The room was dark now except for the moonlight coming through the window. Nine people crammed into a space meant for five. Two bunk beds, one mattress, and a whole lot of rope-burned, exhausted teenage boys.
"Hey Jr.?" Billy Renzo said quietly from somewhere above.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks for freeing us."
"Anytime, man."
"Seriously though. If you hadn't gotten that phone—"
"I know. But I did. We're good."
Silence for a moment.
"My arms hurt like hell," Ryan muttered.
"Same," Daniel agreed.
"Weaklings," Billy Jr. said, but he was smiling.
"Says the guy who cried when they put the blindfold on," Billy Renzo teased.
"I did not cry!"
"Did too."
"Did not!"
Jake's voice came from the bunk above. "Both of you shut up and go to sleep."
"Yes, sir," they chorused.
More silence. The sound of breathing. The occasional shift as someone tried to get comfortable in the cramped space.
Billy Jr. lay on his bunk, staring at the underside of Jake's mattress above him. His arms throbbed. His wrists ached. His whole body hurt.
But he was home. In the frat house. With his uncle, his buddies, his friends. Safe.
"Hey guys?" he said quietly.
A chorus of tired "yeahs" and "whats" answered.
"We're pretty badass."
Laughter in the darkness.
"Yeah," Billy Renzo agreed. "Yeah, we are."
And then, finally, they slept.
All nine of them. Crammed into a room with two bunk beds and a mattress between them. Ranch boys and wiz kids and brothers and cousins. Rope-burned and exhausted and alive.
The kidnapping of the wiz kids was over.
And they'd saved themselves.
